Frozen by Richard Burke Page B

rummaged with his free hand among a chaotic assortment of cassettes in the well by the gearstick.
    Before I could answer, he slapped in a cassette. The Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams,” at top volume. It was a blast from the old days, the words and tune familiar, the delivery so confident, the comfort of another old friend. Adam's fingers drummed the wheel in time to the beat. I looked ahead. The road blurred towards and underneath us, and Eastbourne drifted ever closer, while behind me the zoetrope tapped restlessly against the seat.

CHAPTER 9
    “BUT I HAVEN'T got a camera,” Adam said miserably.
    “That's your problem,” Verity said self-righteously. “Four cameras or you don't go anywhere near the treehouse again, not ever.”
    He stood with his back to a rotten oak tree on the outskirts of the village, at bay after a quarter of an hour of yelling and poking by us both. We had his confession, we had his apology and we had him pinned; and Verity had surprised me by not following through. I had thought the idea was to warn him off—after all, the treehouse was our private domain and it had been Verity who wanted to keep it that way—but here she was, telling him he could be part of the treehouse gang (she'd made up the “gang” there and then, I'd had no say in it) on condition that he could get us four cameras. I can't say I was happy about it. And to make matters worse, through a mixture of threats and will power, it was looking like she'd won.
    Secretly, I think I understood why Adam wanted so much to be allowed to use the treehouse. I can't say I was happy about it, but the sympathy was real whether I liked it or not. When I looked at Adam, I saw a boy a little like myself. Adam was lonely. He craved solitude, but he was also desperate for friendship. He wanted to be alone and he wanted to belong. Verity's “gang” was perfect for him. And although I hated the prospect of his intrusion, I also felt sorry for him—and for that, I loathed him.
    I wanted a private world that only Verity and I inhabited, a world of secrets and intimacy and mad fun. I was happy and I hadn't been for ages, and what had changed was that Verity was there and that she liked me and I liked her. She was half a friend and half an object of hopeless desire, and I wanted nothing to stand between me and either. But she had made up her mind and I couldn't stop her any more than Adam could.
    Adam never stood a chance. At first he had denied that he had been anywhere near the treehouse. The photos had soon put paid to that. Then he admitted he had been there and told us that it was none of our business. Verity told him that the treehouse was ours and ours alone. He said that it wasn't, because it had obviously been there forever, and we couldn't have built it. Adam was big, but that didn't stop Verity. She screamed and pummelled him with her tiny fists. He had no idea how to deal with it. That was when he'd started the slow stagger backwards that finally put his back against the rotten oak. At that point, Verity stopped hammering him and the stand-off began. She told him that the treehouse was now booby-trapped with far more lethal weapons than milk cartons full of water; she said that her dad had a pistol and that it was set up to shoot anyone going near the treehouse; she said there were big wooden spikes that would impale him if he crossed a trigger wire. And he believed her—or, rather, he didn't have the spirit to question her.
    And then Verity had dropped her bombshell about the cameras. I don't know who was more startled, Adam or me.
    “I can't,” Adam whimpered.
    “No treehouse, then,” Verity said. “Come on, Harry, let's go.” She yanked at me with a nod and we turned to go, both of us scuffing at the field's long grass, the tips of the stalks tapping tartly at our shoes. There was a dusting of pollen on her thin gold shins, evidence of the hairs there too fine and short for me to see. As we turned she looked up at me: her