Chapter 7
I stood on the pavement and gave myself a moment to breathe.
That could have gone better.
Maybe it was a little soon to be diving into the community. Maybe a walk along the riverbank would help. Yes, calm down, get my bearings first.
I wandered back up toward the war monument next to the river.
It was made of worn stone in the shape of a Celtic Cross.
Two scuffed plastic planters sat at its base, holding half a dozen battered pansies.
The flowers’ pathetic, wilting petals looked how I felt.
I frowned at the sorry display. I’d assumed a nice village like this would put a bit more effort into their flowers.
It was nothing like the cheery hanging baskets and window boxes I’d imagined.
Perhaps I could volunteer to help out with flowers around the town. Maybe I could even—
“brAH!”
The noise knocked me sideways. Nerves jangled, I stumbled into the road. A mud-splattered jeep swerved around me, horn blaring. I leapt back onto the pavement, very nearly falling over my own feet. My hands flapped uselessly in front of my face.
Laughter erupted from the monument.
Adrenaline abating, I turned to the sound.
The gaggle of teenagers I’d seen go by the café were gripping their sides, teeth flashing, mouths wide and red.
One held up her phone, filming me, her other hand hidden inside her sleeve, stifling the laughter that escaped the sides of her mouth like air from a balloon.
The owner of the bark that had sent me careening into the road—a boy, barely out of his rompers—watched me with his hands in his pockets and a self-satisfied grin plastered on his smug face.
“Sorry,” he said, barely hiding a smirk. “Didn’t see you there.”
I stared at them, dumbfounded.
The boy frowned, all faux-concerned.
“You didn’t wet yourself, did you, pal?”
The high-pitched tone filled my head as a heat filled my belly and creeped up my chest and into my arms and throat.
“Oi!” A hoarse, angry voice called out from the doorway of the large pub.
The teens quickly scarpered up the road. A burly man thundered past me, jumper sleeves rolled up, face red and sweating.
“What have I told you?” he roared after them, but they were already long gone, laughter trailing behind them.
I rubbed my head as the ringing in my ears cooled and the heat left my trembling arms.
The red-faced man turned to me, swayed slightly, alcohol on his breath.
“Kids, eh?” he said. “Spoiled rotten these days. You understand, eh? No need to get anyone else involved, eh?”
Something about the man’s face looked very similar to the boy. I nodded and hurried away from him.
“No need, eh?” he called after me.
I stopped on the other side of the street and rubbed my chest. Why did I nod?
In my head I imagined the scene again. The boy jumping out at me.
The girl filming with her phone. But this time, I saw myself take off one of my boots and approach the boy.
Suddenly, I started to beat him about his sniggering face, my arm flying, smacking him repeatedly with the hardest part of the sole.
Is this funny? I imagined myself screaming at him. Is this funny now?
The image of me beating him with my boot kept repeating over and over in my mind. The violence of it. The look of fear I imagined on the boy’s face. His mouth pulled wide in horror.
The satisfying thrill it gave me.
There’s the person you think you’re going to be. And then, poof, there you are.
I swallowed down the dull ache rising in my chest and took a sharp turn up one of the side streets.