Free Love in Revolution by B.R. Collins Page B

And if I hadn’t let her steal my key . . .
    The thoughts went back and forth, like a ball smacking against a wall over and over again.
    And it was only then that it occurred to me that maybe I should have told my parents about Skizi. I thought of how easy it would be, really: a few days of fury from Mama and cold disappointment from Papa, distaste from Leon, bewilderment from Martin . . . and the police would get back everything she’d taken, and beat her up a little bit to make sure she moved on, and then everything would be sorted out. That’s what Miren would do, or Ana Himyana, or . . . well, anyone else. That was how things worked.
    I closed my eyes. I saw the walls of Skizi’s hut, with lopsided sunlight streaming from the hole in the roof, so the drawings were picked out in random gold: Leon’s glasses, Teddy’s camera, Angel’s beautiful face.
    Distantly I could hear my parents arguing, muffled by the door: Mama raising her voice and Papa trying to calm her down. I kept my eyes shut and thought of Skizi.
    Then I went upstairs to wash my hands, letting the taps run so I couldn’t hear my parents’ voices.
     
    I woke up in the middle of the night, jolting out of sleep, and I was on my feet and at my window before I realised I was awake. I stood looking out into the street, bracing myself against the window frame, and took deep breaths of night air, feeling the sweat drying on my skin. Something had woken me. It might have been a nightmare, but somehow I was sure that it was something real: a noise, or someone calling my name, something that meant something . . . But everything was quiet.
    I waited until I felt chilly. There was nothing but silence. I took a deep breath, and another, and then slowly I turned away from the window and sat down on my bed. But I wasn’t sleepy: whatever had woken me up had woken me up completely, like a bolt of electricity. I leant my head against the wall, wondering if Martin was awake, if he’d heard it too.
    And then, suddenly, I realised what the noise was. The front door.
    The front door, but no one had come up the stairs. So . . .
    I stood up, but I couldn’t make myself open my bedroom door. I was cold, properly cold now; but I felt foolish too, half dressed, as if it made a difference that I was in my nightdress. I grabbed my cardigan and wrapped it round my shoulders, and shoved my feet into my shoes. It helped a little, not to be barefoot. Then, gritting my teeth, I went out on to the landing and looked carefully over the banisters. It was dark, and nothing moved; there was just silence.
    I wished Martin had woken up. I thought about knocking on his door, but I didn’t want to make any noise. I was shaking. I went slowly down the stairs, my skin prickling as I listened; but there was still nothing, no movement or sound. There was only the moonlight, steady and silent, giving everything a faint silver edge.
    And when I got to the bottom of the stairs, everything was so dark and quiet that my heart slowed a little. There was no one here. There was only a pale rectangle on the telephone table, grainy and blurry-edged in the darkness. When I picked it up there was just enough light to read Papa in thick black ink. Leon’s handwriting.
    I fumbled, tearing at the envelope, my hands clumsy and sticking to the paper. For a moment, when I got the page out, I thought it was blank. I reached out, finding the light switch with my fingers, and then had to close my eyes as the world leapt into bright yellow, dazzling me. I waited a few seconds, squeezing my eyelids tight against the light, and then opened them. I blinked and looked down at the bit of paper in my hand. The writing on it was thin and spidery, hard to read.
    Dear Papa , it said, By the time you read this I will be on the train to Irunja. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and I can’t sleep, so I’m leaving now and I’ll wait at the station for the early train. I want to be sure that if anyone comes looking for