Extract from The Virus of Beauty by C B Lyall
Chapter One – Gilvary Store, Hong Kong
Wilf waited in bed until he could no longer hear his father’s footsteps on the stairs of their Hong Kong apartment. If he was lucky, he could sneak out and avoid another confrontation.
The shooting star tattoo on the back of his right hand pulsed. He scrunched his eyes. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead and trickled down his face. The pain became impossible to ignore, and he cracked open his eyes.
A long, trembling sigh escaped him. For the second time this week, his bedroom had transformed overnight from orderly to resembling the aftermath of a major typhoon’s direct hit.
He shivered from the sweat cooling on his body and the cold room. Grabbing a towel, he headed for the shower.
It had to be Myra messing his room during the night. Wilf tried to think of what he might have done recently to upset his stepsister, but nothing came to mind.
He stepped out of the shower, dried, and wrapped a towel around his waist.
Whatever it was, he’d better find out soon and apologize.
“You’re late,” Myra said, as he emerged from the steam-filled bathroom. “I know.” He took a deep breath. “Myra.”
She disappeared down the stairs, towards the kitchen.
Wilf padded along the landing, turned into his room, and stopped. A knot tightened in his stomach. She’d done it again: His room had magically been tidied. She had even laid out his clothes on the bed. He threw them on the floor. This was control on an unhealthy level.
She had no right to enter his room, let alone clear it up. If he wanted his room to resemble a catastrophe, why should she interfere?
He picked up the white shirt and dark gray pants off the floor. He hated the South Island School’s uniform. Next year, he’d be free to wear whatever he wanted, the privilege of being an upperclassman.
He shoved textbooks, binders, and his soccer kit into a backpack. Collecting his wallet from the nightstand, he checked inside for his Octopus card. Shit. It wasn’t there.
He picked up yesterday’s cargo shorts and checked all the pockets. It wasn’t possible he’d lost it so soon. His father would explode.
He tore the room apart looking for the card. Bedding lay heaped on the rug, and schoolbooks covered the mattress where he’d shaken each one. Gnawing the skin around his fingernails, he glanced towards the bedroom door.
He needed that card. Coach would check that he had it. If he didn’t, he’d have to clear up after soccer practice and then he’d be late for school, which would put him in detention. Not to mention that the stupid thing was the only way to register attendance and pay for lunch and the bus home.
He let the front door bang shut and cursed. Standing on the street in front of the store’s entrance, he swallowed, trying to ease his dry throat.
There was only one place left to look: under the counter, and his father would already be at work in the basement workshop. It was either risk his father going ballistic or have the rest of his day ruined. With any luck, his father would be busy on a call or in the middle of some experimental magic.
Since then she has lived in India, Belgium, Hong Kong and the United States.
No comments:
Post a Comment