The Mute and the Liar (45 page)

I
know
how
things
work
now.
Everything
is
deliberate,
planned.
Jayce
has
predetermined
my every
move.
So why
would he
want
me
to
see this?

*****

Giving up,
I
put
away
the
newspaper
and
head
upstairs to
my
bedroom.

There's
Jayce's
room
up
ahead.
As
I
get
closer,
I
can
hear
something
slamming,
as
though
he
has
just
thrown
a
chair
at
a
wall.
He
seems
to
kick
something
and
now
hurls
out
a
swearword.
Curiosity
possesses
me
once
again
and
I
find
myself
standing
outside
the
door.
There
is
silence.
Mustering
up all
courage,
I
poke
my
head
around the
door.

It's
a
room
similar
in
design
to
mine,
that
is,
the
double
bed
cloaked
in
white
sheets,
the
mirror
wardrobe
and
the
scattering
of
cream
chests
of
drawers
are
all
identical
and
in
the
same
place.
However,
his
room
has
a
very
distinct
feel.
For
a
start,
there
is
a
piano.
While
the main
colour
in
my
room
is
blue,
here
it
is
seafoam
green.
That
is
the
colour
begging
for
attention
-
it
is
everywhere
I
look,
from
the
walls
to
the
fluffy
rug
in
front
of
the
bed.
It
is
a
much
more
homely
room.
Unlike
my
room,
which
is
littered
with
photographs
of
the
sea
and
so
could
be
any
old
room
in
a
hotel,
this
room
definitely
belongs,
or
belonged,
to
a
person.
There
are
a
couple
of
framed
photographs hanging
in
a
row above
a shelf of books.

From
here
I
can
make
out
an
old,
yellowing
photograph
of
a
couple,
who
I
assume
must
be
Kit's
parents.
The
next
one
is
of
the
woman
from
the
previous
photograph
laughing
with
her
arms
around
another
woman.
The
last
photo
is
of
a
young
blonde
boy
around
eight
with
oversized,
black
square-rimmed
glasses standing
beside
a
bicycle.

The
window,
though
much
smaller
than
mine,
is
south-facing,
with
views
of
hills
tumbling
away
into
the
distance,
sprinkled
artistically
with
trees.
Although
the
night
has
drained
the
life
from
outside,
I
can
just
make
out
squares
of
houses
in
the
distance,
arranged
like
a
tic-tac-toe
board.
The
shadowy
hills
create
the
illusion
of
a
slope
as
they
ascend
higher
and
higher,
all
racing
to
see
which
will
reach
the
sky
first.
The
window
has
a
window-seat
and
is
right
beside
another
shelf
of
books.
This
is
clearly
a
room
of
an
intellectual,
someone
with
a
passion
for
reading
and
learning,
or
maybe
someone
who
just
spends
far
too
much
time
alone.

The
only
thing
that
seems
out
of
place
is
the
sliver
of
a
boy
hunched
against the
wall
at
the
far
end.
He's sitting
with
his head in his hands.
To my
horror,
I
slowly realise there is something
seriously wrong;
he is breathing
rapidly,
deeply
and
completely
out-of-time,
the
way a drowning
person
would.

Before
I
even
have
a
chance
to
think
rationally,
I
run
over
to
him
and
throw
my
arms
around
him.
His
face
is
a
crippling
red,
ill
and
pained,
and
his
forehead
is
soaked
in
sweat.
He
pushes
his
head
against
me
and
continues
gasping for
air,
shudders
rippling through
his
body.

His
expression
is
so
twisted
and
pained
I
might
have
said
someone
was
clawing
his
face
with
stinging
nettles,
and
from
the
sounds
of
him
coughing
and
spluttering,
I
might
have
said
someone
was
trying
to
ram
them
down
his
throat
too.

We
sit
there,
his
head
rested
against
my
neck
as
he
coughs
and
splutters
and
gasps.
I
can
feel
every
breath
and
every
accompanying
shudder
of
his
body.
I
hold
on
even
tighter
and
rake
my
hands
through
his
hair,
desperately
willing him
to
be all right.

I
notice
he
is
trying
to
do
something
with
his
breathing
pattern.
It
seems
he
is
trying
to
breath
in
deeply
for
five
seconds,
hold
his
breath
for
two
seconds
and
exhale
for
another
five.
For
a
horrifying
moment
it
hits
me
that
this
m
ight
take
hours
to
s
top.
I
don’t
know
what
is
happening.
I
don’t
understand.
And
that scares me.

“
Panic
attack,
”
he
explains
when
his
breathing,
although
still
a
little
jagged
and
uneasy,
is
otherwise
back
to
normal.
“
I
used
to
get
them
all
the
time,
although
I
haven't
had
one
for
a
good
two
years,
”
he
cranes
his
head
to
look
at
me.
“
Not
since they killed
her.
”