Trespassers

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Trespassers Page 6

by Claire McFall


  She didn’t say that to the boy, however. He’d been ill his whole short life, a rare condition forcing him to spend his time indoors, away from the world and all its germs and viruses. Computer games had been his reality. He’d seen almost as little of the real world as Susanna had – and she’d made damned sure he made it through every level of the wasteland, past the ‘big baddie’ and safely to the finish line.

  Perhaps if she’d tried that hard with Michael, he’d have made it too.

  Sighing, Susanna turned from the spot where the wraiths had dragged Michael’s soul under, the snow churned up and stained pink with blood – both hers and his – and began to walk away. As she moved, the crunching snow beneath her feet began to evaporate and the dour grey sky brightened. For a short moment everything glowed a blinding shade of white – Susanna was heartily sick of that colour – then gradually the world began to reform. She was walking on a narrow dirt road beside a river. Vast rice paddies extended out into the distance, their green stalks vibrant in the sun. Not far away, a small village nestled in the hill. Her destination.

  As she walked, Susanna felt her hair growing, sliding further down her shoulders until it tumbled along her back. Her strides became choppy as her legs shortened and her reed-thin body thickened. By the time the transformation was complete, she felt awkward and clumsy. She pursed her lips in annoyance. This new form was squat and round, would be unwieldy and cumbersome if they had to run, or fight.

  The house was smaller than most, a squat little single storey dwelling with a tiled roof that seemed to dip slightly in the middle. The doorway sat back from a wooden porch, etched and painted with swirling designs so faded Susanna could barely make them out. It had the look of a place that had been well kept, but recently neglected. Flowers fought with weeds in carefully built beds, and the grass had grown until it drooped over the flat stones on the path to the door. Inside, the air smelled like incense, acrid and slightly overwhelming in the small space. An alcove halfway down the hall held a half-dozen incense sticks, blackened on a ceramic burner before a small statue of Buddha, his belly fat and eyes smiling.

  The bedroom at the back remained dark despite the warm sunshine outside. Entering, Susanna stared at the small figure on the bed for a heartbeat, then rounded the heavy wooden footboard and opened the curtains. Outside, the real world and the wasteland blended seamlessly together. Though she stood in the wasteland – the curtains in her hands a figment of the woman’s imagination – the world she could see beyond was real. And so close.

  The window wasn’t large, but enough light filtered through to reveal a faded yellow colour on the walls, a delicate flowered covering on the bed.

  “My Lian doesn’t visit me any more,” a low, warbling voice said, and Susanna jumped. Her gaze flitted to the face of the woman on the bed. Xing You Yu. She wasn’t still asleep, as Susanna had thought, but watching her with calm brown eyes.

  “But I am here, Grandmother.” Susanna smiled, taking on the role she’d been assigned.

  “Yes, you are here,” the old woman said, shifting to a seated position with a groan. “But you aren’t her.”

  “Grandmother?” Susanna frowned prettily, smiling in feigned confusion. She was an exact copy of You Yu’s granddaughter, she knew. Right down to her eye colour, every detail would be perfect.

  “Don’t lie to me,” You Yu chided. “I know Death when I see him.”

  Susanna said nothing, a bit taken aback.

  “You wish me to go with you, I suppose.” The legs that swung round to land on the carpet were as thin as a bird’s, and the arm that reached out to grab the robe slung over the footboard was frail.

  “Yes, Grandmother,” Susanna tried again. “I’ve come to take you out for a walk. It’s a beautiful sunny day.”

  “Don’t call me that!” The old woman snapped, eyes sharp on Susanna. “You are not my Lian.” Her eyes ran the length of Susanna and the harsh expression softened. “I told you, she doesn’t visit me any more. It makes her too sad. And me too, I suppose.” She sighed. “But it is nice of Death to wear such a familiar face. You’ll give me time to dress?”

  Susanna nodded mutely.

  They left a short time later, You Yu – as she had instructed Susanna to call her – in sensible walking boots with a simple tunic and sturdy trousers dyed a heart’s blood red. It was too warm outside for the dark green wool-lined jacket she’d also donned, but Susanna didn’t comment, knowing how quickly the weather could change in the wasteland. A drop in You Yu’s mood and they would be facing bitter winds and driving rain.

  But the sun still shone as they walked back down the little path. You Yu stopped halfway and drew a deep breath into her lungs, tilting her deep-lined face up to bask in the brightness.

  “Emphysema,” she said quietly. “That’s the first full breath I’ve taken in…” a shake of her head, “I don’t know how long.” Hands on her hips, she gazed before her, and Susanna looked too. Though the village square was peaceful, there was still a quiet life about the place. An old man bent over a hoe in his garden to their left, and a young couple with a baby in a pram were walking slowly towards them.

  “I shall miss this place,” You Yu said quietly. “I have lived my whole life here.”

  “Perhaps you’ll see it again,” Susanna offered.

  “You don’t know?” You Yu asked, raising a questioning brow in Susanna’s direction.

  “No,” she answered honestly. “I am only your guide for this part of the journey.”

  “Hmmm,” was You Yu’s only response. Then, after one last, lingering look, “Well, lead on.”

  They took to the road, and You Yu didn’t seem to notice that the gardener didn’t respond to her wave, or the young couple to her smile. They were real, they were there – it was You Yu who wasn’t. She was a hairsbreadth to the left, a step out of time. When they left the village, the road would seamlessly blend into the first tracts of the wasteland. That they were so close to the real world, yet utterly out of reach of it, was still hard even for Susanna to comprehend, and she’d been doing this for… well, she didn’t know exactly how long, but it seemed like forever. The world, reality, life, was so close here. Within touching distance.

  Gripped by that thought, Susanna did something she’d never, ever attempted. As they passed by the young couple, who were pointing out what a shame it was that You Yu’s beloved garden was being allowed to fall into disarray, Susanna reached out. She let her fingers trail through the air by the woman’s arm, searching for the soft stroke of the lemon-coloured cashmere cardigan she wore.

  Nothing. Though she searched with her heart and soul as well as her hand, she felt nothing. The veil between the wasteland and the world might be so gossamer-thin as to be invisible, but it held.

  “Did you just mark that woman for death?” You Yu asked quietly as the young parents continued their walk unaware.

  “No,” Susanna replied honestly. “I couldn’t touch her.”

  She did her very best to keep the bitter gall of disappointment out of her voice. How had Tristan done it?

  How?

  Because if he could do it, maybe she could too. Maybe she could be with him again.

  EIGHT

  Dylan was a sulker. She denied it vehemently whenever Joan accused her of it, but she knew it was true. She tried her best not to let the angry, resentful feelings bubbling inside her bleed into her conversations with Tristan, but it was hard. Rather than let her feelings come through her words, she often ended up saying almost nothing.

  Sulking.

  It took until that evening, with ready meals on their knees because Joan was on a backshift and Dylan was too aggravated to cook, before the burn began to fade.

  “Do you want to go to this party?” she asked Tristan, keeping her voice even but stabbing at a lump of chicken with unnecessary vigour.

  “What?” he looked away from the news report he’d been watching – he couldn’t get enough of the news – and stared at Dylan, w
ho shovelled several mouthfuls of tikka masala into her mouth before she could bring herself to voice the question again.

  “Cheryl’s party. Do you want to go?”

  He continued to gaze at her, as though trying to work out what it was she wanted. Dylan carefully kept her face blank.

  “Do you want to go?” he said at last.

  “I’m not bothered.” Liar. “If you want to go, we can.”

  Tristan went back to eating, eyes on his dinner and then the television screen. Sixty long seconds later he finally spoke: “I don’t have any desire to hang out with them, but they’re your friends, so—”

  “They aren’t my friends, you know that!” Dylan said quickly. Then, because she’d given it away now, “I don’t want to go.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so then?” Frustration coloured Tristan’s words.

  “Well,” a pause, and then everything came tumbling out, “I don’t like them, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t be friends with them – and even though Cheryl’s thick as two short planks, boys seem to like her and they think she’s pretty, and I don’t know. I mean, do you think she’s pretty?”

  The question hung there in the air. Dylan bit her tongue, forcing herself not to make it worse by saying more. Eventually Tristan scowled, a deep groove between his eyebrows.

  “You’re serious?”

  “No,” Dylan replied, because it seemed like the right answer. Then, very quietly, “I don’t know.”

  “All right,” Tristan said, setting aside the remains of his tikka masala, “All right. Let me be crystal clear. I go to that school because you have to. You are the only person there who’s even remotely tolerable.” A small grin that Dylan did her best to return. “I have no interest in Cheryl McNally, or Steph whatever her name is, or anybody else. Only you.”

  He used the knuckle of his index to gently chuck her under the chin.

  “All right?” He was still there, earnestly looking into her eyes. It was too close, too intense. Dylan leaned back slightly, mortified that he’d seen her insecurities so easily. There seemed to be only one way out.

  “Not even Mrs Lambert?”

  “Which one is she?”

  “The librarian.” The one who liked to wear cardigans that clashed horribly with whatever fifties dress – as in, bought in the fifties – she had on that day. The librarian who had sprouted several long, grey hairs on her chin. Amusement sparked in Tristan’s gaze.

  “She is tasty,” he agreed, then his mouth stretched into a grin. “But I’ll stick with you.”

  “Well, if you don’t want to go to Cheryl’s thing, there’s always the Halloween Dance…” Once again Dylan feigned disinterest.

  “What’s a Halloween Dance?” He looked at her in utter bewilderment and Dylan shifted uncomfortably on the seat.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. I just thought you might want to – have another real human experience. Or something.” She looked away. Her face was burning and she didn’t want Tristan to see. She felt him nudge her wrist, a gentle request for her to look at him. “Let’s go to the dance,” he said. “Together.”

  Dylan lifted her head at that. He was smiling calmly back at her.

  “You want to go to a Kaithshall Academy Halloween Dance?”

  “Yes.” He shrugged. “It’ll be an experience. You don’t want to go?” A quick grin. “What are they like?”

  “I don’t know,” Dylan answered honestly.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I’ve never been to one before.”

  “Why not?”

  Why did she bring this up? What was she thinking? Stupid, Dylan. “Just… you know.” Her turn to shrug.

  “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t.” A quirk of humour in his lips. “I’m new here.”

  “Shut up.” Dylan punched him lightly in the arm. He was still waiting for an answer, though, and she knew he wasn’t going to let it go. “I just never had anyone to go with before. I mean, I had Katie, but these things are like, couples’ dances.” She muttered the last bit under her breath.

  “Great,” he said quickly. “I want to take you.”

  Dylan’s heart wrenched at the sheer sincerity in his voice. It was embarrassing, having him know how desperately – secretly – she wanted to go to one of the stupid dances, be a part of things. But it was also incredible that he knew her so well. She grinned at him, then winced.

  “Of course, I’ll be going to the dance with my cousin,” she reminded him.

  He looked unconcerned. “I’m sure we can find a dark corner somewhere if we need some privacy.”

  Dylan blushed at that. He kept her gaze, searching her face, but embarrassment still made her want to squirm away and hide. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”

  “It is,” Tristan agreed, not moving, “But I doubt it’ll make it taste any worse.”

  He grinned at her, blue eyes sparkling. This ethereal being who had guarded her soul against annihilation in the wasteland was teasing her, laughing like it was the most natural thing in the world. Sitting here beside her, on their crummy sofa, like he belonged. It was amazing. He was amazing. Dylan fought to keep the wonder from her face.

  “Hey!” she shoved at his shoulders, pretending to be outraged. “I microwaved that ready meal to perfection. You have to like chicken tikka masala if you’re going to live in Scotland. It’s practically our national dish.”

  “My apologies then.” But he didn’t go back to his dinner. Instead he drew himself closer to Dylan. Her stomach tightened with apprehension and her heart beat faster. He pressed his mouth to hers once, twice. Dylan caught spicy tomato sauce on his lips, infinitely more appealing when tasted this way. God, she’d missed this. Through Tristan held her every night, he had been treating her like she was made of glass ever since she came out of hospital. Like her bones would shatter if he so much as squeezed her.

  Dylan leaned into his kiss, eager for more, but all too soon Tristan flopped back into his spot on the sofa. Picking up his dinner, he winked at Dylan then turned back to the TV.

  Dylan looked too, taking in the reporter’s miserable face as he stood hunched against driving wind and rain. Behind him the landscape was a muddy wash of browns and dulled greens, lit by the harsh glare of the red and blue lights of emergency vehicles. It was barren and ugly – and eerily familiar.

  “Tristan,” she said. “Turn that up.”

  He did as she asked, and the reporter’s voice floated into the room.

  “…the bodies were found earlier today when a quantity surveyor arrived to look at the damage to the roof of the tunnel. It is understood that all four men were the victims of some kind of attack, and although police have not yet stated the causes of death, they are treating them as suspicious. What has been made clear is that this was not an industrial accident – but mystery surrounds the facts. When questioned, officers on the scene refused to confirm or deny that wild animals may have had a part to play. Autopsies are to be carried out on all of the bodies, and the families of the dead men may finally get some answers as to what happened in the dark of the train tunnel. Back to you in the studio.”

  Dylan reached for the remote and paused the report just as the news journalist was nodding his goodbye.

  “Is that—” It couldn’t be. “Is that the tunnel, Tristan? Our tunnel?”

  The angle of the camera wasn’t good, focussing on the melée of police cars, ambulances and a solitary fire engine, but train tracks stretched across one corner and there, almost out of sight, was the gaping back hole that Dylan would never forget.

  “I don’t know,” he said, leaning forward to squint at the screen. “Rewind it.”

  They went through the report again, glued to every word. Annoyingly, they couldn’t see any more of the scenery, even though Dylan tried to crane her neck to the left, as if that would magically let her see beyond the framing of the shot.

  “It looks the same,” she maintained. “And the reporter said the site of the c
rash – how many other train crashes have you heard about recently?”

  Tristan shook his head slowly. “It has to be.”

  He turned back to the screen and played it once more. Dylan’s gaze fixed on the tunnel that had so drastically changed her life. As the reporter spoke, certain phrases jumped out at her, seeming louder than the rest: wild animals, perished and, the worst, mystery.

  Four men murdered. Four ordinary men, just doing their jobs, murdered at the exact spot she and Tristan had defied nature and broken back through to the land of the living. Dylan’s stomach twisted. It reminded her of the sick feeling she’d had as a child when she’d secretly given her younger cousin – her actual cousin – a haircut. She’d accidentally snipped the cartilage on the top of her ear, and had never forgotten the feeling. It felt like that now – the guilt, the responsibility, the horror of blood on her hands – but a thousand times worse.

  “Do you think that has anything to do with us?” she asked in a strangled whisper.

  “How can it be?” He hesitated. “It must just be an accident, a terrible tragedy.” Tristan sounded sure, but actions speak louder than words. He took the video back to the start and watched it yet again, this time with the sound muted.

  “The police said it was suspicious,” Dylan reminded him.

  “Suspicious doesn’t mean—” He broke off, clearly not believing his own words.

  “Do you reckon… do you reckon they died because I lived? Like, yin for yang? Balance or something?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “But that isn’t what you think.” Dylan made it a statement, sensing Tristan’s scepticism.

  “No,” he replied, his face drawn in thought.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s… We need to know more. We need to know how they died.”

  “You mean, we need to know what killed them?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  NINE

 

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