Free Louis Beside Himself by Anna Fienberg Page B

the window at it. ‘See? It’s all set up, it’s big enough, there is plenty of room and we could bring out cushions and sleeping bags, make it very comfortable . . .’
    There was silence for a moment while we all looked at him as if he was Solomon himself, ancient king of the Jews, brilliant at solving everyone’s problems.
    Finally, Singo said, ‘Cool.’ In a different, grown-up tone he added, ‘And really, it’s better if you’re not staying inside, Cordelia, because of all those parental problems you mentioned.’ He shifted around in his chair. ‘So, like, I could run home and get my air mattress.’ He leapt up.
    â€˜And we’ll bring food and drink, of course,’ said Hassan, gesturing at the table still laden with leftovers.
    â€˜And you can wash your hands and shower and stuff when Monty’s at work.’ Singo swung round to me. ‘Your dad doesn’t have to know – no one else has to know, just us three, right, Lou?’
    I looked out at the garden, trying to imagine it all, trying to find the right words.
    â€˜You could have my books so you don’t get bored,’ I ventured, finding a shadow of my voice. ‘I mean, I’ve got plenty of books I’m not using right now,’ I added stupidly.
    Cordelia looked around the table at us. Her face reddened with the effort of stopping the quiver of her bottom lip.
    â€˜Maybe just for tonight then,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you.’
    Hassan squeezed her shoulder. But she was looking at me. I don’t know why, when everything inside me had gone so small, as small as her hurt-voice, as dark and disappointing as my cowardice in the kitchen when the bad man was outside.

8
THE LIE
    When I came back into the kitchen with pillows for the tent, Singo was practically falling off his chair with laughter, and Hassan was slapping his knee like an old-timer in a hillbilly movie. Cordelia was performing a stand-up comedy act.
    â€˜You, boy .’ She pointed imperiously. ‘Find another toga for me! Look at this one, all splattered with gladiator blood. How can I cook for the Emperor in this state?’
    In a nanosecond she could change her identity, her body language, the shape of her mouth, everything. She made you believe an Ancient Roman cook had somehow managed to get stranded between centuries, a natural accident of the universe that had occurred, amazingly, in your very own kitchen . . .
    â€˜Agnes!’ I remembered, leaping up. ‘I’ve got to ring Dad!’
    As I ran to the phone, I was B ESIEGED by an image of Doreen speeding along in her old Ford, her hair frizzing out in fright. Dad would be driving beside her singing ‘The Long and Winding Road’, which he did whenever he wanted you to think everything would turn out all right but was secretly convinced it wouldn’t.
    â€˜Hullo, Dad?’ I yelled into the phone, trying to make myself heard above a sea of music and voices.
    â€˜Lou, is that you?’ He laughed. ‘Ha, that rhymes, I should write a song! What’s up?’
    â€˜What do you mean, what’s up? Listen, I’m ringing to tell you where Agnes is. She’ll be at the soup kitchen, you know, the one set up outside that restaurant—’
    â€˜Yes, that’s right. We found her there, didn’t want to come away until she’d washed and dried the last pot, which was hot! Hey, that rhymes. Now she’s tucked up in bed all safe and sound.’
    â€˜Why aren’t you home then? Dad, are you okay? It’s pretty late. What’s that music in the background, why are you rhyming, where are you?’ I shook myself – I sounded like a worried dad, and he was the teenager.
    But Dad didn’t notice. ‘Hear that song? The Beatles – Doreen has a brilliant record collection, you know, the real deal, vinyl ! All my favourites.’
    â€˜Has she got ‘The Long and Winding