Shadow Breakers Page 8

  So I was right.

  I didn’t know.

  But now she’s going to think I did — that I didn’t believe what she said about her mum and dad — and that was why I didn’t want to come home with her. Because she lives there, in the Copper Beeches Children’s Home.

  THE OLD VICARAGE: MONDAY 22:22

  All the twos. The time gleams on my silver watch, beside the bed, as I try to drift into sleep. The coast is never still, not even at night. I can hear the sea washing the bay, shouts carried on the wind from the harbor, even a distant throbbing boom, which is probably the late-night ferry to Brittany.

  I close my eyes and think of the boat, a little glittering city on the water, leaving the harbor, keeping between the flashing lights that mark the safe route and heading out into the cold, blue-black darkness beyond.

  I close my eyes, and the deep, rushing sound is now something else entirely: the intense roaring of a fire.

  I am standing at the edge of a field, and the slim figure of a girl is running toward me in slow motion. Behind her, an entire forest is on fire, a wall of flame, the smoke billowing into the clear sky. I try to focus, my eyes feeling heavy and crunchy.

  The girl skids to a halt, staring at me with big eyes from a smoke-blackened face, her coal-black hair wild and singed. She shakes her head silently and turns as if to run away from me.

  “Stop!” I call, or try to. I have no idea if the words come out, or if they’re torn away by the smoky wind. “Come back! Tell me who you are.”

  She stops, looking over her shoulder. As I approach her, I feel a sense of dread. Why? Surely she’s only a girl, like me. She turns away from me. I can see my own hand reaching out toward her. Nearer, nearer, and nearer still. I am almost touching her shoulder.

  And then she turns back toward me.

  Now, framed by the wild black hair, is an ancient, yellow-skinned face, and it is covered with thick, dark pustules. She opens her mouth, showing stumps of brown teeth, and hisses.

  The shock kicks all the breath from me.

  • • •

  I lie awake in my bed, counting, breathing, letting myself focus on the details of my room. The square of light that is my window slowly tunes itself in. I turn, look at my watch. 22:35. Still dark, the sea still breathing deeply.

  I turn over, eyes wide open, staring at the wall.

  All I want is a quiet life in my new town with Mum and Truffle, trying to forget that Dad’s never going to hug me again, dance with me, pick me up and rub his bristly chin against my cheek the way he used to. To forget that I’ve been torn apart.

  I can’t do this on my own anymore.

  I have to let them help.

  SEAVIEW HOTEL: TUESDAY 16:17

  I’m with Ollie at one of the computer desks. He’s been working through all the data I transferred off the old floppy disks. Lyssa’s doing something up on one of the little platforms. Sounds like she’s sorting out piles of old books.

  Over on the other side of the Datacore, as they call it, Josh and Cal are playing pool again. It’s a game that seems to involve a lot of giggling and hair tossing (her), and a lot of cracking of bad jokes and posing with the cue (him).

  I’m half watching them. He’s helping her line up a shot, and that involves getting behind her, up close, placing his hands on hers.

  It’s time to ask for help, and it occurs to me that I’d rather ask Ollie than the others.

  “What do you know about ‘Ring Around the Rosie’?” I ask him.

  As usual, Ollie doesn’t seem at all surprised to be asked random questions. “It’s a rhyme,” he says. “About the Black Death, apparently.”

  “The Black Death?”

  “There’s no proof or anything, and people claim it’s all made up, but yeah, it’s supposedly about the Black Death. Also known as the Bubonic Plague. From the Middle Ages. The ring is the rash that people broke out in, the posies of flowers were to ward off the Plague, and the ashes, ashes bit is the, well, dropping down dead.” He shrugs. “There’s not meant to be anything to it, though. No evidence there ever was.”

  “Right.”

  “Something you want to share?”

  I shiver, thinking about my dream. About the burning forest and the hissing Shape, the dark-haired girl with yellow, pustuled skin. And all the other things in my head. The burning smell, the sea fog, the heat of fire.

  “It’s just that . . . recently . . . I’ve been . . . hearing it.”

  “Yeah? Hearing it how?”

  I hesitate. “I’m not quite sure I understand what I’m going through here, Ollie. I don’t think anyone can explain it to me.”

  He pauses, then simply nods. “Okay. Oh, Miss Bellini wants to see you, when you’re ready.”

  I’m grateful for his tact. I glance at the giggling pool players, and head up the metal ladder to the Pod.

  I find Miss Bellini looking down at the sprawling technology below.

  “How much did this all cost?” I ask curiously. Then, in case that sounds rude, I go on, “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Miss Bellini chuckles. She doesn’t seem offended. “Very little, at first. And various legal quirks have been used to make sure the place isn’t developed. After all, it suits our purposes to keep it as a ruin.”

  I nod. I can see that. “And all this gear?”

  “There are . . . benefactors,” says Miss Bellini enigmatically. “People sympathetic to our cause, who don’t wish to become directly involved. But we put a lot of it together ourselves.”

  “But what’s it all about, really? I mean, how did it start?”

  She bends toward me, her eyes full of some inner light. “This battle against darkness has been going on for a long, long time in some form. For centuries.”

  “And how do you fit in, Miss B? How did you end up here, a teacher in a dead-end town and running this weird . . . setup?”

  Okay. So I’m feeling bold. But she isn’t really answering my questions.

  “You know,” she says carefully, “we are still fighting a war, Miranda. It may not look like a war to you, and this is only one small, insignificant corner of it, but a war it is. Against forces that want to drag this world into their darkness. Each time, the enemy has a different name, a different face. But you come to recognize it. A child with a gift like yours, especially so. Psychic, intuitive powers are a major weapon in the fight against the darkness.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “You really think I have a gift?”

  “Oh, yes,” she says, and she sounds perfectly serious. “You see things. You know things. For you, it will be confusing at first. A mixture of messages and sensations. Like everything coming through at once. Like you can’t tell, sometimes, if you’ve had a dream, a daydream, or a psychic experience. Am I right?”

  I nod.

  She looks sympathetic. “That will pass. You’ll come to understand it better. To control it, even. And of course, my dear, there may be more you can do. We’re still learning about you, after all.”

  “But it was just luck that I ran into you all, wasn’t it? I mean, just coincidence?”

  Miss Bellini smiles. “Things are rarely just coincidence, Miranda. A network of invisible threads binds this universe together.”

  I’m thinking about my experiences at home. The darkness of my dreams invading the real world, and the song on my iPod that should not have been there. The girl and the burning forest. The Shape.

  I tell Miss Bellini about the strange rhyme, and how I thought I recognized it. I haven’t told her everything yet, about the dreams and so on, but I want to keep something back for myself until I am absolutely sure I can trust everyone.

  “Ollie says it’s from the time of the Black Death,” I say.

  Miss Bellini nods. She doesn’t seem surprised. “Set o
ne thread vibrating,” she says, “and you cause others to shake, and others still, until, somewhere in the web, something snaps, something breaks. And before you know it, the world is out of kilter. And someone has to watch for these vibrations, and know them, and find what causes them. That’s us.” She pauses, as if taking in what I have told her. “Thank you for telling me, Miranda. Now, come here. I’m going to show you how much you know without even realizing it.”

  She pulls on a pair of gloves and beckons me over to her desk. She takes a small silver box out of the drawer. She opens it, and inside there is a little white ball, like a Ping-Pong ball, only smaller. She holds it up between her gloved thumb and forefinger, and places it on the desk. It doesn’t look like plastic — it’s so white and smooth it could be made of marble, or even ice. Beside it, she places three silver cups, the size of grapefruit halves.

  “Just a game,” Miss Bellini says. “An old friend from a fair in New Orleans gave it to me. Look.” And she puts the ball under one of the cups, and slowly starts to move them around the table. After a few seconds, she stops moving them. “Which one?” she says with a smile.

  I don’t hesitate. I’ve been keeping my eye on it all the time. “That one,” I say, indicating the half sphere in the middle.

  “Very good,” says Miss Bellini, and lifts up the hemisphere to show me I am right. “Now — again, only faster.”

  This time, her hands flash across the table more quickly, and although I’m trying my hardest to concentrate and keep my eye on the cup I know the ball is under, it’s just not possible. So when Miss Bellini finishes moving them around, and gestures for me to pick, I know — and I think she knows — that I’m just guessing.

  I point to the one on the left. “That one.”

  Miss Bellini sighs. “Oh, bad luck.” She lifts the hemisphere to show it’s empty, then shows me the ball under the right-hand one. “The speed of the hand, Miranda May, deceives the eye. But . . .” She holds up a finger, smiling in that strange way of hers that makes her eyes crease. “Do it again. Don’t look. Just think. See the ball in your mind. Now.”

  Miss Bellini moves the cups on the desk, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed. I try to do what she asked. Her hands move faster and faster. I think. I think. I think. Then she stops.

  I don’t know why, and it seems totally random, but something is screaming a word inside my head.

  “Left,” I say. “Left!”

  Miss Bellini lifts the left-hand cup.

  The ball is under it.

  I’m astonished, but I try not to show it. I shake my head, gripping the table. “I could . . . just be lucky,” I say.

  “Of course. Very likely. You have a one-in-three chance of getting the right answer by pure luck, as does anyone.” Miss Bellini’s voice is soft and warm. In class, I’ve noticed that she uses the same voice whether she is praising you or telling you off, so you’re never quite sure where you are with her. I think this is part of why her pupils respect her. “So, let’s try again,” she says. “Go.”

  The cups move, clicking and swishing, and after a few seconds Miss Bellini tells me to guess.

  This time, that feeling tells me to go for the one in the center. I point to it. Miss Bellini lifts it up and I’m right.

  I am startled now, my stomach churning with that mixture of excitement and anxiety you get on the first day of school.

  Miss Bellini does the trick again and again. Each time, I think myself into finding the right answer rather than trying to look for it. Most times, I get it right. I’m only wrong once out of about ten turns.

  “Surprised?” says Miss Bellini as she hides the ball under a cup again.

  I nod instinctively, then straightaway I wonder if I should be surprised at all. After everything that’s happened, I should almost have expected it.

  “Well, it’s quite natural in a girl of your age and ability. Over there!” snaps Miss Bellini suddenly, pointing — and I look, startled, out of the glass wall of the Pod. I can’t see anything unusual. “Now tell me,” she says, gesturing to the table. “Tell me which one. Tell me now!”

  “Ummm . . .” I know I’ve lost the sense. I point to the one on the right anyway.

  Miss Bellini sighs and lifts it up. It’s empty.

  “Always be alert to distractions,” she says, lifting the middle hemisphere. It’s also empty. And now she lifts the one on the left — to show that there is no ball under there either.

  I gawk.

  “Expect the unexpected,” says Miss Bellini with a smile.

  “It can’t have just gone. Where did it go?”

  “You may well ask.” Miss Bellini smiles, and taps her nose. “Come back when you have an answer, Miranda. A scientific answer, if you please.”

  I climb back down the ladder. When I reach the bottom I look up to the Pod. Miss Bellini is standing at the window. She has her hands on the glass and her head down, as if she is deep in thought. Either that, or terribly sad about something.

  THE OLD VICARAGE: WEDNESDAY 00:05

  I still can’t sleep. But at least it means I’m not dreaming. It’s really warm for the time of year and I’m lying there with just a sheet on, turning things over in my mind.

  Miss Bellini has told me to expect the unexpected. That’s usually one of those things adults say when they’re not really sure themselves what they mean. But Miss Bellini means it, and she knows what she means, too.

  I can hear Truffle snuffling and gurgling in his room down the landing. He’s going to wake up any minute now, I know it. When I went to bed there was still a light under Mum’s office door. I know not to disturb her when she’s working late.

  Who am I? Where am I going? Before all this, I’d have thought: Is this it, then? Do I just have to plod on through school, exams, university? Get a boyfriend, get married, get a job, get a house, go to work until I die?

  But now there’s something new.

  Something exciting. Something different.

  But I’m still lying here, afraid to sleep again. Afraid that the dream and the Shape may come again . . .

  Truffle’s snuffles have turned to wails. I can hear someone whistling in the street outside. A drunk coming back from the pub, I expect. I think I vaguely know the tune, but I can’t place it.

  Truffle has started to do that desperate hiccuppy crying now. I wonder what does his head in? I feel pretty envious of him. I mean, what a life. Eat, poo, sleep. I’ve seen pictures and videos of me as a baby, and I can’t believe I used to be like that, too.

  But I like to watch the videos, because my dad is on them.

  Some days, I almost forget what his voice used to sound like, even though I remember the words he spoke. Hey, Panda. Give us a hug. How warm his eyes were. How he —

  Hang on. That whistler outside in the street.

  My entire body goes prickly and rigid as the random notes begin to form a tune.

  Ring. Around. The Rosie.

  It’s colder now. I sit up, pull the covers toward me in a sudden, protective movement, as if I have sensed it, felt it before I actually see it.

  Like I knew about the truck on the Esplanade.

  A Pocket. Full. Of Posies.

  And then I see it.

  Just a dark flash, reflected in the mirror of my wardrobe. A long, shimmering stripe of darkness, a hint of a face. The whistling is louder. It’s not outside.

  It’s in my head.

  It’s in my room.

  The Shape is in here with me.

  For a moment, I’m unable to move, weak and shaking. The room swims in front of me and turns dark. There is a swirl of sounds and images around and inside my head: screeching seagulls, sea fog, clanging bells, fire crackling, forests burning, the swishing of an endless bleak sea. The drumming of horses’ hooves. The ravage
d face of the girl.

  I feel a chill, as if the sea fog has reached into the house and taken hold of me, stealing into my nose and mouth. I try to open my mouth and scream, but I can’t.

  I scrabble about for something that’s real. My bedside table, my watch — no, not that. My alarm clock. I pick up the clock and hurl it at the intruder. The clock arcs across the room and smashes against the wardrobe mirror.

  I’m back. Gasping for breath.

  My door thumps open. Light floods the room. Mum’s there, looking frantic, her hair a mess and her glasses pushed up onto her forehead.

  I can see myself in the mirror. I’m shuddering, sitting right in the corner of my room with the duvet pulled up tight. Across the landing, Truffle is screaming now, even louder than I did. I blink against the light and feel myself go cold with sweat.

  “Miranda,” Mum says, “whatever is the matter?”

  There’s only me and her in the room. I can see that now.

  “Nightmare, Mum,” I croak. “Just a bad dream.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” She’s there beside me, stroking my hair and kissing my cheek. “It’s not real. Just put it out of your mind.”

  I’m trembling, and even though I can feel Mum’s comforting arms around me, they don’t keep out this terrifying new world.

  She pulls back, looking at me, taking my face in her hands. “You look so tired. Are you working too hard at school?”

  I shake my head. “No. Really, I’m not. Just . . . I think I’ve got a bit of a cold.”

  “Honey and hot lemon,” says Mum calmly. “These spring colds can sneak up on you. I’ll go and make you some.”

  COPPER BEECHES: WEDNESDAY 16:07

  After school, I make a decision. I’m going to do something to make me forget about dreams and shapes. Something normal. And I need to do it, anyway.

  I walk along the road by the park and easily find the big redbrick house again. I knock at the door, and a red-faced woman answers, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hello, love,” she says, raising her eyebrows.