Free Dishonour by Jacqui Rose Page A

was singing now. Singing a number song he’d made up about Izzy. He didn’t know why and he certainly wouldn’t tell Izzy this, but numbers made him nearly as happy as she did. Wherever he looked he would count and see numbers. It was almost as if the world was made up of them; rushing into his mind as if they were trying to tell him something. If he looked at the trees within a matter of minutes he could count the leaves. If he looked in the sky he could see how many clouds there were. If he saw numbers written down he could add them up, take them away, his brain making constant patterns with them.
    It was his secret comfort, and in the back of his mind he had a memory of a lady who’d sung a number song to him as he lay curled up in bed when he was small. Singing to him; making him feel safe. He’d often wondered if it’d been his mother, though he had no one to ask. His father had always warned him never to ask about her – ‘You know what happens to boys that ask about her.’ Arnie didn’t, but all the same, he didn’t ask.
    The tree he’d left Izzy by was the tallest in the woods, flourishing with branches which intertwined with the surrounding trees. He’d carved Izzy’s name on the base of the trunk two years ago and much to her delight, it was still clearly visible.
    The vibrant green grass growing around it was like sitting on a mattress; soft and comfy. When they lay on the ground they’d watch the clouds go by, promising each other when they were older they’d always be together. It was their special place, but looking around now, he couldn’t see Izzy.
    ‘Izzy. Please come out. Izzy, I’m sorry I made you cross.’ The trees in the warm wind blew gently, caressing the air with their scents. Arnold sighed and hoped the whole afternoon wouldn’t be spent searching for Izzy as she watched him, laughing and looking on from a hiding place she’d found.
    He started heading up towards the river; it was the only way she would’ve gone. He knew she wouldn’t venture deeper into the woods, she was afraid of the chattering branches and whispering leaves.
    ‘Izzy? Izzy?’ His feet were beginning to throb in the tight brown lace-up shoes he was wearing. They weren’t really suitable for walking or for the summer months but his father insisted on them being smart, even if it was only to go out and play.
    Sitting down on the grass in the clearing, Arnold took off his shoes and rubbed his right foot; he could see a blister forming and if he put his shoes back on it’d only get worse.
    The dancing sunbeams on top of the flowing river were mesmerising, making the water look like crystal glass waves, bubbling and breaking against the edges of the steep bank. As he watched the birds dive in and out of the water, Arnold noticed a large black bundle which looked like a bag on the side of the bank near the disused watermill. Getting up and shielding his eyes from the sun to see it more clearly, he realised that it wasn’t a bag at all; it looked more like a heap of material.
    Leaving his shoes and enjoying the sensation of the grass between his toes, Arnold walked round the arch of the river towards the heap. He stopped dead. His heart banged in his chest and his breathing became shallow, then his legs started to run as his mind screamed. It wasn’t a piece of material. It was Izzy’s jacket and he could see it moving. He could see something struggling. It was Izzy.
    The river gushed over her face as she fought to keep her head above the water level, clinging onto the side of the broken submerged limestone wall of the mill. The river careering towards the weir a few feet along.
    ‘Izzy!’ Arnold threw himself down on the ground, leaning his body over and hoping to reach his sister.
    ‘Help me Arnie. Help me; I fell.’
    ‘Hang on Izzy, I can’t reach you, I’ll get a branch.’ There were twigs, ivy and broken pieces of brushwood but nothing that would do. Arnold tried to pull on a hanging branch,