Read Five Miles From Outer Hope for Free Online

all about the new man,’ I whisper. ‘The interloper .’
    She shrugs. She’s not having any of it.
    ‘Jack says when he arrived this morning Big was spitting fucking tacks . I quote directly.’
    Patch wriggles her toes. ‘I don’t know about that,’ she says, then pauses, ‘but I do know…’ (The child wants my tall teen approval so desperately ) ‘… that he’s bedding down way up on the top floor. And when Big showed him a room, he double-checked the cupboard space, but insisted there wasn’t sufficient reach , so strode next door and claimed the neighbouring suite instead. The big one at the end with the hole in the roof.’
    I’m impressed. ‘The man is saucy.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Has he much baggage?’
    ‘Psychologically, perhaps – I mean he’s a white South African – but literally , none. A tiny suitcase and a very small guitar.’
    (This chubby pup is facetious beyond belief.) ‘Was he wearing the balaclava?’
    ‘Initially.’
    ‘Any reason given as to why?’
    ‘None.’
    I mull a while. ‘And did he mention his name?’
    Patch shrugs, ‘I didn’t catch it. Something stupid. French-sounding. Double-barrelled.’
    ‘How curious.’
    ‘Yup.’
    ‘You have served me well,’ I wave my arm regally, ‘and now you may go to find and comfort Feely.’
    Patch wipes her nose on the hem of her kaftan (it’s hayfever season), pulls herself to her feet, then trundles away. She pauses, though, for an instant, in the doorway.
    ‘He stole the book Mo sent us,’ she informs me, ‘and I want it back. Will you ask him?’
    Too obvious, you’re thinking? Obvious? Me?
    Forty-five seconds, thirty stairs, two landings, one long, leaky hallway later, I lift my fist and rap on his door. The paint is peeling. It’s aquamarine. Through the cracks filter the mysterious sounds of scratching and heaving. Some heavy breathing. Metallic jangling.
    I knock again. After two whole seconds the door is wrenched open and The Balaclavaed One beholds me. He is panting like a Dobermann trapped in a summer car.
    ‘Now what?’
    (How welcoming .)
    ‘I heard you scratching.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘Like some old hen .’
    He pauses for a moment, as if deep in thought, then rips his balaclava off. ‘I love the way,’ he announces passionately (his eyebrows all skewwhiff, his hair on end with static electricity), ‘I love the way you think hens have wings for arms, but when you watch them – I mean, properly – they actually have arms for legs.’
    My face remains blank.
    ‘I love that,’ he sighs, ‘ dearly .’
    He rubs his two hands on his face, repeatedly, like he’s scrubbing at it, and makes a gurgling noise through his mouth meanwhile, like he’s standing under a waterfall. After a shortish duration he stops what he’s doing and stares at me.
    ‘Do you have to quack to get through doors?’
    I weigh him up. Ten stone. Approximately five foot nine.
    ‘Sorry,’ he chuckles, ‘I meant to say duck .’
    ‘Apparently you have a double-barrelled name,’ I titter. ‘Something silly. French-sounding.’
    ‘Confirmed, lady.’
    He straightens majestically. ‘They call me La Roux.’
    ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Nineteen years.’
    ‘I’m sixteen. And don’t call me lady. Everyone thinks you’re a freak already. That kind of formality won’t improve matters.’
    ‘Who’s everyone ? You and your little fat sister?’
    ‘And my brother, Feely.’
    ‘The four year old?’
    (Already I’m regretting this tack but still I say yes , defiantly.) He ponders this for a minute. ‘Hmmmn. Feely too, you say?’
    I nod.
    ‘Now you’ve got me scared literally shitless .’
    He gurns preposterously. ‘And the man who brought you over. Black Jack. He agrees.’
    ‘A retard.’
    ‘La Roux,’ I murmur spikily, ‘the cream .’
    ‘No,’ he primps, ‘the mixture .’
    I give this translation a moment’s thought, then sniff.
    ‘Can I come in?’
    He steps back. ‘Go ahead.’
    ‘Presumably’ – I bend my