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Stones
Polly Johnson
A vivid, compelling and intensely moving novel from an exciting new voice in young adult fiction.Coo is trying to cope with the hand that life has dealt her. At sixteen, she feels she’s too young to have lost her older brother, Sam, to alcoholism. She’s skipping school to avoid the sympathy and questions of her friends and teachers, and shunning her parents, angry that they failed to protect her, and desperate to avoid having to face the fact that, towards the end, she began to wish Sam would leave forever – even die. Then, one day, truanting by the Brighton seafront, Coo meets Banks, a homeless alcoholic and she’s surprised to discover that it is possible for her life to get more complicated.Despite warnings from her friends and family, Coo and Banks develop an unlikely friendship. Brought together through a series of unexpected events, strange midnight feasts, a near drowning and the unravelling of secrets, together they seek their chance for redemption. That is, until Coo’s feelings start getting dangerously out of hand.
STONES
POLLY JOHNSON
Authonomy
by HarperCollinsPublishers
For H, E and D
also
The ‘Amazing Writers’ and Authonomites
for all the reading.
Contents
Title Page (#uf48c8ce8-c6c4-582b-b44e-7d15255f841f)
Dedication (#ucf877a06-6c1e-5025-af22-b92798581e69)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
About Authonomy
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
1. (#uce819c4a-cfbe-5ded-a5ac-1e6fdc8bae2d)
‘Admit you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘That’s all you have to do. It’s not hard.’
When you’re being held against a wall – feet almost off the floor and a hand gripping your throat – it’s always best to agree.
‘Yes, okay. You’re right; let go!’
The red face – spit round the mouth – came closer. Eyes squinted a hair’s breadth from mine and a horrible smell of stale beer bloomed in my nostrils. It would be okay though. He was right. I’d said it…
I walk fast, head tucked into the neck of my jacket like a tortoise. Adrenaline washes through me in a hot tide so I don’t feel the tang of ice in the sea-wind. The windows of the streets and squares glow yellow, and shop windows flicker to life as Brighton wakes. I hurry through it as though my feet are on fire, while commuters barge past me the other way, cups of stinking coffee held before them as shields. My heart surges in my chest and I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be part of it. I just need to reach the sea.
‘Lying little moron,’ the voice sneers again in my head. ‘You don’t mean that. You think you’re so smart…’
Voices from the dead. At night the past spills over into morning and I wake thinking it’s now. I lie there in the early light and remind myself it isn’t. It’s done. I tell myself this over and over, hoping that will make it true and the memories will fade like the Shrink Woman tells me. Until then, they wake me with a jolt each morning. Memories of my brother Sam. Of what he turned into…
…The hand tightened on my throat. Black and silver stars exploded on the edges of my vision. ‘I’m wrong,’ I said. ‘Sam! I agree!’ I tried to make my voice as loud as I could, so that maybe someone upstairs would hear me and come down. He slammed my head back against the wall – again, then again…
‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said.
I’ve walked so fast, I’m already crossing Grand Junction Road. The long green railings and pier entrance are ahead and after that there’s only the sky, streaked with orange and pink, and no sound but the shush of waves washing lazily over stones. I hurry down the steps to the promenade, move the rucksack to my other shoulder and slow down, listening to the suck and blow of the water and the hum of the wind. It’s quiet now… calm… until suddenly a voice breaks in – shocking as a slap: ‘Oi. Girl. You – Girl!’
I keep moving, twisting my head to find the speaker, and then I see him.
Over the road, in the shadow of the tall arches, are two men. One lies on a bench and hefts himself up to stare at me. His face is ghostly pale in the dimness, but it’s the shouter I fix my eyes on. He walks towards me with a strange scissoring stride – hair in a mad, red halo, his mouth a wet gape.
‘I saw God!’ he bellows, so close now that I hear him breathing. ‘I saw God, and he had a message for you!’
His eyes are red-rimmed and crusty, eyelashes yellow with some gungy mess, and the scent of him carried on the breeze is a ripe, biscuity stink. I look down and keep walking, my feet shooting in and out beneath me in a blur, but he keeps pace – one hand coming up to clutch my jacket.
‘You!’ he says again. ‘Girl!’
The fingers catch and hold – tightening – before they’re suddenly snapped away. The man with the pale face has him, his arm locked round the nutter’s neck, holding him back. For a second our eyes meet – his, the colour of moss on stones – and something unspoken passes between us. He smiles at me even as the red-haired man struggles and growls, and I get away while I can, breath tearing out of my chest and sweat cold on my forehead. I run until I feel pebbles under my feet and I’m safe on the beach. It’s just me now, but for a single grey gull riding the air currents, and far in the distance a hesitant bather stammering on the frozen stones. The day is full of madmen.
No one has followed me, but I keep moving all the same; hugging the rucksack close, not sure why I brought it. It’s an old bag – you can still see the faint printed outline of Barbie on one side – and it’s stuffed with emergency supplies for when I leave: a change of clothes, a map of London and a small knife from the kitchen. No money though, which makes bringing it pointless. No money; no train.
After a while I crunch my way back over the pebbles and stop, letting the cold squeeze me. The end of the mini railway is in sight, and with it, the end of the promenade. I don’t know where to go from there.
As I’m thinking, a blob appears and as it gets closer, I see it’s a lad wearing the same uniform as mine. He’s stuffing a sausage roll in his face and talking to himself. As he draws level and sees me, the talking stops and he blushes deep red. ‘Don’t keep on that way,’ he says. ‘There’s police.’
I ignore him and walk on, but he turns and follows, keeping pace and flicking glances from me to the road ahead. He has fluffy blonde hair, an earring, and a dirty smear down his face as if he’s been crying. I wish he’d go away.
‘You should stop,’ he says. ‘Something’s happened up there.’
I walk faster. ‘Why should I care if there’s police?’
‘You’re meant to be in school, right? Like me.’
‘It’s early – and it’s not their business anyway.’
He blushes again, the hot stain washing up his neck and into his hairline.
‘It might be. They looked at me funny. There’s nothing to see, but you don’t want to draw attention. I’m going to warm up somewhere.’
Being warm sounds good, but I keep going until I see the cars drawn up in a tight circle. There are four policemen and a dog; I stop. The boy watches me and I notice that as well as the tear streak, there’s a line of dirt all round his chin. He looks as miserable as I feel, but for some reason, I decide to go with him.
The police don’t notice us anyway. They’re clustered opposite the big white ruin I call ‘The Mansion’. One of the policemen comes out of its door-less front, talking into a radio, and we turn our backs, walking with the wind behind us.
‘Good decision,’ the boy says. ‘It’s nicer to have company, don’t you think? I fancy a latte, how about you?’
I make a face. ‘A latte? That’s what my mum drinks.’
For a moment he just looks at me with eyes round as marbles. There’s a faint stubble round his mouth so he must be older than I am, but he’s going red again like a little girl.
‘I have expensive tastes,’ he shrugs. ‘You may have a Coke if you like, but I shall have a latte.’
He’s odd, but I like him. He smiles, lights a cigarette and offers me the packet. I shake my head and we go on in a burst of smoky scent, not even talking, like we’ve known each other for years. Before I know it, we’re back with the tramps.
The man who saved me is sitting up, head in hands, fingers rubbing at his temples with slow concentration. The shouter is glaring up and down the seafront, waving a can around and muttering. Any hope of slipping past is gone when he sees us and steps into the road.
‘Hey,’ he croaks, hoarse now. ‘You found a boy! Is he a good boy? Everyone should have a boy…’
The ‘boy’ glances at me and grins. ‘Friend of yours?’ he asks.
‘Don’t answer,’ I say. ‘He’s nuts.’
The red-headed man sways over to join us, eyes fixed on me. ‘Tell her!’ he croaks, ‘Tell her I got a message from God.’
