Mirrorland by Carole Johnstone (books for 6 year olds to read themselves txt) 📕

moved to a different school. She said I’d see Dad and my friends again. But we’re still here.’

He looked at me then, and his eyes burned with an intensity that was not quite rage, not quite pain. His whole body vibrated with it, and I was deliciously afraid. When I felt brave enough to reach out and touch his hand, I was thrilled when he gripped mine back tightly enough to hurt.

‘Today’s his birthday. I don’t even know where we used to live. She won’t tell me, and I don’t remember.’ A tear splashed against his forearm, ran down to his wrist. ‘I hate her.’

And while he still twisted my fingers hard enough to make my eyes water, he laid his head on my shoulder and sobbed so hard that he lost his voice.

El knows how much Ross loves her. And she knows how Ross loves. Completely. Absolutely. To the exclusion of all else. Is this how she wants him to suffer? Is this what she wants to reduce him to – considering suicide, however seriously, because of what she’s done? But I can’t believe that. I won’t. El is selfish and thoughtless, sometimes she’s cruel. But she loves Ross, I know that. And she would never wish death on anyone, no matter how angry she is, no matter how much she might want to punish them. I stop short, heart skipping, anger draining away. Because that’s not true. Once upon a time she did wish someone dead. We both did.

‘I’m sorry.’ Ross looks at me, presses his lips together in imitation of a smile. ‘And I’m so sorry about tonight. Everything I said. I didn’t mean that either. I was a shithead to you, and I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

His smile freezes and then falters, stops being a smile at all. ‘I just love her so much. I can’t – oh, for fuck’s sake.’ He starts wiping so furiously at his face and eyes, I want to wince. And it’s his embarrassment, his frustration at his own grief that finally makes me get up and go to him. She doesn’t deserve his tears, his despair. Much less anything else.

‘Ross, stop.’ I kneel down next to him and the photo album, cup his face in both of my hands. His eyes are worse than bloodshot, no longer white at all. His cheeks are rough with stubble, wet and red raw. I wipe them gently with the cool palms of my hands, my fingers, and he closes his eyes, goes limp. I think of his crooked smiles. The excited twist of my stomach whenever he dropped down from that skylight and into our world.

And I do it without thinking, even though I know I was planning on doing it all along. Even before I felt that old, indulgent ache. I lean closer and press my lips against his.

For a moment, he freezes, and I think about drawing back, pretending it was just a peck that landed badly, but I can’t, because I want – need – more. His smell, as unique and inimitable as that of this house, is not enough; the feel of his skin, his stubble, his tears under my fingers is not enough. I need more.

And then I get it. His hands come up to touch my face, my hair. When I press deeper, he lets me, and our kiss goes from chaste to something else in seconds. His mouth is hot, wet. I can feel the thunder of my heartbeat even in my toes. He makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and I think, Yes. Yes.

Because it’s just the same. The same rush. The same madness. Sweeping everything else away, including sense.

Ross is the one to recover his first. And I can see straightaway that it’s not the same for him. Not any more. He scrambles to his feet, but not before I see the horror on his face. He nearly tips over the whisky glass in his rush to get up and away from me. And it’s only when he has, when I realise that I’m looking at a closed door and kneeling on the floor of an empty room, that I remember to be horrified too.

CHAPTER 8

8 April 2018 at 08:45

Inbox

[email protected]

Re: HE KNOWS

To: Me

CLUE 3. DRAW A CLOWN TO WARN THE TOOTH FAIRY

Sent from my iPhone

*

El can go screw herself. I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to get up, I’m not going to go into the bathroom, and I’m not going to look. My head is pounding in twin spots right behind my eyes. My stomach gurgles and heaves, and my breath is hot and whisky sour. I’ve no idea how much of it I drank. Too much.

I lurch out of bed, stagger to the bathroom, and make it just in time, my retches loud and humiliating. I stay on my knees for a long while, and then I get up slowly, stagger to the sink. The tap water is warm, metallic, but I glug it down nonetheless, barely stopping to draw breath. When I can avoid it no longer, I look at the mirror.

There’s nothing there. No round clown face painted carefully in El’s acrylics. It was the only warning we ever gave the Tooth Fairy whenever she was on the prowl. A little clown face in the corner of a mirror that we hoped would frighten her back into hiding before we had to resort to painting our faces and putting on our wigs and noses and jumpsuits in the Clown Café. Because everyone – everything – is terrified of something. And for the Tooth Fairy, it wasn’t just Clowns, it was the very idea of them.

I open the mirror, start searching through the cabinet for another diary page. I reach behind some pill bottles, and one teeters and falls, crashing and rattling around the porcelain until I manage to catch hold of it. It feels mostly empty, and I’m already putting it back when I