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Tunnels of Blood
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DEBBIE’S SURNAME was Hemlock and she hated it.
“Imagine being named after a poisonous plant!” she fumed.
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “I quite like it.”
“Shows what sort of taste you have,” she sniffed.
Debbie had only moved here recently with her parents. She had no brothers or sisters. Her Dad was a computer whiz, who regularly flew around the world on business. They’d swapped homes five times since she was born.
She was interested to learn that I was also used to moving around. I didn’t tell her about the Cirque Du Freak but said I was on the road a lot with my dad, who was a travelling salesman.
Debbie wanted to know why she hadn’t seen my father in the Square. “I’ve seen you and your brother loads of times, but never your dad.”
“He’s an early riser,” I lied. “He gets up before dawn and doesn’t come back till after dark most days.”
“He leaves the two of you alone in the hotel?” She pursed her lips as she considered it. “What about school?” she asked.
“Are these like the gloves you want?” I side stepped the question, picking a pair of red gloves off a rack.
“Nearly,” she said, studying them. “Mine were a shade darker.”
We went on to another store and looked at loads of CD players. I didn’t have much money on me, so I didn’t buy anything.
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