The Boy Who Steals Houses

by C. G. Drews

  But the men shove his dad and sneer and laugh and one nudges Avery with his shoe and Avery screams again.

  Then their dad, all hunched over and flushed, picks Avery up and throws him over his shoulder. Hard to do because Avery writhes and kicks. Then his dad fairly bolts for the car while the mean men laugh and vanish back into their club.

  Sammy holds his breath. As soon as his dad opens the door, he’ll ask him to give Avery back the car. It’ll fix everything. It doesn’t matter if Avery’s too old. It makes him feel better.

  The words are lined up in Sammy’s mouth, all ready – but his dad doesn’t open the door. Instead, he throws Avery down on the gravel between parked cars.

  And he hits him.

  Avery’s screams turn to sobs.

  Sammy fights with his seatbelt now. Really fights. Avery didn’t mean it – he didn’t try to be bad – he just—

  no no no no no no no

  This is Sammy’s fault.

  His chest burns and the butterflies explode out, scared and twisted and sick. He slaps his palms against the glass, but his dad is bringing hell.

  Avery’s screams cut in half between the damp thwack thwack—

  Sammy slaps at the window. He cries out, but there’s no one else in the car park. No one to hear over the thunder of the club. No mother. No teacher. No one who cares that his dad’s molasses eyes are burnt out and his teeth white shark lines in the moonlight as he bites out, ‘You lost my only chance working with them – you – stupid – little – shit.’

  Avery’s voice cuts off into something garbled and sick and then his screams

  c

  r

  a

  c

  k

  and stop.

  Silence.

  Sammy’s beaten his knuckles bloody on the window. His chest burns with something like tar and rage and he doesn’t shy back when his dad wrenches the car door opens and dumps Avery on the seat. His dad slams the door, kicks it viciously, and then gets in the driver’s side.

  Sammy can’t breathe. He is red fire and he is burning. You’re not allowed to hit Avery like that. You’re not allowed. He stretches shivering fingers to his brother. His brother who is finally still and quiet.

  He’s being good.

  Avery is a paper doll all in ribbons, hair flopped over closed eyes. His lips are bloody and his thin jacket has ridden up to show darkening bruises.

  The car rips out of the car park and takes a corner so fast Sammy’s head hits the window. His cry cuts off and he jerks at his seatbelt again and finally, finally it comes loose. He wriggles free and crawls across the seat to Avery.

  His dad slams the radio on, turning it up to blast. But his eyes find the rearview mirror and meet Sammy’s.

  His dad’s eyes are furious.

  Sammy hates him. His lips peel back like he is now a tiger and he would bite his father if he was closer. Sammy, strong and fierce, crouches over his brother. Protects him. The car skids over frosty roads while Sammy rubs circles on Avery’s palms and kisses his bloody cheek and wants and wants Avery’s eyes to open.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Sammy whispers. ‘I’m here. Avery? It’s OK.’

  He repeats it a hundred thousand times as the radio blares and his dad punches the steering wheel.

  Sammy’s voice is trembly but fierce. ‘If anyone hurts you again, I’ll kill them.’ He wipes blood from Avery’s lips. ‘I’ll kill them.’

  Deep in the house, Avery is shouting.

  Sam shifts, fingers still desperately knotted around sleep because he doesn’t want to let go. He’s warm and dry and, well, OK, not entirely comfortable since there’s a crick in his neck from sleeping awkwardly in a chair. But he hasn’t slept this well in a long time. Probably because he drugged himself. Whatever. Just … just a few more minutes …

  Thumps follow the shouts, and then a clatter of dishes.

  Sam frowns in his sleep.

  Wait: if Avery is shouting he’s probably seconds away from melting to the floor and losing it. Sam needs to get up and—

  Sam tries to roll over but his legs get caught between the armchair and a bookshelf. And it’s that moment when he remembers he’s not in a house with Avery.

  He’s in an empty house.

  That’s not …

  empty.

  Sam sits bolt upright, catching himself before he pitches off the armchair. Holy shit. He’s in a house that’s not empty. The cosy warmness of the room has dissolved in sparks of flames. He’s not even sure what time it is. Did he sleep all night? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

  He scrabbles off the armchair and over to the desk. Shoving aside a few folders and tins of pens reveals a sad-looking clock that must be wrong because it reads eleven forty-five.

  Sam’s slept for a whole day.

  His heart chooses this moment to rabbit out of his chest. This can’t be happening. Not hearing Avery sneak up on him is one thing. But sleeping through a family returning? He’s losing his touch.

  He’s losing his mind.

  He can’t be here—

  What if they walk in—

  They’ll call the cops—

  He can’t be arrested, he can’t can’t can’t—

  Footsteps pound past the office and the closed door rattles a little. Sam’s heart vaults into his throat and he stumbles backwards, trips on his own backpack, and ends up sitting hard on the armchair. Think. They haven’t come in here yet, so that’s good.

  Good? Nothing is good.

  He’s in a house full of people. He’s upstairs. He can’t get out.

  ‘DAD!’ a girl’s voice hollers right outside the office door. ‘TELL YOUR SON TO SET THE TABLE.’

  The voice is close, so close.

  ‘Which one?’ someone else yells, softer and distant.

  ‘THE ANNOYING ONE.’

  ‘Like I said, which one?’

  Sam envisions how being found would go down. Screaming. Hands scrabbling for a phone. A frantic, startled fist shooting out and catching Sam in the mouth so his teeth cut into his tongue and he tastes his own bloody sins.

  Then the office door shudders again, like someone kicked it as they walked past.

  He has to hide.

  Sam dives for the cupboards, yanking open a door and looking in dismay at a mess of paperwork, a vacuum cleaner, and piles of board games. Terrified, he glances at the door only to see the doorknob half turn and then pause as someone yells down the stairs again.

  No choice.

  Sam folds himself into a thin groove in the cupboard, crushed between the vacuum cleaner and Cluedo. He drags the cupboard door shut by the tips of his fingers, but doesn’t quite get it closed.

  Then the door opens and he forgets how to breathe.

  A girl storms in.

  Sam only sees a sliver through the crack – just an edge of a purple sundress and an olive-skinned ankle, long fingers scurrying about the desk until they snatch something.

  Sam’s knees are at his throat. His heart punches new bruises into his ribs.

  ‘I found your charger, Dad!’ she calls, then her voice lowers, ‘Seriously, how does he manage to lose it so much?’ She turns – and trips over Sam’s backpack.

  You’re such an idiot, Sammy Lou.

  Sam stuffs knuckles into his mouth and bites. Just hold on, just wait.

  But that backpack is full of keys, full of stolen ridiculous keys, that one glance at would reveal something is terribly off. And, pathetically, it’s special to him. It’s the only thing he owns.

  ‘Ugh, Jack,’ she mutters, and steps over it.

  She steps over it!

  Sam remembers oxygen.

  She plugs the charger and a phone into the wall and then stomps out of the room like the backpack meant nothing. And in this mess, that’s probab
ly likely. Whoever ‘Jack’ is, he can happily take the blame. Sam is fine with that. He is also fine with never ever coming out of this cupboard. Even though she’s slammed the door on her way out and he’s in the clear again.

  Please don’t come back.

  He closes his eyes and focuses on not dying as his legs lose feeling and the house rumbles and shakes with the cacophony of a Sunday lunch downstairs. There has to be a small army of people down there. A loud, noisy, violently laughing army that will be his—

  Saving?

  Because what if, and from the sounds of it this is likely, there are dozens of people downstairs? What if he just loses himself in the crowd and – sneaks out?

  He has to do something, because being folded like a pretzel can’t be the way he dies.

  He vaguely imagines Avery’s reaction to this story – a worried frown and then a burst of laughter, which Sam should be annoyed at but also stupidly pleased because amusing Avery is worth everything.

  After a few deep gulps, he crawls out.

  He grabs his backpack and opens the door a crack. The hall is empty. Unfortunately downstairs has no walls to hide behind.

  When did he get so careless?

  Go.

  Just go.

  Don’t put it off.

  Go.

  He slips out of the warm office, his false safety. His chest hurts, his head is still completely scrambled from the meds, which is probably why he’s making this stupid bid for freedom instead of waiting. He’s doing this.

  He gets to the top of the stairs and ducks down, peering through the banister rails to survey the damage.

  The damage is immense.

  There truly are half a million people down there. Bodies twist and tangle in a dance of musical chairs and potato salad as they pile the long table with a feast. Toddlers sprawl on the floor or twirl round and round the haphazardly placed furniture on a trike that someone yells at them to take outside. A baby cries. A plate breaks. The TV booms the theme song of a car racing game that a group of wild-haired kids cluster around. Someone yells for them to turn it down. No, turn it off. No, get ready for lunch. Get the baby. Wash your hands. Stop eating all the corn chips.

  Conversations mix. Explode.

  People laugh. Faces light up.

  They are all hopelessly consumed with each other. Drunk on people and noise and food. Sam can do this. He can just walk down those stairs and out the door and no one will think to stop him. They’ll see him, sure, but he’s forgettable enough to be invisible.

  Isn’t that his entire life?

  Sam moves for the stairs, hand on the rail. Blood pulses in his ears. The noise is deafening, not unhappy, but it seems everyone has something to say and they try to say it the loudest.

  There’s a flash of purple amongst the masses – that girl from the office. At this higher vantage point Sam can make out a twisted bun of unruly chocolate hair and sharp elbows. He has a feeling that if he’s caught, it’ll be her shrewd eyes picking him out as the impostor.

  Do not look at her at all. Just don’t.

  Sam’s whitened knuckles are just about to release the rail so he can sprint, when air brushes behind him. A boy, taller than Sam and with the tiniest spiky ponytail and hands full of batteries, clatters down the stairs past Sam without even looking at him.

  Sam nearly hopes, nearly breathes—

  The boy hesitates on the last step and then swivels back to look at Sam. His eyebrows are angry forests.

  ‘Dude, I don’t even recognise you,’ he says. ‘Jeremy’s friend? He cycles through them so fast I never know anyone any more. Don’t you know how Sundays work? Get a plate or you’ll end up on the floor with the brat brigade.’

  Sam manages to sweep the panic off his face and he nods quickly.

  The boy shrugs and heads towards the TV and the teens bickering amiably over chip packets and remotes.

  The exit is officially an ocean away.

  Sam just stands there, swaying slightly in the middle of the stairs. The flu still clings to the corners of his tired eyes, his numb brain, and he trembles with indecision.

  One step.

  The next.

  They could all see him if only they looked up.

  Next step.

  Several kids tumble past in a shower of crumbs and sauce and Sam lurches back on instinct. They’re shooed along by another boy. He’s tall and neat, with glasses and a disapproving older brother aura. When this boy’s eyes fall on him, Sam’s mouth opens to blurt something like, I’m Jeremy’s friend? But the boy beats him to it.

  ‘I’m thirty per cent sure Jeremy has a Twice Burgundy shirt like that.’

  For a second, Sam hasn’t a clue what he’s talking about. But – oh wait. He stole a shirt. Sam glances down and realises with horror that it’s some band shirt. It’s probably unique. It’s probably special.

  In his defence though, he didn’t mean for these people to see him in it.

  He didn’t mean to be here.

  ‘Jeremy’s friend?’ The boy sighs. ‘He has so many I can’t keep up.’

  ‘Yeah.’ At least words, and not an unholy sob, come out of Sam’s mouth.

  ‘I swear,’ the boy says, rubbing his eyes, ‘he’s building an army. Did he even tell you how Sundays work? You grab a plate and a chair straight away or you end up on the floor with the kids.’

  Apparently being ‘on the floor with the kids’ is synonymous with ‘hell’ and Sam can see why. There’s a picnic blanket spread on the polished floorboards and piles of children are face-painting with tomato sauce and stepping in each other’s potatoes.

  ‘You look shell-shocked. Here.’

  And before Sam can protest, he’s suddenly taken by the shoulder and pulled the rest of the way downstairs and towards the table. Towards people.

  Run.

  Hit him and run.

  He nearly does.

  But then he trips on a pile of Lego and his kidnapper keeps him upright as he propels them towards the enormous table, laden with more food than Sam’s seen in his life. A small space on the bench suddenly opens up and his backpack is jerked from his shoulders and tossed against the wall with a muttered ‘What are you carrying? Rocks?’ Then Sam is squeezed between arms and shoulders and a plate appears in his hands.

  ‘Just stab someone with a fork if you can’t get what you need,’ the boy says. Then he’s gone.

  Sam might be having a panic attack.

  He tries to get up but the person next to him thinks he’s reaching for the potato salad. So now he has a bowl of salad in his hands.

  Then his plate grows a hot buttered bun and two people are asking if he needs onions? Sauce? Oh, you must be one of Jeremy’s friends, right?

  And he’s nodding.

  What is he supposed to do?

  Sit down?

  Eat?

  Sam sits there for a moment, heart sped up so fast he can scarcely see straight. But as the noise washes over him and no one’s eyes catch his and no one shouts how he’s an impostor – he relaxes. Just a little. Most of the teens are as dishevelled and crumpled as he is too, probably from their camping trip, so he doesn’t stick out.

  Well, what the hell, right?

  Sam eats.

  He’s officially taken house burglary to the next level. Forget stealing a bed, a key, a home for the night. He’s stealing families and their Sunday lunches.

  Sam attempts to eat his body weight in potatoes and bloody beetroot sandwiches while rowdy conversations wash over him. Faces blur together. No one pays him any attention except to pass food, and you know what? He’s totally fine with that.

  But he won’t press his luck.

  As plates empty and dishes disappear and conversation turns to coffee and trying to pry sticky children off the floor for naps, Sam slips from the table. He sne
aks towards his backpack only to have his way blocked by the girl in the purple dress. Her hair sticks up in an unapologetic frizz and her lips flatten at the sight of Sam.

  His pulse stutters.

  Well, he knew he’d get caught, didn’t he? This is the stupidest and most insane thing he’s ever done – inviting himself to a stranger’s lunch. He deserves the shriek of intruder.

  Except it doesn’t come.

  Sam finds his arms piled with dishes and the girl points to the kitchen with a vicious jab.

  ‘I was just leaving—’ Sam says.

  ‘To walk to the kitchen and become an honorary dishwasher,’ the girl finishes. ‘And don’t give me any lines about being Jeremy’s guest because as soon as I find him, I’m stuffing his ugly face into the dishwater too. You can’t invite a million people over and –’ her voice rises ‘– NOT HELP WITH THE DISHES, JEREMY.’

  Sam stares.

  ‘Kitchen.’ She claps her hands together briskly. ‘Sink. Scrub. Dishwasher is already full. Move it.’

  Considering she’s made of sharp corners and fierce eyes, and Sam doesn’t want to get on the bad side of any of that, he goes. After all, he did eat their food. And you wouldn’t call the cops on someone washing your dishes, right?

  Right?

  This entire day is doing his head in.

  He gets lost behind a mountain of dishes and empty bowls and abused blackened frying pans and soapsuds in a house he fully intended to rob a few hours ago.

  Plates keep coming.

  This is some cruel sort of karma for his thieving ways.

  He’s just trying to balance a pot on top of a precarious stack of cups, when a man enters with a toddler on one hip and a plate of brownies perched on his fingertips. He swings the plate towards Sam, who really feels like he deserves this. He wipes his sodden hands on his shirt. He takes one.

  ‘Take two,’ says the man. ‘Caramel brownies. Did they leave you with the dishes? You must be new here, son, I don’t even recognise you. Although that’s pretty normal with how many friends Jeremy has.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘So the trick is to disappear before dessert comes out.’