Six Bedrooms by Tegan Bennett Daylight Page B

dropped it on the desk, ran his finger over the mousepad of his laptop. Nothing there either. Her father must have put her in total lockdown. Maybe he’d heard about the plan. What if Noor had told him? He looked at himselfin the mirror. His red cheekbone had turned darker overnight, as had all the skin around his eye. And it looked very, very cool. Noor would probably cry, as she had done when he’d been knocked out, just for a second, on the football field. He went into the bathroom where the light was brighter to really get a look at it. His hair was a mess. He looked tired and beaten.
    He didn’t shower – didn’t want to spoil the hair – put on a t-shirt and shorts and his sneakers, and went downstairs. He could hear the twittering of noisy miners, and his father swearing at his mother in the garden.
    All the breakfast things had been put away. From now on , said a note on the table, if you’re too late, you miss out.
    He took the cornflakes packet out of the cupboard, got the milk and a bowl and spoon. He shoved the note into his pocket and sat down at the table. There was a scrape at the back door.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ said his father. He was wearing his gardening hat and gloves.
    â€˜Having breakfast,’ said Darcy, and in his head added, you motherfucking arsehole.
    â€˜Didn’t you see my note?’
    â€˜Nup,’ said Darcy, you cocksucking note-leaving loser.
    Darcy’s father stepped forward and seized Darcy’s hand as it brought his spoon up to his mouth, so that the milk spilt on to Darcy’s t-shirt.
    â€˜For fuck’s sake,’ said Darcy, and dropped the spoon, wrenching himself away from his father. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
    â€˜You can wait till lunchtime.’
    Darcy stood there, breathing heavily, wiping the milk off his t-shirt.
    â€˜If you don’t have the common courtesy to join us for breakfast then you don’t deserve it.’ His father was sweating, cold waxy beads of it on his white, clean-shaven face. He had a cleft chin, which Darcy had not inherited but Evan had. Hence, thought Darcy suddenly, like he’d been taken over by an English teacher, hence the goatee.
    â€˜Where’s Mum,’ said Darcy.
    â€˜Cleaning the gutters,’ said his father. ‘Waiting for you to help her.’
    â€˜Fuck you,’ said Darcy and, before his father could do anything, ducked past him and out into the yard. He ran down their street, turning once to see his mother standing on top of the garage, holding a broom and wearing a big hat, watching him. She was terrified of heights. He stopped himself giving her the finger. It was hardly her fault.
    It was hot, the kind of day that told you it was going to be a long summer. Darcy started out across the dry grass of the park. In a few weeks the whole expanse would be yellow and ant-ridden. No one had thought to planttrees, so there were no birds. By the time he reached the other side, his t-shirt was damp with sweat.
    He’d never been inside Noor’s house. There was no way her father would have allowed it. There was a white car parked in the driveway. He stopped, looking at it, and swallowed. Noor’s mother and sister didn’t drive. He’d sent her a text on the way. If he was lucky she would be able to sneak out round the back and they could head out together, so he could finally tell her about the fruit-picking.
    She wasn’t waiting outside. Darcy peered over the fence into the back garden, but there was no one there. The front door was open, but the screen door was locked. Darcy gathered his courage, pressed the doorbell and tried to see down the dark hallway. A radio was playing. At first, silence, then the sound of a chair being pushed back, and heavy feet on the wooden floor. He clenched his fists by his sides. A man opened the screen door, which creaked. He looked very like Noor – darker-skinned, and heavier, but with the