by Sally Green
“I’m guessing it won’t be this Tuesday from the size of the puzzle.”
“You never know, Ivan. Our Trev is a genius. He might be having his ’reeka moment right now. You just check every week and one Tuesday it’ll be there.”
“And money?”
Jim’s face sours so much that his mouth puckers and seems unable to form words for a few seconds before he shakes it off to say, “He says he’ll discuss things with you and only you.” Jim wipes his nose with his fingers and then rubs them on his trousers.
* * *
The first week I don’t expect anything to appear on the locker. I’ve got a decent stash of money now and I can’t face stealing any more. I buy some new boots and clothes. I keep training. A hundred push-ups are easy now. But I need to get out of the city. I’ve not seen any Hunters, and I’m moving around every night to sleep in a different doorway, but I’m on edge all the time. I decide that after I check the locker on the following Tuesday I’ll go to Wales or maybe Scotland, somewhere remote, and come back the following Monday.
But the next Tuesday I find an envelope on top of the locker. I walk away slowly, looking around. A young boy no more than five years old is holding his mother’s hand and staring at me. I freeze and look around again and then clock him again. He is still staring at me. I don’t know why, but I run.
I’ve been way too complacent. But even if they aren’t tracking me—and I’m beginning to believe that they aren’t—then they are looking for me. They could get lucky and see me wandering around the streets. They underestimated me and I escaped, but I mustn’t underestimate the Hunters. As Mary said, “The clue is in the name.”
In the envelope there is a train ticket and a note. With a bit of help I discover that the ticket is for tomorrow, leaving at six a.m. The journey to Liverpool can’t be more than a few hours, so it will leave me time to find my way to the meeting point which is indicated on the note:
11 o’clock
42 Mill Hill Lane
Liverpool is a place with few witches, because there’s a gang of fains there that are on to them and don’t like them one bit. Gran told me White Witches try never to go there because there’s a sort of agreement: the Scouse fains won’t out the witches as long as the witches keep away from Liverpool.
I tell myself that this is a good plan. Jim is looking after me, sending me to a place with no White Witches, no Hunters, but later in the day I get jittery and can’t keep still. It bothers me that this is a change to the plan. Jim never mentioned train tickets. He only ever talked about instructions.
I’m walking back to Cobalt Alley. I think Bob will have left weeks ago—I hope so, but something makes me want to check. If the train ticket is because the Hunters are on to Bob—or worse, if they have captured him—I want to know.
Before I reach my previous vantage point across from the Council building I can see that something is happening in the alley so I keep moving slowly along the opposite side of the road. There’s a large white van parked outside Bob’s place and another vehicle to the far side of it that I can’t quite see, but I think it’s the same 4x4 that came to Scotland for me. I risk one last look and see a man come out of Bob’s door holding a painting. The man is Clay.
* * *
I don’t sleep that night. I go to the train station only a few minutes before the train is due to leave and find my reserved seat.
The carriage is less than half full; it’s an early train. I try to see each person’s eyes as they come past me. I see no Hunters.
I’m dog-tired and doze on the journey. There’s a judder and an announcement. We are arriving in Liverpool.
* * *
It’s 11:15 and Mill Hill Lane feels increasingly unwelcoming with every minute that passes. The street is empty of people. Number 42 is a derelict house in a terrace of derelict houses. Broken glass and graffiti seem to be the norm, but inside it’s relatively untouched: the floorboards are bare and the only broken window is the one I broke to get in.
I’ve stashed my rucksack in a back alley half a mile away. My passports and money are in the zipped pockets of my jacket. I am wearing an Arab scarf and sunglasses, though it’s not sunny. Fingerless gloves are more practical than ordinary gloves and they hide the tattoo and the scars on my hand, but not the tattoos on my finger, which I’ve taped over.
I tell myself that at the first sign of anything odd I’ll go. But I’m kidding myself; the whole thing is odd, and I need to see Trev.
I’m standing upstairs looking up the street when Trev turns the far corner, walking quickly and carrying a thin plastic shopping bag. I stay still, a little back from the window, and watch. There’s a kid on a bike at the far end of the street, and he’s watching Trev too.
I go downstairs as Trev comes to the front door and I pull him inside, telling him that this is not a good place to meet.
“I normally leave all the directions to Jim. That’s what he’s good at.” Trev looks out of the window and then back at me. “Jim’s gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Abroad, I think . . . I hope. I don’t think the Council got him, but they’re on to us. That’s why I moved up here. Jim told me that even Hunters don’t like coming here.”
I don’t tell him about seeing Clay at Bob’s place but ask, “Are you going abroad too, Trev?”
He tries to smile but looks sick as he pats his breast pocket. “Got the tickets and I’m off this evening.”
“Good. And what about me?”
“Ah yes, glad you asked. The tattoos on your little finger are the clue. As soon as I saw them I had an idea what they were up to. You see, the three little tattoos mirror the tattoos on your body. The one by your nail reflects the one on your neck, the middle one is the one on your hand, and the lower one the tattoo on your ankle. They planned to make some sort of witch’s bottle.”
I look at my finger.
“Witch’s bottles are extremely hard to control. I think they’re working on a sophisticated version. A very sophisticated version. So instead of putting some of your hair or skin or blood in the bottle, I think they were going to amputate your finger and use that. They would probably cut your finger into the three sections and make three witch’s bottles. They would do something to the tattoo on your finger and you would feel it, suffer the pain, on the larger tattoo on your neck, hand, or ankle.”
“To force me to do things for them?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering. Not sure how it would work. They could inflict so much pain you’d want to comply.”
“Comply or die.”
“Comply or suffer. Suffering is their speciality.”
“But they could use it to kill me?”
“Well, yes.”
I rip the tape off my finger and look at the three tiny tattoos. They all go through to the bone. I take out my penknife and prick the tattoo by my nail, wondering if I will feel anything in my neck.
“Nothing?” Trev asks.
I shake my head.
“It has to be in a bottle, with the correct spell.”
“How soon would they have amputated?”
“I would think they would want to check the tattoos were deep and had healed fully. A few days, no more than a week. Then they would test it. And, of course, if it didn’t quite work, you’ve got nine other fingers.”
“They could still do it? I mean if they caught me, chopped off my finger?”
“Oh, yes. It’s permanent. A permanent problem. You can’t remove them.”
“I thought they were some sort of brand or a tracking device.”
“They aren’t for tracking,” Trev says. “But, yes, they are a brand. I think that the tattoo will show whatever you become . . . I mean if you have the Gift to transform, the brand will still be there.”
“And there’s definitely no way to remove th
em?”
“You could cut off your leg and your finger, but you’d still be left with the problem of your neck.”
There’s shouting from outside. Fains.
Trev glances to the window and pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and stuffs it in my hand. “How to get to Mercury is on there.”
I push the paper deep into my pocket saying, “Thank you, Trev. Thank you for everything.”
Trev holds the shopping bag out to me, saying, “These are all your skin and bone samples. You must destroy them. Burn them. If the Council get them they could make a witch’s bottle with them. A crude one . . . but still.”
I peer into the bag. There are the plastic dishes with bits of blood in them.
He adds, “Just so there’s no doubt. Ever. From anyone . . . that I kept anything of you.”
I think he’s worried about my father.
Glass smashes in the room above.
We drop low and freeze.
Another smash . . . but farther away, from a different house. Shouts.
I peer out the window.
“Shit!” I duck down and tell Trev, “Hunters.”
I raise my head again to look. A Hunter is walking down the street, and there’s a gang of three fains throwing stones at her. She doesn’t look that bothered. They only work in pairs, though, so there’ll be another in the backstreets somewhere.
I drop down again, saying, “We’ve got to go.”
We run to the back of the house. The door is locked and bolted. The bolts won’t budge. I smash the window with my elbow and kick through the glass and we’re climbing out. At the back wall I give Trev a lift over the gate, which is nailed shut, and I scramble after him, looking left and right at the top.
Nothing. No one.
We run.
A few roads away we slow down, though I keep checking behind.
Trev looks like he’s going to be sick. He’s beyond caring what I owe him, so I give him most of my cash and say, “Thanks, Trev. If you ever need anything . . . I mean . . . you know . . .”
We shake hands and he leaves in one direction and I go in the other.
I feel for the piece of paper in my pocket. It’s still there.
Then I realize I haven’t got the plastic bag.
I can hardly believe that I have been that stupid, but I have. I’m sure I didn’t drop it. I think I put it down when I was giving Trev a lift over the wall.
Hunters
I could leave without the plastic bag, hope that it just looks like rubbish, but . . . but, but, but. Never underestimate the enemy. If White Witches get that stuff, the bits of me, they won’t need my finger; they might be able to make a witch’s bottle with my skin and blood and bone.
I retrace my steps to the house. There’s no plastic bag in the alley, in the backyard of the house or in the house itself. There is no sign of the Hunters either.
Shit!
From the front room of the house I can see both ways up the street. It’s empty. I sit on the floor to try to work out my next move.
The Hunters were on to Bob, and now Jim and Trev, but I’m not being tracked. If they knew that I was here there’d be twenty Hunters, not two. They probably don’t know what’s in the bag, but they might know that Trev had been carrying it.
There’s shouting outside. I scramble over to the window to peer out, and duck down a second later to get my breath and to get my head into gear. The Hunter is back, as are the three stone-throwing fains. The Hunter is carrying the plastic shopping bag. She must still be looking for Trev.
I scoot upstairs to get a better view of the Hunter. She’s slim and tall and picking up stones to throw back.
“She a friend of yours?”
I turn round.
A big girl in a hoodie is standing at the back of the room.
“No, but she will have a friend. She won’t be alone. There’s bound—”
“Her mate’s around the back. Seen her already.” The girl folds her arms and looks me up and down. “I thought you were one of them, but you’re different. What are you?”
“Different.”
“Well, I don’t like them and I don’t like you.”
The shouting has stopped and I turn back to the window. One of the fains is on the ground, flat out, unconscious or dead. The big girl is next to me, and she’s looking too.
“Is she here because of you?”
I’m looking at the Hunter. She’s backed up to the house opposite and whistling a signal for her partner.
“No.” That is technically true, as I think they must have been following Trev. “Look, I’m leaving . . . soon. I just need to get that plastic bag back.”
“So, it is you they’re after? Should I give you to them?”
I keep watching the Hunter, and I grin but don’t turn round. “You could try.”
The other Hunter appears and more stones are thrown.
I shake my head. “Throwing stones won’t get rid of them.”
“My brother’s on his way. He’s got a gun.”
“They’ve got guns.”
The fain lad is lying in the street, not moving. I say, “Do you think you should call an ambulance for your friend?”
“If I thought it’d turn up I might.”
Two more fains have appeared, but they are all hanging back. Both Hunters are standing close to the kid on the ground. They actually look quite nervous. They won’t want a lot of fain attention. If anyone gets a phone out to film them, they’ll be out of there. I can’t let them run off with my stuff.
I pull my scarf on tight and am out of the front door in seconds. I grab two bricks as I march toward the Hunters. The Hunters are by the prone fain. I hope I look like his pissed-off friend.
“What’ve you done to my mate?” I add a few swear words.
The Hunters stand still, watching me, like they can’t believe I’m going to do anything serious. But I keep on coming. The farthest one pulls her gun and I speed up as she shouts, “Stop!”
As if that’s going to stop me.
I hit the first one with a brick on the side of her face and use her body to shield me as I charge the other one.
A shot, another, and then I’m kicking the gun out of her hand and it’s sliding across the road. The bricked Hunter is out of it on the ground. I’m in a crouch. The other Hunter is too, and now she has a knife in her hand.
It’s only now that I realize how good Celia is. This girl is a Hunter, a top fighter, but she seems slow, and I can read what she’s going to do, easy. I get the knife out of her hand on my second move.
I don’t stab her but break both her arms, like Celia has taught me. I’ve got her on the ground, my knee in her back and could break her neck easy enough. I pull her head round. I hate Hunters. I’m breathing hard, but her hair is silky in my hands and I don’t want to kill anyone.
“Nice moves!” The big girl is holding the plastic shopping bag in one hand and the gun in the other. She’s pointing the gun at me.
I stand, arms out in surrender. There are fains all around me, and none of them look friendly. “They’re yours.” I nudge the Hunter on the floor with the toe of my boot and glance over at the other one who’s still unconscious.
There’s two fains bent over the lad who’s sitting up now with a cut on his forehead. There are seven fains around me, ranging from a skinny teenage kid to two big, tattooed blokes. Another is coming up the road with two white bull terriers straining at their leads. The girl’s brother with his gun is probably not far away.
“That’s my stuff.” I nod at the plastic bag.
She hesitates but holds the bag out to me. “You’ve no reason to stay, no reason to come back.”
I take the bag, saying, “Not now.”
I wonder what will happen to the Hunters, but I’ll leave that up to th
e fains. I have to push past the gang that have gathered round. I head in the opposite direction to the lad with the dogs, walking fast and then breaking into a jog.
I don’t stop until I get back to the train station. That’s where I’d left Nikita.
Arran
Nikita had been watching Bob’s place when Clay was there. She saw me and followed me. I didn’t notice her until she was standing in front of me. I bought her a hot chocolate.
Nikita’s real name is Ellen. Her eyes are amazing, like a sea, a clear, turquoise sea, currents of blue and green moving through them. She’s a Half Blood. Her mother was a White Witch and her father is a fain. Since her mother died, Ellen has been outside the witch community and pretty much ostracized by them. Her nearest relative on the witch side is her grandmother, who pretends she doesn’t exist. She lives with her father in London and says she goes to school “half the time.” She also says she’s sixteen, but I’m not sure, she looks younger.
She told me that Jim went to France and that she wanted to go with him but he said no. I told her a bit about myself. And about Arran, Deborah, and Gran, and Annalise. She agreed to help me get a message to Arran.
* * *
Ellen is waiting for me as we agreed. While I was meeting Trev she has searched the internet for information about Arran. There isn’t much, but his old school website has a small article about him winning a prize and going on to study medicine at Cambridge. We get the first train out of Liverpool that’s heading in that direction. It’s late by the time we arrive in Cambridge, and I tell Ellen she has to stay in a B&B for the night. She doesn’t look too happy when she realizes I’ll be sleeping rough, but the good thing about Ellen is that she quickly gets that there are some arguments she’s not going to win.
The next morning we meet up at nine. The B&B landlady has given Ellen a leaflet about Cambridge and a small map. Ellen says she’s going to suss the college out and see how many Hunters are around. She’s convinced there will be some watching Arran. We agree to meet up again in the evening.
