he already owns he will be mad. I cannot help grinning.
My fingers travel over another set of books and I pick one out. The pages are covered in tiny bumps. The work of insects, I suppose. Rows and rows of hard little eggs. My fingers start itching and I put it down.
“Why have you stopped reading? You woke me,” the couch says.
I grab another book and tuck it under my shirt. “I’m finished. I have to go.”
Reader walks me to the door. I stop to scratch my leg and he bumps into me. His sunglasses fall onto the floor. And so does the stolen book.
“What is it?” Reader says, sniffing. We stand, looking down. I wait for him to chase me away from his library for ever. If he does, I will rat on him and the Locusts will take him to Section PT where he will rot.
“You have dropped something.” He is not looking at the book. He is looking past it. His eyes are covered in a gooey film, they remind me of Witch’s bird.
“Yes, my bag.” I crouch, pick up the book. I hold it in front of his face. I move it from side to side. The eyes, like litchi pulp, do not flicker.
“Make sure you hang onto your bag as you walk the streets, Juliet. There are tricksters out there.” He gives me his baby-pink smile.
I do not scowl at him. I allow my face to mirror how I really feel; for once, I put my feelings on my face. It is not like I care squashed banana for the blind old mouse. But sadness puckers my face as I look at Reader, surrounded by books he can no longer read.
He lets me out and stands at the door. As I walk down the corridor to the stairs he shouts, “Juliet, perhaps I will see you next week?”
I know he will not see me because he cannot. But I stop and call back. “Maybe.”
The sun’s face dips behind oil clouds as I race to the bridge. The curfew siren has sounded and this billy goat gruff is late. The troll is waiting. I should have stayed at Me’s. The Locusts must not search me tonight. There is a book against my stomach and the tube of cream in the back of my shorts. Two secrets they cannot discover.
The mark on my spine tingles as I approach the boom. I slow my feet and loll my head. I gather my spit and allow it to dribble down the sides of my mouth. I stagger up to the Locusts and lurch like the Posh after a night in the pleasure clubs.
“Fly sickness. She has it bad,” a Locust says. “Let her through. But don’t touch her.”
I reach the boom and they step away.
“Stop,” a voice says.
It was Kitty’s terror yesterday. Today it is mine. I stumble on.
“Hey, I said stop!”
I turn around. And the Locust attaches his glove to my shoulder.
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