Saving Silence Read Online Free PDF Page B

thought. Behind her I could see a greyhound wearing a fluorescent collar.
    ‘Hi, I’m Imogen,’ I said. ‘Came to see how Sam is.’
    The woman blinked at me sleepily. She looked a bit young to be Sam’s mum. Perhaps she was his sister, though her accent said London rather than the North. ‘That’s nice.
He’s in the kitchen.’
    She drifted back into the house, leaving the door open. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, I stepped inside. The interior was pretty grand compared to what I was used to, all marble floors, furniture
that definitely wasn’t Argos or Ikea and modern art on the walls. So Sam’s folks were well off.
    I wasn’t sure whether the woman meant me to follow her, but I could smell baking wafting from the direction she was heading so I followed. We entered the kind of kitchen you see in TV
adverts. It had plush wooden units, an enormous fridge and an island in the centre with a stylish low-hanging light. Sam was standing there up to his elbows in flour. In front of him was a ball of
dough. As I watched he smacked it against the surface, kneading it with an anger that took me aback. Clearly his bandaged wrist wasn’t giving him too much grief. To his side was some sort of
loaf and a line of biscuits. From the cracked eggs and open packets on the sideboard I guessed they were freshly baked. When Sam saw me he stopped dead.
    ‘Sam, your friend’s here,’ The woman picked up one of the biscuits, then wandered out the way we’d come. I wasn’t sure what to make of her. Out of the corner of my
eye I noticed the dog settle down on a blanket in the corner with an elderly-sounding sigh.
    I looked at Sam. He didn’t look at me. Now I was here, it felt surreal. Disconcerting. In just a few minutes I’d discovered more about Sam than I had in two years. He had a dog. He
made bread. From the vibes I was getting off this place, his home life might not be so great.
    And it was so weird to see him like this. Sam always dressed really smartly. It was a look that suited him, but he never seemed entirely comfortable. Was what I was seeing now, a guy in an old
T-shirt and sweats and covered in flour, the real Sam?
    ‘Hi,’ I said.
    Sam gathered up the dough and slammed it down one last time. He then rolled it into a ball and set it aside, rubbing the dough off his fingers. I could see a line of blue stitches just
underneath his chin. It was a surprisingly square chin. Macho even. It looked like it had been stolen from someone else’s face – strange I hadn’t noticed before. The muscles on
his arms were more defined than I’d anticipated too. He looked wiry, but strong. Maybe making bread was more of a workout than I’d realized? I’d always looked at Sam and just seen
someone with smart clothes and a funny accent, but actually he was pretty good-looking. And as it happened, I rather liked the way he spoke. It was different.
    ‘Just baking,’ he replied, finally looking me in the eye.
    ‘I noticed. I wouldn’t want to be that dough! You were kneading it like you wanted to kill it.’
    ‘It needs a bit of force else it won’t rise properly. I don’t do this stuff much any more.’ Sam moved the flour packets so they were next to each other, then placed the
bottle of olive oil at a right angle. I seemed to be hitting a nerve.
    ‘How are you?’ I asked. ‘We missed you at school.’
    ‘Who’s we?’ For a second Sam half smiled. ‘I didn’t feel like coming in and Tamsin didn’t make me. I’m OK. Thanks for asking.’
    ‘Did the stitches hurt?’
    ‘They look worse than they are.’ Sam paused. ‘I know, classic line but it’s true. The nurse said it would scar but I figure that’s OK. Scars are sort of cool,
right? Shame they didn’t need to call the plastic surgeons in the end. I could’ve got them to make me look like Robert Pattinson.’
    Despite myself, I laughed. ‘Would that have made what happened worth it?’
    ‘Would you like one?’
    It took me a moment to realize