Angel Rock. Darren Williams

      ANGEL ROCK

      DARREN WILLIAMS

Dedication

      this one’s for S.A.M.

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

Dedication

1

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

       2

       8

       9

       10

       11

       12

       13

       14

       15

       16

       17

       18

       19

       20

       21

       22

       23

       24

       25

       26

       3

       27

       28

       29

       30

       31

       32

       Acknowledgment

       About the Author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

1

1

      The first real heat of summer had just steamed into Angel Rock in a welter of frayed tempers and sunburnt noses the afternoon Tom Ferry, almost thirteen years old and still simple-hearted, made his way down to Coop’s Universal from where the school bus had left him. The footpath was baking hot and the grass on either side of it full of bindi-eyes and no easier on his bare feet and his progress was punctuated by spells of hopping to recover from one or the other. When he reached the broad expanse of shade under the hotel verandah he dallied for a minute to let his feet cool down properly. He held up his hand and squinted out at the bright day. Fifty yards away the Universal’s awning gave the last respite before home. Faded signs – a sunset-orange Coke, an airy blue Bushell’s – hung down from it. The sun faded things, it was true, but it also grew them. It was growing him. He could really feel it. He didn’t feel quite like a boy any more – nothing like Flynn – and he liked the sensation; he liked his body growing, the muscles getting bigger on his bones, the ground getting further away.

      He licked his lips and set out. Almost immediately the soles of his feet began to burn again. He ran, sucking in warm air through his rounded lips, laughing it out again, lifting his feet, trying to keep them off the concrete for as long as he could. The shop always seemed an age away on days like these, but he finally reached it and then had to stop and bend over and put his hands on his knees for a while to get his breath back. When he had it he went to the big old deepfreeze that sat just inside the shop’s doorway and opened up the lid. Four great half-moons of ice curved out from the sides of the cabinet and he leant over them and plunged his hands and head into the chilled air at its centre. He put his cheek down against the ice and breathed in and felt the cold travel right down into his chest. He laughed at the sensation and waved away the mist with his hands until he could see the box of ice blocks at the bottom of the freezer. He sucked in the sweet, cool smell of them – red ice around ice cream – before reaching down and pulling one out by the tail. He let down the freezer’s lid and then ran to the counter at the back of the shop.

      ‘Mrs Coop!’ he yelled. ‘Mrs Coop!’

      There was no sign of the shopkeeper but in the silence after his yelling he could hear her out the back. The bright light from the open back door reached all the way up the hall and came to rest on the stool sitting in the doorway. She was almost always sitting there whenever Tom came in, fanning herself with a piece of old cardboard. Above her stool, high on the wall, was a dusty bank of brown Bakelite light switches and next to that the electricity meter and the fuse box, and next to that, hanging from a nail, calendar over expired calendar counting back from 1969. Over the counter a sticky