Laura Jarratt - Skin Deep

‘Yes, I’m rather impressed with that range too. Very high quality and all handmade locally,’ the woman behind the counter answered. She looked up sharply as she noticed me. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for a present,’ I said. ‘Joss stick holders?’

She smiled, the kind of smile a security guard gives you when they’re watching you, and she pointed me to a rack at the back. ‘You’ll also find a wide selection of fragranced sticks,’ she added, sounding like an advert.

I ignored the usual brass holders – boring – and rooted around until I found a painted one Mum would like. Her old one had got broken a few months ago and she’d been sticking incense sticks in a blob of Blu-tack ever since. I picked up two packets of joss sticks to go with the holder.

‘Do you gift-wrap?’ I asked the woman at the counter when I went to pay.

‘Yes, an extra pound if you want curling ribbon and handmade paper.’

‘Yes, please.’ It’d cost me more to buy the stuff myself and I’d probably mess it up.

‘Are they selling well?’ I pointed to the jewellery display as she made curls of silver ribbon with the scissors. How did women know how to do that stuff? I’d cut my finger off or something if I tried that.

She gave me a strange look. ‘Yes.’

‘My mum makes them.’

Her face changed – a smile spread over it. ‘Ah, you’re Karen’s son! She told me about you. Working at the marina, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, just finished for the day.’

‘Are these for your mum?’

‘Yeah, I thought I’d get her something with my first week’s wages.’

She got that cooey expression like the old ladies in the boatyard did when I helped them. ‘No charge for the wrapping then.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper and nodded over at the two women who were now looking at sequined cushions in the corner of the shop. ‘Those two have just spent fifty pounds each on your mum’s work. That’s a nice profit for both of us. Tell her to bring more in on Monday if she has any.’

I couldn’t wait to see Mum’s face when I got back with a present and good news, and I belted back to Strenton. I stopped at the bottom of the hill up to the village to strip my T-shirt off. Summer seemed to be lasting forever this year and the afternoon sun beat down on my shoulders as I powered up the hill, standing up on the pedals for better leverage.

Strenton came into view and I pedalled harder. I whizzed over the crown of the hill and then zoomed down the narrow lane that wound along to the canal cut-off at the bridge.

I saw something move by the hedge in a field to my left.

What the . . .?

Shit!

A flash of orange scudded in front of my wheels.

I swerved the bike across the road away from it, fast as I could. Jammed on the brakes. The tyres hissed on the road and I sailed over the handlebars.

The bike went sideways and I carried on forwards. I hit the road on my side and yelled in pain as bare skin ground against tarmac.

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