The Crooked Sixpence

by Jennifer Bell

  ‘Dad?’ Her throat was dry and crackly. ‘Can you hear me? It’s Ivy.’

  Her dad whimpered and moved his head slightly. His eyelids fluttered. ‘Ivy?’

  Tears poured down Ivy’s cheeks. She squeezed her dad’s arm, avoiding his damaged hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll get you out of here.’ Then, ‘I love you, Dad; you’re going to be OK, I promise. I love you.’

  She wriggled over to her mum and pushed the hair off her face. Her mum’s skin was warmer than her dad’s, but there was a nasty lump on her head and she didn’t open her eyes. ‘Mum?’ Ivy sniffed. ‘Mum? It’s going to be all right. We’re gonna get out of here.’

  Ivy quickly scanned her surroundings, looking for some fissure in the steel that she could use as a foothold.

  Please, please . . .

  But the walls were as smooth as liquid silver. She felt around in her jeans pocket, remembering the button Violet had given her yesterday. Her hands pulsed with heat as they brushed against it. She held the ivory disc in her palm. It wasn’t going to get them out of there, but Violet had told her that the button restored health, so it might help her parents. She counted the holes in the button’s centre: three. That meant it could be used at least once on each of them.

  Carefully Ivy placed the button in the top pocket of her mum’s tunic. To her relief, her mum stirred almost immediately. Her blue eyes fluttered open, but she seemed unable to speak. Patting her mum on the cheek, Ivy removed the button and put it in her dad’s shirt pocket. She noticed her mum watching, a glazed expression on her face. Ivy’s vision started to blur. She shook her head, but it only made it worse. Her mind felt cloudy, like things were slowing down. Her thoughts wandered out of control, as if she was falling asleep. Slowly – or was it quickly? – the events of the past two days seemed to drift away . . . until all she knew was the cold, dark oblivion of a hole at the end of everything . . .

  ‘Ivy?’

  Ivy. I like that name.

  ‘Ivy? Can you hear me?’

  There it is again.

  ‘Oh, blast. Maybe this thing hasn’t worked. Ivy, it’s Mum. Wake up; come back to me.’

  It sounds familiar . . .

  ‘Ivy, listen to me!’ the voice said sternly. It sounded clearer. ‘Ivy, open your eyes!’

  Ivy blinked. Everything went green. A fuzzy face hovered in front of her: large watery eyes, mousy brown hair, and a mouth that crinkled. ‘Ivy? Sweetie?’

  Ivy knew that the face was important; it meant something to her. She clenched her teeth against the pressure in her head. Somehow she had to remember who this was. She had to.

  Then . . .

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Ivy!’ her mum croaked, louder. She was struggling to push herself upright. There was a pinch of colour in her cheeks, but her shoulders were trembling.

  Ivy’s mind was suddenly washed with clarity, as if she’d just bobbed up onto the surface of the ocean and was heaving in fresh air, the darkness gone.

  The ghoul hole . . .

  The grimp had pushed her into a ghoul hole. Now she remembered why the name was familiar. She had seen a ghoul hole in the underguard station. Scratch had told her about them – they use them for muckers because they disorientate captives and make them lose their memories of their time inside, so that when they leave, it feels like no time has passed at all.

  Ivy had to stop herself forgetting. She looked at her mum and then at her dad, who was stirring. She tried to picture the faces of Seb and Granma Sylvie; of all her friends at school, her favourite teachers. She reminded herself of Valian, of the selkies, the wraithmoth, and the grim-wolf. Shakily she reached for her mum’s hand and tried to help her sit up. They were both trembling and Ivy wasn’t sure she had any strength left.

  ‘Mum!’ She reached over and hugged her. Tears spilled out and soaked into the lapel of her mum’s tunic. She sniffed and pushed her mum back, awash with relief. ‘Mum, I need you to trust me and do what I say. Do you think you can hold this and not let go?’

  She held the uncommon trouser belt out towards her mum.

  The deep worry-lines on her mum’s forehead crinkled, but she did as she was told.

  Ivy smiled as best she could and wriggled over to check on her dad. There was more colour in his cheeks now. She reached for the button in his shirt pocket.

  ‘It’s not there,’ her mum croaked.

  Ivy turned back to face her. ‘What?’

  ‘The button. I saw what you did with it for your father, and when you didn’t come round, I put it in your pocket, hoping it would help.’

  Ivy reached into her own pocket and, sure enough, felt the little button resting inside. As the warmth of her whispering spread through her, the stinging in her eyes disappeared and the pain in her head began to dull. Her legs were feeling strong again. Maybe she could even stand up. The button was working. ‘We’re gonna have to hold Dad between us,’ she told her mum. ‘The belt will do the rest. It’ll work – just don’t let go.’

  Ivy’s mum looked at Ivy. Her eyes were bloodshot and ringed with dark circles, but they were trusting. She nodded, then reached for the belt.

  Ivy shifted over to her dad and, with her mum’s help, pulled him upright.

  ‘Ivy?’ he murmured as they put their arms round him. Ivy clamped her other arm round her mum’s waist. They stank of selkie slime, but Ivy didn’t care. They were her parents. And they were alive.

  ‘Now raise your arms, Mum, if you can.’ She remembered how the belt simply carried you. She should be able to do this, no matter how weak she is.

  They floated up steadily, cold air blowing through their hair. As they approached the top of the shaft, Ivy saw the rotating cage – a whirring haze of grey through the green light. She wondered who or what might be waiting for them behind the bars.

  Suddenly the cage screeched to a halt. A shadow moved behind the bars. Ivy tried to wriggle away from it. ‘Mum, Dad, hang on!’

  A hand shot through one of the gaps and grabbed Ivy by the neck, sucking all the air from her lungs. She recognized the black gloves – the knuckles encrusted with steel studs. A severe but polished face hovered at the other end of them: smooth, pale skin; long straight nose, dark glasses; thin white lips . . .

  Officer Smokehart.

  Emerging from the ghoul hole, Ivy collapsed onto the cold steel floor, her mum and dad falling beside her. Around her were the silvery walls of the tin-can room – the one with all the old monitors and switchboards – only this time, everything looked blurry and distorted. Officer Smokehart’s face floated in front of her eyes. She could hear his voice, but his words were out of sync with his lips.

  ‘. . . no one else here. The boy must have had warning we were coming and got out.’ He was talking to another underguard – the squat, red-faced constable who had arrested Ivy and Seb earlier. ‘Get some transport ready for the adults and prepare two uncommon whistles for use. They will need to have their memories stripped before we take them back to the station.’

  Memories stripped . . . ? Ivy didn’t even want to imagine what that involved. She couldn’t let that happen – this was her mum and dad! Her head was swimming as she searched the room for Seb or Valian. She couldn’t see either of them.

  ‘Sir,’ she heard the constable say, long before she saw the word form on his lips, ‘do you want me to send a featherlight back to the station? Get some help down here to search the rest of the mansion?’

  Smokehart stiffened. ‘No, I’ll do it myself. I don’t want any stone left unturned.’

  Ivy tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. She croaked out two words. ‘What . . . happened . . . ?’

  Smokehart approached almost in slow motion, his dark glasses fixed on her face. ‘You can hear me?’ He sounded surprised. Ivy managed a nod.

  ‘In that case,’ he hissed, ‘let me enlighten you.’ He crouched down till he was level with her and curled his lip into a snarl. ‘After you and your brother escaped from the coach, I suspec
ted you might meet up with Valian Kaye again, so I tracked him down. I found the three of you by that fountain. I had a hunch you’d lead me somewhere interesting, but when you opened the gates to the Wrench Mansion, I couldn’t quite believe it. I snuck in behind you and, once you were up the hill and out of sight, I opened the gate again to let my constable through.’

  Ivy frowned, even though it hurt. She wondered how Smokehart had come through behind them. She hadn’t seen anything.

  He must have read her expression because he smiled and slowly lowered his dark glasses.

  Ivy recoiled.

  Smokehart’s eye sockets were empty – or, no; not quite. There was a swirling cone of black dust in each of them, drilling back into his skull. Looking at them, Ivy felt cold despair. ‘I’m dead,’ Smokehart said matter-of-factly. ‘One of the Eyre Folk, to be specific. We make excellent underguards. Strong, fast and, like many of the dead, we can disappear. So you wouldn’t have seen me strolling through the gate behind you and waiting in the darkness.’

  A chill slid down Ivy’s spine. She should have guessed.

  ‘In the mansion a trail of animal tracks led us to a door in the basement,’ Smokehart continued. ‘We realized it was uncommon when it opened into a different room every time. This place was the first that held any interest.’

  Ivy wondered if Seb and Valian had survived the fight with the wraithmoths and selkies in the whispering hall. Smokehart couldn’t have found it yet.

  She turned to her parents. Her mum was slumped against the wall, her head tilted to one side. Ivy wasn’t sure if she was unconscious, but her eyes were closed and her body was still. Her dad was moving feebly, trying to sit up.

  ‘My parents,’ Ivy wheezed, in a small voice. ‘Are you going to help them?’

  Officer Smokehart drew closer: Ivy could feel his cold, dead breath against her cheek. He shot a glance at the constable, checking he was otherwise occupied. ‘Oh, don’t worry about your parents, Ivy Wrench. I intend to keep them nice and snug back at the underguard station. And as soon as you and your brother are locked away beside them, I might even consider releasing your mucker mother. If you try and escape again, though . . . Well, let’s just say I don’t think your parents will fare too well against some of our more . . . interesting inmates.’

  ‘What?’ Ivy realized that there was no point in trying to explain about the uncommon alarm clock.

  ‘Constable?’ Officer Smokehart called. ‘Are you ready with the transport?’

  The constable was busy pulling two pieces of folded grey plastic out of his tool belt. ‘Almost there, sir.’

  Smokehart turned towards the uncommon door, which was propped open with a bucket. Through it, Ivy caught a glimpse of some dark room in the Wrench Mansion.

  He sighed with pleasure. ‘That house has been out of my reach for over forty years, but not any longer. Everything that happened to the Wrenches on Twelfth Night 1969 will soon become clear: how they disappeared, where they ended up, what their real motives and identities were. No more mystery. No more lies. The truth will be revealed, order will be restored and the law will finally be upheld.’

  Ivy turned away. Smokehart had no idea of the real truth . . .

  Something glittered at the corner of Ivy’s eye. She turned to find a feather bobbing in the air, scrawling a message in front of the constable. ‘Uh, sir, Lady Selena Grimes is asking what we found down here. She wants to know if there’s anything to report and whether she should be concerned for traders’ safety?’ He looked at Ivy and her parents nervously.

  ‘Tell her we have found one of the runaways in very incriminating circumstances and we are taking her and her parents back to the station immediately. Everything is under control.’

  The constable nodded enthusiastically and began writing a reply.

  Ivy gritted her teeth, wishing she could tell Smokehart the truth. Selena Grimes is Wolfsbane. She is a member of the Dirge!

  Ivy remembered the respectful way Smokehart had acted around Selena Grimes – bowing to her orders, scared of contradicting her. She had fooled him, just like she had fooled everyone else. As Quartermaster of the Dead End, Selena Grimes had the whole of Lundinor wrapped around her little finger. Ivy wondered, with a shiver, if any of the other Dirge members had taken important positions.

  Officer Smokehart grabbed her arm with his gloved hand, tightening his fingers. ‘No paperclip for you this time. I’ll keep hold of you; that way I can be certain you won’t escape.’ With his other hand, he pointed to Ivy’s parents. ‘Get them bagged up now!’

  Ivy reached for her dad, who was trying to sit up beside her. ‘Dad!’ she screamed. ‘Dad!’

  ‘Ivy?’ he murmured. ‘Is that you?’

  The constable stepped forward; he was holding a large brass whistle on a gold chain. He bent down next to Ivy’s dad and quickly blew the thing in his ear. It made no sound at all, but Ivy’s dad went very still. His eyes began to glaze over.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ Ivy croaked frantically. She tried to pull herself free, but Smokehart yanked back so hard she thought her arm might be ripped out of its socket.

  ‘Make sure you erase everything from the last two days,’ Officer Smokehart ordered. ‘I don’t want a single memory escaping, even from the uncommon father. It is our duty to protect all uncommon secrets.’

  After counting for a moment, the constable hurried round to Ivy’s dad’s other ear and repeated the procedure. Ivy’s dad slowly closed his eyes, as if drifting off into a pleasant sleep. The officer used the whistle in exactly the same way on Ivy’s mum, before unfolding two pieces of grey plastic sheeting. There was a zip down the middle of each and the words BODY BAG printed on the side. He dragged Ivy’s mum onto the first.

  Ivy watched in horror: her mum’s body was quite limp. Maybe she should have left Violet’s button in her mum’s pocket for longer; the healing effects seemed to be wearing off.

  Once the constable had zipped the bag over Ivy’s mum’s head, the material went flat as her body disappeared. While he started to move Ivy’s dad, Smokehart pointed at the uncommon door.

  ‘Make sure you keep that propped open,’ he reminded his constable. ‘I don’t want to spend another five hours trying to get back here.’

  Ivy’s head felt fuzzy again. Five hours? Wait . . . ‘What time is it?’ she asked. She pictured the hands of the uncommon alarm clock counting down to midnight, when her parents were going to die. She could see the words of the Dirge, written by that black feather: The clock is ticking.

  ‘Just past eleven,’ Smokehart said curtly. ‘So by my calculations you’ve got a little under an hour in the cell till midnight and then’ – he grinned – ‘Happy New Year.’

  Ivy started. ‘New Year . . . ?’

  A smile creased Smokehart’s lips. ‘Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t realized.’ He looked around the room, over at the ghoul hole and then back to Ivy. ‘You’ve been stuck in that ghoul hole for over four hours.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  No . . .

  No, this can’t be happening.

  Ivy stumbled along at Smokehart’s side as he dragged her through the gates. He was holding both her wrists together with just one of his strong hands. Now that she knew he was dead, she was no longer surprised that he seemed like a robot.

  She heard the gates clang shut behind her as she stumbled out into a shadowy street in some other part of Lundinor. The place was bustling with underguards. Several constables were scraping samples of cement from the brick wall. One sergeant had bagged up a handful of leaves from the fountain basin, while another was experimentally prodding the metal surround.

  Ivy tried to ignore the pain – though her body hurt all over. It’s almost midnight, she reminded herself, her stomach turning over. There’s no time left.

  Ragwort and Selena Grimes were still out there, and in under an hour Ivy’s parents would be dead if she didn’t do something. She couldn’t assume that Seb or Valian had escaped. It was up to her now.<
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  Smokehart tugged her into the street. Getting away from him was the only way to save everyone.

  He must have a weakness, Ivy thought. Everyone has a weakness.

  A few underguards spoke to Smokehart as they passed by.

  ‘Congratulations, sir,’ one of them said, straightening. ‘I can’t wait to read your report on Twelfth Night.’

  Smokehart paused to reply, still holding Ivy in his crushing grasp.

  ‘As I have said all along, the key to the whole mystery is what happened in the mansion that night – that’s the evidence we’ve been lacking all these years.’

  Smokehart’s words triggered a thought in Ivy’s head.

  What happened in the house on Twelfth Night . . .

  Ivy knew some of that already. Violet Eyelet had been there that evening, dropping off the objects she’d scouted for the Wrenches. Ivy wondered if there were any clues hiding in the details of Violet’s story; clues she’d previously missed.

  All at once a deafening siren went off. Ivy couldn’t tell where the noise was coming from, but it was almost as loud as a selkie.

  ‘Not now,’ Smokehart groaned.

  ‘Sir!’ one of the underguards cried. ‘That’s Mr Punch’s alarm. We need to go to the Market Cross immediately. It’s the law – even for underguards.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he grumbled. He raised his voice as he turned to the other underguards. ‘Make sure you leave everything where it is. I don’t want any evidence tampered with.’ He glared at Ivy. ‘You stay with me. Remember: I have your parents.’

  In a matter of seconds the pavement was heaving with uncommoners. Smokehart shouted at them to let him through and, on the whole, they obeyed. Still, Ivy knew that this was her best chance to break away. She just needed to get away from Smokehart’s iron grip.

  The crowd gathered at a T-junction as everyone turned onto the Gauntlet. Smokehart was jostled, and his fingers tensed around Ivy’s wrist. She noticed tiny crimson spots spreading over the pale skin of his neck. It had happened several times before, but Ivy had no idea what it meant. Farrow’s Guide had mentioned something about Smokehart’s race, the Eyre Folk. If only she could remember . . .