The Split_A Novel by Sharon Bolton & Katie Scarfe

Author:Sharon Bolton & Katie Scarfe [Bolton, Sharon & Scarfe, Katie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250241023
Amazon: 1250241022
Publisher: Macmillan Audio
Published: 2020-04-28T00:00:00+00:00

48

Shane

Shane wakes to find himself in a bed. This is unusual. Normally, he wakes in a shop doorway, or a bus shelter. More frequently, though, on a park bench. The other rough sleepers are nervous of him and he has learned to avoid them when they are awake. Asleep, though, that’s a different matter. He likes to watch them sleeping.

Confused, he lies in the darkness trying to remember how he got here, what day (or night) it might be, and where here is. He remembers following the tow path from Victoria Bridge towards the colleges and peering under the tarpaulin covering the punts at the Magdalen Street dock. Lately, the city’s street dwellers have taken to bedding down in punts, especially as some of the lazier dock hands leave the cushions out overnight.

He remembers finding the old lady in one of them, curled up with her arms around her shopping trolley and her beret pulled down over her eyes like a sleep mask. He’d watched her for a while, until her snoring quietened, and he’d thought she might be waking up. They often woke up as he watched them, as though they could sense him there.

After the dock, he walked across Jesus Green, and then to the common.

He is hot, which isn’t surprising because he is still dressed. His black sweatshirt is damp with sweat and his jeans are sticking to him. He pushes back the covers and swings his feet to the hardwood floor. His shoes are by the bed. There is pain between his shoulder blades and when he reaches behind his back he can feel the burning pain of a fresh wound. He has been cutting himself again.

His hands are sore too and he can feel the stickiness of blood. This feels wrong, somehow. He doesn’t normally cut himself where the marks will show. He has a flashback to broken glass, squeezing himself through a narrow window and his anxiety builds. He doesn’t break windows, he doesn’t leave a trail, he comes and goes like a ghost. Except now, it seems, he doesn’t. Things are unravelling.

He sniffs the air and can smell a familiar mix of furniture polish, fabric conditioner and coconut shampoo. Of course, he is in Felicity’s house, he has been sleeping in her spare bedroom.

Treading carefully – he knows which floorboards creak and which are silent – he crosses to the window. Her car is parked outside. He lets the curtain fall back and returns to the bed. He straightens the quilt and plumps up the pillow. It looks the same as when he got in, but he knows it will smell of the streets now and that she will know he has been here again. She always knows.

He leaves the room and heads for the stairs. Several of them creak, but he has learned to walk at the very edges. As he reaches the ground floor, he hears a church clock striking four in the morning. It will be getting light soon.

The door to Felicity’s room is ajar.

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