The Last House on Needless Street by Catriona Ward (guided reading books .TXT) 📕

called paper birch trees,’ I say. ‘Or white birch. Look.’ I peel a sliver of bark from a trunk and show it to her. She strokes its whispering surface. I don’t tell her their true name, which is bone trees.

I find the spot I want in the north-west corner, where I spread the groundsheet over the earth, still warm from the day. We sit. I make her drink some water, eat an energy bar. Overhead, the branches show through the stars. Lauren is quiet. I know she feels them. The gods.

‘This is nice,’ I say. ‘You and me together. It reminds me of when you were little. Those were wonderful times.’

‘I don’t remember it like that,’ she says. I feel a spurt of frustration. She is always pushing me away. But I stay calm.

‘I love you more than anyone else in the world,’ I tell her. And I mean it. Lauren is special. I never showed any of the others the clearing. ‘All I want is to keep you safe.’

She says, ‘Dad, I can’t live like this any more. Sometimes I don’t want to live at all.’

When I can breathe again I say, in as regular a tone as I can manage, ‘I’ll tell you a secret, kitten. Everyone feels like that sometimes. Sometimes things get bad, and you can’t see a future ahead. It’s all cloudy, like the sky on a rainy day. But life moves very fast. Things never stay the same for ever, even the bad things. The clouds will blow away. They always do, I promise.’

‘But I’m not like everyone else,’ Lauren says. Her voice is so sharp it could slice me. ‘Most people could have walked here on their own. I can’t. That’s not going to change or blow away. That’s going to stay the same for ever. Right, Ted?’

I wince. There’s no answer to this. I hate it when she calls me Ted. ‘Let’s just watch the stars, kitten.’

‘You have to let me do stuff, Dad,’ she says. ‘You have to let me grow up.’

‘Lauren,’ I say, anger rising. ‘That’s not fair. I know you think you’re all mature. But you still need looking after. Remember what happened at the mall?’

‘That was years ago. It’s different now. Look, we’re outside and I’m being really good.’

She feels the first one soon after. ‘Something bit me,’ she says. Her voice has only surprise in it. No fear yet.

I am being stung too, on my leg, twice in quick succession. I don’t feel it, of course, but I watch the flesh rise into red lumps. They’re crawling all over us now. Lauren begins to scream. ‘What are they? Oh, God, Dad, what’s happening?’

‘They’re fire ants,’ I say. ‘We must be sitting on a nest.’

‘Get them off,’ she says. ‘It hurts, get them off me!’

I grab the backpack and carry her through the trees at a run. The roots and brambles clutch my feet. When we reach the path I stop and brush us both down vigorously. I pour water over our exposed areas.

‘Did any of them get inside your clothes?’ I ask.

‘No,’ she says, ‘I don’t think so.’ Her voice is full of tears. ‘Can we go home, Dad?’

‘Of course, my kitten.’ I hold her tight all the way back. No more ‘Ted’, I notice.

She says, ‘It was a dumb idea, camping. Thanks for getting us out of there.’

I say, ‘That’s my job.’

Lauren, tired out by it all, is unconscious before we reach the house. I put lotion on our bites, touching her sleeping skin with care. A line of vivid red pustules runs up her calf and into the crook of her knee, but that’s it. We ran before any real damage was done. The young feel pain intensely, I think, because they don’t know yet how deep it can go.

Morning, and it’s time to say goodbye. Lauren clings. ‘I love you, Dad.’ Her breath is wet in my beard. ‘I don’t want to go.’

‘I know.’ I can taste her tears on my lips. Feeling rises like an ocean swell. It’s so strong I have to close my eyes. ‘I’ll see you next week,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, kitten. You be good now. That will make the time go quickly and you’ll be back before you know it.’

Each one of her sobs feels like I’m being hit with a wrench.

I sit on the couch and listen to the music and feel just miserable. After a time I feel the lightest touch of whiskers against the back of my hand. A silken head pushes into my palm.

Olivia has come out of hiding and she knows that I need her.

I walk out to the woods with a gallon jug of pyrethrin. The forest is different during the day. Scattered light lies on the ground like handfuls of thrown grain. A deer pokes its face out from the foliage, dark eyes wide, then flees. I soon see why, as I pass the orange-juice-hair man with his dog. The dog grins at me like always. It remembers that time Olivia tried to get out. Then I overtake a family hiking in matching red jackets. I think they’re fighting. The children’s faces are small and serious; the dad looks tired. The mother strides ahead as if she’s alone.

I walk on past the place where I would normally leave the path for the clearing, and then sit on a stump to wait. They pass in silence. The father nods at me. They are definitely fighting. Families are complicated.

When their red jackets have vanished into the sunlit trees I circle back to the clearing. The groundsheet is still there. It lies wrinkled on the leaf mulch like the skin of a dead monster. Ants march busily across. It can’t stay here. It might draw attention to this place. I take a long stick and poke the groundsheet together, into a kind of pile. Then I hook it up and drop it into the trash bag I brought with me.

I follow the marching trail