Page 108 of Freckles

It also sounds like the kind of busywork that will keep my mind from wandering to its favourite subject. A never-ending movie that scrolls inside my head, featuring everything good about Kincaid.

Images that scramble my brain and leave my emotions raw with longing.

“What instrument does Billy play?”

“Recorder and triangle.”

“Yeesh. Sure you want to go?” When she doesn’t find the comment as humorous as I do, I relent. “Yeah, I guess that’ll be okay.”

Esther squeals and grabs hold of me, hugging me extra tight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. Promise when Billy is a famous popstar, I’ll comp you some concert tickets.”

“Don’t worry,” I say with a laugh. “I’m sure I’ll call in the favour well before then.”

I’m glad to make her happy and—not gonna lie—the money will come in handy. Since arriving in Wellington, I’ve discovered the capital city is far more expensive than living down south.

My first night was spent couch-surfing at a complete stranger’s house, responding to their offer on a specialty app. It was only meant to last for a day or two but skip forward four weeks and I’m still living with Alyssa, getting under her feet and craving privacy.

The counter bell dings, and Esther goes running back to the main café to serve the customer. I grab a few misshapen muffins from the failure tray and exit via the back door, immediately walking uphill to the nearby park.

A side benefit of not wanting to intrude too much on Alyssa, means I spend a lot of time outdoors, taking advantage of whatever free entertainment is on offer.

This afternoon, that means watching a rugby match at the nearby club. The competition has heated up the closer they get to end of season, and the calibre of those left in the tournament guarantees a good game.

It’s not the safest choice, but at least out here, in public, I’m not going to let my thoughts spiral. Watching Kincaid clones chase each other across a muddy field for ninety minutes doesn’t hurt anyone except my own stupid, reckless self.

As I wait to cross the last intersection, my back prickles like someone’s watching, a sensation that occurs with dismaying frequency.

I spin in a circle, trying to find the cause. Probably just paranoia but telling myself that doesn’t curb the sensation.

The lights change and I cross the road, then walk past a line of poplar trees into the park proper.

My winter coat isn’t thick enough for the job, but standing in a crowd of eager spectators on the sidelines means there’s plenty of shared body heat to go around. Within minutes, my nose starts running, and I reach into my bag to snag some tissue.

There’s a sudden wrench on my shoulder and a hand shoves my upper back.

I fall to one knee, giving a yelp as I bounce back to my feet and glance around.

The bag snatcher is already halfway to the main pavilion, and I give chase, yelling, “Stop, thief!” as he rounds the corner.

A nearby man joins me in the pursuit and before either of us reach the building, the mugger staggers back into view, a hand cupped to his face, blood spilling through his fingers.

“Here.” He throws the bag forward and holds up his hands with a terrified glance over his shoulder. “I don’t want any trouble.”

He turns and darts onto the road, drivers slamming on their brakes with a squeal of tyres.

I ignore the bag, jogging around the pavilion corner in time to catch a glimpse of two burly men.

They melt into the swarm of pedestrians crossing at the intersection. A split second and they’ve gone, turning to shadow like they were never there at all.

Head spinning, I return to my abandoned bag.

“Are you okay?” my fellow pursuer calls out, standing guard over my property. “Did he hurt you?”

I hold up a reassuring hand, still catching my breath. “I’m fine. Just some muddy knees.” I lift my bag, giving him a grateful smile. “Thanks for your help.”

He nods, hovering indecisively for a moment, then the ref’s whistle draws his attention back to the game. With a wave, he returns to his previous position on the sideline.

There’s another ten minutes left of gameplay, but my thoughts are too scattered to track the fast-moving action. I collapse onto a nearby bench, sorting through my bag contents.

---