Discarded by M. Hunter (the reading list .txt) 📕

Instead, he flicked on the switch by the door and suddenly the room filled with light.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and to take in his full figure. He had to be close to six feet in height, but thinner than any boy she’d ever seen. He was wearing fluorescent swimming trunks and a sleeveless vest that only made him look scrawnier and limper, as his stick-thin arms and shoulders protruded out from the straps. A cluster of reddish-brown freckles covered almost every inch of his face, but there was no malice in the huge smile that was slowly spreading across it.

‘I’m Chez,’ he said, moving into the open kitchen area, reaching for the kettle on the stove and promptly filling it beneath the sink tap. ‘I can’t believe they left you sitting in here in the dark. Not to worry, I’ve got the generator going, so now we can see each other without squinting. Do you want a cuppa?’

She hadn’t drunk any of the Fanta she’d bought at the newsagent’s shop, such had been the panic when she’d realised the man wasn’t taking her home, and it had fallen from her lap when he’d dragged her from the car. Only now that she thought about Chez’s question did she realise just how thirsty she was.

‘Yes, please,’ she said cautiously.

She watched as he located two mugs in the back of one of the cupboards she hadn’t been able to reach, before removing a small box of teabags and dropping one in each.

‘You don’t take sugar do you, ’cos I don’t think we have any.’

She doubted that was the only ingredient he was missing; given the lights hadn’t been working, she doubted the fridge would have been running. To her surprise, he reached into the high cupboard again, this time removing a carton of milk.

‘It’s long-life,’ he said when he saw her frowning. ‘Means we don’t have to rely on the dodgy generator that’s always conking out. It tastes like pish to drink, but it’s okay in tea. So, have you been here long?’

She glanced at her watch, but her eyes couldn’t focus on the hands, so she really had no idea how long it had been since the man had locked her in the car and brought her here. She shrugged instead.

‘Well, not to worry. I’ll whip us up something to eat when we’ve finished our tea. They say it’s good for shock, and judging by how pale your face is, I think it’s just what you need. In fact, actually I think it’s sweet tea that’s good for shock, but as we have no sugar, we’ll just have to make do.’

Every time he spoke, it was like he was in a race to finish his sentences, such was the speed the words tumbling from his lips. And she couldn’t tell if he was deliberately trying to sound like one of her girlfriends, but he didn’t seem ashamed of the effeminate nature of his voice.

The kettle whistled on the gas stove, and she continued to watch him as he made the tea. He’d shut the door when he’d come in, but had made no effort to lock it, nor barricade her in. It wouldn’t be too much effort to wait for his back to be turned, before rushing at the door. She wouldn’t have the head start she would have had when he was still outside, but if she ran with all her might, was it possible she could get out of the light and to the track before he caught up?

He carried the mugs over, and the chance was gone again.

Resting one of the mugs on the table before her, he moved around the table and sat next to her. ‘It will be hot, so I’d give it a couple of minutes before drinking it if I were you.’ He paused. ‘So where are you from?’

‘Portland,’ she whispered, still unsure whether he was just lulling her into a false sense of security.

‘Ah, so you’re local then? I’m from Donegal originally. Have you ever been to Ireland?’

She shook her head. The furthest they’d been was the Lake District. Whilst all her other friends had at least been to the Costa del Sol on holiday, she’d never left the UK; her parents didn’t believe in spending money to aid foreign markets when the British tourism industry was in greater need of support.

‘Well, if you ever get the chance, you must go. It’s a lovely town, and the people there are so friendly.’

As she studied his face more closely, trying to read him, her eyes widened as she saw the long, thin scar running from the edge of his right eye down his cheek. She tried to look away, but he’d seen her shock.

‘Beer bottle,’ he said, running a finger over the now smooth edge. ‘My stepfather was a drunk who didn’t appreciate my smart mouth. I certainly don’t miss him.’

‘How long have you been here?’ she dared to ask.

He didn’t immediately answer but his eyes brightened a moment later. ‘I tell you what, why don’t we do each other’s nails? Have you had your nails painted before?’

The only reason she wasn’t wearing nail varnish at that moment was because the school frowned upon it, and her mum would only let her wear it during the school holidays.

He bounced from the seat, knocking into the table and causing some of her tea to slop onto the top, returning a moment later with a small zip bag. He located some kitchen roll and mopped up the spillage, before unzipping the bag. It was as if he had raided the local Boots, as bottle of polish after bottle of polish cascaded onto the table.

‘What’s your favourite colour?’ he asked, standing up close to two dozen bottles.

She was about to reach for the violet varnish, when she thought again. Her mother never let her wear black nail varnish (‘the devil’s colour’, she would say), and so Joanna pointed to it.

‘Ooh, you’re such