‘Jump!’
The voice was as cool as the night.
Sacha turned around – he looked more amused than afraid.
‘You really want me to do it?’ Clutching his chest, he pretended to quiver. ‘But… but… I might get hurt.’
‘Shut up.’ Antoine took a warning step towards him; the gun in his hand glinted in the moonlight. ‘Stop wasting my time, kid. You lost the bet. You chose this option. Now…’ He shrugged. ‘You have to jump. Just do it, Sacha. Let’s get this over with.’
Sacha held up his hands. ‘OK, OK. Don’t get excited.’
He was tall and slim, in a faded black T-shirt and jeans. His broad smile made him look even younger than he was as he stepped fearlessly to the edge of the warehouse roof. A breeze blew his straight brown hair into his eyes and he shoved it back to peer into the darkness.
Antoine knew the ground below would be lost in the midnight shadows. The roof they stood on was five storeys high.
Too far to fall and survive.
Crouching low, Sacha prepared to spring forward into the void.
Antoine’s breath caught. He admired the kid’s bravery and hated to see him die. But a bet’s a bet, and the kid had pushed him to the limit this time. Taking his money and not paying him back. Messing with him like he wasn’t for real. He couldn’t let that happen; couldn’t let the guys see someone treat him like that. He had to make an example of him. When his body was found tomorrow they’d know who was behind it.
They’d respect him.
Twenty feet away, Sacha swung his arms out like a diver… then stopped abruptly and turned back, his eyes dancing.
‘Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s make another bet.’
Antoine’s hand tightened on the gun.
He couldn’t understand any of this. Why wasn’t he afraid? Didn’t he care that he was about to die? It made no sense.
Antoine didn’t like things that didn’t make sense.
‘What? Now?’ Anger made his voice high-pitched. He forced it down a register. ‘You’re about to smash your face into the ground and you want to renegotiate?’
‘Yeah,’ the boy said with cool determination. ‘Right now.’
Muttering a litany of colourful swear words, Antoine lowered the gun and switched on the torch he held in his left hand.
Its bright white light revealed the warehouse roof, littered with dirt and rubble. In the distance he could just make out the hulking shapes of other warehouses, along with the parked lorries and rubbish bins that marked this unlovely suburb of Paris.
During the day the area would be crawling with workers, but not at this hour. They were alone save for the rats crawling in from the harbour and the pigeons cooing their complaints from the rafters beneath their feet.
‘What do you want to bet now, when you’re about to die?’ Antoine growled.
Reaching into his pocket, Sacha pulled out his phone. ‘First, I need you to hold this. My mum just bought it for me and she’ll kill me if I break it.’
Antoine waved the gun. ‘I don’t give a shit about your…’
‘Tsk.’ Sacha tapped his index finger against his lips. ‘Language. I’m not done yet. As part of the bet, you take the phone. Then I’ll jump, since you really, really want me to. But I won’t die. Instead, I’ll get up and go home. When I do, you’ll give me my phone back, forgive all my debts and give me 500 euros for my trouble.’ He rocked back onto his heels, eyes daring Antoine to refuse. ‘Have we got a deal?’
Antoine barked a laugh, although he wasn’t finding any of this funny. The gun twitched in his hand.
‘You really think you’re ever using a phone again? Can dead fingers dial?’
Looking increasingly bored, Sacha dusted his hands against the legs of his faded jeans. ‘Do you take the bet or not?’
Antoine stopped laughing.
He knew from long experience Sacha would bet on anything. He didn’t care if he lost – that’s why he was here now. Sacha had cost him money, a lot of money, messing around with the kinds of guys who don’t like being messed with.
He didn’t know what was wrong with him but if Sacha hated life so much, Antoine would do him the favour of helping him part with it. He’d outlived his usefulness anyway.
Maybe that would appease the men who were after him now because of Sacha’s little stunts.
‘Sure.’ Antoine shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothing to lose making a bet with a dead boy. It’s a deal. I’ll meet you downstairs with your phone and the money. All you have to do is jump and then get up from your grave and take them from me.’
‘Great.’ Sacha looked pleased. ‘I’ll do that.’
He held out the phone. For a second, Antoine hesitated, sensing a trick. The boy could grab his arm; throw him over the edge.
But he’d known Sacha for more than a year. He’d never seemed the type. He was actually a good kid. He just didn’t care who he pissed off.
Shoving the torch into his pocket, Antoine picked his way across the roof to where Sacha stood waiting.
‘Come on, come on,’ he said, waving the phone. ‘I don’t have all night.’
Reaching out gingerly, Antoine plucked the device from his hand and scuttled back out of reach.
Sacha shot him a look that said he knew Antoine was more scared than him.
Antoine’s face darkened.
‘Enough talking.’ He took a step back and raised the gun. ‘Now, smart-ass. Jump.’
‘OK.’ Sacha said.
Then he jumped.
He jumped with no hesitation, no trace of fear. He didn’t scream. In fact, he made no sound at all; the leap was chillingly silent. The last thing Antoine saw was the top of his head, a mop of sandy brown hair blown by the wind as he fell.
Stunned, Antoine reeled backwards. ‘Merde. He did it.’
As he stared at the empty space where Sacha had just been standing, some part of him felt a twinge of regret. He was brave, that kid.
Stupid. But brave.
Whirling, he ran across the rubble-strewn roof to the staircase, hurtling down the wide, cement steps, half-laughing in nervous shock.
He’d offered Sacha a range of options. Payment plans. Deals. He could apologise to the guy whose sports car he’d stolen and wrecked. Make it up to him. Do some work for him.
But he said he wanted to die. In the end, Antoine had agreed mostly to see what he’d do when it came right down to it. The whole time he thought the kid was gaming him. Playing him. That in the end he’d admit it was another big joke.
I never thought he’d do it, he told himself. Maybe he thought he could fly.
It was a long way down, and Antoine was breathless by the time he reached the warehouse floor. He sped across the dark, cavernous space, eager to get out before anyone discovered the body.
He reached for the door handle.
Just as he did, someone opened it from the other side.
A silhouette appeared in front of him, backlit by a distant streetlamp: tall, lean, dishevelled, but very much alive. And cocky as ever.
‘Can I have my phone, please?’ Sacha held out his hand.
Drawing a sharp breath, Antoine stumbled backward, tripping over a piece of rusted machinery that lay forgotten on the dirty concrete floor. Regaining his balance he reached behind him as he continued to back away, never taking his eyes off him.
‘Non. It’s impossible! You can’t…’
Sacha frowned. ‘Did you bring my phone, or what? I’d like to go home. It’s late, you know.’
His mouth agape, Antoine stared.
Sacha couldn’t have survived that fall. It wasn’t possible. But aside from a couple of bloody scrapes on his face and hands, he looked… fine.
It wasn’t possible.
Shoving past him, Antoine stumbled out to the point of impact, where Sacha should be spread like marmalade on the ground, soaked in his own blood.
Nothing.
He turned back. The boy stood in the doorway, watching him with open amusement.
‘But… but…’ Antoine couldn’t seem to form a coherent sentence.
Sacha rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, Antoine. Give me my money and my phone. We had a deal.’
With a shaking hand, Antoine reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. Then he counted out the bills.
But he tried not to touch the kid’s hand as he handed it all over.
There was something very wrong with him.
‘What are you wearing tomorrow night?’
Standing at the mirror in the utilitarian school bathroom, Taylor ran a brush through her hopeless blonde curls.
‘Dunno. I haven’t thought about it.’ She spoke absently; the brush had become trapped in a tangle and she struggled to tug it free without yanking out a clump of hair.
This happened all the time.
On more than one occasion she’d had to cut the brush free and walk around with an empty space on her head for weeks. She could really do without that happening right now.
In the mirror she could see Georgie’s perplexed expression.
‘I don’t see how you can do that,’ Georgie said. ‘I’ve planned my entire outfit already. Down to the nail varnish. Ocean pink.’
‘Ocean pink?’ Taylor laughed. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. Who gives nail polishes such crappy names?’
She yanked the brush free at last, and stared in dismay at the mirror. Her hair seemed to be responding to some unseen force, frizzing in front of her eyes. It was enraging. Blonde hair should be straight and silky. Hers was a hot mess.
With a sigh, she gave up, shoving the brush into her handbag. ‘It’s just Tom, anyway. He already knows what I look like.’
‘It is traditional,’ Georgie said primly, ‘to care what your boyfriend thinks of your appearance.’
Taylor didn’t reply. As if she had time to worry about clothes. After studying for her A-levels, tutoring, volunteering… there was no time left to think about anything else. In fact, she wouldn’t even go on this stupid double-date at all if she hadn’t promised Georgie she’d be there.
‘I’ll wear something, Georgie,’ she said. ‘I promise.’
‘Or you could go naked,’ Georgie suggested, studying her perfect brown skin in the mirror. ‘You’d be famous forever.’
Taylor headed for the door. ‘You know, advice like this is why I go elsewhere when I have real problems.’
‘Oh, Tay. You wound me.’ Georgie followed her out. ‘Hey, are we still studying tonight after dinner? I have that history essay…’
‘And you want me to write it for you?’ Taylor finished the thought for her.
Georgie beamed, dimples deepening. ‘If you’re not too busy.’
They walked out into the school hallway, crowded as students rushed from the dining room to their next class after lunch.
Two boys punched each other as they passed, looking to see if Georgie had noticed. But she didn’t even glance at them.
‘You tosser,’ one of them shouted at the other.
‘Whatever,’ the first boy said, and they took off down the corridor.
Taylor cast a sideways glance at her friend. She knew they made an odd pair. Georgie’s glossy, dark ponytail bounced with each step. As always, she looked perfect. She’d altered her outfit herself – a low-cut white blouse nipped in at the waist, emphasising her slim figure and smooth, espresso-dark skin. Her pleated skirt had been shortened to better display her long legs.
Taylor’s own clothes were much less… well, less. Her straight skirt ended below her knees making her legs look short, but she didn’t have long legs to show off anyway. Her top was too baggy to do anything with her curves except make her look lumpy.
The fact was, she didn’t know how to do what Georgie did with clothes. How to make them her friend instead of her enemy. She just put them on… and despaired.
Georgie wanted to work in fashion when she finished school. Taylor wanted to be an archaeologist. On the surface they had little in common but for some reason, when Georgie had first arrived in town at the beginning of year nine, they’d just hit it off.
Ever since then, Georgie had kept her from getting too lost in her books. And she’d kept Georgie from failing everything.
It just… worked.
‘Yeah,’ she said, smiling. ‘We’re still studying tonight.’
‘Miss Montclair, could I speak to you for a moment?’
Mr Finlay’s nasal voice came from behind them. Turning, Taylor saw the French teacher hurrying towards her, his wiry grey hair dishevelled as usual, tie utterly askew. He looked distracted.
She made a pained face only Georgie could see.
With a responding sympathetic grimace, Georgie melted into the crowds before she could get roped into one of Mr Finlay’s scattered conversations.
Taylor composed her face before turning back to the French teacher. ‘Yes, Mr Finlay?’
The students were funnelling off into their classrooms now. The hallway was clearing. A few students hurtled by, feet thudding on the linoleum floor, hoping to avoid the late bell.
‘Miss Montclair, I realise you’re busy at the moment with your studies and your other admirable activities…’ In his hand, Mr Finlay clutched a handful of crumpled papers – Taylor got the impression he’d forgotten he was holding them. ‘But a tutoring opportunity has just come up.’
Taylor suppressed an inward sigh. She was already up to her eyebrows in work. And teachers were always giving her more to do. It was like an education conspiracy. But she kept her expression neutral. French was one of her best classes.
‘Is it a new student?’
‘Not exactly.’ The teacher shoved his wire-framed glasses up his nose with the hand holding the papers. This served to remind him that they existed and he shuffled through them. ‘I’ve got it here somewhere. Where is it? Oh yes.’ Holding up a folded sheet of paper, he waved it triumphantly. ‘It’s a French boy.’
Taylor blinked. ‘I’m going to tutor a French boy in how to speak… French?’
‘Of course not.’ He squinted at her. ‘That would be pointless. You’re going to tutor him in English.’ He unfolded the page. ‘Here’s the information. You’ll do it all over the Internet. It’s a modern world.’ From the way he said it, Taylor got the impression he had no idea what the ‘Internet’ was. ‘Now, Miss Montclair.’ His tone changed, becoming more serious. ‘You’ll need to be sensitive. I’m told this boy’s having a rum time of it – something about his father.’ He cleared his throat as if even the merest hint of emotion made him uncomfortable. ‘Anyway, he’s struggling. He needs guidance and help. I’m sure you’ll handle it with aplomb.’
He held out the page.
Taylor didn’t have time to teach English to some messed up French kid. But she also couldn’t bring herself to refuse. She needed good grades in French, and she wanted Finlay on her side.
Reluctantly, she took the crumpled paper from his hand.
‘Get in touch with him tonight, please.’ As he spoke, Mr Finlay resumed his distracted ambulation down the hallway. ‘And if his grades improve, you can take credit for it. Oxford looks very kindly on that sort of initiative…’
All Taylor’s teachers knew she was pinning her hopes on getting into Oxford. Her grandfather was a professor there. Ever since she was a little girl, it had been her dream to study with him.
The bell rang at that moment, drowning out whatever else Finlay had to say. He turned a corner, disappearing into the depths of the school.
As the halls emptied, Taylor stared at the piece of paper.
One word was scrawled at the top: Sacha.
As soon as Taylor walked into her house after school, a grey-and-white terrier launched itself at her. Wagging its tail furiously, the dog rubbed against her legs, its fur curly, warm and soft against her skin.
Dropping her book bag, Taylor stroked its back. ‘Hey, Fizz,’ she crooned. ‘Hey, Fizziwig.’
Wriggling with delight, the dog licked Taylor’s cheek as she scooped her up and carried her towards the light-filled kitchen.
Her mother was still at work. Her younger sister, Emily, was busy with after-school activities. She had the house to herself.
Flipping the locks on the back door, she pulled it open, smiling as Fizz hurtled across the grass like a fluffy bullet.
It was a warm day, so she left the door open as she poured a glass of orange juice and dumped her books on the old, pine kitchen table. The crumpled piece of paper tumbled out last, landing on top of her calculus text book.
Taylor spread it flat, smoothing the wrinkles. Frowning, she read again the words written in Mr Finlay’s uneven handwriting. It was sparse; just the most basic details. But the teacher had said the boy was having a hard time – something about his father…
A wave of empathy took her by surprise. She felt sorry for this unknown French boy. Something bad must have happened.
Fizz returned from the garden and wound around her ankles, panting happily, before curling up in her basket near the radiator.
Taylor flipped open her laptop, drumming her fingers as it churned. Finally, a photo of a lighthouse appeared on the screen.
She opened a new email, and copied the address from the piece of paper. Then she stared at the blank screen for a moment before typing rapidly.
Dear Sacha,
My name is Taylor Montclair. I am a student in England. I’ve been given your name by my French teacher. He says I’m to tutor you in English. We could start on Sunday if that is convenient?
I think we should start by reading a book in English together. Anything you would like. Within reason, of course.
Kind regards,
Taylor Montclair
When she’d finished, she read it over again, tapping a fingertip against her lips. Then, with a shrug, she hit ‘send’.
‘So, Georgie and I are going on this double-date thing on Friday. Is that Ok?’ Taylor spoke loudly to be heard over the sound of stir-fry sizzling.
She and her sister were sitting at the kitchen table. Her mother was at the stove. She was still in her work skirt and blouse, although she’d hung her blazer over the back of a chair and abandoned her heels under the table.
‘How nice,’ her mother said, checking the rice. ‘With Tom and who else?’
‘His friend Paul. From rugby.’ Taylor wrinkled her nose. She found Paul boring, but Georgie was dazzled by his muscles.
‘I want to go on a double date.’ Across the table, Emily sighed, resting her head on one hand.
She was 13, and wanted to do everything Taylor did.
‘You can,’ Taylor said. ‘In three years.’
‘Too long,’ Emily muttered. Her long blonde hair fell over one shoulder. Unlike Taylor’s unruly locks, Emily’s hair was thick and straight; a sheet of gold. The unfairness of this genetic good fortune drove Taylor crazy.
Leaning against the counter, Taylor’s mother took a sip from her glass of white wine. It was warm in the kitchen, and condensation made the wine glass look frosted.
‘Actually, you have my permission to go on a double-date when you’re 15, Emily,’ she announced. ‘So only two years to wait.’
As blonde as her daughters, their mother wore her own hair cut short to her collar, where it curled just a little. ‘And yes, Taylor, that will be fine. How is Tom? He hasn’t been over to study with you lately.’
Taylor gave a careless shrug. ‘Fine, I guess. I’m too busy to study with him right now. He slows me down.’
Her mother gave her an odd look. ‘Is everything OK with you two?’
‘Yeah,’ A touch of defensiveness entered Taylor’s voice. ‘We’ve just got a lot going on. Exams. Life.’
‘Well.’ Her mother began serving food onto three plates. ‘As long as you’re home by twelve, of course you can go.’
Taylor’s phone buzzed. She glanced down to see she had a new email. It was a reply from that French boy, Sacha.
‘No phones at the table, Taylor,’ her mother chided as she set the steaming plate in front of her. The sharp tang of soy sauce filled the air.
But Taylor barely noticed. She was staring at the message.
Yo. Thanks for the email and everything, but I speak perfect English and I don’t really have time for this stuff. Later. S
‘That is so rude,’ Georgie said, frowning. ‘Where are his manners? I thought French guys were, like… suave.’
They were in Taylor’s room, studying. Or, at least, Taylor was studying. Georgie was stretched out on the bed, looking at something on her iPad, while Taylor sat at the desk, writing Georgie’s history essay.
‘I know!’ Taylor was still fuming. ‘What a wanker. I just can’t believe Finlay’s doing this to me.’
She stared down at her laptop, the words blurring. For some reason Sacha’s cold response had really stung. The whole situation was infuriating.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I have no idea. I could tell Finlay but he’ll just blame me for not trying hard enough.’ Taylor blew out a long breath. ‘I guess I’ll write to French boy again and beg him to let me help him study. Because I cannot afford to get in trouble in this stupid class.’ Taylor pressed her fingertips to her temples. ‘God, I hate him. He’s messing up my life.’
‘Uh-uh. Give me your phone.’ Georgie held her hand, glossy nails gleaming magenta.
Taylor glanced up at her suspiciously. ‘Why?’
Georgie crooked her fingers. ‘Come on, Tay. Trust me.’
Hesitantly, Taylor handed her the phone.
‘Excellent.’ With practiced ease, Georgie opened her email and navigated through it. ‘Is this him here?’ She held up the phone so Taylor could see the screen. ‘What’s his name, Sacha?’
Taylor nodded doubtfully. ‘What are you going to do? I don’t think…’
‘I am,’ Georgie said, frowning to herself as she typed, ‘sending him a message.’
‘Oh George…’ Taylor bit her lip. Georgie was much more outspoken than she was. ‘Don’t make it a thing.’
Georgie hit send and then held the phone out to her, her brown eyes defiant. ‘He made it a thing when he wrote you that bitchy message. Nobody talks to my friend like that.’
Fumbling with the keys, Taylor navigated to the message to see what Georgie had written.
Despite everything, the words she saw there made her laugh.
Hi Sacha. That’s cool. If you want to stay stupid, no problem. Laters. T
‘I guess he’ll never want to be tutored by me now.’ Taylor dropped the phone onto the desk.
‘Good.’ Georgie returned to her spot on Taylor’s bed.
Taylor turned back to her computer. It felt good to stand up to the French guy. Or at least to have Georgie stand up on her behalf. But as Taylor tried to focus on the history essay, she wondered how Sacha would handle the stone-cold brush-off. And whether Georgie’s words would find their way back to Finlay.
The day after the jump, the bruises and scrapes on Sacha’s face and hands were the only visible evidence of his flying leap the night before. His wrist ached but the bone had healed already.
He was only in a little pain now. Last night had been a different story.
His bravura act had lasted until Antoine scuttled down the street like a startled rat. As soon as he was out of sight, Sacha had sagged back against the warehouse wall, clutching his broken arm. His breath hissed between his teeth.
It might not kill him, but dying sure hurt like hell.
And if his mother saw the cuts on his face she’d lose it.
With effort, he’d straightened and begun limping down the street towards home. He was halfway there when his phone buzzed.
‘Not now, Antoine,’ he’d muttered, pulling the device from his pocket.
But it wasn’t Antoine. It was an email from that English chick.
As he read it, his face had creased, first in outrage, then in bemused laughter.
The laugh had sent pain shooting through his ribs, which he was pretty sure were broken, too. Clutching his sides, he shoved the phone back in his pocket and limped on.
The English girl had attitude.
That was when he’d decided to let her teach him after all.
Still, he needed a little information first. How did she find him? Who gave her his email address?
He had his suspicions, but there was only one place to get those answers.
Luckily, his mother was working nights this week, and she’d already gone to bed by the time he got up. She wouldn’t see the telltale marks on his face.
In the shower he leaned against the white, tiled wall and let the hot water wash away the last of the dried blood. He ran soap across his skin, his fingertips finding bumps and ridges – each pale scar a reminder of another chance taken. Another death.
There was a long slim scar on his left arm, from the time he crashed a stolen car into a lamp post on purpose for a bet. He’d made 150 euros for that.
A slight scooped scar on his thigh served as reminder of the time he got jumped after a poker game. The guys he’d defeated in that game hadn’t liked losing.
He turned off the water and stood for a moment, dripping. Then he reached for a towel.
Now, he had to do something much worse than just crashing a car.
A short while later, clad in jeans and a faded black T-shirt, he left the flat and headed to school for the first time in weeks.
In the bright morning sunshine the workaday city street bustled. The trees danced in the breeze. Crowds of Parisians hurried around him.
He’d become so nocturnal lately – he’d forgotten how pleasant mornings could be.
He was already late for class, but when he passed a bakery the smell of warm bread made his mouth water.
He had some of Antoine’s money in his pocket, so he bought a croissant and ate as he walked. The buttery pastry melted in his mouth; he devoured it in four bites.
When he reached the school a few minutes later, the tall brick building swarmed with students hurrying to class. Sacha didn’t rush. He strolled through the crowd, sunglasses on. An island of cool in a frantic teenage stream.
He looked neither right nor left – there was no one here he knew well anymore. He had no friends. What was the point in friends if you weren’t going to be here to hang out with them?
Even their conversations seemed so childish to him now.
‘Did you see Justine last night? That dress?’
‘If you don’t do your essay, Lanton will kill you…’
‘You have to come! Everyone’s going to be there.’
It was laughable, really. The things they worried about.
His presence didn’t go unnoticed. The sunglasses, and the bruises on his face, made him stand out. He could feel people staring; hear the whispers as he passed.
But no one stopped to ask what happened.
Sacha’s teachers were so surprised to see him they didn’t bother t. . .
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