But I don’t have time to think about why it’s happening, or what it all means. There’s only one question on my mind:
Where the hell am I going to hide an angel?
SEVEN
The answer comes to me on my way home. Or, rather, I come to it: number four, Shona’s flat. The key is still upstairs, in the pocket of my grey jeans, waiting for me to let myself in and water her plants.
Think, Jaya, think. Shona said she’d be in Italy for two weeks. If she left on Monday, then that gives me eleven full days, maybe more if she wasn’t including travel time. I sprint up the final flight of stairs, my chest swelling with excitement. It’s like a sign – a gift from the gods, if there are any, or at least from a hippy and her bonsai tree.
The lights in the hallway are still on when I push the front door to number five open. Dad stomps through from the living room, looking tired and pissed off in equal measures. Oh shit, he knows. How does he know? Can he smell the Being on me? Do they have a smell?
‘Where the hell have you been? It’s half past twelve!’
My face is frozen with shock. Somehow, I manage to mutter an apology. I kick off my very muddy trainers, mentally crossing my fingers that he won’t notice Perry isn’t with me. ‘I just went for a walk.’
‘For three hours? In the rain?’ His eyes flicker over my damp hair, my grass-stained jeans. ‘God, Jaya, look at the state of you. You’d better take a shower before you catch a cold.’
There are times when Dad is so absorbed in his research, I could set myself on fire and he wouldn’t notice, but the whole Concerned Parent act is much more annoying. It’s just so fake. Even in the years before Mum died, he barely paid any attention to us. Not since he started his last job, anyway. Before, when we lived in a wee house in the village and he worked in a music shop, he’d pick us up from school and take us into town to go ice skating, or to Milo’s Diner for peanut-butter milkshakes.
That stopped after he got the job at Tomlinson. After that it was all business trips and conferences, phone calls in the middle of meals, and nights when he wouldn’t come home till ten o’clock. It feels like we stopped being enough for him.
There’s no time to argue with him though. I have to get back to the Being.
‘OK, sorry,’ I say. ‘Won’t happen again.’
I try to push past him, but he puts a hand on my arm. ‘Wait, Jaya – I . . .’
For a second, I’m shocked by how old he looks. His hair has gone from sandy blond to almost entirely grey in the past few months, and time has carved deep lines around his eyes and mouth. He’s only thirty-six, but he looks a good decade older.
‘Look, pet, I’m sorry about earlier,’ he says. I grit my teeth. Why do parents always decide it’s time for a heart to heart at the worst possible moment? ‘I know you weren’t keen on coming here, and I know you must miss home, but I just really, really need to do this. I can’t explain it. I feel like it’s the only thing that gives me any purpose.’
My eyes start to sting. You could try being a dad for once, I think. Maybe that could give you purpose. The words bubble into my mouth, but I swallow them down.
‘I understand,’ I say, though I really, really don’t. ‘I get it. It’s fine.’
‘Thanks, love. Listen, I think I worked out when it’s going to fall.’ He beams. ‘I have to double-check, of course, but I think it’ll be on the 4th of August. Less than two weeks! I’ll have a few things to sort out afterwards, but, if all goes well, we might be able to head home after that.’
That feeling comes back – that weird mixture of exasperation, anger, confusion and pity.
‘Awesome, Dad. Well done.’ I slip under his arm and push our bedroom door open, ignoring the hurt look on his face. ‘I’m going to take a shower. Night.’
Rani is fast asleep, one skinny arm slung over the edge of the top bunk. Leaving the door open a crack for some light, I tiptoe towards the wardrobe and find Shona’s key in the pocket of my jeans. I change into a dry T-shirt and hoody, then stuff my backpack full of clothes and shoes for the Being: leggings, jeans, cardigans, shirts, baggy things to fit over her wings.
When I sneak back into the hallway, I hear the muffled commentary from a news report coming from Dad’s laptop. I creep towards the door, pausing as the floorboards creak beneath my feet, and then slip outside. The street is even busier now. People are spilling out of pubs, singing and giggling and having top-volume arguments about politics or the meaning of the Falls.
I pull my hoody over my head and run down the road, ignoring the shouts of, ‘Where’s the fire, hen?’ and, ‘Run, Forrest, run.’ By the time I arrive back at the ruin, my legs are aching and my chest is tight. My head spins with relief when I see the Being and Perry, still tucked up behind the wall where I left them.
‘I’m back!’ I pant. ‘I’ve found somewhere we can go – somewhere safe.’
For a second I think I see a hint of relief in the Being’s eyes, but I know I’m probably just imagining it. I drop to my knees, rummage through the clothes in my bag and pull out the biggest jumper I can find (an oversized knit that belonged to Mum), a pair of patterned purple leggings and my running shoes. The Being looks at me in total bewilderment.
‘Here, like this.’
She looks perplexed, but folds her wings flat against her back, wincing a little as she bends the right one into her shoulder, and I pull the jumper over her head. Despite being so large, her wings are surprisingly compact: at their smallest, only the tips stick out behind her neck. I take my jacket off and tug it over her arms. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but with the hood up it doesn’t look too suspicious.
Her skin is the real problem. It shimmers in the light, like the smooth inner side of a seashell. If only Emma was here – she has the cosmetic equivalent of a first-aid kit on her person at all times, but I only ever wear eyeliner and the occasional dab of lip gloss. Hopefully people will be hurrying along with their heads down, too busy to take notice of a couple of girls running through the rain.
‘Come on,’ I say, stretching my hands out. ‘We have to go.’
After a long moment’s hesitation, the Being takes them. I pull her to her feet and steer her towards the road.
Somewhere in the darkness, a car screeches to a halt.
The noise makes us both jump. I crouch behind the wall of the ruin, pulling the confused Being after me. A car door opens then slams; faint footsteps move across the tarmac. Two voices, one male and one female, cut through the silence.
‘Where do you think you saw it?’
‘About there – must have been just off the path.’
‘Any chance it’s alive, you think?’
‘Nah, man. Too many rocks up there. It’ll have smashed its head open soon as it landed.’
Two tall figures walk across the car park. They start up the steep path in the opposite direction from us. I wait until their voices have faded away, then slowly move out from behind the ruin. If these people noticed the Fall, others might have too.
We move down the hill, as slowly and quietly as possible, both stumbling a little on the sharp rocks. The Being is still limping, so I slip my arm around her waist and help prop her up. I can feel the mass of her wings, sturdy yet soft, through the fabric of the jacket.
‘You can do this,’ I whisper. ‘Just stay calm.’
Perry runs ahead, stopping every so often to give the Being an encouraging nudge at the ankles. As we reach the pavement, footsteps scuffle on the gravel path high above us.
‘I’m telling you, I saw something!’ The woman’s voice, loud and high-pitched.
‘Must have been a bird, love.’
‘What bird falls that fast, Gordon? Wait, look . . .’ Her voice dips into whispers, then shouts out louder than before. ‘Excuse me, girls! Can we talk to you a second?’