Untitled, Chapter 1

Cloud leaned against the vanity as another wave of dizziness crashed over her. She concentrated on breathing and waited for the wave to recede. It sucked at her, blackened the edges of her vision, but she pressed her knees against the vanity's doors and held her balance and the pressure subsided. The music from her bedroom pushed back in, harsh and insistent; the mocking voice of an empty house. She clenched her eyes. Hot tears rushed down her cheeks. Another wave battered her.

She does it with sheep.
Welsh witch.
Stupid name. I hate clouds, always grey and cold and wet.
You should go back where you came from, rain cloud. We don't want you here.

Cloud blinked against the salt sting of her distress. The basin with its muddy water swam into focus. Her left hand clenched the rim, both smeared with mud and scraps of grass. Her right hand held the razor.

I'm going to have you after school, witch bitch. I'm going to smack that sheep's arse face of yours and there's going to be no teachers to hide behind this time.
Yeah, you shouldn't have ratted on us, you yellow Welsh bitch.
Think you're better than us, don't you, Miss snooty uppity scrawny rain cloud.
Brown nose.
If it's not a sheep's arse she's got it stuck up Mr Anderson's.
No one wants you here, rainy. Get lost.

The mirror showed her puffed eyes, red framed, with large, bruise-coloured bags under them. Her cheeks were grazed and mud-tracked, her hair a wet mass of knots and tangles. Her shirt was wet and spattered with mud and blood. The top two buttons were missing. The cuffs were a mess too. Another school shirt she would have to throw out. Cloud undid the buttons and let the shirt fall to the floor. She frowned at the unnecessary bra and leaned forward again. Her reflection stared back unseeing as she concentrated on not throwing up.

The bell rings. There is anticipation in every eye, some cold and contemptuous, some guilty and relieved. She packs her bag slowly. Fear clenches her gut.
The hallway is crowded, loud and confused. A palm punches her back, slams her against an older boy who swears and shoves her back roughly. A foot kicks her heel against her shin and she sprawls across the floor to shouts of annoyance and braying laughter.

The razor was blood warm. Cloud couldn't feel it but she knew it was there, caught between her finger and thumb. Its promised relief had become a ritual.

There was a single white scar inside her left arm below the elbow. She had done it one Friday evening after a particularly bad week at school. Her dad should have been home that night but he had been unavailable to take calls. Owen and Nicola had been offline and even her Gran had left her phone unanswered. The curious sensation of fading, of not quite being in the physical world, had been strong that night.

It was there now, faint but unsettling, one instrument out of tune in an orchestra. Then, the world had seemed abstract and uncertain; the pressure and the silence had become intolerable. This was different. The pain was already concrete. It needed a concrete response but her dad wasn't home to see. Owen, Nicola and Gran were in Wales, hundreds of miles and a previous life away.

There was no one here. No one here.

Every afternoon she faced herself in the mirror and tried to make sense of her life and the desire to draw a line in her own arm, just to see if she still knew how to feel. Every afternoon, except for that first time, she put the blade back in the cupboard unused and wondered whether she was strong or weak, whether her decision was courage or cowardice.

Cloud let the blade fall. It was different today. Today the numbness had already been replaced by pain.

Her phone buzzed once. She picked it up. She had managed to wash most of the mud off. The surface was scratched and blurred but at least it still worked. The message was anonymous. A video. They had recorded what they had done to her.

November cold, winter dark. Hard rain lashes her coat. She leans into it and watches her knees appear, shoes appear, left, right, left, right. Her skirt brushes her coat, left, right, left, right, soaking up the water running from creases in her jacket. Her stockings are sodden and uncomfortable, her feet squelch in her shoes as they jar the pavement, left, right, left, right.
Splashing steps; pounding feet, suddenly, behind her.
A weight on her back. Hands push at her head, force her to double over.
Angry, rushed breaths.
Pain erupts below her ribs. Her eyes catch a blur and light cracks across her face. The world reels. Grass and mud rise to meet her. The earth punches her shoulder. She cries out, to ugly laughter.

'You've just made a mistake,' Cloud murmured when the video ended. Her smile was predatory. 'I'm not going to let you make me a victim.' She bent carefully, winced as she retrieved her shirt and put it back on. The dizziness was receding. It was like taking a step back from a chasm, from a drop into vertigo-inspiring emptiness. She took a long breath, held it, then released it slowly, consciously lowering her shoulders.

The clean-up could wait. She had a message to record.

TehNicst3r: hey sis, u there?
SilverLining: think so?!
TehNicst3r: lols girl
TehNicst3r: wots up?
SilverLining: u on yr own?
TehNicst3r: yeah in my rm
SilverLining: skype?
TehNicst3r: kk

Nicola's face appeared on Cloud's screen. She was looking over her shoulder and her voice when it came was distant.

'I can't chat long, I'm supposed to be doing my homework so I'd-- Shit, Cloud, what the hell happened to you? Are you okay?'

Cloud smiled ruefully at Nicola's concern. 'It looks worse than it is. I'll feel better after a shower.'

'But what happened? Was it that bitch and her goth sidekick?'

'Yeah, and a couple of their friends. They jumped me on the way home from school.'

'That's awful. You can't stay there and let them keep attacking you.' Nicola looked distressed and the tightness of longing clutched at Cloud's chest; a feeling she had named homesickness. She wanted to be sitting in Nicola's room chatting and attempting her own homework. A place she could belong. 'You've got to do something about it. I wish you could come back here.'

'Yeah, so do I. But they dropped themselves in it this time. Here.' She tabbed back to the browser, copied the YouTube link and sent it to Nicola. 'One of their little groupies took a video on her phone. I think they sent it around. They sent it to me as well.' She shook her head. 'I don't know if they meant to. They probably think I'd be too scared to show anyone and risk getting bashed again. Wrongo.'

Nicola's image shuddered, paused and pixelated. She was downloading the video and her connection wasn't fast enough. Her next words came in pieces and Cloud had to ask her to repeat herself.

'I don't think I really want to see a video of you getting beaten up. It's wrong.'

'I added some stuff,' Cloud explained. 'I'm going to see if I can figure out how to post it on the school's front page. If not, I'll send the link to some of my teachers and the headmaster. I'm going to tell them they suck and I'm not coming back.'

Nicola grimaced theatrically. 'Your Dad'll go mental.' Cloud heard the affection in her voice and grinned, which hurt her cheek but felt good.

'I know. But he'll get it right back and then I'll cry. It's not as if he's been around to help.' Cloud's voice cracked and she rushed on. 'If I can't go back to Wales at least I won't go back to that school.'

'They'll want you to go back, otherwise they'll say you're letting the bullies win.'

'No, they'll want me to go back to make them look good, not because they care about me.' The truth of this statement hit Cloud as she said it. Another fist in the gut. Her throat warmed with imminent tears. She swallowed and struggled to pull air through the thickening swell. She would not show Nic how fragile she really was, not when she was so far away.

'Wish I'd been there.' Nicola shook her head. 'No way this would've happened.'

The image froze again then showed Nicola looking off screen. She turned back and there were two furrows between her brows, a look of irritation Cloud knew well.

'Sorry. Have to go. I'll watch the clip and message you, probably after dinner.' Nicola's image winked out before Cloud could respond. She stared at the screen for a moment, then  sighed and closed the window.

'Where's Dad?' she asked the silence. 'He should've been here by now.' She stood up and winced as her body protested. She'd been sitting down for too long and everywhere felt stiff and sore. It would have helped if her father could see her like this, bruised and muddy. But she couldn't wait any longer. She desperately wanted to get out of her uniform and never have to put it on again. She wanted a hot shower and a hot bath, and then...

And then she wanted to curl up in someone's loving arms and, just for a while, just for an evening, know what it was to be cared for. To be loved. To be contented. To be...

No. She couldn't afford to go there. That would be to wallow in self pity. She knew the taste; a bittersweet moodiness, dangerously more-ish. It drained you of vitality, of the desire to do things. And that could lead to a silence so profound it entombed you, made you question your existence, made you want to cut your way back to a world of sound. Touch. Feeling.

So her Dad was always working and she still didn't have a boyfriend. So the girls in her class treated her like dog shit on a shoe and the boys...

Stop it. The boys were stupid, immature morons for the most part anyway. And there was Owen. Back in Wales, of course, like everyone else who really cared for her. And...

Cloud startled. She was still standing, leaning against her desk. Tears were leaking from eyes  that had been open and unseeing. She squeezed them shut and breathed in deeply. It was definitely time for that shower.

She undressed slowly, taking time to probe tender areas cautiously and massage stiff limbs. The heat of the water soothed her and she stood beneath it for a long time, letting her thoughts drift back to Owen. Not sensible, no doubt, but really, where was the harm?   

Quiet, tender, thoughtful Owen. How many times had she sat on his lap to watch tv, or hugged him hello and goodbye? It was different then, of course. She'd been twelve when she had to move away. He would have been, what? Eighteen? Nineteen?

What would it be like to hug him now? To -- the thought was out before she could stop it -- kiss him? Something deep within her shivered as she let herself imagine his lips on hers. She savoured the sensation, letting reality recede for just a moment, then grimaced and shook her head at herself, derisive. Of course Owen cared for her. Loved her even, in a way. But not like that. It was foolish even to daydream.

It was Thursday night and she had yet to eat. And there was homework, though she didn't feel like being conscientious. And there was the need to talk to her Dad because she wasn't going to school tomorrow, not for anything, even if she had to loiter in the laneway by the garages down the street until he'd gone to work. If she managed to get that video up on the school site, or sent it to Mr Faraday, the headmaster, and Mrs Geddis, the Head of Year, there was no way she'd be going back to that school at all. Not ever.

Telling teachers made everything ten times worse. She'd learnt that the hard way. It had seemed sensible enough at the time and she'd known she was doing the right thing. She was even fairly certain it would have worked at her old school, not that she'd ever really been harassed there.

She hadn't brought in a change of clothes. Cloud frowned. She opened the door, stuck her head out and listened. The silence was all too familiar. Dad still wasn't home. Again. She slipped back into her bedroom. Her skin tingled in the cool air and she dressed quickly then shuffled the detritus on her chest of drawers in search of her hairbrush. She pulled the brush through her hair and checked her laptop. Nic was away, probably eating dinner.

Her phone beeped. Another message had come through while she was in the shower.

Sorry hon test moved fwd
Cam and bigwigs in tonite
will give you personal tour
l8r. Dont wait up Sorry

Cloud suppressed the urge to hurl her phone at the wall - that would hurt her more than it would him. She screamed instead, in rage and utter frustration. In all the afternoon drama she'd forgotten that tomorrow she was to have attended an invitation-only demonstration of a cutting edge Full Spectrum Virtual Reality system for which her father was lead designer. Much of the technology was new and closely guarded. Even the distantly interested disdain through which she was learning to view the world had not managed to insulate her from the excitement the invitation had generated. That part of her that had begun to float to one side and provide an acerbic running commentary had informed her smugly that she was being childish. For once she hadn't cared. Her Dad worked in a technological fortress, heavily defended against industrial espionage, or so Bruno, the very visible human security boss had once told her. Apparently, the place was also extensively insulated against political espionage as well, whatever that meant.

Her Dad's work consumed him. Some part of it, anyway. She knew that much, though not the what and why of it, which was frustrating but not surprising. Her dad mostly didn't have a history beyond her own memories and he seldom held up his past to her scrutiny.  She valued the rare opportunities to enter his world when they were offered.

So to be denied, and by text! Her dad's distraction often made his responses cold and aloof, but this! This was so... impersonal. Insensitive. Indefensible.

Put enough pressure on them and even tears could solidify. Hard little gems, sharp, iridescent, definite.

She wasn't the reckless type. She didn't do things on impulse. She didn't run away either.

This wasn't running away. This was going home.

The thought had seeded when she picked herself up and gathered her scattered things, her movements slow, her body clenched around its pain. It had grown in darkness as she limped home through sleeting rain. Deeply buried, lest it disrupt her fragile equilibrium, it nevertheless spread its roots and, unacknowledged, strengthened its hold.

The rushing white noise of tyres on wet road and the bass grumble of slow moving cars had accompanied her, a sussuration that soothed the jumbled numbness of her thoughts.

She didn't recognise the longing that suffused her when she entered the empty house. The silence shrouded her. She had limped upstairs like a jerky automaton and soon after found herself in the bathroom with a razor blade between her fingers and nausea swimming behind her eyes.

The video message had been unexpected. It had given her evidence and, with it, options. Sending it to the school authorities would force them to acknowledge what they had so far tried to ignore. Sending it with her own angry message was the first fruit of the thought she had still not consciously acknowledged.

Then her Dad's text had arrived, and the need to go home had surfaced full grown, in full flower, the fruit bittersweet. She would go, now, tonight, and she would burn at least one bridge as she did so. The school would feel the heat. And her father could come after her, if he could be bothered. They had lived with her Gran for years. Let him try and take her back.

Let him just try.

Cloud realised she was shaking. She could feel the warm stain of tears down her cheeks again. Her heart was pumping heavily and there was an acidic roiling in her stomach. She had made her choice. It was time to let go of the hot need to lash out and embrace the decision. Still, she knew herself well enough to know that a colder assessment would lead to doubt and uncertainty, and if she started second guessing herself she would never go through with it. And if she didn't go she really would become a victim, unable to act to change her situation, having to wait for others to act in her behalf. Which they would only do if it suited their own needs.

She had never made the journey on her own. Always before she had been a passenger in a car. It was quite possible that she wouldn't be able to leave now, that she would be forced to wait until morning. She would sleep, she wouldn't be able to help herself, her rage would burn itself out in the early hours and she would wake to find her Dad at home and herself distressed and disempowered.

There. She was already doing it, conjuring obstacles before they were there before her. Cloud squeezed her eyes shut and drew a long, shuddering breath. She breathed it out, sat down, flicked her laptop to wakefulness and searched for coaches that would leave from the terminus in town. None were direct, but one would take her to a larger terminus where she could transfer to a coach that would take her most of the rest of the way.

So. It wasn't so hard. No problem. Literally. She could book both seats online using her debit card. The first coach left in just under an hour, which gave her little time to worry about her decision. She made the payment, plugged in her printer and printed out the tickets and itinerary.

Then she opened the school website and checked the Headmaster's email address. The clock made her decision easier. She checked the video on her YouTube account, then opened an email and pasted in the link. She kept her text short and pointed, copied in Mrs Geddis and several other teachers, paused, and then, her heart fluttering with an anxiety she resolutely ignored, she hit the send button.

The email disappeared and with it went any chance of backing away. Her nerves disappeared. There was a curious freedom in action, in making a statement, and she felt lighter than she had in months. She was returning to Wales. Going home.

Nic was still away. She sent a note to tell her she would see her on the weekend, grinning at the thought of Nic's expression when she read it, then she shut down her computer and thought about packing. Time was against her. A bus to the town centre would leave from the bus stop at the bottom of the street in twenty minutes. She found her rucksack and threw clothes into it, stuffed her laptop in and padded it with underwear, rushed into the bathroom to collect her toothbrush, then turned hesitant circles in the middle of her room, wondering what she had forgotten.

Her mp3 player. She'd left it on charge that morning which meant it was safe. She couldn't imagine being without music.

No more time. She didn't want to miss the bus. She picked up her phone and purse, thumped down the stairs and shrugged into her winter fleece. Outside, sodium streetlights painted the pavement orange and lit the sleeting rain in a diffuse halo beneath them. Cloud put her head down and trudged towards the bus stop. Each step lightened her spirit. The cold, dark, wet evening had no effect on her suddenly exuberant mood. She could smell freshness in the rain, a rising scent of earth and dormant vibrancy in the gardens she passed. The streetlights glinted in puddles and sparked off gravel in the tarmac on the road, which otherwise seemed to be rushing past her like a deep river fast in flood. The image seemed apt. On a whim, she stepped into the road and let it carry her, afloat on certainty.

The coach was nearly empty, warm and surprisingly quiet. Cloud sat at the front so she could watch the road flow through her. Raindrops shattered on the windscreen, pointillist dabs of light beyond the arc of the wipers, constantly shifting, glistening in the beam of oncoming headlights. Ahead, a sliproad for the M4 loomed. The coach slowed and turned into it. The road darkened as it dropped away from the lights of the junction and Cloud felt the coach shiver as it picked up speed, the bass thrum of its engine reaching her through the seat.

She relaxed into the rush of vibrant sound from her headphones but her mind was too crowded with thoughts and fears for the music to have more than a surface calming effect. Her body still ached in numerous places from the beating. Her cheek was swollen and discoloured now, enough for the reservations lady at the counter to ask her if she was alright. That had been a nervous moment. She had had no idea whether she was old enough to travel on her own and she had received enough comments to know that adults often misjudged her age because of her slight figure. There had been no questions and it had been a relief when the coach driver had gruffly checked her destination and stowed her backpack with barely a glance at her.

Quite what her Gran would say when she appeared, she didn't know. Gran could be acerbic and took great delight in embarrassing her in front of Owen or Nic, but she often took her side against Dad and she was always solicitous when she was in distress. As to what her Dad would say... .

Cloud stiffened. She had been ignoring the nagging suspicion that she had forgotten something. After all, she had left quickly. She was bound to have forgotten an item she would need and had not doubted it would pop into her head either on the journey or at her Gran's. But it wasn't a thing after all.

She hadn't left a message for Dad.

He would come home late and if she wasn't up he would potter around downstairs for a while and then get himself ready for bed. He would tap on her door and if she didn't answer he would look in on her briefly. She knew he would because she had lain in bed, unable to sleep but unwilling to acknowledge his gentle knock, many times before - he was often late home - and he always checked on her, presumably to make sure she was actually there.

Her phone was in her pocket, but a text was too short and she wasn't about to call. He would not be impressed with an interruption anyway. No, she would have to wait until she could send an email. And if she did it from Wales at least he would know she was safe.

Her Dad was a living oxymoron. Utterly ignorant of her changing needs he still managed somehow to care for her. Engrossed in the passion of his work he was seldom fully roused from it. He sleepwalked through evenings and weekends, dreaming solutions and imagining the next set of problems. When he did pay attention it was usually when she had said something that tangled in his concentration and caused him to stop and untie himself and upgrade her understanding. Sometimes he was resolutely logical, his argument cold and careful, and quite forgettable. Other times he got positively melodic and his language blossomed with rainbow metaphors, delightful, scandalous and memorable. Recently, after sitting in companionable silence at the dinner table for a while she'd tossed him the kind of morsel he liked to chew.

'My maths teacher said boys are better at maths than girls.'

'Define normal,' he had rejoined immediately and before she could flounder he had explained first that, not having been able to define normal because it changed, they had decided to bow its head with the great statistical mill stone Average, which had the nasty ability to grind the people of whole nations into bits, from which the ignorant mixed together a foot of bronze here, a thigh of gold there, a head of clay with snails for eyes and sugar and spice and other things not so nice and then, forgetting they had created it they perpetuated it with panicked worship.

His incandescence faded before her puzzled frown and he told her, prosaically:

'Nobody is a mathematical average. Even accounting for how capable your parents are, how much money they have and how many books they read, how many students at your school are prosperous, and whether you're male or female, that still accounts for less than a quarter of the difference between high scores and low scores. What does that tell you? It tells you, firstly, that most of the reasons why people don't do well on tests can't be known, at least based on the variables available from the tests. And secondly, the results are only applicable to the tests. Doing badly on one test doesn't have to mean a person is ignorant at maths. It may mean she missed a few lessons, or wasn't paying attention, or didn't understand the teacher's explanation, which may reflect more on the capability of the teacher than the student.

'And finally, that kind of myth becomes self perpetuating, Cloud. If your teacher believes it, she'll lower her expectations of her girls and won't push them as hard. And if the girls believe it, they won't try so hard either, and when they don't get it, they'll give up because that's the way they've been told the world is. It's the same with the hard sciences and computing. It has as much to do with gender stereotyping and your image of yourself than with your ability, Cloud. If you've already decided you don't want to pursue those subjects, if they're not enticing, you're not going to do particularly well at them and you'll have all the usual excuses ready to hand.'

He had paused to finish her bolognese and remark upon its quality, impaling the air with his fork in emphasis. She watched his brow contract about the bridge of his nose and his eyes smoulder and rekindle and then he said:

'The tree of gender is perhaps less lopsided than it was, but it's still a strong, healthy tree. Rats and mice nibble its branches quite effectively but they don't go for its roots and most of them still rely on its fruit to nourish their children, and their waste products nurture the tree in turn. Those in its higher branches are of course better able to reach the new growth and fresh fruit, which they do mostly unmindful of the droppings they let fall amongst the weak and the timid, at whom they chatter and screech their disdain.'

His eyes stared past her and she saw within them a reflection of the tree with its heaving population of rodents. A storm of leaves like meanings swirled about it whispering enchantments, strengthening here, weakening there, loud against the silver sky. Such visions had permeated her childhood from her earliest memories and she hadn't noticed their diminution until one bedtime, not long before they moved home, her Dad had paused part way through a defensive diatribe. His voice had roughened as the weight of some emotion filled his mouth. His throat contracted and he had to pause simply to breathe, his shoulders straining with the effort of pulling air around the sudden obstruction. His eyes flamed and her bedroom swirled and scattered. Moorland bronzed by a waning sun stretched out around her, rising at the edges of sight in a warm haze. Tall stones stood like ragged grey soldiers in ill-disciplined lines, the heat of the day reflected in the air swirling above them. She had time to identify purple heather, bracken and gorse and to notice a small dwelling, little more than a hut, with walls of stone like bricks, incongruously regular. Then the view had greened and jarred into uneven angles, as if a cut gem had been dropped over her eyes, and Cloud had opened her mouth to scream, found she had no breath and felt herself fall into a comfortable dark.

She had opened her eyes again immediately, to find Dad looking bemused and a little irritated. He asked why she was so tired she was falling asleep while he was trying to talk to her. Cloud said nothing about the vision. Its intensity had shocked her. Her father finished his one-sided conversation, kissed her goodnight and left, and all the time shards of other dreams paraded in front of her, memories thronging like moths to the flame sparked by his sight. Behind them, the golden eyes of a dragon smoldered, flecks like constellations in their depths. Through them, always closing, never entirely visible, a giant staggered, black smoke pouring from its body. It screamed with many voices. Flames lit it from within, outlining writhing bodies beneath its woven frame.

The wicker man had terrified her nights for years, stumbling through her dreams with dreadful purpose. The fear always faded on waking but even the memory of a memory produced goose bumps and a cold sweat. Like the visions precipitated from her father's searing narratives, her nightmares had decreased in frequency though, if anything, they had increased in virulence. The last one had been over eighteen months ago but the feelings it had provoked had caused her such anxiety that she had barely been able to function the following morning, and she had had to take the day off school. She had been unable to enter her room until the evening and then she trembled as she grabbed the dragons figurine from the bookcase and cradled it in her hands. The little carving had become something of a talisman over the years, polished by the salt moisture of tears and the oil of her fingers as they caressed tiny scales.

Thoughts of the dragons inevitably led her to Owen and their past, always a more cheerful subject. This time, however, the grumble of the coach intruded and Cloud realised her music had stopped. She surfaced from her ruminations shivering, aware of a growing sense of isolation, that removal from the world of mundane activity and meaningful relationships that invariably left her uncertain of her awareness of self, of her participation in her own life. Road journeys had always had something of a cocooning effect, a result of the excitement and expectation of change, difference, destination as often as it was the nervous anticipation of the unknown. In this case, she was travelling back to the place she associated with an earlier and happier life, but she wasn't her earlier and happier self. The loneliness of dislocation pushed in on her and she no longer knew what to feel when the coach crossed the Severn and she read Croeso i Gymru shortly after, as they passed into Wales.

She stepped onto cracked, slippery pavement and hurriedly turned up the collar of her jacket, zipping it shut. She should have worn a thicker jumper and a scarf. The air was sharp and icy, laced with diesel fumes. Gusts of wind stung and made her squint and huddle into herself as she waited for the driver to pull her rucksack from the bowels of the coach. She checked her phone quickly, returned it to her pocket and clenched her hands in a vain attempt to stop her fingers going numb.

There were several messages. Most were derogatory or threatening, the same group continuing their harassment. She had reported their malicious texting and it had stopped, her tormentors relying instead on muttered taunts in class, and spoken and physical intimidation in corridors and on stairs between classes, where teachers would not see. Obviously, the attack tonight was meant to cow her sufficiently that she wouldn't dare report the resumption of hostilities by phone.

Well, they would get a surprise very soon. And she would be safely out of harm's way.

Nic had left a brief message:

'where r u?'

Cloud swung her rucksack onto her shoulder, thanked the driver, who looked surprised and gave her a brief smile, and trudged across the concrete to the area reserved for local buses. She couldn't decide whether to text Nicola or not.

The bus that would take her through the next town and up to her destination appeared to be a rare species that didn't connect with the national coach. If she was reading the timetable correctly there would be one more departure and she would have to wait nearly fifty minutes before it left. Cloud perched on a frigid metal seat and pondered.

If she called Nic the chances were high that someone would come and get her. The same would probably be true of Gran, though she seldom drove beyond the local supermarket, and Owen, unless he was giving a lesson or playing for the choir. She could think of several others who would probably help her out which reinforced the rightness of her decision to return and very nearly brought fresh tears to her eyes. But it was a good thirty minute drive down here so she would still have to wait. And besides, she needed to demonstrate that she could follow through a decision on her own, that she didn't need babysitting, didn't need constantly to ask for help.

It was too cold to remain still for long. She rose with a grunt and started pacing. The ache in her thigh and a general stiffness almost everywhere was being aggravated by the chill. She needed to find somewhere out of the weather. The wind seemed to be picking up too and it was wet. There would be mist and black ice further up. Her bedroom window at Gran's would already have a thick rime around the base of the frame.

Whatever decision she made she would have to wait. Surely there would be something open close by. She didn't know the area well, but the bus terminal was close to the main street. She began walking.

The internet cafe was off the main street, halfway down an alley with inadequate lighting and the smell of a public toilet. The title 'cafe' was something of a misnomer; the place was for gamers, there were cans of drink and a small selection of crisps and confectionery at the counter sharing space with rather tatty boxes apparently containing hard drives and sound cards, and hand-stencilled sale stickers written by someone who didn't know how to use the possessive apostrophe. The man sitting behind the counter was an IT cliche; overweight, with long, greasy hair, tufts of blond beard vaguely resembling a goatee and a black t-shirt with a motif that could have been from a band or a game. His bored expression never changed as he provided her with a thirty minute, under eighteen discount card, a pack of crisps and a chocolate bar.

Cloud ate quickly. She hadn't had dinner and the crisps really weren't enough, but they helped. She logged into the computer and went to her email account. There was a message from her father's work address, titled: 'don't wait up'. She assumed it was a repeat of the earlier SMS and was about to write in the location of another site when she noticed simultaneously that the first line was gibberish and the time stamp was just minutes ago. She clicked on the message and it revealed what she already knew.

The email was encrypted.