Free Soul Storm by Kate Harrison Page B

thinking about it, but it’s too late. What is Meggie thinking, and Danny? They were expecting me to be hanging out more, not less, now it’s the holidays. And
after what they said to me about leaving, might they believe I’ve left without saying goodbye?
    The thought is
horrible.
    I should sneak away from Lewis, find an internet café, so I can go online, explain to my sister and Danny why I’m never there.
    ‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen,’ Lewis says, and he makes me giggle. He’s watching me so closely that there’s no hope of getting away without him noticing, so I
might as well try to enjoy the time before I return to top-security prison, i.e. home.
    We play air hockey – I win. We lose countless tuppences in the coin waterfall, and our hands smell of dirty money.
    We watch through the window of a downmarket beauty salon as women have their toes nibbled by carnivorous fish, and we watch kids staggering off the rollercoaster, unsteady on their feet.
    Occasionally I catch Lewis glancing at me oddly, but I say nothing. He’s entitled to wonder about me. The main thing is, he’s going to help.
    ‘Dodgems, Ali?’
    I laugh. ‘With your driving? I’ll be behind the wheel, thanks very much.’
    As we clamber into our bumper car, there’s barely room for the two of us, and Lewis almost has to fold himself in two to fit inside. Maybe we should have taken one each.
    Except there’s something comfortingly solid about Lewis next to me. His height makes me feel protected. No, not just his height. It’s his integrity, too, and his brain most of
all.
    Despite everything I told him, he’s still here, at my side. If I could choose anyone in the real world to help me wade through this mess, it’d be him. No doubt.

 
     
     
     
13
     
     
     
     
    My car tyre’s flat.
    Of course, it could happen to anyone. Punctures are annoying but
normal.
You get them driving over a nail, hitting a kerb too hard.
    Except I haven’t driven my car anywhere since the bouquet showdown. Could Sahara have done it, to keep me ‘safely’ confined to home?
    ‘Bad luck, Alice,’ Dad says. ‘Time for a vehicle maintenance lesson, don’t you think?’
    I follow him to the side of the car. He’s already rolling up his sleeves. It’s Monday morning, and I’m meant to be driving myself to my first session with Olav, like a
condemned prisoner making his own gallows. Though Dad is still going to chaperone me before he goes to work, in case I change my mind en route.
    If this
is
Sahara’s doing, I could almost thank her for it. Every minute spent fiddling with hub caps and wheel nuts means one less minute being patronised and psychoanalysed by
the creepiest therapist in England.
    Mum comes out, hands on hips. ‘This is silly. Take her in your car, Glen. You can show her how to change a wheel later. What Olav is doing is much more important.’
    Dad looks a bit hurt: I think he was getting into the whole ‘father-daughter bonding over car maintenance’ idea. Plus, I suspect he’s not quite as behind the Fixing of Alice
Forster as he’s pretending to be in front of my mother.
    In the car, he offers me a wine gum. The pocket of the driver’s door is stuffed with crinkled family-size bags of sweets and peanuts. Empty ones. At least he’s eating
something.
    He doesn’t speak till we’ve turned out of the close. ‘You know, if it’s not for you . . . this Olav. Well, I can talk to your mum.’
    He must notice the hope in my face, because he adds, ‘Talk to her about alternatives, that is. Clearly you’re still not one hundred per cent, and though I’m no fan of therapy,
we need to get you shipshape before university.’
    ‘Alternatives like what, Dad? Knock-out drugs? A mental hospital?’ I regret it as soon as I’ve said it.
    He sighs. ‘We realise this is hard for you, Alice. I’m just saying there are other therapists. You’re a smart kid. No, a smart young woman. I know once we’ve got the
right