Thirteen by Tom Hoyle Page B

need to get some sleep. I think I’ll take your computer away.” She tried the locked door. “Adam, are you on Facebook again?”
    Adam silently took the gun and money and put them under his bed, then went to the door, computer in hand. “Sorry, Mum.”
    â€œAdam, is everything okay? You don’t look your usual self.”
    This was the moment. He could tell her now.
    Adam let the moment slide away until it was out of reach. “I’m fine,” he said, his tone trying to give the smallest hint that he was not.
    Before he climbed into bed, Adam hid the gun again, submerging it in a big tub of Legos that he hadn’t opened in years. Then he pulled back the curtains for a glance at Megan’s house.
    He couldn’t see clearly in the darkness, but Megan was looking at his house too. She knew that something strange had happened, and tomorrow would insist on understanding what it was. She grabbed her phone and quickly sent a text: “c u tomoz. Luv m.”
    Less than a minute later her phone pinged: “Soz for way things are. C u. Love ad.”
    She smiled. He had written
love
in full. How great.
    The next morning, Adam was in the shed near the bushes at the bottom of his garden when Megan passed by. She saw a ghost-like figure through the dusty window: Adam.
    â€œHere we go,” Adam muttered.
    â€œWhat are you doing in
here
?” she asked, the door squeaking as she opened it.
    â€œUm, looking for some nails.”
    â€œWhy?” Megan knew it was a lie. Nails? How ridiculous.
    â€œEr, to mend the fence,” he said unconvincingly. If only he could lie better than this.
    â€œMend the fence?” she said, hands on hips. “Adam, what’s going on?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œAdam, what happened at the festival? I can’t think of anything else; I want to know. Why was there red on your hands?” Megan avoided saying
blood
. “I know you were in a fight.”
    â€œNothing. Don’t know.”
    In frustration and with a sudden spike of anger, Megan raised her voice: “I’ve been grounded for not getting back on time at the festival, but I still came over here to look for you and now all you can do is lie. We’ve never had secrets before. What’s changed?”
    â€œI’m not lying.” Adam shrugged. He hated being like this, but wanted to protect her.
    Then Megan stepped forward and slapped him, hard. His ear, neck and cheek stung. “You liar!” she shouted. “You bloody liar! Why won’t you tell me?” She looked as if she was about to strike again.
    â€œMeg. I can’t. And don’t shout,” Adam said, gesturing for her to keep quiet.
    â€œAdam,” she said, more quietly, “who is your best friend?”
    â€œOh, Meg. Please don’t do this to me. You know that it’s you.”
    â€œThen tell me what’s going on.”
    Adam was torn by indecision. He didn’t want to tell Megan, but he had to tell someone. The secret burned within him like a fiery coal.
    Adam reached up and pulled down a slightly rusty Quality Street tin from the shelf. He showed Megan what he had hiddeninside: £1,000. She was wide-eyed, then frowned. He whispered to her about the gun and the suitcase.
    Megan went pale; her hands shook.
    But a worse truth had to be told. Adam beckoned her to sit down on the dusty floor, below window height. Then he began whispering, coldly detached from the story, telling it as if it was a film he had seen, as if he was talking about someone else. He told it in order. At the very end he had to say the awful words: “He fell on the knife. He was trying to kill me. But I killed him.”
    Megan stared.
    â€œMeg, did you hear me? I’ve killed someone.”
    They looked at one another.
    â€œThere’s no doubt. There was blood, and he fell down. And the knife went right in. Meg—I didn’t push it, honestly I didn’t. I would