Slated

Chapter 25

Song ; No Care by daughter <3
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"Your chariot?" Jazz says, and bows.

Since the deal with Amy seeing Jazz involves her not being alone with him, it looks like I won't be taking the bus with Ben after school so much any more. I climb into the back.

No seat belt. Amy and Jazz get in the front, and I sigh and brace myself as Jazz lurches out of the school grounds and along the main road, then exits down a lane. Not going straight home?

"I've got a surprise for you, Kyla," Jazz says, looking more in the mirror at me in the backseat than at the road.

"Watch it!" Amy says, and he brakes hard, just in time to avoid sheep crossing the road. A farmer glares; even his dog seems to glare. The sheep amble across with blank expressions.

"Whoops." Jazz waves, mouths sorry at the farmer.

"What's the surprise?" Amy says when we start off again.

"Mac's found a reclaimed seat belt to fix up in the back."

"Hurrah!" I say, with real enthusiasm. Try to stay on the road in the meantime I think, but don't say out loud.

Jazz does pay a little more attention to where he is going after the nearly hitting sheep incident, and I relax, just a little. My eyelids start to close on their own, so tired after last night's dream and the effort of staying awake after it. Every time my eyes drifted close I felt brick walls settle around me. Now my head droops forward against the seat in front, and images jumble around in my mind: the monument, Robert Armstrong carved on it, the tower...

"Try to stay awake," Amy says, and I jump.

"See: my driving's not so bad, if passengers can actually nap," Jazz says.

Mac pulls the back seat out of the car.

"Shall we go for a walk?" Jazz says, and winks at Amy. "But perhaps you are too tired," Jazz says to me, pointedly.

"Yes, you look tired," Amy says. "We won't be long." They start walking away, heading for a footpath sign down the road.

"If you don't want me to come, why don't you just say so?" I say at their retreating heads.

Mac looks out from the back of the car and laughs. "Get yourself a drink if you want."

"No, thanks," I say, remembering his homemade beer from the last time.

"There are soft drinks in the fridge," he says, with a smirk that says he knows exactly what I just thought. "Go on, have a snack if you want, whatever. Put the TV on. They'll probably be a while." He laughs again.

Translation: don't stand there and watch me work on this pile of junk car.

Fine. I wander back into his house. Sure enough, in the fridge are drinks that look more innocuous than the brown bottles in the cupboard. I am hungry, after running a few thousand laps at lunch today to keep my levels up. Ben came along, and didn't ask why I ran. Maybe he is giving up asking me things when I don't answer.

I find cheese, and thick cut uneven bread: homemade? I stick my head out the door and yell: "You want a sandwich?"

"Sure," comes back. "I'll be in in a bit."

So I make a few sandwiches. I'm not big on TV, but I put it on and flick through all three channels. BBC1 is some stupid comedy show with a laughing track that makes little sense to me; BBC2 is a gardening program about increasing allotment production; BBC3 is news and weather. I watch it while I eat. Rain is coming the next few days. This autumn's harvest figures are up. Some bit on neighbourhoods in London. They show footage of roads I've seen on the way to and from the hospital, but they don't look the same. The burnt out buildings: they're not there. No guards, either.