Her eyes narrowed as she took in the two of them on the sofa.
“You,” she barked at Tristan. “Help me with the groceries.”
***
“…I just don’t think it’s the right time … No, I think you’re being selfish … Do you have any idea what she’s been through? … Don’t you dare turn up here! You can’t just force your way into— No, I don’t care that she contacted you before; things are different now … She is not old enough to make that sort of decision, she’s only fifteen!”
Dylan hovered in her wheelchair outside Joan’s bedroom, listening to her mother hissing quietly into the phone. It wasn’t hard to work out who she was speaking to.
James Miller. Dylan’s dad. The man Dylan had been heading up to see in Aberdeen when she was in the train crash that took her life… then gave it back again. She remembered how she felt when she got on the train; nerves and excitement had been champagne in her blood. What would he be like? What would they do together? Would Dylan be able to see echoes of her face in his?
She hadn’t gotten any answers that day. Instead, fate had sent her on a completely different adventure – one that had taken her to Tristan, so she couldn’t regret it, not even for a moment. Now, several days after her return home from the hospital, she was left feeling… a sense of loss at not having reached her dad that day. She’d fought hard to get so far on the journey to meeting her dad, had to work to break down the barriers Joan had thrown in her way, and she needed to finish what she’d started.
Seized by a sudden rush of determination, she wheeled her chair into Joan’s room, bashing the half-open door out of her way with her plaster-clad foot.
“Dylan!” Joan jolted out of a reverie where she sat on the bed.
“Who was that?”
“What?” Joan blinked, blindsided.
“Who was that on the phone?”
Her mother cradled the phone to her chest. “Just a friend from work.”
“Liar!” Dylan used her hands to shove the chair further into the bedroom, cursing as she scraped the knuckles of her left hand against the doorframe.
“I beg your pardon?” Standing, Joan braced herself. “Just who do you think you’re talking to, young lady?” She shifted her narrowed gaze over Dylan’s shoulder. “Where’s Tristan?” Joan avoided saying Tristan’s name as much as possible – in the same way that she did her best to avoid looking at him or speaking to him – and she spat it out now.
“He’s in the living room, watching the telly.”
“He’s supposed to be helping you, that’s why he’s here, staying under my roof.”
That was another dig Joan had never failed to get in during these first few days. He’s staying under my roof. He’s eating my food. And, the one that somehow angered Dylan the most, I put the clothes on his back. Her snide little comments never failed to rile Dylan, but this time she refused to be side-tracked.
“You were talking to my dad, weren’t you?”
“Dylan—”
“Tell me. I know it was him!”
Backed into a corner, Joan came out fighting. “And if it was?”
“What did he say? Why was he calling?” Dylan leaned forward hopefully. “Does he still want me to come up and visit?”
“As if you’re in any fit state to be doing that!” Joan made to sweep past Dylan, but the wheelchair was too wide. She put her hands on her hips and stared her daughter down, waiting for her to move, but they’d been fighting since Dylan could remember – she wasn’t going to be cowed by Joan’s angry face.
“I could manage if Tristan came with me.”
“Absolutely not!” Joan’s snapped. “You and that boy are not disappearing anywhere!”
That boy. Her usual way of referring to Tristan.
“Well, my dad could come here then.”
A flash of something in Joan’s eyes.
Dylan immediately jumped on it. “That’s it, isn’t it? He wants to come here.”
“Now wait—”
But Dylan was right, she knew it. “When’s he coming?”
“There aren’t any plans for that right now, darling.” Joan’s voice had dropped from sharp anger to coaxing, almost pleading. “It’s not something that can just be organised overnight.”
“Yes, it is! He’s only in Aberdeen, not the other side of the planet.” Dylan stared at Joan accusingly. “You told him not to come!”
“Yes.” At least she didn’t deny it. “You’ve been through a massive trauma. You just… you need a little time to heal, Dylan. We’ll talk about your dad – I promise we will. After.”
Dylan considered her mum’s words for the length of several fast, angry heartbeats. “No.”
“Dylan—”
“No. I don’t want to wait any more. If you won’t invite him down, I’ll do it myself.”
Quite how Dylan would do that she wasn’t sure, as the only contact number she had for him was in the phone she’d lost on the train. She held her mum’s gaze, in case she called her bluff.
Seconds ticked by at half speed. One, two, three, four…
“Fine.” Growled out from between lips tightened in fury, letting Dylan’s heart soar. “Fine, I’ll ring him. But you won’t be meeting him alone. I’ll be going along with you, and that’s non-negotiable, Dylan.”
“Fine.” It was, actually. Because while she was looking forward to meeting her dad, looking forward to it desperately, there was no small amount of nerves mixed in with that excitement. With some fumbling, she shifted her wheelchair so her mum could exit. Joan swept past with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Mum,” Dylan called after her. Joan inclined her head, but didn’t turn back. “Thank you.”
A sigh, then she did turn to face Dylan, her smile a little watery.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
FOUR
“Are you ready for this?” Tristan paused across the road from the school gates, causing an obstruction on the pavement so that the hordes of pupils behind them had to step out onto the road to pass. When Dylan didn’t answer, he reached forward to squeeze her shoulder.
“I hate this thing,” she muttered, slapping her hands on the large wheels of her chair. “Everybody’s looking at me.”
And they were – craning their heads to get a glimpse of the invalid in the wheelchair. Dylan scowled at every curious pair of eyes, trying to ignore the rapid flutter of her pulse and the tight, ugly feeling in her chest.
Joan had been surprised when Dylan had wanted to come back to school so quickly, but the woman was driving her crazy. Fussing over her, watching every move Tristan made, suddenly appearing any time the two of them moved even close to Dylan’s bedroom. Did she honestly think that they were going to be up to no good with Dylan’s right leg in plaster up to her thigh and her other leg and lower back a mass of bandages and dressings?
Dylan had to get out – anywhere was better than being at home.
At least, that’s what she’d thought until the hideous concrete block that was Kaithshall Academy had come into view. Now she was remembering all the reasons she hated this place… starting with the idiots that were risking getting run over so that they could nosey at her broken leg. Well, she admitted grudgingly, they weren’t only looking at her.
“Are you ready for this?” she asked.
It was Tristan’s first day of school. Ever. Getting him enrolled had been a dicey process, as he had no records, no ID, no name, no history. As far as the system was concerned, he was a ghost. Of course, it had been harder trying to convince Joan that he was a real person than it had been to convince the school, but Joan was the queen of interrogation. Once they’d persuaded her that Tristan – Tristan Fraser – had left a violent home somewhere in the outskirts of Glasgow and didn’t want to talk about it, she began to ease off, even felt sorry for him. Well, a little bit. She agreed he should be in school at any rate, and had spun some lies about his identity to the headmaster. Dylan couldn’t believe she�
��d done that, but then Joan probably figured it would keep him out of trouble. Keep them both out of trouble, because where Tristan went, Dylan went – and vice versa. They hadn’t spent more than an hour apart since Dylan had woken up in the hospital.
Of course, Joan didn’t know that; she still thought Tristan slept on the couch.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Dylan twisted her head round in the chair to look at him, but his face betrayed no more emotion than his voice did. He looked calm and cool, returning the prying stares with disinterest. He was as unruffled here as he’d been in the wasteland, even though Dylan had pulled him completely out of his element. She thought about how she’d been when faced with his world – a crying, frightened mess – and felt embarrassment creep round her neck.
In fairness, though, there weren’t any wraiths here. The biggest danger was that the idiocy of the rest of the student population might be catching. A prime example was coming their way.
“Oh my God, Dylan! I heard what happened to you and I totally didn’t believe it!” Cheryl McNally, as orange as ever and dressed in a ridiculously short skirt and high-heeled ankle boots, was stalking towards them. “Look at you!” She screeched the last bit, to attract the attention of anyone who wasn’t already gawking in their direction.
“Hi Cheryl,” Dylan forced through gritted teeth. She knew exactly what Cheryl was up to. The bottle-blonde airhead made no secret of the fact that she didn’t like Dylan, had been instrumental in multiple humiliating episodes at Kaithshall – like the time she shoved Dylan in the cafeteria so that she spattered spag bol all over her shirt and ended up looking like a murder victim. But the train crash, and the stupid wheelchair, meant that Dylan was going to be the centre of attention for a few days, and Cheryl just had to be where the attention was. Plus…
“Is this your cousin?” Cheryl neatly side-stepped Dylan’s chair so that she was standing next to Tristan, her smile wide and beguiling. It was all Dylan could do not to spin the chair round and ram her out into the traffic – Cheryl would definitely be the centre of attention then!
Unfortunately, she hadn’t quite mastered manoeuvring the chair enough yet to swivel on the spot like that. Even more unfortunate was the answer she had to give Cheryl.
“Yes.” The word left a nasty taste in her mouth. “This is Tristan.”
It was part of the story they’d concocted with Joan: the family connection an excuse for her to assert guardianship over Tristan, to allow her to get him into the school. Dylan supposed Joan took some enjoyment in doing this, as it meant they couldn’t act like a couple, and she had to sit in the stupid wheelchair while Cheryl ran her hand down Tristan’s arm and purred, “Welcome to Kaithshall.”
Bitch.
“Thank you.” Tristan nodded and stepped neatly away from Cheryl’s touch, his tone cool.
That made Dylan feel instantly better, but Cheryl showed her usual lack of insight, completely missing his subtle signals. She wobbled closer on her ridiculous heels to nudge his shoulder with hers.
“I can show you around if you like, Tristan.” She speared Dylan with a pitying glance, “You won’t be able to, hen, not with your chair.”
“I’ll manage,” Dylan ground out.
“You shouldn’t push yourself, not with your injuries.” The concern on Cheryl’s face was as fake as her tan.
“I’m not pushing myself,” Dylan responded tartly. “I have Tristan to push me.”
Cheryl blinked, trying to work out Dylan’s words, while behind her Tristan laughed.
“There are traffic lights at the junction,” Dylan said to him, pointing to a set a hundred yards down the road. “It’ll be easier to cross there. Bye, Cheryl.”
Much quicker on the uptake than Cheryl, Tristan took the hint, wheeling Dylan away without another word. Several seconds later, Cheryl’s warbled “Bye, Tristan!” floated after them.
“You need to push the button,” Dylan reminded Tristan when he paused by the crossing, staring at the traffic whizzing past.
It was funny, he knew so much about the world, but little things – like knowing how to call up the green man at a pedestrian crossing – were missing from his knowledge. Tiny gaps that betrayed him, made him stand out as different. Odd. Dylan was doing her best to plug them where she found them.
“She’s a friend of yours?” Tristan asked while they waited.
“I told you,” Dylan said, squirming uncomfortably in her chair, “I don’t have any friends here.”
“Yes, you do,” Tristan corrected, placing his hand on her shoulder. “You have me.”
Dylan didn’t reply. Her throat was too tight and she didn’t want him to hear the waver in her voice.
Though there were plenty more stares, Dylan and Tristan made it into the school without being interrupted by any more nosy ‘well-wishers’. They stopped at the office so that Tristan could pick up his timetable – identical to Dylan’s – and get the obligatory welcome from the headteacher. Dylan had to sit outside for that, parked in an unobtrusive corner of the administration corridor, and she fretted and fidgeted the entire time Tristan was out of sight. After what felt much longer than ten minutes, the door opened and Tristan walked out. His face was inscrutable as ever; the headmaster’s, though, was distinctly thoughtful. He stared after Tristan as he walked away, a pensive frown creasing his brow, then shrugged and closed the door.
“All right?” Dylan asked.
“Fine,” Tristan responded. “Where to?”
“Registration,” Dylan sighed glumly. “We’ll have to take the lift up, it’s on the top floor.”
The lift was rickety and cramped. The sixty seconds it took to groan its way up the three floors stretched painfully for Dylan, and she was relieved when the doors opened again to spit them out.
“The end of the hall,” she pointed needlessly down the length of the corridor. “Miss Parsons’ room.”
It was early, the start of registration still ten minutes away, but she hadn’t wanted to get caught in the mad crush of the warning bell. Though it was protected by a plaster cast, even slight jolts to her leg caused shocks of pain.
Miss Parsons was writing on the board when they entered the room, and, after a brief annoyed glance, she shifted the desks at the front so Tristan could manoeuvre the wheelchair in. Unfortunately, that meant every pupil in the class would parade past them.
Their eyes roved the lines of Dylan’s wheelchair, the stark white of her cast, sticking out awkwardly into the room. A few people smiled sympathetically, but most just stared. That is, until they shifted their gaze to the new boy sitting beside her.
Dylan tried to see Tristan as they would. Tall, broad, he looked too old to be in fourth-year. He was, technically, by a few centuries, but given that he didn’t have any formal education it didn’t really matter where he began. He’d refused to cut his sandy hair, ignoring all of Joan’s increasingly pointed hints, and it fell over his eyes. He wore the school uniform – white shirt, black trousers and a green-and-red tie – and Dylan couldn’t decide if it looked ridiculous on him… or gorgeous. Given the looks the girls were giving him, it was the latter. He outshone the boys in her class, emphasised how runty, immature and gormless they all looked.
Judging by the mutters that were rumbling at the back of the room, the boys knew it too.
“Who is he, anyway?”
“It’s Dylan’s cousin.”
“He looks like my dad with his tie done up like that! Mammy’s boy!”
Tristan, who’d been ignoring the less that discreet murmuring, turned his head at that last one.
“Ignore him,” Dylan said softly. “That’s Dove MacMillan. He’s a moron.”
Tristan didn’t say anything, but he still stared hard in Dove’s direction. Dylan winced, waited for it. It didn’t take long. The scrape of a chair sliding back as Dove got to his feet.
“What you lookin’ at? Eh?”
“Tristan,” Dylan reached out her hand to keep Tristan in his
seat, but he showed no signs of getting up. He just kept that hard, impassive look on his face. Dylan hunched her shoulders, waiting for Dove to stomp over and start a fight. He didn’t, though, and when Miss Parsons snapped “David, sit!” a moment later, he did.
Eyebrows raised, Dylan stole a look behind her. None of the boys were looking in their direction. Dylan was careful to keep the smirk off her face until she was facing the front again.
They were scared of Tristan.
If only the girls were similarly affected.
***
The tie was killing him. Tristan sat squashed into the corner of a history classroom beside Dylan and tried not to haul the thing from around his neck.
It was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous. Pretending to be a child, a clone of the immature, irresponsible idiots that surrounded him. It had been the same in French, but this history class was even worse: the teacher was wholly incorrect in his description of the Battle of Culloden. Tristan may not have been there himself, but he had a first-hand account from a boy of thirteen who’d paid with his life.
Tristan tried to whisper that to Dylan as they sat there, composing answers to the inane questions listed on the worksheet, but she shushed him.
“Just write down what the teacher said,” she hissed, eyeing their neighbours to make sure their conversation was going unheard.
“But it’s wrong,” Tristan protested.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dylan barked back. “He’s the one who’s going to mark this, and these are the answers he wants. That’s how school works, all right?”
No, it wasn’t all right. It was stupid, regurgitating inaccuracies as if they were fact. Pointless. He had to remind himself he was doing all this to please Dylan. This was her world. He needed to fit in, even if it was senseless.
To be honest, he was a little relieved that he could even do the work at all. He hadn’t known he could read and write, but when Dylan had plucked a book from the shelves of her bedroom and shown him a random page, the lines of letters had simply made sense. In just the same way that he’d been able to speak in any language to any soul.
Trespassers Page 3
