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  She’s got a real appetite, that dog.

  Hasn’t she, Papa?

  It’s nice to see you so close to someone, Gracie, I must say.

  Yes, Papa.

  Ryan, I mean.

  Oh. Yes, Papa.

  How old is he, Grace?

  Twenty-seven, Papa.

  Papa got a ball of string out from a drawer and started to cut it into equal lengths. I used them to tie a few roasts. Neither of us spoke much for the rest of the afternoon.

  Petal was confused when Ryan came back that evening. I think she was under the impression that I’d be looking after her full-time from now on. She whined when he clipped the lead to her collar, and I felt so guilty I could barely look. We were in my house, just by the front door.

  Why don’t I come stay with you tonight? I said to Ryan. You know, settle her in.

  Ryan had just driven all the way from Wales, and he was impatient to get home. He looked irritated, but he agreed to have me. I got in the back of the car with Petal to reassure her. She kept looking up at me while we were driving, to check I was still there.

  When we got to the garage, Petal curled up in her bed and Ryan opened Netflix on his laptop. He liked having something on all the time, even just as background noise. We talked briefly about the wedding, and I told him in lots of detail what Petal and I had been up to.

  You spoil her, he said.

  I smiled. It was true.

  We waited for Petal’s snores before we started. I was used to having sex most days by then, and my appetite for it had exploded. I rubbed Ryan through his jeans, and chewed on his earlobe. He let me get on with this, but his hands stayed limp on the mattress.

  Touch me, I said.

  I’m so tired, Grace.

  I looked at him. His eyes were slightly purple underneath. I’d never been to a wedding, but I understood that they could take a lot out of you. Still, I was overexcited. I lay down on the mattress and pulled him onto me.

  Ryan, I said. Let’s.

  He seemed reluctant, but he did lean in to kiss me. The weight of his body on mine made me feel crushed and helpless. I closed my eyes and moaned. This was always when I liked Ryan best: just before the sex. Most other times I didn’t find the things that he did particularly interesting. I helped him get his jeans off and then my own. I could feel him through his boxers. He smelt of Parma ham and polythene. My whole body was throbbing. I cried out for him.

  In hindsight, I was probably being louder than I should have. Petal was on the bed so fast. Before I could even register what was happening, Ryan let out a sharp yelp that ripped through the garage. She’d gone straight for his forearm. Her jaw was scissored around it. He tried to pull away, but Petal’s grip was locked. He gasped and twisted. Thick, red droplets collected on the bed sheets, and I could see bits of Ryan’s arm flapping, soft and pink as raw chicken.

  Petal, I shouted. Petal.

  She dropped him then, finally. She came down off the bed and stood at my feet. A string of Ryan’s skin was dangling from her jaw, dripping. I was struggling to breathe at a normal pace. Ryan was making weak, insignificant grunts on the bed. His face was expressionless, a very pale grey, and he was holding his arm as if it were a baby. There was as much blood as I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen blood. It seeped into the mattress, slow as oil. I just stood and watched. Time felt still. Petal lifted her head to me. She blinked, licked her lips and grinned, her eyes half-closed with pleasure. She looked euphoric in that moment.

  Ryan’s grandparents burst in soon after that. They must have heard my screams. I was naked still, backed into the corner, trying to cover my body with my hands. Ryan’s grandfather tossed me a T-shirt from the floor, and didn’t look in my direction again.

  I’m Grace, I said.

  No one responded. Ryan’s grandmother was pacing the room, shaking her hands. Ryan’s grandfather pulled a pillowcase off a pillow and used it to wrap up Ryan’s arm. The blood was so red against the white it looked fake.

  Fucking dog, he muttered. That thing needs putting down.

  I burst into tears then. Once I was crying, I couldn’t stop. Ryan’s grandparents took us both outside and put us in the car. The night was purple. Petal stayed behind. I could hear her whining as we drove down the street. Ryan’s grandfather dropped Ryan off at the hospital with his grandmother, and then he took me home. I didn’t speak the whole way, I just wept and wept.

  When I got inside, Papa came straight out of his bedroom. He was in his tartan pyjamas, and he looked barely awake.

  Gracie, he said. My god. What’s happened?

  I looked down at myself. I was still wearing only Ryan’s T-shirt, and there were specks of blood on my bare legs and feet. My face, I knew, would be puffed up from crying.

  Nothing, Papa. I’m fine.

  Papa’s mouth did something then that I’d never seen before. It quivered, and I thought he might suddenly become very angry, or very sad. It only lasted a second, and then he was holding me in his arms, stroking my hair with one of his palms. The hug was so tight I almost couldn’t breathe, and then he let me go.

  You’re not seeing that Ryan again, Grace. I don’t like it. I won’t have it.

  But Papa—

  No.

  I turned away from him and went into my bedroom. He stood and watched me go. I didn’t see any point in arguing. It wasn’t Ryan I needed anyway; it was Petal.

  School the next day felt longer than ever. I called Ryan between every lesson, and then again at lunch, sitting in front of a blue tray while my gravy coagulated. Each time, he didn’t pick up. I skipped my last lesson of the afternoon and went to see him. I’d never disobeyed Papa before, and the feeling of it made me nauseous. I knocked straight on the corrugated iron door of the garage, and Ryan took a long time to come and fold it open.

  Hi, I said.

  His arm was wrapped in white bandages, held at a right angle in a gauze sling. I don’t think he’d slept since I’d seen him last.

  You look awful, I said.

  Thanks.

  I leant forward and gave him a kiss on the corner of his mouth. When my lips touched him, he flinched. I knew he didn’t want my company, but I went into the garage anyway. The sheets had been changed, and there were some packets of pain medication on the chair. My clothes from the day before had been neatly folded in the exact spot on the floor where I’d left them. The dog bed was empty.

  Where’s Petal?

  Ryan shook his head. He seemed angry at the question. She attacked me, Grace.

  I know that.

  She’s not safe.

  She was confused.

  Listen, said Ryan. We’re sending her away.

  I fell apart then. I stopped being able to see clearly; my vision filled with grey dots. I started to pick things up from around the room and throw them. I ripped all the hangers from the clothes rail. I emptied a pen pot onto the concrete floor. I unplugged a whole row of electrical items and hurled them at the opposite wall. Ryan didn’t intervene.

  Where is she? I screamed.

  Please, Ryan said. He kept saying it, quietly, over and over.

  I stopped destroying the room and collapsed onto the bed. I felt drained of energy. My face was covered in tears and snot. I kicked my school shoes up and down against the mattress. My sobs became weak and breathy. The garage was completely silent, other than that. Ryan hadn’t moved from his position by the door. It was then, just as I was starting to calm down, that I heard the bark.

  Petal, I shouted. Petal!

  The barks kept coming. She could hear me. I started to cry again. I could almost feel her tongue, rough and wet on my hands.

  Take me to her, I said.

  Ryan folded his arms. I knew that I would never see him again, after this, and I didn’t care. Just let me see her, I said.

  Ryan turned and walked out of the garage. I followed him across the front lawn to his grandparents’ front door. I’d never been inside the house before. The hall was full of old-pe
ople furniture. There were paintings of fruit bowls hung up on the walls. If his grandparents were in, I didn’t see them. I could hear Petal whimpering, and I ran to her. She was in the living room, in a cage pushed into the corner. I knelt at her level and stuck my hands through the bars to touch her. She looked uncomfortable in there, hunched over herself. I wished I’d brought a treat.

  Petal, I said. Petal, my love.

  She had sleep crusted into the corners of her eyes, as if she’d been weeping. She looked up at me and whined. I couldn’t stop myself. I flicked open the lock on the cage, and Petal flew out. She leapt into me and pushed me backwards onto the musty carpet. I lay under her, my arms wrapped around her solid middle. We stayed like that for ages. I just held her.

  When Petal let me get up, I noticed Ryan had left the room. He must have been worried that she’d bite him again. I went and opened the door to the living room, to find him standing in the hall. He looked so scared, I was embarrassed for him. Petal sat obediently at my feet.

  Let me take her, I said.

  No. She’s dangerous.

  I rolled my eyes.

  Your dad wouldn’t have it, said Ryan. She could kill him, Grace.

  I shrugged. Deep down, I knew that that was true. I looked at Ryan properly for the first time. He seemed to soften in front of me.

  Please, I tried.

  Grace. I’m not going to let them put her down, alright? But she needs expert care.

  Petal moaned a little, as if she understood. I felt cruel, for talking about her as if she wasn’t in the room.

  I don’t believe you, I said to Ryan.

  I stepped around him, and started towards the front door. It was made of heavy wood, and I had to use both hands to get it open. As soon as I did, the late afternoon sunlight flooded in. It picked up all the dust. Ryan was stood deep into the hall, next to a coat stand, and Petal was between the two of us, turning her head back and forth. Whenever she faced me, her eyes caught the sunlight. They looked completely clear, amber as two fallen leaves.

  Where will you take her? Ryan said.

  I didn’t answer. It didn’t matter. We could do anything, Petal and I. We could go to Scotland and walk the hills. We could go to Rome and eat spaghetti. We could go to Barcelona and bathe in the frothy sea. I’d send postcards to Papa all about it, but Petal and I wouldn’t be back.

  See you, I said to Ryan, and then I walked away. After a few steps, I looked back over my shoulder and whistled.

  Overnight

  Maxine saw him first through the viewfinder of her Snapchat. His face was far-off, turned in the opposite direction to the rest of the crowd, so the strobes picked him out like a full moon. She zoomed in, pulled him into focus, watched for a while. His hair was longer. He’d shaved three slits into his left eyebrow. He was turned to talk to a girl, tall, dancing slightly behind him. They were sharing a Red Stripe.

  Maxine put her phone in her bra and shouldered her way outside. The sky was all frothy blues and pinks. Sunrise had come around fast. She found a corner of the smoking area to roll a cigarette, her ears ringing out into the cold.

  His name was George. Maxine had met him in Primark, the final day of summer before the first day of secondary school. Their mums had got chatting while shopping for uniforms, last minute and on the cheap.

  You know the school shop? Charges sixteen pound a polo.

  The cheeky bastard fuckers.

  So they’d stood side by side in silence, their eyes on the floor, as trousers were held to their narrow hips, shirt sleeves pulled tight along the lengths of their arms. Maxine could hear George’s iPod shuffle, very faint, left going in his jacket.

  Jesus wept. Look at the queue for the changing rooms.

  Size up Georgie, we’re not doing this next year.

  Afterwards, outside, while their mums smoked cigarettes and laughed like they’d known each other for years, George had pressed one of his earphones into Maxine’s palm, and together they’d listened to Sean Kingston’s ‘Beautiful Girls’, peering out from under their hoods as the late afternoon light made stripes on the pavement.

  Alright love, let’s get this bus.

  You’ll look out for each other you two, won’t you?

  Maxine had only been at the club a few hours. They’d stumbled across it on their way back from a house party shut down by noise complaints. Jos, the friend Maxine had come with, had disappeared a while back. Maxine had assumed that Jos had sloped off home, but she noticed her now through the haze of the smoking area, crouched low and crawling across the black concrete.

  Jos.

  Max, hey.

  You OK down there?

  Yep, all good, just lost an earring.

  Oh right, when?

  Fucking ages, no idea.

  Bit shit.

  Yeah.

  Maxine helped Jos to her feet, waited as she rubbed her palms up and down on her jeans. The dirt was thick as tar, almost glossy in the new daylight.

  You got any wipes or anything?

  There’s sinks inside.

  You know what Max, I’ll just have one more look. They’ll be here somewhere.

  Sure.

  Maxine dropped her cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. There was nothing for her to do now but go back inside. On the dance floor, George had turned to face the DJ. His head bobbed gently to the music. Maxine leant against the far wall at the opposite end of the room, next to the door. The crowd had cleared a little while she’d been smoking, so that if George were to turn around he’d see her. She stood with her body reeled in like a kite, waiting.

  Maxine was thirteen when her dad moved out. It was then that she’d ended up spending a lot more time with George. Although in school George and Maxine rarely even passed nods in the corridors, their mums had stayed in touch, and long Saturdays spent knocking around each other’s bedrooms had made George’s flat a familiar second base. The lift up to his floor smelt of piss and he was three bus stops further down the route, but anywhere was better than home in those days, when Maxine’s mum shredded up the evenings with her shouting and crying.

  Stop calling him now, please stop.

  Why?

  He won’t pick up, you know he won’t.

  It’s not that. It’s the answer machine. I like to listen to his voice.

  Mum.

  Let me hear his voice.

  At George’s, Maxine would sit collecting the grime condensed in the grooves of the kitchen table with her fingernail, while George played on his Nintendo DS. At around six, his mum would come home in her leopard coat with polystyrene kebab boxes, and the three of them would sit at the table, eating meat in ribbons and laughing. George didn’t have a dad either. After they’d eaten, his mum would pull the cushions off the sofa and make a bed on the floor for Maxine, where she’d sleep in her uniform, a hot water bottle pulled up beneath her sweatshirt. In the middle of the night, she was often woken by George climbing in beside her.

  Can’t sleep again.

  How come?

  Don’t know. But it helps sometimes, the sound of your breathing.

  Jos followed Maxine inside after five minutes or so and began working her way around the edges of the room, using the torch on her phone to light up the floor. Maxine didn’t move from her place against the wall, where she watched Jos scurry around like an oversized rat, the back of George’s head nodding incessantly in the background, slightly faster now to keep in time with the beat.

  Maxine thought back to the last place she’d seen George. Two Christmases ago, out of the window of her mum’s car. He was walking out a Sainsbury’s, something long and white in his mouth that Maxine took for a cigarette, then realised was a lollipop.

  Was that George back there Max?

  No, no, don’t think so.

  You sure? Looked just like him.

  Positive.

  The DJ let the last song run out to nothing. The overhead lights were turned on abruptly, so the whole room lit up filthy and stale. Maxine wat
ched as everyone began to file out of the club, except Jos, who hadn’t seemed to notice. Some people went to the bar for more drinks but were turned away. The girl that George was with spent a long time untying her jacket from around her waist and pulling it on. George stood waiting, holding her bag out for her to take when she was ready. They were among the last people left on the dance floor. Maxine took a step forward, out of the shadow cast by the far wall. George turned finally to face her. He looked up. His eyes settled on Maxine for a moment, then flicked across to the door on her right. Maxine would have questioned if he’d seen her, but she could tell by the way his ears stung red. She let her head swivel, almost of its own accord, so that her eyes could follow him all the way out of the room. He watched the door, unblinking, until he was through it. At one point, he passed so close that she could see the fine, soft hairs on the back of his neck.

  Afterwards, when she was sure he had gone, she sunk down into the floor and sat with her eyes closed, her chin resting on her knees.

  It was the summer between year nine and ten, when all the boys smelt of Lynx Africa and Subway. Maxine was a few months from turning fifteen. Her mum had a new boyfriend and a set of boy-girl twins. She seemed very happy and very tired, a book folded back against its spine. Maxine spent most days at home helping. She’d slice cucumbers into sticks that the babies carried off in their mouths to stash behind the couch, where later she’d fish the pieces out again, sogged and linty.

  This was also the summer of drinking. George, whose mum stayed out late at weekends, would host small gatherings when the park was rained off. Maxine didn’t show at most, but to one she did.

  This one. Everyone sitting in a circle with the rain pounding out against the windows. The drink mostly cheap vodka mixed with rip-off Fanta, or that blue WKD. Someone with wine stolen from their parents, finally got open by pushing the cork down into the bottle with the blunt end of a lighter. A box of straights, found in a drawer in the kitchen and shared about the room. Two people sick by eleven, one in the toilet and the other in the shower. Maxine and George sharing an armchair, his hand moving up and down her thigh.

  You never come around anymore.