The Summer We All Ran Away

by Cassandra Parkin

“Who is it, Mark - oh, hello, Priscilla.” Mrs Asher looked dubiously at the girl in the hallway, a puzzling contradiction and therefore a threat; layers of black clothing, glimpses of pale skin, an abundance of cheap silver jewellery, and the face of Botticelli’s Flora.

  “Hello, Mrs Asher.” An accent far stronger than either hers or her son’s, the marker of lower-class roots and a poor education. No, that was unfair. Priss was sweet, nice-mannered, she’d been here eight or nine times now and had only ever been charming. “How’s the writing going?”

  “Fine, thank you. We’ve nearly finished the storyboards.”

  She’d been unable to trace the origins of this friendship, blazing suddenly into life after years of splendid isolation. Priss was too beautiful, that was the trouble, too beautiful, and too female. A nerdy boy with glasses, a geeky, sexless girl, these she could have understood, but not Priss, he was amazing, her son, but to the outside world -

  “We’re going to my room, okay, mum?” The chair turned, began to roll down the corridor.

  “Okay, darling, have fun.” Have fun? God, she was getting so middle aged. Neither Priss nor Mark giggled, which was some small consolation.

  “I’ve done some sketches,” said Mark, rummaging in a large black portfolio case. “For the first chapter.” His dark eyes were shining, his movements quick and assured. In the school environment he kept still, made no eye contact, left no signs of his passing; but in his room, he sprang into vivid life. When their fingers touched, Priss felt a tingle.

  They spread the pictures on the low, wide bed and studied them for a long time, sitting at ninety degrees to each other. Priss was awkwardly tall in the chair Mark’s mother had brought in from the dining room. In the background, Jack Laker’s Violet Hour wove subtle melodic magic out of the air.

  “Are those for the scene at the docks?” she asked at last.

  “Yeah.”

  “I like the angles.”

  “The angles?”

  “Yeah. The way the shadows all point down to that one spot where they’re stood.”

  “Hey, so they do. That’s actually pretty good, isn’t it?”

  “You didn’t do that on purpose?”

  He shrugged. “Did you mean that whole section in the city to be a weird riff on Red Riding Hood?”

  “No, but - ”

  “I reckon that’s how you know something’s really good,” said Mark. “When you go back to what you drew or wrote or whatever and spot all this stuff you hadn’t even noticed you were putting in, ’cos you were so into it at the time.”

  “This is really fuckin’ good, isn’t it,” said Priss. “I mean, I know we’re just kids, but - ”

  “Forget that we’re just kids crap,” said Mark fiercely. “When we send this in, no-one’s going to know. They’ll just see our work. We’ll submit under fake names and we won’t own up until we’ve got the deal. Okay?”

  Priss laughed. “You’re so fucking arrogant, you know that? It’s not like they’ll recognise our names, is it?”

  “You’ve got to think about this stuff.”

  “If you say so.” She yawned, stood up, and stretched, as pretty and unselfconscious as a little cat.

  “Am I keeping you up?” asked Mark.

  “You are actually,” Priss murmured, yawning again. “I was up half the night, I’m about ready to fuckin’ drop. I hope you’re grateful.”

  “What kept you up?”

  She stared at him blandly.

  “Why won’t you ever talk to me about your dad?”

  “Why won’t you ever talk to me about yours?”

  “Look, I’m not going to laugh, you know.”

  “Yeah, you’re damn right you won’t laugh, ’cos it’s not fuckin’ funny. And also I’m not telling you, alright?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “If it keeps you awake half the night, it must be. What? Oh God, Priss, I’m really sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “You’re crying.”

  “I am not fuckin’ crying.” She stared at him defiantly. A rivulet of mascara drew patterns on her cheek.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” Mark’s voice was carefully gentle. “What are you so embarrassed about? We’re friends. Aren’t we? Come here.” He held out his arms.

  “I’m not crying, alright?”

  “Alright, you’re not crying. Are you going to let me give you a hug now?”

  Mark’s large, spacious room was suddenly very crowded, and short of oxygen, and the floor seemed a long way down. When she stood up, she stumbled off her platform heels. She made her way around the edge of the bed, and hesitated.

  “What?”

  “I - ”

  “I can’t exactly stand up and put my arms round you.”

  She bent awkwardly from the waist, and felt his arms across her back for a brief, electric moment. When she straightened up, there was a smear of mascara on his shoulder.

  “That was probably the worst hug in the history of the universe,” she said.

  “Then come closer.”

  She moved closer, and bent once more. Her hair fell across his face, and she felt his warm breath against her neck. Her pulse thundered in her ears like a thousand horses galloping.

  “That was better,” he whispered. His cheeks were flushed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Want to try again?”

  She nodded. When she pushed her hair back from her face, he saw her hand tremble.

  “Want me to show you something?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how to do this properly.”

  “I don’t know what you - ”

  He put his hands around her slender waist and pulled her towards him until her knees nudged the spaces between Mark’s thighs and the side of the chair.

  “This,” he whispered, “is how to make out with someone in a wheelchair.”

  He pulled her down onto his lap and they folded into each other, amazed at how well they fitted together, at how right it felt for her to sit astride him, her feet tucked beneath her bottom and her knees crammed into the cramped space between his legs and the walls of the chair. She wriggled into his lap, heard him groan with pleasure, then bent her head so they could kiss, fiercely and deeply, biting each other’s lips, tasting each other’s mouths and tongues and skin, pressing awkwardly against each other, their hands in each other’s hair.

  chapter thirteen (now)

  Everyone stared at everyone else. The silence stretched tight over several painful seconds.

  “What on earth’s going on?” Kate demanded at last. Her question was addressed to both of them, but her gaze was fixed on Priss.

  “We were - ” said Davey, then stopped. “We were, um - ”

  “Shut up,” said Priss coolly. “Thanks for letting us out.”

  Tom was examining the doorframe. “I had absolutely no idea this was even here,” he said to himself. “Kate, did you know about it?”

  “Of course not,” she said, her eyes not leaving Priss’ face. Priss was staring back, her expression a smooth, careful blank. Davey thought that if he got in the way of their gaze he might fizzle up like a fly in a UV trap. Isaac was watching them with a kind of detached fascination, as if they were a particularly interesting documentary.

  “Just look at this!” Tom clicked the door closed and ran an admiring hand over the almost seamless join. He opened the door again and peered inside. “I wonder what’s - ”

  “Don’t!” said Kate, Priss and Davey simultaneously.

  There was another charged silence in which Tom finally seemed to notice the tension between Kate and Priss. Davey could feel Priss’ nerves vibrating through the air between them. He didn’t dare to move.

  “Don’t you think you ought to put some clothes on?” said Kate to Priss at last. Her voice was calm, controlled. “The house is cold tonight.”

  Priss folded her arms defiantly. “I’m fine just as I am. Thanks.”


  “We can all see your knickers and your t-shirt’s tiny,” said Kate.

  “So?”

  “I’m sure it must be uncomfortable for the men to have you wandering around dressed like that.”

  Priss raised an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t hear them complaining.”

  “Well, perhaps that’s because they’re all too polite to say anything.”

  “I d-d-d - ” Davey took a deep breath. “I d-d-d-d, I d-d - ” he closed his eyes in desperation. “I d-d-d, oh for God’s sake - ”

  “Don’t blaspheme,” said Tom, then shook his head.

  “You see?” said Kate. “Poor Davey can hardly get a word out.”

  “It’s not because of P-P-P- it’s not because I can see her n-n-n - ” Davey thumped the wall in frustration. Isaac was now watching him instead, his eyes boring into Davey’s soul. He wished he could summon the death-stare that James had used for years to keep him in line, the kind of stare that generally preceded a beating.

  “Why don’t we go down to the kitchen?” said Tom hastily.

  Since no-one seemed to have any better ideas, everyone trailed downstairs. As always, the Aga sent out waves of warmth, but the cosy atmosphere that usually prevailed was missing. It was, Davey realised, because of Kate. Her peaceful presence usually spread like a balm over the room. Now, although she was doing nothing to show it, she was boiling over with -

  Well, with what? Davey thought to himself in perplexity. Disgust? But Priss had been wandering around in various states of undress all summer. Anger? But why? It wasn’t her house any more than it was theirs. Fear? But that would mean - that would mean -

  He clamped down tightly on the thought. He wasn’t going to believe anything about Kate or Tom, or anyone at all in fact, not even Isaac, until he had to. He watched Tom’s broad, capable hands pouring boiling water into brown mugs, using one tea bag between two people. Reluctantly, Davey remembered his secret conviction that Tom had spent time in jail.

  A mug appeared over his shoulder, and Davey accepted it automatically. Tom’s own mug appeared to contain nothing more than hot water. Isaac took a mug and set it politely before him, but didn’t drink. Priss and Kate were still watching each other.

  “So,” said Kate, smiling in a way that might have looked reassuring from a distance. “Would you like to talk to us about what you’ve been up to, Priss?”

  “I don’t have a fuckin’ clue what you’re talking about,” said Priss stubbornly.

  “Kate,” said Tom. “We’re not the Gestapo - ”

  “What were you doing in that annexe?”

  “What’s it got to do with you?” asked Priss. “This isn’t your house. Is it?”

  “No, of course it’s not my house.”

  “So why are you so upset about me having a look around?” Priss was leaning forward a little in her seat, her eyes flashing.

  “What makes you think I’m upset?” said Kate, very still, very calm. “Of course you can go into any part of the house you want to, although from what just happened to you, that annexe thing doesn’t seem very safe. If the door sticks - ”

  “I was in there too, you know,” said Davey miserably. “So if you’re going to be m-m-mad with Priss about it, then you ought to be upset with m-m-m- with m-m - ”

  “Merlin?” suggested Priss wearily. “Meryl Streep? Martin Clunes?”

  “ - with me as well,” Davey managed at last, and took a triumphant breath.

  “I’m not upset with anyone,” said Kate. Her voice was like cream. “But Priss, since we’re all together, I did want to talk to you. I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t bother your barnet about me, Missus. I’m fine.”

  “Of course you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want, you know that.”

  Priss looked at Kate wearily. “How do I know the next fuckin’ word out of your mouth is going to be but?”

  “Well, actually, it was.” Kate’s smile was as glorious as ever, but there was something different this time. Nothing about this moment feels real, thought Davey. Kate’s gestures were perfectly natural, delivery of every sentence was paced to sound exactly the same as spontaneous speech, but it still felt wrong. His head was swimming. He longed to escape to the cold silence of the library, or – even better – to his room. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave Priss here alone. In spite of everything, she was still just a kid really.

  “You’re still just a kid really,” said Kate, and Davey jumped three inches off the bench. “You can’t spend your life living like this.”

  “Why not?” said Priss. “You two are.”

  “It’s different for us,” said Tom.

  “Don’t tell me you fuckin’ agree with her?” Priss looked hunted.

  “We haven’t been talking about you or anything,” said Tom gently, “but for what it’s worth, I think Kate might have a point. You’re only young, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

  “You’re giving me advice about what to do with my life? You? Mr Can’t be-in-a-room-if-the-door’s-shut?”

  “That’s nothing to do with - ” Tom stopped. “I don’t, it’s not what you - ”

  “Anyway,” said Priss, triumphant now, “I’m not throwing my life away. I’m working. I’m a writer, we can work anywhere, so I might as well work here.”

  “But you’re not working,” said Kate, her voice deceptively gentle.

  “You what?”

  “I read your notebooks, Priss.”

  “You’ve been rummaging around in my stuff?”

  Davey suddenly found he couldn’t make eye contact with anyone. When he regained a measure of composure, he found Isaac looking at him shrewdly, and was overcome with a blush so all-encompassing that he felt as if even the palms of his hands were scarlet.

  “I’m worried about you,” said Kate. “Who’s this boy you’re writing to? And why are you never actually sending him any of your letters?”

  “I don’t have a bloody clue what you’re - ”

  “I can see you’re in love with him,” said Kate, her voice so careful, so slow. “But - ”

  “No she isn’t,” said Davey, suddenly finding his voice. “That’s her writing partner, they’re writing a graphic novel together. Priss is doing the words, this bloke’s doing the pictures. It’s called, it’s called - ” He found he was embarrassed by the title, even now. “Um, it’s called Crip-boy and Enabler Girl, they’ve got a publisher all lined up in New York and - ”

  “New York,” said Kate. “Was that where you were going before you ended up here?”

  “I’ll be going,” said Priss. “Just as soon as the manuscript’s finished, I’ll be out of your bloody hair. If you were sick of having me around the place, you only had to say.”

  “It’s not that,” said Kate. “But that notebook of yours - ”

  “You mean that manuscript, it’s called a manuscript, or maybe since it’s a graphic novel you could call it a layout - ”

  “Actually, I’d call it a diary,” said Kate. “It’s like you’re writing a diary about your love life, for some boy who’s never going to get to read it. At least, I’m presuming he’s never going to read it. What on earth happened between you two? Is that why you ran away?”

  “I did not fuchin’ run away! I was running to, not away! I’ve got a fuchin’ plan, all rice? I’m goin’ to New Yorch, yeah? I know what I’m doin’ and I know where I’m goin’ and you rotten lot can all fuch off and stay the fuch out of my fuchin’ stuff - ”

  “That’s a bit much coming from - ” Kate stopped and bit her lip. There was a bright spot of red colour on each pale cheekbone.

  “What were you going to say?” Priss demanded.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “Yes, you were. Come on, if we’re going to have this fight, let’s get on and have it, shall we? You were about to say it’s a bit rich coming from me. Weren’t you?”

  Kate stared at Priss, then lowered her gaze.

  “Look, it
doesn’t matter. We need to talk about you. About what you’re going to do.”

  “Stop trying to change the subject,” said Priss.

  Davey was surprised to hear the suppressed sob in her voice.

  “What subject would I be trying to change?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.” Davey had the uneasy feeling that the balance of power in the room had somehow shifted.

  “Priss,” said Kate, “I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you, but I didn’t mean to. All I’ve done is to try and talk to you about - ”

  “You’re just not quite sure what I’ve got, aren’t you?” said Priss. “You know I might have found summat I shouldn’t have, but you’re not one hundred per cent that I have found it. And you don’t want to say anythin’ in case you give yourself away.” She laughed. “Jesus Christ, it must really really suck to be you sometimes, you know that?”

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” said Kate, with inhuman patience.

  “And why bring up all this stuff tonight?” demanded Priss. “And while we’re at it, what the hell was all that when we got out of that weird shithole down the corridor? All that stuff about my clothes?”

  “All I did was suggest you put a few more layers on, since it’s cold and there are three adult men here who maybe don’t appreciate being able to see quite so much of you on display.”

  “Are you trying to distract us all from something?” asked Priss. She was leaning across the table now, sure she was onto something. “What is it you don’t want us to talk about, Kate? What are you so afraid of?”

  Kate’s look of bewilderment was so perfect Davey almost believed it. “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about, but I’m not trying to avoid any subject at all, we can talk about whatever you - ”

  “I meant,” said Priss, cutting straight across Kate, her voice several notes higher than usual, “the subject of that freaky granny flat thing back there and this whole creepy house and - ” she looked at Davey with eyes like saucers. “Oh my God, that’s where - those flowers weren’t for Kate at all, were they? We need to talk about the body that’s buried out there in the woods and which one of you bastards put it there!”

  Now she’s done it, thought Davey despairingly. Now she’s gone and ruined everything. Whatever happens now, we can’t ever go back to how we all were. It’s not a haven any more, it’s just a big empty house with three adults and two kids in it, all frightened of each other, and maybe, just maybe one of them is a -