CHAPTER 2

Fynn was on the other side of the farm adjoining the cottage when Fran got back. She thought his name, like a dark storm cloud, and she could just about see him stop his hammering, and lean against the new fence for a moment before beginning the walk home.
Fran was just inside the doorway when he reached the house, ignoring Hannah's polite request to know what was going on.
"You'll find out. And I apologise now for the language."
"That bad, is it?"
"He-he-" Fran stopped that sentence, refusing to cry. The anger was there now, just under her ribs, a lump of shiny blackness where tears begin. She prodded it, and hate whisped out, or at the very least love corrupted beyond recognition.
"Fran." Fynn stood just inside the doorway, the perfect penitent. He was tanned and lovely, and that was the precise point when Fran's heart cracked open.
"Why?" She could barely get the words out, her throat too constricted. "Why why? Am I really so crap in bed that you have to go screw the undead?"
"It wasn't like that. You were sick-"
"Oh, no." Fran waved a hand. "No, no, no. This isn't my fault, don't you dare blame this on me. You did this. Not even poor stupid Esme who just wanted you not to kill yourself. Did you tell her I was dead?"
"I-"
"Yes or no. Did you say 'Fran is dead' at any time?"
"You were! There was nothing left in you." Fynn sounded suddenly childish, and this time the hatred gushed into Fran, a dangerous contempt that didn't know a damn thing about pity or mercy.
"Fine. Then I'll show what happens when there's nothing left." She turned on her heel.
"Oh, that's right!" Suddenly Fynn was an adult again, an adult who knew he was in the wrong, which just made everything worse. "You run and hide, just like always! You run into town, or go hide in those bloody books of yours, as usual. Gosh, what's in those bags your holding? Could it be…books?"
"And why not? When did my books ever hurt me, or cheat on me?"
"When did you ever look at me except from behind them?" There were tears in Fynn's eyes. Don't, thought Fran, you'll get me started. "You even got a job in a bloody bookshop so you didn't ever have to spend an hour away from paper. At least I was apprenticed to a real live person. Not you. It's just paper for you, and never getting close to a real person." Fynn drew himself up to his full height, and his voice was suddenly curse-soft. "You'll always run, and you'll always hide. And until you learn you don't have to, you'll always, always be alone."
"I wish I was. If I'm not with other people I'm not being hurt."
Fynn waved his hands. "We've been together two years. Haven't you learnt a damn thing?"
"Less than you, by the looks of it." Fran gave up struggling against tears. "You hurt me. You hurt me. That's all the words I have. You hurt me until I couldn't breathe." Fran ran into the other room, locking the door behind her.
"Wow," said Fynn, "I handled that really badly."
"You bastard," said Hannah simply.

© Naomi Claydon, 2000