“Can I speak to Candy, please?”
“Candy’s not at her desk right now. Do you want to leave a message?”
I raised my eyes to Chantelle, who could hear the man’s voice. “Will you tell her Michael called, Michael Malone. She knows who I am.”
The man said, “Can I ask what it’s about?”
Chantelle shook her head.
“I’d rather speak to Candy, if that’s okay?”
“No problem,” he said. “I’ll leave a message for her. Can she get you on the number you’re calling from?”
“Yes.”
“Malone, you said?”
“Michael, yes. Is this Eddie I’m speaking to?”
For a moment, a dead weight settled in the air.
“Eddie’s out on a job,” said the voice. “I’ll make sure Candy gets your message.” The line clicked and the dial tone buzzed. There were no good-byes.
“Okay?” Chantelle asked.
I gave her the handset. “I think so, yeah. I get nervous on phones. I’m not very good with them.”
“Then I suggest the Civil War instead.” She dropped a heavy textbook in my lap.
Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle.
It was another two hours before Candy got in touch. I was on my own by then. Chewing a pencil. Restless. Mom was still at work and Chantelle had gone to fetch Josie from school.
“Michael,” she breezed. I could almost smell the mouthwash flowing down the line. “I’ve got a sticky note on my computer screen saying you’re ready to talk to me. Rescued any more huskies lately?”
“No,” I said flatly. And since she’d brought it up, “You got it wrong.”
“Sorry? I got what wrong?”
“The husky wasn’t Freya’s. It belonged to a girl called Rafferty Nolan.”
“Rafferty Nolan?” She recognized the name. “Are you sure?”
“I met her mother today. She showed me a picture of Rafferty with Trace.”
“Rafferty Nolan,” Candy repeated. “That’s very odd.”
“Is it? Why?”
“Eddie said he spoke to a guy who told him Trace belonged to Freya, but given what happened to the Nolan kid, you’d have thought he would have known whose dog it was.”
Which was more or less what Aileen had said. “Do you know who Eddie spoke to?”
“Not offhand. But I could find out. Why?”
“Nothing. Just … wondered.”
There was a three-second pause that seemed like hours. I felt rattled again and almost put the phone down. But she seemed to realize she might lose me and said, “You know about Rafferty, then? You know what happened to her?”
“Yes. Did you do a story?”
“No, but the paper did. I was a cub reporter at the time. They didn’t let me loose on all the juicy stuff. Rafferty Nolan was headline news. Pretty girl. Tragic accident. Grieving parents. Her death kicked off a safety campaign warning kids about the dangers of riding bikes without adequate protection.”
“Some good,” I muttered, remembering what Aileen had said.
“There was a boom in the sale of cycling helmets, if that’s what you mean. Anyway, that’s Rafferty’s story in a nutshell. Unless …”
“What?”
“You know something I don’t?”
Another pause. More awkward than the first. Why did she make me feel so uncomfortable? I said quickly, “I want to read about Rafferty because I helped Trace.” And because I was looking for any kind of link between Rafferty and Freya, though I wasn’t going to tell the Holton Post that.
Candy made a puckering noise with her lips. “Okay, I’ll do you a deal. I’ll get you what I can on Rafferty Nolan as long as you talk about that day on the cliff.”
“Deal,” I said. “Where shall we meet?”
“I don’t mind. What time d’you get out of school?”
“I’m suspended. I can see you at ten tomorrow morning.”
“Suspended? What the heck did you do, wonder boy?”
“It’s … complicated.”
“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me? Has this got anything to do with your interest in Rafferty?”
“Ten,” I said. “At the shelter on Berry Head.”
I spent the rest of that day pretending to work. I wanted to be sure that when Mom looked in, she’d approve of my room being untidy for once. We exchanged a few muted words, mainly about the essay I’d been “writing.” When she left, she kissed the top of my head and said Josie could come in for ten minutes as a reward for my good behavior. I managed to remember to smile and say thank you. Half an hour later, Josie slipped in and arranged herself, pixie-style, on the bed. She was still in her uniform, minus her tie. She opened her bag and spilled some swag. She’d smuggled me a plate of cookies from the kitchen, plus a Mars bar, a comic, and my old iPod. Of less delight was her report on Freya.
“Saw her.”
“And?”
“You know that spot by the science building where that kid got in trouble for skateboarding?”
“Josie, get to the point.”
“She was on the wall there, at lunch. Me and Tirion went and sat near her. Not close enough to cramp her style or anything, but near enough so she could hear us talking.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“Michael, don’t be dumb.” She tossed her hair behind one ear. (What was it about that move that said Boys, as a breed, will never understand us?) “I’d gotten a dragon book out of the library and I pretended to show Tirion pictures from it, going, ‘Aww, look at that one. Dragons are so cool. They make fire in their tonsils, you know.’”
“Tonsils? Dragons don’t have tonsils.”
She waved her hands in the air. “Well, obviously, duh. I was expecting her to butt in and say, ‘No, they don’t.’ I was being clever.”
“So what did she say?”
“Nothing. She sort of huffed, then got up and walked away.”
“Josie, that’s useless.”
“Well, what was I supposed to do? I could hardly just barge in and start asking her to tell me her life story, could I? ‘Hello, I’m Josie from Wikipedia. I’d like to know everything about you, please.’ Anyway, so now I’ve tried your stupid dragon plan. Tomorrow, I’ll tell her you want to go out with her.”
“Eh? What? NO!”
“Look on the bright side. She might say yes.”
“Exactly!”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Michael. You’re not that good-looking.”
“Josie, watch my lips: Do NOT tell Freya I want to go out with her.”
“Why not? She’s bound to tell you everything you want to know, then. You don’t wanna let Garvey beat you to it.”
“Ryan? Why would Ryan want to be with Freya? He hates Freya.”
“Oh, Michael.”
“What?”
“You’re so lame about girls. When a boy disses a girl as much as Ryan disses Freya, it means he secretly likes her. He just wants everyone to think she’s gross before he moves in on her himself, right?”
“If you say so,” I conceded weakly. Ryan and Freya? He’d have better luck in an alligator swamp. I made a mental note that when I got back to school, I would talk to Ryan about Freya. He was bound to dis her as Josie had said, which would make him the perfect guinea pig for testing this “flecking” thing Dad had perfected. I hadn’t had a chance to try it yet. Maybe now, on Josie? I strengthened my gaze.
She immediately said, “Um, what are you doing?”
I lifted my shoulders. “Nothing. Just look at me.”
“You’re staring at my eyes. It’s kinda gross, Michael.”
“I thought I saw something.”
“That would be your dazzling reflection,” she said. “Stop it, will you? You’re freaking me out.”
“Just hold still and look at me,” I tutted. I thought I could see some bright red flecks beginning to sparkle. The tiniest of tiny points of light. A sign of her growing annoyance, perhaps?
“Right,�
�� she huffed. “If you’re going to act weird, I’m going downstairs.”
“No, wait. I thought I saw a fly, that’s all.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said, screwing up her nose. “What’s the matter with you? Stop messing around.”
Definite red flecks. This was working. All I needed now was a positive test.
“Hey, Jose, do you love me?”
She sloped her gaze upward and I almost missed the change. “No,” she said in a grumpy little voice. Like an asteroid belt around a dark planet, a whole ring of green dots flared for a moment. I knew, of course, that Josie was lying. And now I knew green was the color of it.
“Thanks,” I said, grinning.
She scowled at me, hard. “Right. I’m gonna tell Mom that staying in your room too long is making you mental.”
I raised my hands in surrender before she could jump off the bed. “Okay, I was being dumb. I’m sorry. Only sensible questions from now on, promise. Starting with … did you find out about Freya’s operation?”
She held up her middle finger. For one moment, I thought she was telling me what she really thought of her not-so-handsome, slightly “mental” brother. Then I noticed the end of the finger was wrapped in a bandage. “I cut myself for you.”
“Cut yourself? Why?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because it meant I’d get sent to the nurse, stupid. What do nurses know about?”
“Health records.” Smart.
She clasped her hands and pitched her voice high. “Oh, thank goodness, my brother has a brain.”
Yeah, very funny. I knew it had been a mistake for her to be cast as Dorothy in the school production of The Wizard of Oz. “What did she say — the nurse, I mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Josie?!”
“She said she wasn’t allowed to talk about other pupils and had I had my measles vaccination yet?”
I sank into my chair.
“I did try, Michael.”
Big flash of gold. She was telling the truth.
“Josie, time’s up!” Mom called from downstairs.
Josie made monster hands at the door. She shuffled herself to the edge of the bed and put her arms around me. “I know you’re up to something. Don’t do anything dumb without telling me, will you?”
“Course not,” I said. But my lips were sealed, and she left the room no wiser than when she’d entered.
I told Chantelle I had to meet Candy alone. I would cycle there, I said.
She wasn’t happy. “Klimt’s orders are for me to protect you.”
From what? Ghosts? Goths? Overpowering mouthwash?
“It’s just a meeting. I won’t mention UNICORNE or Dad.”
“I should follow you.”
“What for? We’re only going to talk.”
“I’m supposed to look after you.”
“Fine. I’ll have a Coke and a bag of chips next time you come up.”
She rolled out that Gallic scowl she was so good at. “I am not your — how do you say it? — maiden.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is nursemaid,” I said.
She wafted a hand, crossed over to the window, and parted the blinds. She was wearing flat shoes and a plain green dress with a hemline just below the knee. “All right. You can see this journalist woman. But call me if you’re in any kind of trouble. If you’re not home by eleven, I will come to the shelter. Repeat what I said.”
“You’re not my maiden.”
“Not that part.”
“Home by eleven or call.”
“Good. Put your phone on Record.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know what this journalist knows. This is standard practice for UNICORNE agents. We record everything. Just do it, okay?”
So I found the Record app on my phone and set it running from the moment I left the house. Now she could play the whole journey back: everything from opening the garage doors to riding to the shelter and quizzing Candy.
It was quiet on the headland, no walkers about. The wind was chasing in from the sea, tugging at my cap and whistling through the spokes of the bike. I had never been great on a bike and was pleased there was no one to see me wobble.
As I began to climb the hill, I couldn’t help thinking about Rafferty Nolan and what conditions might have been like on the night she’d had her accident. Calm, perhaps, if she’d been pedaling fast. I told myself I wouldn’t want to hurtle down this road. There were potholes everywhere, like mousetraps waiting to snap. Here and there I could see rough boulders and stones jutting out of the grassy shoulder. Which one, I wondered, did Rafferty haunt? Which of these blunt objects had found itself strewn with memorial flowers some three years ago?
My mind switched sideways to Freya. At the same time, I saw a car in the distance, one black speck in a thousand bits of trivia the eye takes in at every moment. I didn’t think anything of it. Instead, I started going over what Josie had said. She was right (as usual). If I wanted sensitive information, there was no better way than to buddy up to Freya. But asking her out was surely not an option. For one thing, I’d never asked any girl out. And Freya wasn’t just any girl. How scary would that be, having her bird’s-nest hair on my shoulder? Or people seeing us holding hands in public? Or —?
Michael.
I heard a voice on the wind. My gaze flashed to the side of the road, where I thought I saw the wispy figure of a girl. But all I knew next was a wall of black. The car was in front of me. A roaring noise of tires and hot metal. There was no dividing line down the road and very little room for more than one vehicle. I didn’t know whether I had wobbled toward the car or it had veered toward me. But in that instant, I knew how a seagull feels when it ventures into the middle of the highway, hoping to snatch a piece of roadkill. The skillful birds know when to fly, until the day they meet the driver who floors the pedal.
There was an impact — of sorts. I heard my bike wheels crumple and grind along the road.
The car and its death thrust passed underneath me.
And I was flying upward, but not like a gull.
I immediately knew it had happened again. That I’d messed with time and changed my reality. But this experience was different from the others. I’d had no chance to think about it, no time to imagine where I wanted to be or the best means to escape a collision. My brain just entered survival mode. For a nanosecond I was in the air, out of my body, hovering, safe. Then I plummeted down, missing the car and landing with a BANG on the potholed road. Then there was stillness, a peace that seemed to last for a thousand years. Until I felt a cool hand pressing on my head and a soft voice whispering, “Michael, come back….”
“Rafferty …” I whispered. And the hand fell away.
And then I woke up.
And there was Chantelle …
… In a uniform, a light blue nurse’s uniform.
“Where am I?” I said. My mouth felt drier than a parched salt lake. I tried to sit up, but every muscle from my shoulder blades up was on fire. I fell back against a stack of pillows, trying to spit a plastic tube from my mouth.
“Easy, easy,” Chantelle said, supporting my head and at the same time calling, “Darcy! He’s awake!” as if I were a monster on Frankenstein’s slab. Feeling trickled back into my arms and legs, and it genuinely felt as if ten thousand volts of electrical charge had passed through my body.
It lives! But it hurts.
“Oh my God, Michael! Oh my God! Oh my God!” Mom came rushing in, skidding like a kitten chasing paper across a slippery floor. She was wearing her outdoor coat and scarf. She clamped my hand (which hurt like crazy) and lifted it to her trembling lips.
“Nice and steady,” said Chantelle, removing the tube. “He’s very weak.”
“You’re … a nurse,” I whispered.
“Of course I am,” she said.
“Chantelle has been looking after you,” said Mom, “while you’ve been …” She squeezed my hand harder.
&nbs
p; Ow! Moth-err.
I was in a hospital room. I could see that now. One chair. A small cart with some dressings and meds. A nightstand with a sprinkling of get-well cards. On the far wall was a small TV. Above the bed, a row of halogen lights was fighting to repel the daytime sun that was slanting in through an open window. In the space beside the window was a painting of a fishing boat. On the masthead of the boat, a gull was perched.
Roadkill.
“The car …” I said. It all came back in a horrible flash.
“Not now,” said Chantelle, lifting me a little and plumping the pillows. “You need to rest.” Across the bed, she said quietly to Mom, “Keep him calm. I’ll go and find one of the medics.”
Despite the pain, I sat myself up a little straighter. “Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart?” Her eyes were filling up. She looked at me as if I’d just been born.
“Is Chantelle …?” I blinked and made sure she was out of the room.
“What?”
“Is she still … our au pair …?”
There was a pause. Mom spluttered with laughter. “Goodness, that must have been some bang on the head. No, darling. Chantelle works here. She’s been at your bedside all week.”
“All week?” I’d been out for a week?
“Shush. You heard her. You’re supposed to stay calm.”
In the pain stakes, not a bad idea. I looked at my hands. One was wrapped in bandages. The other was plum-colored (all varieties), and some kind of plastic thing was taped to my wrist and seemed to be inserted into a vein. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“What for?” She looked puzzled.
“I shouldn’t have gone out. I should have stayed in my room.” I couldn’t remember why, but I was pretty sure I’d broken some sort of curfew.
But Mom didn’t seem to see it like that. Leaning forward, she pushed my hair from my eyes. “You were perfectly entitled to go and meet your friend.”
“Friend? What friend?”
“Slow down,” she said. “Don’t tax your brain. When Josie gets here, she’ll want to claim exclusive rights to that.” She stroked my brow, a little longer than she needed to. “The police want to talk to you.”
“Why? What have I done?”
A Dark Inheritance Page 8
