She was like a beacon in the gloom, as we trampled through the undergrowth, and shadows gathered thick and fast, and she didn’t even see them. She didn’t see the remnants of that other world that gather here, the bats and the half-bats and the lizards with fire on their tongues, she didn’t hear how they called to the raksasa to come, come quick because humanity is here.
Why does she see me so clearly? Why does she want to fight? I believe her when she says it, there’s a spark in her eyes, like she’d be happy just to lose herself in all this madness. But why? Is Aoife right? Is she really somehow connected?
‘And the mud?’ Aoife interrupts my thoughts, gesturing at my clothes.
‘We fell into a boggy bit.’
‘A boggy bit,’ she repeats, her lips twitching. ‘Well, I’m glad you were having fun out there.’
My cheeks get hot.
‘You saw her safely away, though?’ Her face grows serious.
‘No, I left her wandering in the darkness.’
‘Bavar!’
‘Yes, I saw her safely away. She’s fine. Also muddy.’ I finish the milk, put my glass by the sink. ‘I need to get changed.’
‘Bavar?’
‘Yes?’ I turn by the door.
‘What’s her name?’
I was kind of hoping not to have to tell them all. I know they’ll make a song and dance about it.
‘Angel,’ I mutter.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Angel.’
Her eyes widen, and the whole house erupts with a chorus of ‘ANGEL, ANGEL! BAVAR HAS FOUND AN ANGEL!’ Every portrait shouts it, all my ancestors bright-eyed with it; they’re insufferable, all the way up the stairs and down the corridor to my bedroom, where, fortunately, there are only paintings of ships.
‘Angel, you have to get up!’
‘It’s Sunday,’ I mutter into my pillow.
It’s Sunday and I’m trying to get nightmares out of my head.
‘And it’s eleven, and so it’s time to get up, young lady.’
There’s a firmness in Mary’s voice that wasn’t there before. Like she knows me better now, since the crumpet-bonding exercise, so she’s allowed to be stern. She’s standing in the doorway, arms folded. She wasn’t that impressed by the state of me when I got in last night; I was lucky to avoid a lecture.
‘Cup of tea?’ I wheedle.
‘Yes, downstairs in five minutes,’ she says, with a glimmer of a smile.
Hmph. I bet Bavar doesn’t have to deal with this kind of thing. I try to imagine what it’s like in that house. If the woods are filled with magical creatures, what sorts of things might live with him there? It’s probably full of strange people: a butler, with horns on his head and hoofs instead of feet; a cook who’s half horse – all of them there at his beck and call . . .
‘Angel!’
No such luck here. I haul myself out of bed, put my jeans and a jumper on, and slither down the stairs. My bones feel exhausted; it’s an effort just to get them to move. Mary hands me a mug of tea.
‘Get some air,’ she says. ‘You look like you need it. Pete’s doing some jobs outside, you can watch him.’ She gives me a sideways look. ‘Or even help . . .’
Too tired to argue, I plonk myself on the doorstep. It’s a bright morning, the air is crisp and it clears my throat, cuts through all the heaviness. Pete nods when he sees me there, with a little smile. He doesn’t say much, does Pete. He’s wearing a hat, to keep the sun off his face, I suppose – though it’s November, so that seems a bit unlikely. He’s painting the fence a brighter shade of white. Maybe he doesn’t want to get the paint on his head. He doesn’t have much in the hair department.
He’s so painstaking. After a while it starts to annoy me a bit. Up, down, neat straight lines, no rush, nothing but white paint, up and down.
‘Want to help?’
I shrug. ‘No?’
He nods and turns back to his work.
Oh for goodness sake.
‘Haven’t got painting clothes.’
‘I have old shirts . . .’
Dad-sized shirts. Oh no. No.
A massive wave, heading in my direction, of Dad. Please no. Not today.
‘Here,’ says Pete, scrambling up and thrusting the brush in my hand. ‘Screw the clothes, just do it.’
I’m too shocked to argue; I just do as I’m told. I paint until my wrist aches, until the cold is biting hard and there’s paint everywhere. On my hands, on my clothes, on the grass, and all over his neat fence, in messy great loops and swirls.
‘So, where did you get to yesterday, on your run?’ Pete breaks in eventually.
I give him a look. He ignores it, keeps on painting.
‘I was in the woods.’
‘The old manor woods?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Strange place. I’m not sure I’d want to go running there alone.’
‘I met a friend there . . . it was OK.’
‘They used to have a lot of parties up there,’ Pete says, halting in his work. ‘I think they were fairly spectacular. Sometimes, when the wind was blowing the right way, you’d hear the music and the chatter, even here. I always wondered what it was like.’
‘You never went?’
‘No! They had people travel in, I don’t know where from. We’d see them occasionally, driving through the High Street in enormous old cars. Very glamorous.’
‘But they don’t do that any more?’
‘Not for a year or so.’ He dips his brush in the paint. ‘It’s good that you have a friend here.’ He hesitates, starts painting again. ‘Don’t forget, you have us too.’
I don’t know what to say to that, so I attack the next fence panel, slapping white paint all over the place, wondering when he’s going to tell me to be careful, or to stop ruining his garden. But he doesn’t. After a while he fetches more tea and biscuits and we sit together on the step. I curl my brittle fingers around the mug and focus on just being here, breathing. Noticing the sky, the birds wheeling overhead. Pete, dunking a biscuit in his tea. Mika, winding around my ankles.
We never had a pet, at home.
‘He likes you.’ Pete smiles.
‘He’s not around much, is he?’
‘He’s a bit feral,’ Pete says. He gives me a meaningful look, as if to say that’s something we have in common.
Well. That’s OK.
I stroke the cat. The cat purrs. And I make a little promise to myself: I’m going to help Bavar. I don’t know what his life is like, in that house. I don’t know why the monsters strike there, or how he’s connected to what happened. I don’t know why he’s so scared of fighting. I just know that he seems more alone than even I am, right now, and so I’m determined. Whether he wants it or not, I’m ready for a fight. I’m ready to face the creatures there who tore my life apart.
Awake. For a moment I don’t know why. I stare into the darkness and listen to silence, and then a screech hits my spine. I scramble out of bed as Sal bursts in.
‘The girl is outside the wall! She’ll come in, Bavar!’
‘The girl?’ I swipe my robe from the chair by the bed, following him into the corridor.
‘Your catalyst! If she gets in, Bavar . . . if it gets a smell of human blood!’
Angel.