unusual, as in Shocksville unusual, and also a cause for deep
joy. Lee’s family went there all the time and always had tons of brilliant stuff to eat – like ice cream, for a start, and snacky things you could microwave in seconds, chips included.
Pretty much everyone else’s family shopped there too, at least sometimes. Even Zak’s.
We back-tracked and cut around along Snow Hill, weaving our way along the back streets until we’d nearly reached the river. Up ahead, you could see the junction where the end of the High
Street meets a bunch of other roads: the bridge road from the east end of town where Leonie lived, the road that led into town from the seaside places like Paignton and Torquay and the road that
led to the hospital and the supermarket.
That junction was rammed with dead cars, with live people, with rage – you could hear it from where we stood: screaming, shouting, fighting and the police, in a car, stuck in the middle of
it, lights flashing. There was a policeman on the roof of the car with a megaphone, telling people to Go Home, Go Home, Go Home.
Simon looked . . . like he looked when he got landed with Henry having a bawling fit. Upset, confused and panicked. Stressed out, but trying not to show it.
To get to the supermarket, we’d have to get through all that. Or –
‘We could cut across the High Street further up,’ I said. ‘Just cut across; it’ll be really quick.’
Basically, I’d have marched across the Sahara if I’d thought there was something to drink on the other side. I could feel this disgusting fug of sweat building up inside the
waterproofs, and I’d already wondered if I’d have to survive by licking the inside of my cagoule.
‘Where?’ snapped Simon. Yup: stressed.
That’s the thing about being a teenager, I guess. You know about stuff, you know about places, about shortcuts that adults don’t. They get to drive everywhere; you get told,
‘It’s only a shower’ – i.e. get on with it, go. So you find the quickest way . . . OK, so you also find secret ways . . . OK, and places to lurk. Places without mosquito
alarms, and where you won’t get seen by parents cruising past in cars when maybe you’re supposed to be in double French or PE. Or a super-expensive private guitar lesson, for
example.
My shortcut, it was down this little alleyway. At the end of it you had to cut across the High Street, but not just straight across; you had to turn left, go along a bit and then cut right to
get into another alleyway. I guess Simon must have been thirst-crazy too, because we went for it . . . He gripped the umbrella like it was a club and took hold of my hand.
When I was small, when we first came here, when I first went out anywhere on my own with Simon (which wasn’t for a long time), he’d try to get me to hold his hand to cross the road.
I wouldn’t do it. I’d fold my arms and march across the road alone. If you’d told me one day I’d cross the High Street in broad daylight holding his hand . . . I
wouldn’t have believed you for a second.
I held his hand so tight.
There. That’s a thing I’ve said for my mum. And for Simon.
But honestly – and this is the weird thing – it wasn’t as bad as I had thought it would be. The riot, I mean. Yes, it was like nothing you’d ever seen (well, certainly
not in Dartbridge); there were people running about and smashing windows and nicking stuff and shouting at each other (plus alarms going off) . . . but what you realised in about ten seconds is
that although it’s really scary and about as far from anything normal you would ever expect to see – especially in the hippy capital of the entire universe – no one is in the
least bit bothered about you. Everyone is just doing their own thing; they couldn’t care less about you . . . unless you tried to take their TV or their trainers or their bags of food or
something, I bet. (So that was fine by me, because it wasn’t like anyone in the middle
joy. Lee’s family went there all the time and always had tons of brilliant stuff to eat – like ice cream, for a start, and snacky things you could microwave in seconds, chips included.
Pretty much everyone else’s family shopped there too, at least sometimes. Even Zak’s.
We back-tracked and cut around along Snow Hill, weaving our way along the back streets until we’d nearly reached the river. Up ahead, you could see the junction where the end of the High
Street meets a bunch of other roads: the bridge road from the east end of town where Leonie lived, the road that led into town from the seaside places like Paignton and Torquay and the road that
led to the hospital and the supermarket.
That junction was rammed with dead cars, with live people, with rage – you could hear it from where we stood: screaming, shouting, fighting and the police, in a car, stuck in the middle of
it, lights flashing. There was a policeman on the roof of the car with a megaphone, telling people to Go Home, Go Home, Go Home.
Simon looked . . . like he looked when he got landed with Henry having a bawling fit. Upset, confused and panicked. Stressed out, but trying not to show it.
To get to the supermarket, we’d have to get through all that. Or –
‘We could cut across the High Street further up,’ I said. ‘Just cut across; it’ll be really quick.’
Basically, I’d have marched across the Sahara if I’d thought there was something to drink on the other side. I could feel this disgusting fug of sweat building up inside the
waterproofs, and I’d already wondered if I’d have to survive by licking the inside of my cagoule.
‘Where?’ snapped Simon. Yup: stressed.
That’s the thing about being a teenager, I guess. You know about stuff, you know about places, about shortcuts that adults don’t. They get to drive everywhere; you get told,
‘It’s only a shower’ – i.e. get on with it, go. So you find the quickest way . . . OK, so you also find secret ways . . . OK, and places to lurk. Places without mosquito
alarms, and where you won’t get seen by parents cruising past in cars when maybe you’re supposed to be in double French or PE. Or a super-expensive private guitar lesson, for
example.
My shortcut, it was down this little alleyway. At the end of it you had to cut across the High Street, but not just straight across; you had to turn left, go along a bit and then cut right to
get into another alleyway. I guess Simon must have been thirst-crazy too, because we went for it . . . He gripped the umbrella like it was a club and took hold of my hand.
When I was small, when we first came here, when I first went out anywhere on my own with Simon (which wasn’t for a long time), he’d try to get me to hold his hand to cross the road.
I wouldn’t do it. I’d fold my arms and march across the road alone. If you’d told me one day I’d cross the High Street in broad daylight holding his hand . . . I
wouldn’t have believed you for a second.
I held his hand so tight.
There. That’s a thing I’ve said for my mum. And for Simon.
But honestly – and this is the weird thing – it wasn’t as bad as I had thought it would be. The riot, I mean. Yes, it was like nothing you’d ever seen (well, certainly
not in Dartbridge); there were people running about and smashing windows and nicking stuff and shouting at each other (plus alarms going off) . . . but what you realised in about ten seconds is
that although it’s really scary and about as far from anything normal you would ever expect to see – especially in the hippy capital of the entire universe – no one is in the
least bit bothered about you. Everyone is just doing their own thing; they couldn’t care less about you . . . unless you tried to take their TV or their trainers or their bags of food or
something, I bet. (So that was fine by me, because it wasn’t like anyone in the middle
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