How I Lost You Read Online Free PDF Page B

got to be better than a rolled-up newspaper article.
    After a good few minutes of waiting behind the living room door, I’m starting to feel a little foolish when I hear something else. A rattling, almost definitely the back door handle, and a scratching, like someone is trying to jemmy the lock. Oh shit. I’ve spent the last three years keeping out of trouble in a psychiatric institute and I’m about to meet a sticky end in a quaint Shropshire town. If I wasn’t so scared I could probably have found the funny side of the situation.
    The kitchen is in darkness and with the blinds closed I’ve got no chance of seeing who’s outside the back door. Shit. My only hope is the element of surprise. Whoever is trying to break in is clearly no expert at it – they’ve been out there making a racket for about ten minutes and the door has remained firmly closed. I debate throwing it open and thrusting the poker at whoever’s behind it, Pirates of the Caribbean style, but on reflection, the last thing I want is to end up on another murder charge for offing some confused drunk who’s stumbled upon the wrong house and can’t get his key in the door.
    The rattling has stopped. Maybe they’ve given up and gone away. Poker still in hand, I creep over to the kitchen window and peer through the blinds. The darkness outside is thick, and I can see nothing more than my own reflection. A sudden thump against the glass makes me scream out in shock, and it takes me a full minute to realise what’s caused it. My scream turns to a laugh of nervous relief. A huge black cat sits on the window ledge, pawing to be let in – none other than my resident stalker, and local stray, Joss. Taking a deep breath, I open the window and he stalks through.
    ‘You bloody dumb animal,’ I chastise affectionately, adrenalin giving way to the relief coursing through me. Joss purrs and rubs his face up against mine, unaware of the fuss he’s caused. I lay out a bowl of Weetabix – his favourite – and, checking the back door is still locked, return to the comfort of my living room. Joss follows faithfully, curling up in front of the fire and promptly falling asleep.
    I’m annoyed at myself for reacting so foolishly. The only thing creeping around my back garden in the middle of the night is a stray cat, desperate for his Weetabix fix and a warm place to sleep. What a fucking idiot. Still, I make a check of all the doors and windows: better safe than sorry.

6
    Jack: 24 September 1987
    ‘Yo, Shakespeare, catch.’ Jack flung the chocolate through the air and laughed as it hit the other boy square in the chest. ‘Too slow.’
    ‘Cheers.’ He frowned. ‘What time are the others coming?’ He’d looked at his watch three times since arriving at the house just fifteen minutes ago. The third time Jack had had to stop himself laughing out loud.
    ‘Soon. Why, you nervous?’
    ‘No.’ He said it quickly but Jack could tell he was lying. He’d dressed for the occasion, wearing what Jack was sure were his coolest clothes, but still his ASICS trainers and unbranded navy joggers weren’t going to cut it with the rest of the group. These were boys who, even at the age of twelve, were wearing Nike and Fred Perry – Billy probably thought Fred Perry was the bloke who ran the newsagent’s.
    ‘Just chill out. They don’t bite. Well, not unless I tell them to.’ Jack frowned as his Street Fighter lost yet another life. He threw the controller at the console, scowling. ‘Fucking boring game. We need some new stuff to do.’
    ‘You’ve got way more here than I’ve got at mine.’ Billy was gazing around Jack’s room, soaking in every detail. Remnants of previous hobbies littered every available space: the guitar he’d pestered for weeks to learn only to give up after six sessions; last year’s absolute must-have trainers caked in mud, lying on top of a jacket that probably cost more than the other boy’s entire wardrobe. It was quite amusing to