Free Trouble by Non Pratt Page B

mum’s and he wrinkles his nose at the smell of her perfume. Some of the residents are in wheelchairs, covered up with fleecey blankets and for a moment I’m hit with a nightmare image of the lot of them bursting into flames from a stray spark. But the wind’s blowing the other way and we’re miles from anything even faintly flame-like. I can see Neville’s got the same idea because he makes a joke about fire extinguishers and glares at his nemesis, Donald Morton, who ignores him but makes a comment about how nice it is to smell an expensive scent these days. It’s all I can do to stop Neville shedding Mum’s coat and bolting back inside.
    “Shouldn’t you be out with your boyfriend tonight?” Neville’s still convinced I’m gay. It’s because I’m clean. Neville is not clean and is as heterosexual as they come. He is the walking definition of a dirty old man.
    “I am,” I say and wink at him.
    “Aye, well you could do worse.”
    “You too.” I give him a cheeky grin.
    “Don’t push your luck,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling.
    The fireworks start up on the lawn, prompting a few half-hearted “ooh”s and a good deal of “used to be better in my day” murmurings but the naysayers soon fade to silence as the rockets are fired up, squealing from the lawn to burst shattered shards of light against the night sky.
    The home is at the top of the valley and, as our fireworks start thinning out, we can see others blooming over the rest of the county. It’s beautiful and even Neville, whose default setting is curmudgeonly, mumbles something about it being “bonny up here”. The staff hand out sparklers to those who present a low fire risk and I’m surprised when Neville takes one, but he waggles it around enthusiastically, boyish glee on his face as echoes of zigzags and loops fire in our retinas. I wonder who he really is – who he was – before he became such a cantankerous old bastard.
    “What’re you staring at?” Neville’s voice snaps me out of it.

HANNAH
    As always, Gran came to ours for Bonfire Night. It doesn’t matter that she’s from Dad’s side of the family, not tonight, when she and I sit on the bench by the back door having the same conversation as last year, tracing over old memories to keep them fresh, remembering Grampa’s favourite night of the year. Remember, remember, the fifth of November.
    There’s less talk this year with the weight of responsibility sitting between us – the knowledge that I’m pregnant and that I’ve not told my mum. Gran can’t understand what’s stopping me now the decision’s been made, but she’s old, she’s forgotten what the future looks like when you’re fifteen. Who she is depends on things that have already happened. Who I am depends on what lies ahead. All the things I thought would happen have vanished – just like that – and without them I’m not so sure who I am any more. I need to get a bit more me going on before I face my family.
    Mum drops us back at Cedarfields before going to get some petrol, so I have time to have a cup of tea with Gran before I say goodbye. I’m paying zero attention to my surroundings as I walk along the corridor to reception.
    “Hannah?” There’s a tap on my shoulder and I turn around. Aaron Tyler. What’s he doing here?
    “Hey, Ty,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. There are lots of stray bits of hair since I was chasing Lolly around the garden and had to burrow under a hedge to catch her. Why did I have to bump into someone here? Why him? We haven’t spoken since Rex’s party.
    “Could you maybe just call me Aaron?”
    Crap. I’ve been calling him by the wrong name. I just assumed he was a surname-nickname guy.
    “Yeah,” I say and sort of edge sideways, hoping he’ll get the hint. I don’t want to talk – I look a mess in this skanky old hoodie and I bet Mum’s already filled up and got back to the car park.
    “How come you’re here?” he asks, walking along the