No Place Like Home by Jane Renshaw (the best electronic book reader .TXT) 📗

‘He’s got it coming.’ She’d heard David say that yesterday, presumably.

Max got himself a huge bowl of cornflakes, which he inhaled in two minutes flat, then disappeared off upstairs again, to return a minute later wearing his new trainers. ‘I’m going over to Finn and Cara’s – is that okay?’

‘If Mr and Mrs Taylor don’t mind, that’s fine,’ said Bram.

‘No, Max!’ Phoebe looked up at her brother with beseeching eyes. ‘I don’t think you should go out there.’

‘You heard what the cops said,’ Max attempted to reassure her. ‘It’s just kids messing about. It’s not like we’re going to be jumped by him’ – he pointed at Phoebe’s drawing – ‘every time we set foot outside the house.’

‘Now look, Phoebe.’ Bram took a seat next to her. ‘You know this boogie man doesn’t actually exist, don’t you? You heard what Scott said. What Mr and Mrs Taylor said. It’s just a load of teenagers. They’re not even bad people, probably, just thoughtless and silly.’

‘Exactly,’ said Kirsty. ‘Most teenagers aren’t as sensible as your brother. They often do silly things. It’s nothing to get all worried and upset about, darling – it really isn’t.’ Was she trying to reassure Phoebe, or herself?

It hadn’t quite been Lord of the Flies, but living in halls of residence had certainly been very different from being at home. Was it really a good idea, Bram wondered, to put a load of immature teenagers together in a building with hardly any adult supervision and let them get on with it? In those first few days, he really missed the cosy comfort of the little mews house, and the peace and quiet, and his parents’ reassuring presence. Not to mention Ma’s cooking.

The little kitchen in the common room shared by the eight students on Bram’s corridor was basic, to say the least: just a Formica table, six black, moulded plastic chairs, a sink and draining board, and a small area of worktop on which sat a microwave oven. A fridge in the corner. A cupboard with chipped plates and mugs. A stinky bin no one ever emptied. And that was it.

But they generally ended up there at the end of a night out, often with takeaways. On this particular night, Steph was more wasted than usual. She aimed the tomato ketchup at her chips, missed the plate and sent an arc of it whipping over the chair on which Bram was about to sit down.

‘It looks like the Weird Girl’s been in here,’ said Gary, ‘doing a spot of ritual killing.’

The others found this hilarious. Steph crumpled onto the floor, eyes rolled back in her head.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ muttered Bram, wiping the chair with a cloth.

‘Weird loners do often end up going on a killing spree,’ Steph pointed out, flopping over to look up at him. ‘You see it all the time in the media.’

Bram sighed, and chucked the cloth in the direction of the sink. ‘Kirsty McKechnie’s the last person on this corridor I could imagine hurting anyone.’

‘No, but you must admit she’s creepy.’ Liv shuddered, tucking into her own chips as Steph hauled herself back onto a chair. ‘The way she looks at you! It’s like her soul has died.’

‘It’s like she’s just the husk of what used to be Kirsty McKechnie,’ Gary agreed. ‘Taken over by an alien life force.’

There was a movement at the door, and Bram looked up, and met Kirsty McKechnie’s clear green gaze. She had a mug in one hand and a plate in the other.

Awful, awful silence.

‘Hi,’ said Bram.

‘Hi.’ Kirsty walked past them to the sink, where she used washing-up liquid and the brush to clean the mug and plate, wiped them with the tea towel, and put the plate away in the cupboard. Clutching the mug, which Bram saw had a picture of an owl on it, she walked back past them, head held high, and out into the corridor.

‘Oh-oh!’ giggled Steph. ‘Oh-oh, Gary! Guess who’s just gone to the top of the list of potential victims!’

Bram stood. ‘That’s not cool. That’s so not cool. How do you think she must have felt, hearing you saying all that crap? It’s bullying, guys. That’s what it is. You need to back off and leave her alone.’ It was on the tip of his tongue to tell them what he had heard, through the thin wall separating his room from Kirsty’s.

Crying.

Almost every night.

But knowing them, they were likely to find a way to use it against her. Gary and Steph exchanged mock-chastened looks, then burst out laughing again.

Bram raised his voice over them. ‘Or better still, try to be her friends?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ cackled Steph. ‘Let’s all make friends with the poor little serial killer!’

That night, when Bram was woken by sobbing coming from Kirsty’s room, he didn’t just grimace in sympathy and turn over and go back to sleep. He padded out to the corridor in his bare feet and knocked on the door, standing shivering in the eery dim light of the night-time corridor.

‘Kirsty?’

The noise stopped.

‘It’s Bram from next door. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ came a small, choked voice. ‘Thanks.’

‘Are you sure?’ He put the palm of his hand flat against her door, as if he could somehow transmit comfort through it.

‘Yes. But thanks.’

As he returned to his room and jumped back into bed, he made a decision. Kirsty was obviously horribly homesick, so far away from everyone and everything she knew in Scotland. This must all be so strange and frightening for her, on her own for probably the first time in her life, and instead of her fellow students rallying round and supporting her, they were calling her names and laughing at her distress and joking about her being a potential serial killer.

Oh my God. When he thought about it, he’d pretty much been complicit in that.

He needed to help her.

He needed to help Kirsty.

Phoebe stopped dead in her tracks. ‘What was that?’

Bram stopped too. ‘I can’t hear anything, Phoebe. Apart from a bird.’

They had