The Edge of Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

and the cold air storms into my lungs and stings my face. It wraps itself around me and carries me towards the edge of the field, to the shelter of a group of stunted trees, and leaves me sitting on the hard earth and wet grass where I can look back at the school. And I hold myself tight with my chin on my knees, and I don’t think. I just sit there.
    The bell goes. And a thousand bodies are on the move again.
    I stay there tucked in tight for a long time. I stay there through one bell after another. I stay there as the rain starts out of low oyster clouds. I watch people moving across walkways and corridors in the distance: dark shapes like crows.
    And when I’m soaked to my skin, I get up and I cross the field to the gates and out onto the street where sodden leaves line the gutters, and water pools in cracks in the pavements.
    I know it. I have to cross that line.
    There’s still an hour of school to go when I reach home and push my key into the lock.
    It doesn’t turn.
    I try again. And again. Whatever I do, I can’t make it move. It’s weird. It’s like something’s been shoved in thelock. I go out onto the street and look up at the house. I go back up to the door and try again. I ring the bell. Nothing. Mum’s at work, but Dad should be home.
    I bang on the door and shout through the letterbox: ‘Dad!’ He’s probably sleeping in his chair. I try again, louder this time, ‘Dad!’
    Not a sound. And that would have woken him, should have woken him. I don’t understand it. I mean he won’t be anywhere. Apart from work, Dad never goes out. I move a grinning chimney-sweep gnome to get a look in at the front windows to see if I can see him in his chair. I peer through a little tear in the lacy nets and what I see there grips me with fear like I’ve never known. My throat closes and my body burns.
    I smack my palms against the cold glass over and over until I can’t feel them any more.
    The room is empty.
    Everything – papers, cards, trinkets, bits of broken china – all gone. All that’s left is the sofa pushed against the wall. I look through to the kitchen and it’s the same: pictures, pots, notes on the fridge about term dates, doctor’s appointments, bank letters. One of the cupboard doors swings open on its hinge. The mantelpiece is bare, the floors are swept and all the surfaces are clean. It’s as though no one has ever lived here. I don’t know how long I stand there with my feet in the damp soil, beating a roll against the pane, listening to the sound ring out through empty rooms and bounce off bare walls.

4
    My phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out and stare at the screen. It’s Lauren. I can’t pick up. I can’t do it. Lauren’s too real and this isn’t real. It’s utterly unreal. But the phone buzzing in my hand sort of brings me back to life, and when it stops ringing, I dial Mum. ‘Unassigned Number’ comes up on the screen and there’s a long beep. I try Dad’s. The same. And again and again. I start to cry: panicky, choky gasps that fight for air.
    I slide down against the wall of the house and put my head between my knees, trying to breathe. Someone shouts at a child across the street. The rain has stopped. A sweet wrapper drifts into view, works its way up the path, and the light catches it and shines gold in the cellophane. I reach for it and twist it into a knot. People pass, their footsteps slapping on the wet pavements, and the street is still again. I close my eyes and when I open them, I catch sight of something in the earth at my feet: something colourful dug into the dirt. A photograph –or part of a photograph. I pick it up and brush it clean.
    I see at once it’s part of a picture of me.
    I’ve never seen it before. I’m on the street outside the house, walking towards it. I’m wearing my old coat, carrying my bag, and I’m looking down, probably for my keys.
    It’s slightly out of focus and it’s obviously been shot from above, from an upstairs window