was four or five years Blackpool's senior.
"Atta girl," he said with a chuckle. "Bite your tongue."
But she didn't smile. "It's just that she's been so sheltered."
"Of course, Mother Superior."
"Cram it, Johnno." She picked up her drink again, and kept her eye on
Blackpool. The name suited him, she thought. He had dark, lush hair
and favored black clothes. Leathers, suedes, silks. He had one of
those moody, sensual faces. Heathcliff, as Emma had always imagined
him. And she'd always thought Bronta's character more self-destructive
than heroic. Beside him, Marianne looked like a bright, slender candle
ready to be lit.
"I'm only saying that she's spent most of her life in that damn school."
"In the bed next to yours," Johnno pointed out.
She wasn't in the mood to laugh. "All right, that's true. But I also
had all that time with all of you, seeing things, being a part of
things. Marianne went from school, to camp, to her father's estate. I
know she puts on a front, but she's very n;ve."
"I'd give odds on our favorite redhead. Blackpool's slick, dear, but
he's not a monster."
"Of course not." But she was going to keep her eye on Marianne
nonetheless. She lifted the cigarette again, then froze.
Someone had put on a new album. The Beatles. Abbey Road The first cut
on the A side.
"Emma." Alarmed, Johnno gripped her wrist. Her pulse was scrambling,
her skin was ice. "What the hell? Emma, look here."
"He say one and one and one is three.
"Switch the record," she whispered.
"What?"
"Switch the record." She could feel the breath backing up in her lungs.
Clogging there. "Johnno, please. Turn it off."
"All right. Stay here."
He skimmed his way through the crowd, moving quickly, smoothly enough to
prevent himself from being detained.
Emma gripped the edge of the wall until her fingers went numb.
She wasn't seeing the party any longer, the pretty people mixing
together laughing over plastic glasses of white wine or chilled bottles
of imported beer. She could only see the shadows of a hallway, hear the
hissing and snapping of monsters. And her little brother's cries.
"Emma." It was Brian now, standing in the tiny kitchen alcove, Johnno at
his side. "What is it, baby? Are you sick?"
"No." It wag Dad, she thought. Dad would make it all go away. "No,
it's Darren. I heard Daffen crying."
"Oh Christ." He took her shoulders and shook. "Emma, look at me."
"What?" Her head snapped up. The glaze seemed to melt away from her
eyes into tears. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I ran away."
. "It's all right." He gathered her close. His eyes, anguished, met
Johnno's over her head. "We should get her out of here."
"In her bedroom," Johnno suggested, then casually began to clear a path.
He slid the frosted-glass doors closed behind them, muffling the sounds
of the party.