Friday Brown by Vikki Wakefield Page A

And a person on the bed. Faint music came from his headphones. He was lying there, naked to the waist, wearing only a pair of jeans. His eyes were closed. One leg was crossed over the other and one foot tapped. His chest rose and fell evenly while my lungs were plunging and sucking like bellows.
    I knew who had left the toilet seat up.
    He opened his eyes.
    We exchanged a look like a shooting star—brief, intense, over.
    I ran for it.
    My feet skidded sideways on the wet floor and my legs went out from under me. I landed hard on my backside, flung out my arm, slammed the toilet door and locked it. I scrambled for grip like a dog on a linoleum floor—pedalling hard and going nowhere, leaving halfmoon turtle tracks in the slush. I twisted and landed on both elbows, yelping. If I hadn’t been so scared I would have laughed at my clumsiness.
    I stood slowly. Breathe. Think.
    The door handle moved one sinister rotation before he must have realised I’d locked it. He didn’t jiggle it. His composure made me more terrified. I backed up slowly and wound the necklace around my fist.
    What do you do when you open your eyes and see a barefoot intruder standing in your doorway? He should have yelled or reacted, shouldn’t he? Weird. I thought maybe he was priming for a run-up. What if he had a key?
    I stood on the toilet seat and managed to crawl back through the window, even though my arms and legs were jelly.
    Out on the roof, I was exposed, caught in the million-watt glare from the floodlights next door. Half blind, I tried to climb back over the top of the roof without rolling off.
    Getting back onto the tree was a hit and miss affair. Miss when I swung my leg over the branch and slipped, hit when it flung back and smacked my face. My eyes watered and my lip swelled.
    Where the hell was Arden?
    I was about two metres away from the fence when the porch light came on. I risked a glance back.
    The guy was standing there, scratching his head. He’d taken the time to put on a shirt. He looked stunned.
    I vaulted onto the footpath and took cover behind a bush.
    ‘Jesus. What happened to you?’ Arden said, emerging from the shadows.
    I jumped. ‘There’s someone home,’ I whispered. ‘Go! Just go !’
    Arden laughed and followed when I ran off. She overtook me without even trying, boots clomping. She was gasping for breath and holding her side. It was only when we eased up and stopped about three blocks away from the house that I realised she was laughing.
    I had left my boots standing on the brick pillar. Like bloody Cinderella.
    Arden put her arm around me and drew me close. She prised my fingers apart and extracted the necklace. In the light it was hideous—a garish mix of blood-coloured stones set in cheap, chipped silver. A heavy silver crucifix dangled in the centre.
    I massaged my palm. The shape of the cross was imprinted on it.
    Arden stroked the stones, then slipped the necklace over her head. She tucked the cross between her breasts.
    I knew it was the thievery, not the bounty, that pleased her. But when she kissed my forehead and wrapped her trench coat around my shaking shoulders, I decided that guilt was a small price.
    I was back, safe, under her wing.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    The next morning, my boots were sitting at the foot of my mattress as if they’d walked home all by themselves.
    I sat up. Looked around. Was it a joke? Did Arden go back to get them?
    Carrie snored softly. Bree was lying on her back with her arms folded under her head, coat-hanger style, smoking her breakfast cigarette.
    ‘You’ll burn this place down,’ I said.
    ‘Pfft,’ she said and flicked her ash onto the floor. ‘Where did you and Arden go last night?’
    I ignored her, sat up and stretched my aching body.
    ‘What happened to your face?’
    I touched my swollen lip. Overnight, it had split and I could taste dried blood. I catalogued my other wounds: scratches on my arms, a throbbing tailbone, a scrape onmy upper back. Raw and sore