Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover

by James Steven Clark

I tense. Every fibre and sinew jams rigid within me.

  I listen as if totally mute, to the low, putrid breathing on the end of the line - the whistling of air, as it’s forcefully sucked into a hollow cavity; a beak.

  ‘You have the book, I know that now. I don’t have to see you to know you are close by.’

  Dark telegraph wires loom ominously above, bowing slightly in the middle. My eyes dart back and forth as I scan the wires for birds. What do I hope to see, a crow with a mobile phone?

  I already know that it is so much more than that.

  ‘You have something in your possession that is too big for your hands to hold. It’s a heavy burden, Shelly...’

  His voice – each syllable - a whole horror movie. A savage fear grips me.

  Despite my recently revealed past, I actually can’t remember what it’s like to have a knife pressed into my chest or a gun pointed at my head, but it must feel like this.

  ‘You know it doesn’t belong to you; to this world. It is not a human-creation and so it has no value to you. Stay at the Church and give it to your brother. It has caused you pain...The pain will pass.’

  ‘It will all pass.’

  As he inhales, there’s a low, dangerous rattle within each lengthy rasp. But, the will to disobey is being soothed away. I can’t say a word. I’m not allowed.

  Directly ahead, on the main road, I hear the distant pitch of a motorbike gaining speed; the echoing wail of throttle. I see no bike, but I know that Elvis is only seconds from view.

  ‘It’s all over, Shelly. Truly, It is. You know this can’t be stopped.’

  His voice is hypnotic.

  Beautiful, deadly poison.

  ‘You’re fighting with everything you have against things you don’t understand, because you weren’t meant to. For me, it’s like watching a fly suffocating in a jar. I’m going to take the lid off for you Shelly. I’m going to set you free from all of this. I’m going to stop you suffocating.’

  The sound of the bike - closer.

  ‘There is not one bead of sweat on my brow, not one moment of panic, nor a note of anger in my voice. The outcome of all of this is pre-determined and assured. One of my many pieces is about to move. Here he comes now. Don’t fight what cannot be stopped…It wouldn’t be a contest.’

  Taking the corner at nearly seventy, Elvis leans into the bend and heads straight for me.

  I wonder if I should beg my brother for mercy. His bike is on me within seconds, as he swerves off the road, onto the pavement, its engine screaming like a thousand-strong Spartan army. He slows-up in a fluid motion staring directly at me, like a hawk unswervingly focused on its prey. He’s clambering off his bike before it even stops, letting it ram into the hard concrete. It’s grinding and spinning round in circles, and before I can even consider any plans of escape, he’s striding resolutely towards me.

  Elvis points at my ruck sack as he passes the entrance to the cemetery. His malevolent grin takes on a sinuous twist as he grabs my throat with one hand, and tugs at the bag. I gasp and then…

  ‘Whack!’

  Without seeing it coming, he crashes sideways on to the road clutching the side of his face.

  Mark looms over him, balling threats at him as he rolls over and away. ‘You evil son of a bitch...’

  Mark angrily baits and chides him.

  Prostrate and still clutching his face, Elvis stabs his foot straight into Mark’s knee, and with a scream, Mark topples to the floor. He’s clearly hurt, and hurt some more, as Elvis elbows him in the head from ground-level. Mark’s nose explodes over the road. Elvis is back on his feet and marching at me.

  ‘Give me that book....’

  Mark swings out and grabs my demented brother by the ankle, just like he grabbed Miriam’s all those years ago. Elvis topples forward with a grunt, landing awkwardly on the edge of the curb.

  ‘Run, Shelly!’ Mark blasts.

  I hit end call, jump the prostrate Elvis, and charge down the road. I hear the commotion behind and pray that Mark can buy some time. I dodge through a gap in the stone wall and into a field, bounding over the grass as the adrenalin kicks-in. I’m halfway across when I hear the roar of a motorbike; throttle pulled and released. I glance over my shoulder to see Elvis slot his hate-machine through the gap.

  I’m three quarters of the way across.

  I can hear the bike accelerate.

  I know there’s a gap in the stone wall ahead and at least a fifteen foot drop on the other side, to the stream below. The path on the other side is too narrow for a bike.

  Twenty feet away.

  But, it’s too late.

  It’s a glancing blow, but it knocks me forward and off my feet.

  I somersault over and end up on my back, Elvis, circling me.

  He points the bike straight and drives at me hard. I roll over and over to avoid him. He kicks me as he passes. I scramble to my feet and leg it the final few feet.

  Elvis turns and stops. He revs the throttle, goading me – giving me a chance to get a little further ahead.

  I make it to the gap and turn to see my deranged brother less than thirty feet away. The route ahead is precarious. The narrowest of worn-earth paths is the only escape route. I vanish behind the wall, as he speeds towards me, expertly turning the bike into the gap and onto the narrow path.

  He looks pleased with his sublime manoeuvre, ready to power after me

  …but I’ve hidden behind the wall.

  I smash him with the full weight of my ruck sack. The briefest of bewildered expressions, fleetingly appears on his face, before he feels my bag, book, and bell clattering into him.

  He loses balance.

  As he falls headlong onto the throttle, the engine roars and he careers to his right along the bough of a tree jutting out from the ledge. He jumps away from the bike as it clatters into branches at the end, both man and machine falling several feet, and smashing into the stream below. I hear a massive grunt and a splash – the sound of air being expelled sharply.

  Taking my chance, I grab what’s left of the snapped handle on my bag, and scamper along the path as I hear my winded brother gasping for breath as he thrashes around in the shallow water.

  The sky ahead of me, hangs dark and grey now, as an immense weather front, hones into view. It’s forbidding, but I’m not in the least bit surprised. I feel such a surge of adrenalin, such a sense of fright, that I ignore the burning in my calves and thighs.

  Astra’s house is only three quarters of a mile away and I reach it in well under ten minutes, my right shoulder aching from dragging my bag by its straps.

  I can taste salt on my tongue and my eyes sting from the sweat. I wipe them with the backs of my hands to make them less blurry. Then, opening the gate, I stride towards the house, heaving heavily and checking left and right to see if I have been followed.

  It’s so dark now, the sky is battleship grey and eerily menacing, and I can feel a change in the air; electrical charges even.

  As I approach Astra’s green front door, the heat-sensitive night-lights flick on. I can hear the ever attentive Meteor, barking inside. I stoop to retrieve the key from under the plant pot. I’m inside in seconds and grabbing the small Yorkshire terrier round its neck, hushing him gently, not wanting to let anyone know I’m here.

  From my crouched position, I push the door closed and survey my surroundings.

  Even Astra’s sun-filled cottage, is experiencing the cold absence of warming light. There’s a sufficient amount to make out my direction, as I tip-toe across the old wooden floor in the kitchen, to her antiquated table. I’m absolutely convinced that Mr Washwater was trying to tell me that I should come round here to see my Aunty.

  On the cracked and gnarled surface, sits a pamphlet. I stop and stare at it – itching to have a look. But, I defer to my feeling of paranoia, firstly glancing anxiously around the room – double checking for movement. And then, my eye catches sight of a photograph I have never seen before. I move
closer and take the white frame in my hands.

  It’s Alan Washwater and Astra Dawson together at an Archaeological dig. Nothing weird there at face-value; but there’s something in their pose - they’re right next to each other, not even holding hands - but something suggests...relationship. I stare at it some more, trying to convince myself that I am seeing things, but, the more I look, the more obvious it becomes.

  The thought flashes across my mind, I wonder if Astra knows my old History teacher is on his deathbed. If this is a secret relationship, I wonder if anyone, in all the commotion, has informed her about Alan.

  Should it be me?

  I take out my mobile with extreme apprehension. It feels like the Crow is actually inside it. It’s tainted; my wet prints leaving condensation on the screen. There’s no reception, so I can’t text her, and this sense that the outside world cannot be contacted, creates more anxiety.

  Astra said in her text that she’d left something for me on the table.

  I look around the kitchen, before quickly peeking out through her windows at the shadows been cast in the half-light. There’s a flash and an instant low rumble of thunder. I see nobody; everything is quiet, apart from ‘happy dog’ panting at my feet, seemingly not bothered by the lightning.

  Would Elvis know I was coming here? I move to the front door and lock it. I then take the pamphlet and examine it by the remaining light of the window, to avoid turning on the reading lamp. It’s no more than eight pages and on the front cover is a depiction of two bells side by side.

  Odd. Coincidence? How did Astra know about this? Astra did give me the book in the first place…Does she know about my bell? Glancing towards the table, I can’t see any note. Just how much does she know about all of this?

  Turning to the first page, I read something about the history of bells. Stuff about how it was believed that by ringing church bells, plague embers would be dispersed; how if you were born within ringing distance of Bow bells in London, you were destined to become a debauched criminal; how in medieval times, bells were rung vociferously during storms to stave off lightning.

  I carry on perusing interesting info before coming to the middle section telling me about the different types of ring and what they signify. A low sounding, but solemn tone eased one’s passage to the next life… I turn to the last page and read this inscription:

  Men's death I tell by doleful knell;

  Lightning and thunder I break asunder;

  On Sabbath all to church I call;

  The sleepy head I rouse from bed;

  The tempest's rage I do assuage;

  When cometh harm, I sound alarm.

  In my bag by the front door, the bell gives one solitary doleful chime. It permeates across the room, sending strange vibrations through me. I have something with great meaning, purpose and above all else, usefulness, in my possession. Meteor starts to growl and I consider that he is feeling the effects of this strange sound too.

  Looking through the window at the blackening sky, I ponder what I have just read, and only begin to tune-out of my reverie when Meteor’s growl increases in volume.

  The bell isn’t ringing. Why is he…?

  He’s snarling.

  It’s then and only then that my eyes are drawn from the sky to a figure standing at Astra’s front gate. I gasp and crouch rapidly, nearly falling.

  No, it can’t be.

  I stay down, shaking with fear.

  No, it simply can’t be.

  I try to rise slowly and peer carefully through any small gap I can muster.

  Astra’s gate rattles as it springs closed.

  My legs are like jelly; I can barely stand.

  I will myself to look out once again, while every warning signal possible, fires wildly in my head. Stay down. Stay down. I take hold of the window sill and hoist myself, wavering like a branch in a storm.

  The figure is motionless, just inside the gate. I duck down.

  ‘What the hell? What the hell is happening?’

  I turn to my bag. Was that all the bell could give me; one solemn ring as a warning?

  Lightning clatters outside.

  The sky looks mottled, like the shell of an old dark tortoise. I rise a little bit higher so that my eyes are in line with the gate post, and watch in absolute horror as the figure strides up the path towards the front door.

  Branches from the ash tree point across the path in front of this slim and dark-haired assailant, a shadow blacks out part of her face, making her grey complexion twisted and grotesque; a face that I have always known.

  She stares from the path straight into the window as I pitifully cower. She knows that I am here.

  Evelyn Parker.

  Dead or alive, ghost or human, has returned to haunt me.

  I slump to the floor, rigid with terror. ‘This can’t be. This can’t be. I let go, I let go.’

  When Buddy disappeared, surely she disappeared too.

  I rub my face over and over. This can’t be true. This is my imagination. This is...

  Footsteps ascend the small wooden set of stairs, onto the patio.

  I freeze.

  Silence.

  Seconds are passing.

  Suddenly, the floorboards creek; she’s moving towards the front door.

  Meteor growls intermittently, finishing each snarl with a feeble, harmless bark.

  The dog can hear her.

  ‘Shh, please be quiet.’

  Only wall, wood and glass separate me from Evelyn. Did I lock it, did I lock the door? I know I did but I can’t think straight.

  The handle turns sharply.

  Meteor jumps at the door mustering every ounce of aggression he can.

  The pause is sickening, and then the door jolts within its frame, as some supernatural force pushes against it with one shove. I scramble across the floor just as a branch from the old ash tree in Astra’s garden clatters against the single pane of glass in her window causing it to crack.

  I scream with fright.

  I’ve given the game away now. I quit trying to retrieve the bag and blunder on all fours into the hallway, as the branch smashes into the window once again sending glass sprawling across the wooden floor. The door stops jerking and I hear the sound of footsteps, this time walking in the direction of the broken window. I turn, looking over my shoulder as the sky lights her upper half.

  She turns and grins at me viciously through the broken panel.

  I scrabble backwards staring at her.

  ‘What the hell are you?’

  I half tumble into the hallway, before righting myself and launching forwards into a half-crawl towards the bathroom door. Behind me, Meteor’s angry barking turns into an anguished squeal. I’m barely inside, when he comes bounding past, skidding into the bathroom.

  There’s a crash from somewhere in the kitchen, the sound of somebody finding their way in. With shaking hands, I slam the bathroom door and slide the old, black bolt across.

  Meteor whines behind me, back pressed against the wall. I shush him once, but I know it’s in vain. I throw myself back in his direction anyway, despite knowing that he offers no protection.

  I wait.

  Sweat drips onto my lips as I inhale deeply.

  I hear the wind blowing through the cottage; it whistles underneath the bathroom door. I glance at the bathroom window. Could I escape? Too small to fit.

  Why hasn’t Evelyn disappeared?

  I barely have time to consider this when the door is forced inwards against its frame. I jump.

  ‘Go away!’ I scream.

  Silence.

  I listen and press tightly against the wall in desperation, as the door bulges inwards once again.

  ‘I don’t want you here anymore. I don’t want you here.’

  With icy fear, the second by second waiting continues. I can’t tell if minutes or only seconds have passed. Time slows drastically. Periodically, the old white-painted door shakes in its frame. On each occasion, I p
repare for the inevitable.

  ‘Go away, go away, go away.’ I whimper feverishly.

  Meteor’s howl is high-pitched and he frantically darts back and forth in the same place with both eyes fixed on the door.

  Buddy went. He vanished. Surely, the ghost of Evelyn is only in my subconscious, like the ghost of my brother; both exorcised at the same point. Then, how is she even here? Is she a real person? Thoughts and images ping back and forth. I close my eyes and frenziedly wish her away.

  Suddenly, the handle drops and the door is pushed, meeting resistance against the slide-bolt. With a creak, the handle slowly creeps back into place.

  I swallow harder than anything imaginable, curling up tightly into a ball.

  Two large knocks.

  I jolt.

  Then,

  ‘Shelly, Shelly, is that you in there?’

  Meteor whoops for joy, recognising his owner’s voice as he bounds away from the wall in the direction of the door.

  ‘Astra.’ I squeak.

  ‘Shelly, are you okay?’ Astra’s pitch rises in concern.

  Standing up is a lot more difficult than I thought it would be and I stagger towards the door. I just about collapse as I get my jelly hands on the deadbolt and slide it back. The door opens and Astra steps inside.

  ‘Oh my goodness....are you alright?’

  She grabs me - recognising my distress – as I peer over her shoulder at the now floodlit hallway. I can’t hold back the stinging tears and I wail into the shoulder of her thick duffel-coat.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling?’

  ‘She was here.’ I blurt out ‘She...was...’

  ‘Who was honey?’ her voice is calming.

  ‘Ev...Ev…elyn.’

  Whether she’s real or not, I’m blurting out her name.

  Astra looks shocked by that name.

  ‘What do you mean, Evelyn? You mean the bully; the one at school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Shivering into Astra, I sense her look up and scan around her immediate surroundings.

  ‘Are you sure, Shelly? I don’t mean to doubt, but you have been through an awful lot now.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw her…come through the gate, she tried to get in through the door…and couldn’t… and then she tried… to get in through the window.’

  I’m hyperventilating.

  ‘The window’s smashed – should have got it double-glazed ages ago – but it’s a branch from my old ash tree that’s caused it. In fact, it’s lying on the kitchen floor.’

  ‘She was here, Astra, I tell you, she was here.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Listen, Shelly.’

  She grabs me, staring intently into my eyes.

  ‘Whether she was here or not, she isn’t now. The door was locked and I saw the plant-pot had been moved and the key had been taken, so I figured that you must have got my text and come back. Anybody trying to climb through the jagged window through there – she points in the direction of the window – ‘is asking to cut themselves into tiny pieces. I promise.’

  Astra takes me back into her arms again as Meteor trots off down the hallway.

  I sob uncontrollably. Do I tell her about Alan? I have to.

  ‘Alan Washwater was poisoned at school today.’

  I wait for her to respond. There’s a brief silence.

  ‘I know’ her voice falters.

  ‘I arrived at the hospital. Eren told me he’d been talking to you. He’d had a seizure, but they managed to stabilise him.’

  I say a grateful prayer in my head.

  ‘Shelly, come through to the kitchen and I’ll make you a cuppa.’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘I know you are my darling. I know.’

  Tears form in her eyes.

  ‘Shelly, if anybody’s here, I’ll hit them with that branch.’

  She gently guides me down the hallway.

  The kitchen light is on and Astra hits the switch on the kettle before grabbing a mop and commencing the clean-up. As the kettle boils and I sit on the chair, with wind billowing at me, I stare anxiously outside the window. My vision is obscured momentarily as Astra walks outside and round to the hole. She scrapes away excess glass with a garden spade, before closing the external shutters. The wind drops within the room substantially.

  The kettle whistles and the boiling water is poured into two mugs with teabags at the bottom. In a swift movement, Astra’s grabbed a flattened cardboard pack and is pinning it against the open space, fastening it with brown masking tape…a process I’m all too familiar with. Meteor wags his tail happily as if nothing of any significance has occurred. Why do dogs have such short memories? I know she was here. The dog knew she was here. She must have heard Astra’s car and legged it. I shiver at the thought.

  ‘Did you find the pamphlet?’

  ‘What? Oh yeah. Thanks.’

  ‘I found it in the same place that I found that book I gave you. Any good?’

  ‘Yeah.'

  ‘Something in there about Church bells? It smells divinely historical.’

  ‘Yeah. Did you find it in the Charity Shop?’

  Astra hands me the warm mug of tea. I sip it, savouring the heat on my lips. Perfect. One sugar, just the way I like it.

  ‘It was in a cupboard in the charity shop’s storeroom.’

  I calm myself for a few moments before something puzzling dawns on me.

  I consider what Astra’s just said. I help out at this charity shop quite frequently. Was it just there? How long has the Carrion Crow been searching for my book when all the time it was just sitting on some random shelf in a Charity shop of all places?

  ‘My book - the big book you gave me - it wasn’t really dusty when I opened it in your garden.’

  She strokes her pointy chin. Astra looks very well for her age; she has a nimble frame and a strong, but pretty face.

  She laughs, ‘Come to think of it...no. I remember thinking this looks antiquated, and yet, untouched, almost new-looking. I was so taken back by its size and then of course, your name on the inside, that I didn’t notice much else.’

  ‘And, this pamphlet, was that there too, but…not at the same time?’

  Astra garners that I am alluding to something.

  ‘I’m not sure, maybe not. Shelly what are you trying to say?’

  ‘I think somebody put my book and this pamphlet there for you to find,’ I hold the tiny tract straight up so she can see it. My hands are shaking.

  Astra has her hands on her hips; her head is tilted slightly to the side and her eyes narrow, thoughtfully.

  ‘Aunty, was this the small storeroom at the back of the charity shop?’

  ‘No, the big one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are two storerooms.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘We can’t possibly store all the donations in that small place.’

  ‘So, where…?’

  ‘Well, sweetie, mum’s the word on this one’ she says with a wink, ‘the charity shop’s main store room isn’t part of the shop itself. The store room is the library in the original old school building. It’s listed – y’know, the one that Harley and Co built. We shouldn’t be using it but with Arthur being in charge of the Archaeological society, he knows a back entrance through Dealdead forest and, er, well...’

  Astra suddenly becomes quite coy, something I have never seen from this outlandish hippy.

  ‘…Well, with me being in a relationship with Alan,’ she glosses over quickly, ‘we decided that some of the older, more valuable donations, could be stored in the old school building, with all the old books that are already there.’

  My eyes widen.

  ‘What old books?’

  Astra shifts uncomfortably, as if she’s being quizzed by a detective.

  She whispers in a hushed tone, bending forward slightly.

  ‘Only Alan knew about all the books, until he confided in me several months ago. You mustn’t tell anybody, but I thin
k they come from that old Printing Press on the hill.’

  I feel the hairs on the back of my neck.

  ‘How... many...books?’

  ‘Oh my goodness – quite a few.’

  ‘Aunty, how many?’

  ‘Oh, tens of thousands maybe…’

  My jaw drops and the silence hangs in the air between us.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Pardon.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Is this the collection of books that the authors had sold their fortunes to salvage? But that doesn’t sit easy with me. Malachi Jacobsfield had something to do with this; I’m sure. He was trying to rebuild the Printing Press.

  ‘Tens of thousands. How come my book stood out amongst them all?’

  ‘Ahhh, now there’s a good question. It was a little confusing. All the old books there are covered in plastic sheets. It’s more of a library than a store room. We have a particular spot for our donations and when I was sorting through, I came across your book. I couldn’t remember ever been given your book as a donation, but it was right there on top of the others in the library. It looked like somebody had taken it straight off the shelf and placed in with our donations on purpose. That’s right. Yeah, I had a wonderful surprise when I opened the front cover and saw your name in it.’

  I puzzle over this.

  ‘And you didn’t see this pamphlet there at the same time?’

  Astra muses, ‘No, come to think of it, maybe it wasn’t there, but nobody would have left it there because, apart from me, there’s only Alan who…’

  ‘…has any keys.’

  Astra’s disposition alters.

  She now looks at me searchingly for answers.

  ‘Shelly, what’s going on?

  ‘I’m not completely sure.’

  ‘Shelly, level with me. Alan was poisoned.’

  I try to think this through.

  ‘Shelly, don’t keep me in the dark. People are acting really different.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You think Alan left the book for me to give to you? How would he know that I would even look inside and see your name?

  ‘Because you love to smell books, especially the smell of history!’

  Astra stops dead.

  ‘Oh!’ she squeaks. ‘Oh…you’re right. Oh my goodness.’

  She takes a seat next to mine and looks at me directly.

  ‘Has this landed Alan in hospital, Shelly?’

  Physically; I’m nodding slowly in response to my Aunty’s question. Mentally, I’m thinking: How on earth did Alan acquire this book in the first place?

  The Stone Angel told me on the hillside that the Carrion Crow had traced The Last, Mass Hysteria of Mankind, but there were only a few other books kicking around. Does the Crow know about all these other books in the old school? Did he find clues in Alan’s classroom? I remember the Crow’s voice on the phone. Nobody I know has a voice like that; not even the Reverend. Is he disguised in human form?

  ‘Aunty does anybody else know about the library?’

  ‘No, no. I don’t think so.’

  ‘And, nobody else has access?’

  ‘Shelly, what’s going on, honey?’

  ‘Somebody suspects Alan for hiding something, they just don’t know where.’

  ‘Hiding what? He hasn’t…’

  The alarm on my Aunty’s wrist watch bleeps.

  She stops her protestations, looks all apologetic, and shakes her head.

  ‘Shelly, it’s time for the quarter peal.’

  ‘What! You’ve got to be kidding. Hasn’t it been cancelled?’

  With all the commotion, I have completely forgotten that tonight’s bell ringing – the Peal - marks two hundred years since the birth of Jacobsfield’s Printing Press.

  ‘Listen, Shelly, I don’t expect you’ll want to come; I know that’s where the death threat was made.’

  She’s thinking quickly.

  ‘Listen, Shelly. St. Harold’s is probably the safest place to be right now; police will be there and…’

  ‘There were no police an hour ago.’

  ‘Really?’ She whispers the final part to herself. ‘…What is going on?’

  ‘Shelly, I want you with me. It will be safer there. At least there’ll be other people around.’

  ‘Have you heard about the Reverend?’

  Astra remains quiet. I can see her chewing this one over.

  ‘Yes, I heard. I don’t think it is anything to worry about. Everyone has their past.’

  ‘But, I mean...’ I stop myself mid-flow.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Look, I don’t think he can be trusted. I think he’s got something to do with the way Elvis has been acting,’ I swallow, ‘…and the things that have happened to Alan.’

  I let that resonate with Astra for a moment, but she’s quite sharp with me in return.

  ‘Look, that newspaper article - let’s just say you have to read between the lines.’

  ‘I saw him whispering to Elvis just after his exclusion, and he was in school when Alan was poisoned. He’s been giving some weird sermons, and paramilitary? Hasn’t that got something to do with terrorist connections?’ I sound quite whiney.

  ‘Listen, Shell. I know he’s a quiet man, and he’s misunderstood, but I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about there. I know there may be a little truth in the article, but that’s still his past. I’m sure he’s a different man, now. He’s a vicar for goodness sake.’

  I sense a lack of conviction in part of her response, and I want desperately to tell her about the scene the Cherub showed me, where the Reverend shoved a man down the stairs, to the words of Goosey, goosey gander.

  ‘Shelly. You know how the press like to sensationalise and I know who wrote that article! Honestly, somebody in their position of power should know better. I’ll give him a piece of my mind when I see him.’

  W.J.

  Those were the initials Dezza saw on the article in the Head’s office - the article slamming somebody on the Island – and the newspaper article I saw at AKM’s earlier.

  Winston Jessobs’ initials.

  ‘Winston Jessobs. Is he coming tonight?’

  ‘I expect every man and his dog is coming tonight, Shelly. Those welcome, and…those not so welcome.’

  Is my Head teacher antagonising or alerting the Islanders? Either way, Dezza vanished at school.

  ‘Shelly, I can call your mum and let her know that you’re coming with me to the Church, if you want?’

  I know that I have a date with destiny. I’m fearful for Astra. I know that I should go to the church, just to be with her; for her even. There’s a low rumble of thunder outside.

  ‘As I say, there’ll be a few people there anyway; strength in numbers; probably one of the safer places to be. I’ll keep any eye on you. Let’s…just…get through this evening…and put this awful day behind us.’

  I realise that I’ve been looking at the floor and contemplating things. I glance up at her, wanting to tell her that I’ll be the one keeping an eye on her. I consider Astra’s vintage car. Somehow, I can’t escape going back to the church tonight. I feel a mixture of anxiety, and yet relief, that one way or another, this will be over tonight.

  My hearse is parked outside, waiting for me.

  And my funeral car for my last ever ride?

  A retro brown, clapped-out, three-wheeled Robin Reliant - my ruck-sack on wheels.

  The irony of my life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Sandman.