John's anxious little scowl deepens. At first, it's just because of the look Mr. Keane gives them, as if he knows something they don't. And then it's because of what he says: that the police wouldn't be of any use. That has to be a lie. Not just any lie, but one of the extra dangerous ones, like 'I was only joking' or 'no one will believe you' — one of the lies that means you need to run, run straight home without looking back.
Except there's nowhere to run to. He doesn't know where home is. And Mr. Keane doesn't ask them to do anything stupid, like follow him somewhere else. He offers to explain, here in the café, where at least someone might do something if they started screaming.
He still doesn't like it. He's cold and miserable, and most of all he's confused, and tired of being confused. He thought making it this far would make everything easier, that someone would look after them in the obvious, sensible way he expected. There's a growing ache in his throat as he realizes it's not working out that way, and that there's nothing he can do to change that.
"That doesn't make sense," he objects, talking over the little voice in his head that reminds him: it doesn't have to. "Why wouldn't the police help us?"
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Except there's nowhere to run to. He doesn't know where home is. And Mr. Keane doesn't ask them to do anything stupid, like follow him somewhere else. He offers to explain, here in the café, where at least someone might do something if they started screaming.
He still doesn't like it. He's cold and miserable, and most of all he's confused, and tired of being confused. He thought making it this far would make everything easier, that someone would look after them in the obvious, sensible way he expected. There's a growing ache in his throat as he realizes it's not working out that way, and that there's nothing he can do to change that.
"That doesn't make sense," he objects, talking over the little voice in his head that reminds him: it doesn't have to. "Why wouldn't the police help us?"