What Abigail Did That Summer by Ben Aaronovitch (most read books TXT) 📕

‘How do you know that?’

‘She told me last night,’ I say.

Simon’s face is a pleasant blank – which I’ve learnt is him thinking about something. And when he thinks about something he thinks about it properly, so I’m not that surprised when he says –

‘So it’s a talking fox.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Her name is Indigo – why don’t you say hello?’

I’ve done my research so I know that foxes have wicked hearing and that Indigo has been following every word I’ve said. She’s hidden pretty deep in the bush but when I look over she’s giving me a definite bad look. The look gets even worse when Simon walks over and crouches down to introduce himself.

Good, I’m thinking, let’s see if you can resist the smile.

A white goth girl I recognise from school walks past me and then stops by the big Welcome to the Heath sign. I don’t know her name but she’s in year 114 and has freckles, a black frock coat and knee-high boots. She is checking her phone and looking around like she’s waiting for someone. She starts looking at me with a puzzled expression, and I think maybe she’s wondering whether I’m who she’s supposed to meet. She is raising her hand to wave hello when a boy walks up to her and introduces himself. He’s white, overweight, brown-haired, wearing a blue Save Our Seas T-shirt and knee-length red canvas shorts. I check his shoes – generic black trainers. He’s talking and Goth Girl is nodding. Then they turn and walk off, north, towards the barrows. I have an idea.

‘Indigo,’ I say without looking in her direction. ‘Follow the girl in black and tell me where she goes.’

Simon yelps and fur brushes the backs of my calves as Indigo races along the railings and vanishes into the bushes on the other side. I’m proper speechless because I never expected Indigo to do what I said, and now I’m thinking of the possibilities . . . which are endless.

Simon sits back on the railing beside me.

‘Do you want to climb trees?’ he asks.

*

‘Jump!’ calls Simon. But it ain’t going to happen – no way.

I’m standing on a limb six metres up a tree in Kenwood with one arm tight around the trunk because, this far up the tree, the branch is thin enough to wobble every time I shift my weight. I’m looking over at Simon, who is standing on the limb of a completely different tree. He’s practically standing on the tip of his branch and it bows under his weight while he steadies himself by holding an even thinner branch above his head.

‘Jump!’ he calls.

And it’s not even a jump between my branch and his, it’s less than a third of a metre – more of a step really. If I’m willing to let go of the trunk and walk along to where the limb gets too thin to bear my weight. It should be easy. It looked easy when Simon did it a minute ago. But I can’t seem to make myself let go of the trunk.

Probably shouldn’t have looked down.

‘It’s easy,’ he calls again. And, to prove his point, he steps back to my tree.

And slips.

It’s that fast that he’s dropped out of sight before I can even move.

I let go and lunge forward onto the branch. I meant to straddle it, but it’s too narrow and I roll right off. I manage to lock both hands around the branch, the wood burning my palms as I find myself dangling over nothing.

I can hear Simon laughing below me.

My arms are being pulled out of their sockets and bark is scraping my hands as they slip slowly off the branch. I want to yell for help but the sound is caught in my throat. I can’t pull myself up, so I’m looking for somewhere to put my feet. But looking down, all I can see is the ground. I kick forwards and backwards and suddenly my heel catches on something out of sight behind me. I try to tighten my grip on the branch above me but I’m going to slip any second.

I swing back, make a wild guess as to where the branch behind my legs is, and get my foot on it. My fingers slip but now I’ve got my foot braced and adjust my grip. I get my other foot on the branch and now my only problem is that I’m leaning forward and spread-eagled.

I hear Simon laugh again, somewhere below me, and look down to see him climbing up to join me. He has a big grin, despite the bruise that runs up the left side of his face from chin to eyebrow.

‘Tree climbing is over,’ I say, and he pouts.

4 High school sophomore.

9

The Lady Greets the Slave or Vice Versa

Given that I’d delivered Simon home with a black eye and a limp, I thought Angelica took it pretty well. Simon wanted to sneak in via his tree again but I wasn’t having that. I was still reliving the moment when his head dropped out of sight. There’s bold and then there’s just being stupid.

‘Did you fall out of a tree again?’ Angelica asks, and gets the grin in return.

She doesn’t want to let me in.

‘He’s not supposed to go out today,’ she says. ‘He’s supposed to do his homework.’

‘I can help with that,’ I say.

Angelica gives me a suspicious look. But I’ve been watching how Simon gets round grown-ups, and give her an innocent smile. I practised it in the mirror last night. She frowns, but I tell her we can come down and work in the kitchen if she likes and that does the trick. Next thing we’re on our way upstairs with a plate full of snacks, a bottle of Florida-style fizzy orange drink and a packet of frozen peas for Simon to hold against his bruised cheek.

Once we’re done with the mini sausage rolls, the mini-salads and I’m not sure what they are but they