Free Running Girl by Simon Mason Page B

me,’ she said, with a hint of tears at the corner of her smile. ‘He’ll see me through, I know he will.’
    Behind her back Felix rolled his eyes at Garvie. And at that moment the telephone rang.
    â€˜If that’s Mick now,’ Garvie said, ‘don’t worry about us. We can just grab the calculator and be on our way.’
    The phone rang on and Mrs Dow hesitated only long enough to give Garvie an appreciative squeeze of the hand before going downstairs to answer it.
    Chloe’s room was very feminine. There was a fluffy rug on the carpet, a dozen lace-fringed pillows on her bed and a lightshade made of pink beads. The top of her chest of drawers was crowded with cosmetics, cans of hairspray, bottles of perfume, hair-ties and costume jewellery. On the windowsill was a long line of photographs of Chloe at different ages in matching purple frames. On her bed twelve teddy bears were ranged in size. And it was all reflected in the full-length mirrors on the front of the long built-in wardrobe opposite.
    â€˜I don’t like this room,’ Felix said. ‘What am I doing here?’
    â€˜Keep your ears open. If you hear Mrs Dow coming back up, get out there and distract her.’
    â€˜Why? What are you going to be doing?’
    â€˜Looking for clues.’
    â€˜What sort of clues?’
    Garvie didn’t answer. He stepped over to the wardrobe and slid open one of the doors. Inside were Chloe’s clothes – hundreds of them, immaculately stored: neat shelves of woollens and accessories, boxes of shoes and racks of tops, skirts, dresses and trousers, everything colour-coded and in order.
    â€˜Good luck with that,’ Felix said. ‘I’ll look for clues over here.’
    For a while he leafed through the magazines on Chloe’s desk, then inspected the jar of coloured pens. Next to the jar was a small packet of photographs of Chloe wearing a blue dress and white jacket, taken recently. Pinned to the cork notice board were a variety of cards, lists and invitations, which he read carefully twice. ‘Lots of clues here,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘And here.’ He began to fish around in Chloe’s waste-paper basket. ‘Look at this, Garv. Bolloms the dry cleaner. And look at these ...’
    Turning round with a polythene bag in one hand and a torn pair of fishnet tights in the other, he suddenly flinched and dropped them both.
    He stared. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he whispered.
    Garvie was stood in front of the wardrobe mirror wearing one of Chloe’s mini-skirts with a halter-neck top. The skirt was red, the top a pale cream.
    â€˜Do these go together?’ he asked. ‘Be honest.’
    Felix swallowed. He watched as Garvie changed out of the skirt and halter-neck top, and put on a pair of blue-mottled harem pants and a turquoise vest.
    â€˜How about these? Come on, Felix, help me out.’
    â€˜Yeah. Very nice, Garv. But—’
    â€˜What shoes should I wear with them?’ Garvie took out a pair of gladiator sandals. ‘What about these?’ He swapped them for a pair of navy plimsolls. ‘Or these?’
    Felix said, in a low, troubled voice, ‘You’re a very unusual boy, you know that, Garv.’
    â€˜Just tell me if they match.’
    â€˜Oh yeah, they match. They match your blue eyes, you freak.’
    Felix watched aghast while Garvie tried on more clothes. He held them up against himself, arranging them in different combinations, squinting at his reflection in the mirror. Wet-look grey jeggings and a wide-neck T-shirt in pink and a short white jacket smelling very crisp and clean. Sleeveless orange bodycon dress with zebra-pattern flipflops. Skinny black jeans and a blue shirt with pale grey snow boots. Black jersey skirt with red clogs. Grey denim skirt over sheer black tights with snake-print kitten-heel slingbacks.
    Felix looked queasy. ‘Tell me you’re not thinking