Safety is Relative

Chapter Twenty Nine- PART one- Blood Brothers

When we get home, we open the door to a warm, buttery smell and discover Ash in the kitchen, making omelettes for himself and Sorrel. They are singing along to Ash’s iPod, and at first they don’t notice us in the doorway. We even get a glimpse of Ash shuffling around and attempting to dance with a wooden spoon, before Quinn’s snigger alert him to our presence.

‘Oh, hi,’ he says, blushing slightly. He turns back to his omelettes. ‘You’re home quick. I thought you said you’d be back later.’

‘Rue was done quicker than they expected,’ Mum replies curtly, and something in her tone dares anyone foolish enough to ask why.

No-one says anything.

Ash turns down his music. ‘I suppose you’ll all be wanting some food too, then?’

‘You bet, bro,’ says Quinn, flopping into a chair. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Thanks love,’ says Mum, smiling wearily at him.

‘Rue?’

I shake my head. Weirdly, what smelt so appetizing before suddenly makes me feel sick. ‘I’m tired. I think I’m going to go to bed.’

Without waiting to see their reactions, I trudge upstairs. Choosing the bedroom in the attic no longer seems like such a good idea; the journey up all those stairs leaves me even more exhausted than I felt before. I slump down onto my bed, breathing in the clean, familiar scent. It’s so soft and comfortable, and I’m so tired. I close my eyes for a minute, trying to ignore my panging headache, and before I know it, I fall asleep.

How do I know it, you might ask? I don’t know. I just come to in my dream, aware that I am sleeping on my bed. But it’s so vivid and realistic that for a moment, I almost think I am there, standing on the cheap blue carpet of an airport.

There are people all around me, a mix of people: men, woman and children of all ages, races and places. But from the general hubbub of noise, and the big adverts on the walls, I notice one thing- I’m in the USA.

Someone walks right past me, and grabs my attention. I just know, without knowing why, that I am supposed to notice him. He is short, for a guy, with long, shaggy blond curls that hang down his forehead and his neck, drooping into dark eyes. His hair seems to overshadow his face- with only small features- a pointy nose, a thin mouth- it gives the effect that it is too large for him, like a splurge of straw erupted out of the top of his head. He hands his passport over for inspection and the bald security guard inspects it.

‘Nicholas Laurent?'

‘Yes,’ the boy answers, his English heavily disfigured by a thick French accent.

‘I hope you enjoy your stay in the States,’ the man hands his passport back over after stamping it. He gives him the regulatory smile, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. This man has to see a lot of people every day. This boy probably won’t even stick in his memory past lunchtime.

Nicholas smiles. ‘Merci, monsieur.’ He slips it into his rucksack and wanders away, through security. He picks nothing up from the conveyor belt, instead heading straight for the buses and coaches sign. I follow a few metres behind, because I have a feeling that this dream is centred around this boy. Once we get off the bus, he looks around, blinking in the bright sunlight, and shading his eyes. Then he heads for the nearest diner, his hands in his pockets.

I follow him into the dingy interior. It’s pretty much empty, with unused booths stretching out in front of us. Nicholas goes over to the waitress, who is lounging against the greasy counter top, plugged into her iPod.