"You're going to make me do bad things to you, sweetheart." | Frank Rider is the new teacher. His favourite word is 'detention'. He's iniquitous, rude and vicious. To get on his bad side would be suicide. Unfortunately for Cleo, she's already dived...
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CHAPTER LVII
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS EARLIER:
There was a bone-deep chilliness in the foggy sunrise, with threatening clouds hanging low in the overcast sky. Five AM turned to seven AM in what seemed to be the blink of an eye and an inattentive consciousness. The sky was remodelled; skies were dyed a darker plum purple and rich blue, light rain skittered down window panes and bounced off the ground, and the fog cleared up somewhat to reveal a sodden town with wet streets and blurred figures in coats and umbrellas.
Sleep had evaded me like a red-handed thief from the law, and I was sat on the carpeted floor of my bedroom with the closet door ajar slightly and a hand resting on the marble black urn containing my father's ashes. Unable to bear witness to noxious thoughts, I sucked on the end of a joint and found my mood elevating slightly, a wanderer, like the fog rising. Though colours were brighter and my imagination conjured up a TV set on showing an alternative reality, I couldn't entirely escape from reality's harsh grip. Fantasies were streaky in colours and poor in quality, and then the screen changed to grey static and weed became an inadequate getaway driver. A heavy sigh escaped me.
The door handle turned. My door was pushed open. A young man with gleaming granite-grey eyes, a helmet of black curls and a tentative grimace stood there in cotton-blue pyjamas, holding a tray of breakfast food. "I came to apologise for what I said to you the other night," Eton took a careful step forward, gaze flickering to the urn and then back to my face. "I hate the silent treatment, Cal. Can we go back to being friends?"
I viewed him in a dispassionate manner and then looked down, holding a finger over the naked flame of my lighter. "You wrapped your hand around my throat and slammed me against the wall," I said as if I spoke of the Calculus homework, I met his gaze. A nerve ticked in my jaw. "Threaten me once more, Eton and our relationship will be buried in the same grave you'll rot in. And if you hurt Winnie, you can spent the rest of your miserable life behind bars. Adults don't get second chances. Realise that. Be reckless and say hasta la vista to your freedom."
"I promise you'll never hear another outburst from me again and I am sorry, Calla. I regret hurting you." His words were made up of lies and sincerity stemmed from bad will. He set the tray down on the floor beside me and sat cross legged opposite me. He glanced around the room, pretending to be in thought for a conversation starter and then saying with all the casualness of picking lint from his sweatshirt. "I really like Winnie, Calla. I know you're jealous of my relationship with her–"
I picked up the knife from the jam jar and slung it at him with sudden speed. It narrowly missed his temple, lodging into the plaster. In disbelief, Eton jerked to the right, staring at the knife in horror. And then meanness crept across his expression and he tugged out the knife, ran his tongue over the jam and held the tip between his teeth, mouth curling upwards slightly. He mocked, tone soft. "I understand you're envious but being violent won't turn my admiring gaze towards you. You're my sister, I love you like a sister. Don't make this weird. This isn't a book written on the Internet, incest is a line I won't cross not unless my skin turns pale and my cóck turns pink. Sorry to crush your dreams, sis."
