Graveyard Shift Read Online Free PDF Page B

one. The only one I could see clearly was the dark-eyed pirate type with the slicked-back hair and silver tooth.
    The sketch didn’t turn out well — it didn’t look anything like him — so I put the pad and pencil aside and rolled back on the bed with my hands pillowed under my head. I wouldn’t tear up the sketch, I decided, even if it wasn’t much good. It was the only memento I had from the day to prove that any of it had really happened.
    That and the four-leaf clover chain inside my shirt pocket.

T he hottest days passed and the air became breathable again. One night, the equivalent of a whole month’s rain fell in a hundred minutes. Torrents and droughts. Life was like that. One day with Mr. October had opened my eyes, and then came day after day of nothing at all.
    Every morning at seven o’clock sharp, a wiry gray-haired man in army fatigues and scruffy sneakers came rummaging through the trash bins outside our building. If he found anything of interest among the cat litter and rotting fish heads in the bins — old clothing, an unfinished bottle of wine — he would stuff it into the pack he carried on his back. Then he would continue along Lansdowne Drive and turn into the Blackstone Estate.
    Watching from my window, I wondered if he might be one of Mr. October’s many personalities. In the end I decided hewasn’t, but Mr. October might turn up again anywhere, anytime, with a different face. I might have seen him ten times on the streets without knowing it. That day by the canal seemed so distant, I might’ve dreamt it up, and as the days spun out I began to think I’d seen the last of him.
    And then there was school.
    Monday morning — my first day at Mercy Road School near De Beauvoir Town. Mum bustled around the maisonette, twice as flustered as usual. The only thing worse than her being late for work was my being late for school on day one.
    â€œTickets. Money. Passport. Apple for the teacher. Are you sure you haven’t missed anything?”
    â€œYeah, I’m sure.”
    â€œThen off you pop.” She smoothed out her clothes, checked her face in the living room mirror. “Do I look OK? Will I pass?”
    â€œDoes it matter when you work in a greasy spoon?” Seeing her hurt look, I quickly added, “Fine. You look fine, really great.”
    â€œNo need to be facetious,” she said.
    She’d been preoccupied since the previous Friday when the businessman had again entered the café, ordering a sandwich and latte and leaving another large tip. She’d gotten it into her head that he fancied her, and she didn’t know how she felt about that or how Dad would’ve felt if he’d known.
    â€œBut Dad’s been gone four years,” I reminded her, following her down the stairwell. “Don’t you think he’d want you to be happy?”
    â€œYou’re just a kid. You wouldn’t understand.”
    â€œThen explain and I’ll try to.”
    â€œOne day I will. This isn’t the right time.”
    It was never the right time.
    We exited the building and stood on the path outside. By the cold light of day, the worry lines and dark circles around her eyes were more obvious, but she didn’t need to hear that from me.
    â€œRight, then,” she said. “Do your best, try to make friends, and if the teacher asks what you do in your spare time, don’t mention graveyards.”
    â€œOK.”
    She straightened my tie and picked a few invisible specks of dust and fluff off my blazer.
    â€œWhat’s up?” she said.
    â€œNothing.” I shrugged. “I just wish you’d talk about . . . you know what. I don’t like seeing you sad. I might be able to help. I’m a born helper, you know.”
    â€œYou’re funny. Now get along before I clip your ear.”
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    The school was an old Victorian building whose red bricks had darkened almost to black over