Jumper: Griffin's Story Read Online Free PDF Page A

He jerked his chin and I saw a distant car way down the road. The roof glittered and I could believe it was a police car.
    I dropped the flip–flops onto the tarmac and put my feet in them. They were way too big but I shuffled my way into the store and, avoiding the eyes of the woman at the counter, I turned away from the counter to the loo.
    The men's bathroom stank and I looked horrible in the mirror. My hair was matted and there were circles under my eyes. When I twisted around, painfully, the lower edge of my T–shirt was stained brown with a mixture of dirt and dried blood. Fortunately, the dirt made it look more like a particularly reddish mud rather than blood, otherwise, I suspect the clerk would've said something–or even called 911.
    I tried rinsing the blood out in the sink but it spread the stain over more of the shirt. I tried the soap dispenser but it was empty, and much as I needed to, I couldn't make myself put the shirt back on. It was wet and filthy and even though there was gauze and tape over the gouge in my side, I didn't want the thing near me.
    I dropped it on the edge of the sink and jumped.
    I thought it was a very sloppy jump at first–every drawer was out and dumped and the bed mattress flipped over and across the springs. Clothes on hangers were dumped on the floor of the closet. But they were still, not flying through the air. Someone else had caused the mess. I froze, listening.
    I wanted to hear something. I wanted to hear my father talking to Mum. The silence was oppressive, weighing down on me like a hot day. Then there was a click and a thud and a whirring sound and my heart beat like a hammer.
    Oh. It was the AC cycling on.
    I looked out into the hall. More things littered the floors– books, dishes. I began noticing the black powder, almost everywhere. Fingerprinting powder. There were holes in the walls, large, jagged, the edges sticking out, like something had been pulled from the room.
    There was masking tape on the floor in the living room, just like on TV, two taped outlines on the floor. And dried blood.
    I turned away–flinched away, really. Glancing out glass panes beside the door I saw yellow plastic ribbon stretched across the top of the stairway printed with crime scene:
    DO NOT ENTER.
    A police car sat at the curb, too, windows down. I couldn't see if anyone was in the driver's seat but there was a crackle after a bit and the sound of someone talking, scratchy, like a radio.
    Shite.
    I backed up from the doorway, then walked quickly back to my bedroom, the tape on my hip tugging painfully. I picked up a T–shirt, a pair of jeans, underwear, my track shoes, and socks. They'd swept most of the books from my bookshelf, but I found my passport and my hoard, three and a half months' allowance, where I'd left them, stuffed between
Treasure Island
and Little Big on the bottom shelf.
    I turned to the wall for my sketches, but they were gone. They weren't on the floor, either.
    There was a sound from the front, like steps on the stair, and I clutched my things to my chest and jumped.
    I was back in the
Empty Quarter
, by the paintball–splattered boulder, sand and dried grass swirling around me. I heard buzzing, flies returning to the dried blood where it had pooled on the ground. I thought about the bandits who'd attacked Pablo but there didn't seem to be anybody around. I could see footsteps where Sam and Consuelo had carried me away.
    I climbed on a rock to change into the clean clothes, easing the pants over the bandages on my hip and brushing the sand off my feet to put on the socks and shoes. It took a moment to visualize the petrol station's bathroom enough to jump back to it. It was the memory of the smell that finally did it. I stuffed the bloody clothes into the rubbish bin, beneath the used paper towels.
    When I exited, there was a guy waiting who glared at me. "Shook the door hard enough. What's the matter, couldn't get it open? Is that why you took so fucking long?"