Perfect Read Free Page B

ran about on the field. They showed their Brooke Bond tea cards – they were both collecting the History of Aviation set – and James told Byron stories from his newspaper. It had not been a leading article, he explained, and he had been obliged to read quickly because his boiled egg was ready, but the gist of it was that, due to the leap year, recorded time was out of kilter with the natural movement of the Earth. In order to change it, he had said wisely, scientists would have to look at things like the expansion of the Earth’s crust, and also how it juddered on its axis. Byron had felt his face flatten. The idea appalled him. And even though James had talked about how exciting this was, and then gone on to discuss something entirely different, the thought of tampering with the natural order of things had grown and grown in Byron’s mind. Time was what held the world together. It kept life as it should be.
    Unlike James, Byron was a substantial boy. They made an odd pairing. James was slight and pale, his fringe sliding into his eyes, nibbling his mouth as he thought something through; while Byron sat tall and stolid beside him, waiting for James to finish. Sometimes Byron would pinch at the folds of flesh at his waist and ask his mother why James didn’t have them, and she’d say he did, of course he did, but Byron knew she was being kind. His body frequently burst through buttons and seams. His father said it straight out. Byron was overweight, he was lazy. And then his mother would say this was puppy fat, there was a difference. They would speak as if Byron was not there, which was strange when they were discussing the fact there was too much of him.
    In the beats that followed the accident, he felt suddenly made of nothing. He wondered if he was hurt. He sat waiting for his mother to realize what she had done, waiting for her to scream or get out of the car, only she didn’t. He sat waiting for the little girl to scream or get up off the road and that didn’t happen either. His mother remained very still in her driving seat and the little girl lay very still beneath her red bicycle. Then suddenly, with a snap, things started to happen. His mother glanced over her right shoulder and adjusted her mirror; Lucy asked why they had stopped. It was only the little girl who stayed not moving.
    Starting up the engine, Byron’s mother placed her hands on the steering wheel in the exact position his father had taught her. She reversed the car to straighten it and pushed the gearstick into first. He couldn’t believe she was driving away, that they were leaving the little girl where they had knocked into her, and then he realized it was because his mother didn’t know. She hadn’t seen what she had done. His heart thumped so hard it hurt his throat.
    ‘Go, go, go!’ he shouted.
    In answer, his mother bit her lip to show she was concentrating andpressed her foot on the accelerator. She went to angle her mirror, twitching it a little to the left, a little to the right—
    ‘Hurry up!’ he shouted. They had to get away before anyone saw them.
    Steadily they made their way down Digby Road. He kept twisting from left to right, craning his neck to see out of the rear window. If they didn’t hurry, the mist would be gone. They turned on to the High Street and passed the new Wimpy Bar. The Digby Road children made shadowy queues at the bus stop. There was the grocer, the butcher, the music shop and then the Conservative Party local headquarters. Further along, uniformed assistants from the department store were polishing windows and unwinding the striped awnings. A doorman with a top hat was smoking outside the hotel and a delivery van had arrived with flowers. It was only Byron who sat clutching his seat, waiting for someone to run out and stop the car.
    Yet this did not happen.
    Diana parked in the tree-lined street, where the mothers always parked, and lifted the school satchels from the boot. She helped the children