Counting Stars by David Almond Page B

people in battered sun hats sat in the shade at the sides of their homes. There were prams in many gardens, shades drawn up, chrome trimmings sparkling. There was the scent of many lunches, the hiss of bubbling fat, the chink of pots and cutlery. I hurried on, until my own name was added to the sounds that mingled in the air.
    I looked around, shaded my eyes with my arm. It came again, and I saw Colin, sitting with the Hutchies outside their house. He got up and came toward me. He put his arm around my shoulders and he hugged me quickly, clumsily. The yellow shirtsleeve was brittle and crisp against my flesh.
    “I saw them about it,” he said. “It meant nothing. They’ll not do it again.”
    I tried to pull away.
    “You coming home?” I said.
    He held on to me. Then Ken came, and he also put his hand on my shoulder.
    “It was nowt,” he said. “We’re sorry. We were just messing about.”
    I couldn’t speak. When I turned my head, I saw the men walking into the streets, coming home for lunch. In the distance, the road surface was a glistening black pond. The voices of the others were lowered in rapid discussion, then Colin said,
    “Stay with us a bit. Come on. Come with us.”
    He held me closer. Terry ran to join us.
    “We going, then?” he said.
    “Aye,” said Ken. “He’s away.”
    We crossed Rectory Road, entered narrow Windy Ridge. Ken took something from his pocket, a rectangular box wrapped in brown paper. He held it teasingly, between his forefinger and thumb. I tried to grin, but the edge of my mouth twitched and I could meet none of the others’ eyes. I wanted to scorn these others who could think something so special in this. But I said nothing, and I stumbled through the rubble with them, clutching the flowers and the lettuce, keeping close to Colin.
    “We’re going to the garden,” he said, and he looked away quickly.
    When we got there, Terry ran and threw the gate open. Ken tried to push me through, but I stood my ground.
    “Chicken?” he said.
    “It’s OK,” said Colin, taking my arm gently. “Nobody will know.”
    We walked in. Terry was already inside. He’d found the box of chicks and was poking them and laughing at them. I told him to leave it. I raised my fists, ready for anything, but Ken stepped in.
    “Yeah,” he said. “Stop messing about.”
    I laid the box of chicks back on the shelf in the sunlight. I closed the door between the sunlight and the dark. Ken went to the only window and pulled aside the square of cloth that covered it. I stood watching as the others crouched in the pool of light. Ken passed some cigarettes round and I took one and watched the smoke I breathed coiling and spiraling with the dust. Then Ken laid his packet faceup on the floor. A photograph of a woman was on its lid. She was dressed in thin yellow nylon, its edges drawn back to show unnaturally pink buttocks and legs. Her head was turned and she looked out with a fixed grin toward us.
    “Hell,” said Colin. “I thought it was cigarettes.”
    Ken snorted. He beckoned me down.
    “Here. Get an eyeful.”
    I crouched with them as Ken opened the box and lifted out the pack of cards. He started dealing them out, slowly, teasingly. He sighed and squeaked as each new woman was exposed. He touched breasts and lips and buttocks delicately with his fingers. I couldn’t take my eyes away. I waited for one woman who did not arrange her limbs or her clothing to keep the secrets of her body out of sight.
    Terry giggled. Ken leered and groaned. Colin was silent. I felt the sweat on my skin and heard the drumming of my heart. I looked at the women; then I looked around this darkened room, at the ancient tools, the sacks of compost, the empty rattraps. I watched the dust falling endlessly through the wedge of light. I heard the high-pitched cheeping of the chicks next door. I listened for my grandfather’s footsteps on the cinder path outside. I stubbed my cigarette into the dust and stared at