One Perfect Summer

go today. Tell your parents what happened. Tell them to take you away.’
    ‘No! I won’t!’
    ‘Then I will.’ He tears away from the kerb.
    ‘Joe, stop it!’ I scream at him.
    He screeches around the corner onto the dirt track leading to the cottage.
    ‘Slow down!’ I yell. But he doesn’t. He slams on the brakes outside the cottage and my head jerks forward painfully. He’s out of the car before I can even register.
    ‘No!’ I cry. I don’t want him to tell my parents. He’ll get his wish. They’ll take me away. They’ll take me as far away from his family – from him – as possible.
    I run after him, but he’s already banging on the door.
    ‘Please!’ I beg.
    He pushes open the door and storms inside.
    ‘What? What is it?’
    I arrive just in time to see my mum asking these questions as she comes into the kitchen.
    ‘Where’s Alice?’ my dad asks from behind her.
    ‘I’m here!’ I shout back. ‘Joe, STOP!’
    ‘You have to take her away!’ he urges my parents. ‘Get her as far away from here as possible!’
    ‘Why?’ my dad demands to know.
    ‘It’s my brother. He hurt her.’ My mum gasps. ‘Not . . . seriously . But he’ll hurt her worse next time.’ Joe meets my eyes, and his face is full of pain and regret. ‘He’s a serial rapist.’
    My jaw hits the floor. He told me his brother was a bank robber.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers to me.
    ‘I’m calling the police!’ my dad erupts.
    ‘PLEASE!’ Joe shouts. ‘Please,’ he begs. ‘Please, just leave . Just get away from here. As far away from here as possible. He’ll find you. He’ll find Alice. He won’t forget. If you call the police he’ll never forget even if he’s locked up again for years. PLEASE!’ he begs again.
    My dad hesitates, then turns to my mum. ‘Marie, get your things,’ he tells her firmly, then to me: ‘Go and pack.’
    ‘No . . .’
    ‘ALICE!’ he shouts. ‘Go and pack!’
    ‘Go,’ Joe urges me, nodding at the stairs. ‘Go.’
    ‘Come upstairs with me.’
    ‘I’ll wait here,’ he tells me.
    I glance at my dad, who I know was about to object to my request. He gives Joe a hard stare, then turns his eyes on me. ‘Be quick,’ he says. I notice his bag is already packed and by the door. He was about to leave for London himself.
    ‘Wait!’ The thought suddenly enters my head and hope fills every part of me. ‘We’re going to London tonight. You can come with us.’
    ‘Just go and pack,’ Joe says gruffly.
    ‘But you can! Can’t he, Dad? We can give him a lift?’
    My dad doesn’t reply.
    ‘DAD!’ I shout.
    ‘Go and pack!’ he snaps at me.
    I glance at Joe. ‘I’ll wait here,’ he tells me.
    I regard him warily.
    ‘Go,’ he urges once more.
    I take a couple of steps towards the stairs, then turn back to look at him. He smiles a small smile. His eyes are sad: shining, not sparkling.
    He’s gone by the time I return downstairs.



 
    I’m sitting in my room in Nightingale Hall, staring out of the window. I can see treetops, church spires and the roof of the Fitzwilliam Museum from here. I sit here a lot, just staring. I go to most lectures – the ones I can face – and I do enough work to get by. The rest of the time you’ll find me here. Staring. Wondering. Wishing. And trying to read the many, many, many books I need to get through in order to acquire my English Lit degree.
    When I first came here some well-meaning students tried to coax me out of my room and down to the pub. They asked, often at first, for me to join them on nights out. They thought I had a shell that could be broken. They didn’t realise that I was the broken one; my shell had nothing to do with it.
    Now they leave me alone. The girl who keeps to herself. The shy girl.
    To give them credit, they tried. But how could they know? I wasn’t shy. I was heartbroken. I’m still heartbroken. It’s a permanent state of being.
    I hate it when my parents come to visit, which, thankfully, isn’t often. I have to pretend that I’m fine, otherwise they’ll worry. It’s the same when they ring me. I’ve stopped charging my mobile phone now. It’s in a drawer in my bedroom, the battery permanently flat. I can’t bear putting up the pretence on a regular basis.
    At least no one knows me here. No one knows what I used to be like. Before Joe. Before love. Before loss.
    At first, my room was my refuge. But as time has gone on it’s felt like my prison. It’s been a bitterly cold winter, but