The Between - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

DAVID HOFMEYR was born in South Africa and lives in London and Paris. In 2013 he graduated from Bath Spa University with an MA in Writing for Young People. The Between is David’s second novel. His first book, Stone Rider, was published in 2015 and was shortlisted for the prestigious Branford Boase award for first-time novelists. He divides his time between writing and working as a strategist for Ogilvy & Mather. 

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1

Between school and home lies a path through the woods. It’s Friday afternoon and the sun falls from a cloudless blue sky. It’s baking hot. No hint of wind. We’re alone on the narrow path. But in my gut, I get that nervy feeling. A darkening. Something, hidden in the trees, is following me. 

“I had that dream again last night,” I tell Bea to distract myself. 

“No kidding? The same one?” 

“Yeah. Kinda. I woke and found myself in an empty house. I stepped out onto the street and the whole place was deserted. Everyone had vanished. . . .” I don’t have the courage to tell her the rest--a new part of the dream. The tall, spider-like creature I saw moving among the bombed-out buildings of a desolate city. 

We hit a thorny stretch of the path, crossing a park in the heart of London, cut off from the clamour. I feel dizzy in the heat. Bea leaps up, fluid and light, snaps off a dead tree branch, lands and dances forward, swinging the stick like a sword. 

“I can interpret the dream, if you like,” she says. 

“No you can’t.”

“Easy.” 

“Fine. Go for it.” 

“It’s panic,” Bea says.  

“What?” 

“Blind panic you’ll never find The One. Always be alone. Always searching.” She laughs and stabs the air. “Got Anaïs Moon written all over it.”

Anaïs Isabel Moon. Me. But to everyone other than Bea (for reasons of her maverick lawlessness), I’m just Ana. Three letters. Two syllables. A palindrome. I was born abroad, in Paris. The Old Man and Frankie were studying at the Sorbonne. Frankie, Business. The Old Man, Arts. They were both in a phase--experimenting.

We pass under the eaves of a hunkered oak, its branches like arms, wide and bent, and here the path is walled in by nettles and thorns. Something moves, at the edge of my vision, in the shadowy green. A figure? The sprawl of wings? 

I spin around. See nothing. 

It’s back again--that raw, uncomfortable feeling, a sense of being watched. It quickens in my step, plays a drumbeat of dread in my heart.

“Hey, what’s the rush?” Bea says, matching my pace.

I shake off the weirdness and look at her, at all the nuances that make her Bea. The tiny dot on her nose where the ring gets replaced. Dyed-black hair, just so, in a deep V over her left eye. A pity, if you ask me, because her eyes are startling. 

“God, this heat wave,” she says, tugging a button loose. “It’s September.”

“Bea . . . do you think we’ll always be friends?” 

She stops, looks at me. “Are you literally crazy? What brought that on?” 

“Nothing. It’s just--” 

“Put it this way, Moon. You’ll be the one walking me down the aisle for weddings number one, two and three.” 

“Only three?” 

She walks on. “The fourth, fifth and sixth will be in Vegas, baby. And if I’m in the mood, the seventh might even be you.” 

“Right. Good to know.” 

“Point is, of course we’ll always be friends, you idiot. In what world could you desert someone as charismatic and amazing as me?” 

She looks at the path ahead. “But you want the truth?” 

“Always.” 

She turns to me. Smiles. “Truth is, I’d go to the ends of the earth for you, Moon. Wanna know why?” 

“Why?”

“Because you’d do it for me too, you idiot. If I was mad and lost, you’d pull me back from the brink, you would. That’s who you are.” 

“You make it sound easy.” 

“Make what sound easy?” 

“Knowing who you are. I never know who I’m supposed to be.” 

“All that back-and-forth between Frankie and your Old Man getting to you?” 

She’s got one of those minds, Bea--quick-fire, straight to the point. 

“Sometimes I feel like I’m lost in the middle, you know?” 

“Yeah. I know.” 

“And Zig makes the whole thing harder. I mean, I thought it’d get easier. That at some point, it would just . . . make sense. I’d forget everything before.”

“But you don’t,” Bea says. “You never forget. It changes you.” 

“I’m one person with her,” I say. “Someone else with him.” 

Bea looks away. Shadows filigree her skin. Eventually, she nods, and I can’t tell if she’s agreeing with me or just acknowledging my point of view, until she says, “Hey, at least you get the option.” And the air punches out of me. 

“I’m sorry, Bea . . . I didn’t--”

“Forget it, Moon. Bygones.”

My family moved from Paris back to Bristol when I was two, but I have no memory of this. The idea was to give me English schooling, which Frankie considered a vital academic stepping-stone to an autonomous life. The Old Man thought it was a load of crap. Then, when Bristol’s work opportunities dried up, we moved to London. The marriage dissolved a year later. But it was rotten and badly formed from the start (obviously). The Old Man living in the closet, that didn’t help. Plus, Frankie’s affairs. I was ten. My world had been perfect: the River Severn, the smallness of Bristol, trips to Wales and Cornwall. When I was thrown into the Big Smoke, I sank. Until Bea arrived.

She moved down to London from Northumberland and was full of edges and stubbornness and we looked at each other on her first day in class and we clicked. 

Then her father died. As quick as a sentence, he was gone. Afterwards came the disbelief. Then the struggle to make sense of it. And, while Bea and Mrs. G argue about most things, they agreed when it came to the sudden loss of Avi Gold. He had deserted them. Their way of making sense of it--blaming him. I didn’t judge.

Bea and I bonded over hurt and books and film, anything to sweep away reality. We conspired against all things messed-up, corrupt and wrong in the world.

We were outsiders, on the outside of every side.

We were best friends.

“Look,” Bea says now. “Maybe you’re not meant to be anyone. Maybe you’re just, you know, meant to be. Live in the now and all that.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But sometimes I wish I could just flick a switch and make everything go back to the way it was before. Back to normal.”

Bea pulls a face and drags her hair across her forehead, then she bends the stick between her thumbs until it snaps.

“I read the craziest thing online the other day,” she says, flinging the remnants into the scrub. “Imagine this. You’re standing in a room with a baby.” She glances at me from under that dark shank of hair. “Same age as your brother.”

“Half brother."

“And this baby, you know for a fact, is Adolf Hitler.”

“What?”

“At least, he’ll grow into Adolf Hitler. Now, what if I told you there was no comeback if you killed the baby? No repercussions. You wouldn’t be tried and you wouldn’t go to jail. So, the question is this: Would you do it? Would you kill Hitler?”

“Are you taking the piss? Would I kill...