I come down for breakfast, my emotions so conflicted I don't know how to be around him. I turn the 'word game' inside out in my mind and it gives me a bangin headache. Nothing makes sense anymore. Something about Henry affects something in me. It's complex and I don't know if I can handle complex. I have to keep reminding myself: he's my uncle, he's twenty-eight...and...he's mental! If he'd act like a normal uncle, I'd be fine. Whatever is going on in my head, I am not responsible for. This is his doing.
I glance at him covertly.
***
I catch her eye. Time to try the softly, softly approach.
"Can I get by," I say, brushing my body against hers. It's a dirty move knowing she's attracted to me.
"I'm making a protein shake. Want one? It's chocolate?"
"No thank you," she replies meekly.
"Ok?" I ask gently. Fake concern. I can't afford any other. "I'm jogging shortly; care to join me?"
I expect her to remember the woods and say no but hope swims in her eyes. She smiles - so deep, so wide. Her optimism is her calling card.
***
The wind is hostile and the grassy, sloping ground is sodden and break-an-ankle slippery. I cast my eyes downwards; the stream which usually babbles is dark and choppy, its level threatening to break the bank.
"Alright?" he asks.
No, I'm not flipping alright numbskull! I give the thumbs up as I continue to slip and slide. We've run for about thirty minutes. I'm losing steam. Henry bears left, towards sprawling willow trees that line the bank; their withering branches trailing into murky waters, like bony witch's fingers reaching out. As quickly as Henry sweeps long, drooping branches aside to clear his path, he lets them fall...into mine. Their spindly twigs with saw-toothed leaves snag my hair. I imagine bugs, suddenly dragged away from their colony, harbouring on my scalp. We cross a footbridge but continue along the wooded riverbank to where another brook flows in from the left; its water rushing by with its off-white, foamy crests. The reason I've joined Henry on this crazy, senseless sprint is to be with him. I must have Stockholm syndrome. I'm relinquishing myself, more accurately endangering myself, to gain Henry's approval. I let him pick me up and put me down at will, as if I've no defence against his intermittent interest in me. Henry slows his pace allowing me to catch up. I'm rewarded; we run in unison. Turning to him I smile. Henry remains stone; I'm saddened. I run on; that's what you do when you have Stockholm syndrome.
***
I keep one eye ahead and the other on Care Girl. Strands of hair blow about her face, which is red from exertion. Her eyes shine, she looks alive; it's a good look, it suits her. The river is pushing hard downstream dragging loose sand, stone and litter with it. Its murkiness hides nests borrowed by sand martins and the deep sections formed from worked-out gravel pits.
I sense her alarm.
Slipping with the loose ground she hastily shifts her weight towards me. She reaches out; a scream caught in her throat as further rubble gives way beneath her. She's slipping, her fingers almost reaching me.
"HENRYYYYY."
She hits the water hard. Her arms flailing to keep her head above water. She's choking, swallowing water, spitting it out, calling me.
Where is she? Shit!
***
Henry, agile, strong, capable, with the reflexes of a cheetah was a three-toed sloth. Yes, he'd saved me...after he'd put me in danger. The man who knows everything: when to hang the clothes on the line, what queue to get in, what roads are closed, suddenly plays dumb? No! We ran today for a reason. To scare me.
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The Rebirth of Henry Whittle
Teen FictionPhoenix Whittle, orphaned at 11, has been in and out of foster care. She's systematically bullied at school and facing homelessness. Until she's offered a home by an estranged uncle, Henry Whittle. But that was the old Henry. Now a killer and id...
