The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (open ebook .txt) 📕

out of the lounge. A few seconds later I heard the front door click shut.

As if emerging from a nightmare, I took stock of my surroundings, my hands trembling with rage. It was only then that I spied Josh in the corner, his face still buried silently against the wall. I couldn’t believe we’d just left him there, a forgotten witness to our bitterness and threats. His two parents at war with one another. Me, who’d sworn and shouted and let my fury pour out. And Hellie, who’d left without even glancing back at him.

I remember sitting on an upturned crate, Max next to me, watching the remains of the polar bear burning on the fire, his black eyes gazing up at me pathetically.

The Leader – his long, skinny arm draped over Tom’s shoulder, the knife dangling from his hand – was talking drunkenly in faltering English about leadership, respect, his country, his people. His victim was still lying face-down by the fire, unmoving, defeated.

The four of us kept looking at each other, wide eyes darting in the flickering light, asking the same silent question: how the hell do we get out of here?

Suddenly an argument erupted between the Leader and his two henchmen, Snake Eyes and Muscles, as I’d come to think of him, due to the bulk of his biceps. Muscles, until this point, had been fairly quiet, but now angry words flew back and forth between the three of them in a language we didn’t understand. The Leader removed his arm from Tom’s shoulder and drunkenly squared up to Snake Eyes. He snatched the bottle out of his hand, threw it to the ground, where it smashed, and shouted furiously, waving the knife in Snake Eyes’ face.

The four of us eyed each other desperately, unsure what to do. Were things about to get really nasty? Was this a chance to make an escape?

As the arguing continued, their victim on the ground rolled over slowly. He raised his head off the dry earth, looked around him as if seeking someone out, and then settled his gaze upon me. One of his eyes had swollen shut. His lip was cut and bleeding, his nose bruised. But he was still recognisable to me. It was the black hair that gave him away. And the chequered shirt.

Hey, dude…

The fire cast flickering light and shadow across Rocket’s face. He mouthed something at me as best he could with his damaged mouth, but I couldn’t make it out.

And then I got it.

Run, he was saying. Run.

I glanced anxiously at Tom, who caught my eye.

It was now or possibly never.

I looked at Rocket lying on the ground. I’d get help, I’d get the police. But I couldn’t do anything for him unless I got out of here.

And so I jumped up from the crate, grabbing Max and pulling him after me. Immediately, Tom burst into action, running into Michael and pushing him forward. But Muscles spied us and shouted. Moving swiftly, the Leader stepped in front of me, holding out the knife. With a burst of adrenaline, I knocked his arm out of my way and pushed on through, all four of us making a desperate bid for freedom.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the two henchmen make a sudden move to come after us.

And then there was a cry of pain.

I stopped and turned, saw Rocket crawling on the ground, the broken bottle glistening in in his outstretched hand. And the Leader cursing, clutching at his calf.

The two henchmen wavered, unsure whether to pursue us or return to their leader’s side.

“Jay, come on!” I heard Tom yell.

I glanced at my hand. Blood was dripping from my palm where I’d knocked the knife out of the way, but I felt no pain.

I couldn’t go back. The only thing I could possibly do now was get help.

I took one last glance at Rocket and ran.

Chapter 13

Complicated

Josh and I step out onto the terrace at the Canal House, mugs of tea in our hands, courtesy of a blurry-eyed Stu, who’s busy tidying up inside following last night’s engagement celebrations. Irena’s still cocooned in bed, suffering from morning sickness. It’s half nine on Sunday morning, and apart from the chinking of bottles being tidied away, the place is quiet, the air bright and still.

“Thank you so much for coming,” beams Libby, squinting against the morning sunshine, a paintbrush dangling from her hand. She’s wearing loose cotton trousers and a khaki shirt that are both splattered with white paint. She looks tired. Without make-up and with her hair tied back, her scar stands out, pale pink and shiny. Guilt forces me to avert my eyes.

“I’m really grateful for the help,” Libby smiles. “I think once this base coat’s done, I’ll be fine, I just had no idea it would take so long. I thought one coat would be enough, but it’s not and…”

“It’s fine,” I reassure her, and then gesture behind me. “Libby, this is Josh. Josh, Libby.”

“Hi,” smiles Libby, giving him a little wave.

“All right?” he nods, awkwardly.

Libby continues to stare at him, searching his features.

Josh shuffles self-consciously and stares at his pristine trainers.

“I really do appreciate your help,” she tells him, shaking away whatever thoughts she’d been having. “This might not be much fun for you—”

“It’s not meant to be fun,” I interrupt, “it’s punishment.”

I grab his arm and hold it up for Libby to see. A red-raw strip of skin runs down the inside of his forearm. Hard, white specks of superglue are still stuck here and there.

“Ouch!” she recoils, as Josh snatches his arm back and glares at me.

“Punishment for being an idiot,” I clarify.

“Oh, well,” sighs Libby, “we all do silly things when we’re teenagers, don’t we?” She raises an eyebrow pointedly at me and smiles.

Josh smirks. She’s already won him over.

“Yeah, Dad,” he mumbles. “I mean, I got a bit of glue on my arm, you got thrown out of school and had