She's sitting out there on the sand, right in the middle of the beach, all huddled up. For a moment, in the dark she could be a stone, but then she moves, turns her head and stares directly at me. I realise then that she's almost bald, her hair cropped close to her skull. The grey overalls she wears are so baggy she could as well be a boy.
We meet each other's gaze for a moment. The girl is shaking slightly, but her gaze is intent. I feel as if she's staring right through my chest. And then the moment breaks and she pushes herself to her feet and stumbles off up the beach.
"Wait . . ." I call, but she doesn't even pause. I glance up towards my house; from where I stand on the waterfront it's only a short walk away up the trailing staircases that climb the hill. The windows are all unlit. Once again, I don't suppose anyone has missed me. I hitch my school bag up onto my shoulder and set off after the girl.
I catch up with her pretty quickly. I'm walking along the concrete boulevard on top of the sea wall. The beach is a sharp drop on my right. Down there, the girl trudges along, head down, slipping occasionally on the wet sand. Up close I see that she's soaking wet, as if she just crawled out of the sea. Her jumpsuit has a dark, dried patch about the shoulder that looks just like a bloodstain.
"Hey," I call, and she stops finally and looks up, blue eyes fixing on mine. Her face is wracked, as though she's been crying recently. Red rimmed eyes and whitened lips. There's something in those eyes, along with the fear: a kind of independence, or a sadness. Something . . .
"Are . . . are you all right?" I ask, as gently as possible.
The girl stares up at me for a long time. "Fine," she says, her voice hoarse, and then she takes off again up the beach, clearly determined to leave me behind. As she goes, I notice that she's walking barefoot.
I keep pace along the top of the sea wall, one hand on the balustrade. In my estimation she looks a long way from fine. "Are you sure you're all right?" I call.
"Leave me alone," spits the girl.
I keep pace anyway. For a minute or two we walk in silence. I'm not sure what to say. Part of me wants to leave her, to just go home. But part of me is thinking of Darren . . . not just because she looks a little bit like him, but because she's lost too, and alone, and all the things I'm afraid Darren might be.
"My name's Laura," I try. But she ignores me and strides furiously on. Desperate, I try: "Are . . . are you hungry?"
Finally, she stops. Glaring up at me, still defiant, she says, "What?"
"You looked starved," I say. "Listen, I live near here. If you want, I can get you some food."
She snorts and kicks at the sand. Her hands are folded protectively across her chest. "I'm not going anywhere with you," she says. "I'm not stupid."
"You don't have to go anywhere. Just wait here; I'll fetch you something to eat. I'll only be a minute. Okay?"
She doesn't say anything, just stares at me warily, but in a way that seems to give consent. I smile at her and hold up a hand to tell her to wait. Then I take off at a jog towards my house.
What, I ask myself calmly, exactly am I doing here? Feeding the homeless? My good deed for the day? It's not like I don't have plenty of things already to worry about in my life. It's just the way she stood there on the beach; that haunted, defiant look in her face. And of course how she reminded me so much of Darren. When I thought of him, I knew right away that I couldn't just ignore her.
