Free The Last Kings of Sark by Rosa Rankin-Gee Page B

me.
    â€˜My heart and my breathing. It fucks both of them up. Oh bugger off, Bonita,’ Sofi said as snores poured in. She lay in bed for a few minutes, wrestling with her sheets, laughing, then not laughing, then really, really not laughing. She got up and said she was going to the garden. She said she’d sleep outside. She took the laptop and watched films I suppose, the stripy sunlounger dragged close enough to the fence to steal next-door’s internet.
    There were a few nights when she ended up doing this, and although I saw her go I never went with her. It was night-time and night-time had rules. Even if I was perfectly awake – feet hot, then cold, thinking about Sofi outside, nothing between her and the sky – even if I was perfectly, perfectly awake, I just obeyed it.

11
    Thinking about it, that was the only summer since I’d got a computer in my room that I didn’t check my emails.
    The laptop was mine, but it was thicker than the Bible and took three minutes and strange sounds to turn on. Sofi used it more than I did. Outside, at night, and sometimes outside in the morning, before we left for the house.
    Eventually, she found that the strongest signal could be reached from within the flowerbed, and so fashioned a chair from the toughest branches of a large lavender bush. She used to touch the screen – jab her finger at it and make dents – and she said it was because she was used to her parents’ new television.
    The way she typed made me laugh. From her purple throne, she balanced the laptop on her knees. Then she typed so fast and aggressively it looked as if she was galloping.
    â€˜But where are you trying to go, Sof?’ I’d ask her.
    Tappity, tappity, tap, tap. Elbows up as if to hold reins.
    â€˜To the end of the internet?’
    She didn’t reply.
    I wondered who it was she wrote to and what she said about the island, if she ever even mentioned it, or me, at all.
    That day, I told her to pass the laptop over. I was curve-backed on the sunlounger. It may have crossed my mind that she’d leave her inbox open and I’d be able, at least, to look across the subject lines.
    â€˜It suits you,’ she told me when I had it in my hands. ‘You look very modern.’
    The screen was set to BBC News.
    â€˜It’s the news you read?’ I asked her.
    â€˜It’s rude not to have it open, ’ she said. She was chewing something.
    I scanned the page. It had been so long since I’d thought about the rest of the world that I was out of date with all the storylines. The proper nouns – politicians’ names, ceasefires, celebrities – looked like a different language.
    Most of my emails were from eBay and Amazon. Deals of the day, low insertion fees, lots of them. I looked down the bolded lists for names that meant more.
    There was one from my father:
    Is it going OK? Family’s not the Farquarts, is it?
    Not much to report here. The council is still trying to close down the library.
    Love Dad
    and a longer one – two actually – from my mum, signed from both of them. She was doing a lot of yoga and had an American teacher who was apparently a guru. She said she’d photocopied my graduation certificate and sent it to all the aunts. She was the only person I knew who still used Xs with Os. I marked it as unread and imagined I’d reply later.
    The last email I looked at was from a boy called Seb who’d been in my halls at university. He’d taken me to a Thai restaurant in our final year, and it turned out he was very reactive to spice. I’d told too many people about the way he’d poured the wine until it reached the rim of our glasses. It had been a bit awkward since then.
    Hey.
    I heard from Dan that you were spending the summer on Sark? I’m in Jersey, we’re visiting my grandma. It’s a bit dull if I’m honest. I’d kind of like a night out. I thought maybe I could come