brushed back away from it and still sticky with dried blood. He tried to sit up, so I’d have room on the sofa, pushing himself with his grazed hands. But he didn’t get far before he winced.
“Stay still,” I said.
There was a little footstool by the fireplace, so I went and fetched it and put it next to him. It wasn’t a good move because when I sat down on it, I found myself so close to him that a terrible thought came into my head. I couldn’t stop looking at the cut on his head and thinking how painful it must be, and I found myself wanting to lean over and kiss the corner of the wound, where it was jagged and sore. So I blinked and glanced away from his eyebrow and the stitches, but then I found myself looking at his mouth. His cut lip was healing well. I found myself wanting to kiss that too.
My brain wouldn’t stop.
“How are you feeling?” I managed to say.
“I was lucky,” he said. “My ribs weren’t broken, just kicked and stomped.”
“Oh. Good.”
A silence fell and stretched out. I could hear the old grandfather clock in the corner ticking away and the birds having their evening squawk in the garden beyond the windows. I suppose for all its oldness and scruffiness, this was a peaceful room to be in. Or maybe Gregory was a peaceful person to sit with. He was so different to Rocky.
“What’s up?” he asked, eventually.
“Nothing. Why?”
“You’re staring.”
I blinked. “So are you. You’re always staring at things.”
That got me another smile. “I know. I’m curious about the world. I like solving mysteries.” He tried to sit up again, and managed by holding onto his side and moving gently. “You’re a mystery. One minute you’re here, and then you’re gone. And now you’re here again.”
I thought of Granny Kate’s story about our family tree. “We’re the secret people. No one knows us.”
He grinned. “I do. I can see Gypsy’s Acre from my bedroom.”
“The window on the end?”
“Yes.”
So that was his bedroom. I could see it from my trailer window. For some reason that gave me a shiver of delight.
“After I met you in the hall that first time, I used to wake up in the mornings and check whether you’d come back,” he said.
I could see a picture so clear in my head, of him looking out of his window to our little camp. Our eyes met, and he smiled. All this smiling had made his lip bleed a little again. I had to clasp my hands together to stop myself getting a tissue from the box on the coffee table and dabbing it for him.
I tried to make myself think of something else, something far away from Gregory. Like my other life, the one where I fought in backstreet gyms, where I was Gypsy Girl, and where the crowd watched me through the bars of the cage, and gambled on me winning or getting hurt – either seemed to please them. It was a million miles from this comfy room with its squashy sofas and the long shadows of evening settling over it.
I was an imposter. And it was my fault he was in pain.
His phone beeped, disturbing the silence. He looked down at it. “More texts. And they’re all about you.”
“Is that good?” My heart gave a thump. Being talked about usually spelled trouble for me.
He held up his phone and showed me. “They’ve been coming in ever since I got out of the hospital. Everyone’s texting about you.”
“Saying what?” I knew it wasn’t going to be good.
I got a blast of his amber eyes. “That you’re this dangerous fighter girl.”
He waited for me to answer. I wasn’t going to lie to him.
“It’s true I’m a fighter,” I said. “It’s my life. But I don’t jump on people in the street. I fight in the gym.”
He nodded. “Yes. But the texts say you had a fight with a girl in your town, and she’s in hospital in a coma. That’s why you came here, to get away from the police. And that’s why you won’t go back home.”
When I heard that, my heart began to pound.
I knew he was watching me, giving me
“Stay still,” I said.
There was a little footstool by the fireplace, so I went and fetched it and put it next to him. It wasn’t a good move because when I sat down on it, I found myself so close to him that a terrible thought came into my head. I couldn’t stop looking at the cut on his head and thinking how painful it must be, and I found myself wanting to lean over and kiss the corner of the wound, where it was jagged and sore. So I blinked and glanced away from his eyebrow and the stitches, but then I found myself looking at his mouth. His cut lip was healing well. I found myself wanting to kiss that too.
My brain wouldn’t stop.
“How are you feeling?” I managed to say.
“I was lucky,” he said. “My ribs weren’t broken, just kicked and stomped.”
“Oh. Good.”
A silence fell and stretched out. I could hear the old grandfather clock in the corner ticking away and the birds having their evening squawk in the garden beyond the windows. I suppose for all its oldness and scruffiness, this was a peaceful room to be in. Or maybe Gregory was a peaceful person to sit with. He was so different to Rocky.
“What’s up?” he asked, eventually.
“Nothing. Why?”
“You’re staring.”
I blinked. “So are you. You’re always staring at things.”
That got me another smile. “I know. I’m curious about the world. I like solving mysteries.” He tried to sit up again, and managed by holding onto his side and moving gently. “You’re a mystery. One minute you’re here, and then you’re gone. And now you’re here again.”
I thought of Granny Kate’s story about our family tree. “We’re the secret people. No one knows us.”
He grinned. “I do. I can see Gypsy’s Acre from my bedroom.”
“The window on the end?”
“Yes.”
So that was his bedroom. I could see it from my trailer window. For some reason that gave me a shiver of delight.
“After I met you in the hall that first time, I used to wake up in the mornings and check whether you’d come back,” he said.
I could see a picture so clear in my head, of him looking out of his window to our little camp. Our eyes met, and he smiled. All this smiling had made his lip bleed a little again. I had to clasp my hands together to stop myself getting a tissue from the box on the coffee table and dabbing it for him.
I tried to make myself think of something else, something far away from Gregory. Like my other life, the one where I fought in backstreet gyms, where I was Gypsy Girl, and where the crowd watched me through the bars of the cage, and gambled on me winning or getting hurt – either seemed to please them. It was a million miles from this comfy room with its squashy sofas and the long shadows of evening settling over it.
I was an imposter. And it was my fault he was in pain.
His phone beeped, disturbing the silence. He looked down at it. “More texts. And they’re all about you.”
“Is that good?” My heart gave a thump. Being talked about usually spelled trouble for me.
He held up his phone and showed me. “They’ve been coming in ever since I got out of the hospital. Everyone’s texting about you.”
“Saying what?” I knew it wasn’t going to be good.
I got a blast of his amber eyes. “That you’re this dangerous fighter girl.”
He waited for me to answer. I wasn’t going to lie to him.
“It’s true I’m a fighter,” I said. “It’s my life. But I don’t jump on people in the street. I fight in the gym.”
He nodded. “Yes. But the texts say you had a fight with a girl in your town, and she’s in hospital in a coma. That’s why you came here, to get away from the police. And that’s why you won’t go back home.”
When I heard that, my heart began to pound.
I knew he was watching me, giving me
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