Free Lucas by Kevin Brooks

all right, keep your voice down. Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything … I know I shouldn’t have said that about Dad—’
    â€˜No, you shouldn’t.’
    â€˜But I didn’t mean—’
    â€˜Forget it.’
    â€˜All I meant was—’
    â€˜Yeah, I know what you meant.’ I stopped in the doorway and looked him in the eye, searching for a trace of the old Dominic, my Dominic … but I couldn’t find it.
    â€˜What?’ he said, unsettled by my gaze.
    â€˜Nothing. Don’t worry about it.’ I turned to go. ‘Oh, and by the way, Angel sends her love.’
    He licked his lips. ‘Who?’
    â€˜Angel Dean,’ I repeated.
    â€˜What? … when did—’
    â€˜Goodnight, Dominic.’
    He was nine when Mum died. I was five. Dad was thirty-four. I suppose it affected us all in different ways.
    *  *  *
    That night I dreamed about the Boy. It was raining. He was running on the beach and people were chasing him, throwing stones at him and calling him names. Gyppo! Thief! Dirty pervert! There were hundreds of them, brandishing sticks and bits of piping, shovels and rocks, whatever they could lay their hands on, their nightmare faces gripped with hate and streaked with tears of rain. Dirty gyppo! Dirty bastard! Jamie Tait was there, oiled, in his too-tight swimming trunks. Angel and Robbie were there. Lee Brendell, Bill, Dominic, Deefer, Simon, Dad, everyone from the island was there, all storming across the beach screaming out for blood … and I was there, too. I was with them. I was running with the mob. I could feel the wet sand beneath my feet, the rain in my hair, the weight of the rock in my hand. I could feel my heart pounding with fear and excitement as I raced along the shore, past the pillbox, heading for the Point. The Boy had stopped running and was standing at the edge of the mud flats. All around him the air shimmered with unseen colours. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at me with beseeching eyes, pleading for help. But what could I do? I couldn’t do anything. There were too many of them. It was too late. DON’T STOP! a voice cried out. It was mine. DON’T DO IT! DON’T STOP! KEEP RUNNING! DON’T GIVE UP! JUST RUN! RUN FOR EVER …

three
    O ver the next few days the weather never settled. In the space of a single day we’d have bright sunshine in the morning, followed by cloudy skies and a light summer shower in the afternoon, then another brief spell of baking heat, before the clouds built up again and the rain poured down in torrents. It was like watching one of those speeded up films of the passing seasons. In the evenings a cool wind breezed in from the sea scattering clouds of dust and sand to the air, and as the light on the horizon filtered through the haze, the skies took on the pastel colours of autumn. Then at night the air turned hot and sticky, and sometimes I could hear thunder rumbling faintly in the distance, like the mutterings of a disgruntled bully.
    They were unsettled times.
    I stayed at home as much as possible. I’d had enough of other people for a while. I didn’t want to talk to anybody and I didn’t want to think about anything. I just wanted to sit around and do nothing.
    But it wasn’t easy.
    Do you know how it feels when you don’t know how to feel? When your mind keeps slipping from one thing to another, when you can’t relax, when you know you’ve got an itch but you don’t know where to scratch it? That’s how I felt after the events of the weekend. I just didn’t know how to feel about anything: me, Dad, Bill, Jamie, Dominic, Angel, the beach, the Boy … everything keptgoing round and round in circles in my head. It was as if someone had opened up a conjurer’s box and a dozen grinning jack-in-the-boxes were waving their heads and screaming questions at me – what do you think of Simon? you