Gypsy Girl by Kathryn James

Gregory was near by. Mr Langton didn’t want me to, and kept closing the door little by little to block my view, but I was managing to stand on tiptoe and see over his shoulder. I could see the hall and, at the far side, an open door into one of the rooms. There was a TV on the wall above a fireplace, and the channels were flicking over quickly as though someone was bored and aiming a remote at the screen.
    Mr Langton put an arm out to the doorpost, blocking my way. “You don’t have to worry. He’s got us and his girlfriend to do that.” He said the word “girlfriend” extra loud, like I wouldn’t hear it otherwise. “So off you go.”
    He flicked a finger towards the driveway, as though I was some tiny child who could be dismissed. That got me annoyed. Politeness doesn’t cost anything. He went to shut the door, but I stepped forward so he’d have to sandwich me, my mango dress and my new shoes between the door and the frame if he carried on shutting it.
    “Please. I’ll only be a minute. Honest.”
    A voice shouted from the room behind him. “Dad! Is that Sammy-Jo? Let her in!”
    When Mr Langton heard that, he looked ready to explode. He stood there taking deep breaths for a while, like a kettle letting off steam, but eventually he swung the door wide open and moved aside.
    I walked into the hall. Nothing much had changed in two years. I swear there was the same vase standing on the same old, scratched cupboard, exactly where it had been when I’d taken the money from under it. This time, instead of creeping through the house like a burglar, I stuck my chin in the air, gave Mr Langton another smile and walked across the polished floorboards with my heels tiptapping. The room at the back was huge. It was a wonder it didn’t echo. There were three squashy sofas with covers thrown over them. A couple of coffee tables. A grand piano standing in the corner. And a fireplace with logs in a basket. The walls were full of gloomy paintings that looked like they needed a good scrub.
    To tell you the truth, I didn’t think much of the furnishings around me. Star, who thinks she knows everything about everything, says that old and shabby things are fashionable with some people, but they don’t appeal to me. You should see Tyson and Rocky’s house, if you want shiny, new and expensive. It’s got marble and leather and chrome everywhere, and their TV was twice the size of this one.
    But I wasn’t here to like the furnishings. I took a deep breath and actually looked at Gregory. He was lying on one of the sofas. A great shaft of evening sunlight was streaming in through one of the long windows, with little specks of dust dancing in it. It was shining right on him and lighting up his fair hair and leaving other bits in shadow, like one of the old paintings on the wall. It wiped the image of him curled up and bleeding from my mind at last, and a little wave of happiness stole through me. He gave me a smile like he was really pleased to see me, but as I walked over to him it faded away and he did a double take at my dress. I think the sun had caught it, and the colour was glowing. Judging by his expression, he seemed to like my mango dress better than his father did.
    “Hey,” I said.
    His poor cut lip curled into a smile. He put his head on one side and surveyed me again. “Do you always visit sick people dressed like that? You’ll give them a heart attack.”
    I looked down at myself. “This old thing? This is what I do the cleaning in.”
    His face creased up and his eyes crinkled and he laughed silently and gently, his hand going to his ribs. He’d got a clean shirt on, and it was hanging undone. The skin of his chest still looked as tender as a baby’s, but it was spoiled by the bruises at the sides, which had begun to turn yellow, green and purple now, like the colours of petrol in a dirty puddle.
    The wound on his head, which went from his temple, straight across his eyebrow, had been stitched. His hair was