He couldn’t count how many souls he’d lost over the years – save to say it was far fewer than the number of souls he’d successfully ferried across the wasteland. Still, the four men who had been murdered weighed heavily on him, even though he knew, without doubt, that there was life after death.
Because he also knew, without doubt, that not every soul reached that promised land Dylan had told him about.
And on top of that, it hadn’t been their time to go. They shouldn’t have died that day. His careless actions had interfered with the lives they had still to live.
He needed to do something, but he knew, he just knew, that the only way to resolve what had been broken was to go back through to the wasteland. Perhaps if he just went to the line, one of the beings Dylan had described would speak with him, explain what he needed to do? Perhaps his very presence back in that netherworld would restore the balance and the rift would naturally seal itself. Separating him and Dylan. Maybe even killing them.
Perhaps. Maybe. Possibly.
There were no certainties, except for the fact that if he stayed here and did nothing, more people would die.
And he could not take Dylan back into the wasteland. The fact she had crossed it the first time, surviving the wraiths, was a credit to her bravery. That she had returned, alone, to search for him and lived to tell the tale was unfathomable. To take her back and risk it a third time – that would surely be pushing their luck too far.
Tristan sighed, reached up to rub at his neck, where the muscles were suddenly tight with tension. He tried to pull himself back into the conversation between Dylan and her dad. It was important to her that this man like him, and he sensed James Miller wouldn’t sit back and be silent if he thought otherwise.
“Dove had no idea Mrs Malcolm was there,” Dylan was saying. “He was shouting ‘Boobs! They’re boobs! He’s drawing boobs!’ over and over again. The whole time Mrs Malcolm was just watching, then all of a sudden she hollered ‘David MacMillan!’ and everyone went totally silent. I thought Dove was going to fall off his chair!”
Her dad was laughing, shaking his head.
“I can’t believe that woman is still there. I can’t believe she’s still alive! She was old when I was a pupil, and that wasn’t yesterday.”
“I think she’s retiring this year,” Dylan offered. “It’s a shame, I quite like her. At least she can get everyone to shut up so we can actually get on with stuff.”
“Yeah, it’s a difficult school.” Her dad made a face, his humour dissipating suddenly. “Do you do all right there? Nobody… upsets you, do they?”
“You mean do I get bullied?” Dylan asked.
“Well, yeah.” He waited, tense, and Tristan could see that he was nervous of the answer. It made him like the man a little bit more.
She grinned. “Now that Tristan’s there, I don’t get any hassle. Everyone’s afraid of him.”
“Are they now?” An appraising look from Dylan’s dad.
“They’re just little idiots,” Tristan offered. “You stand up to them and they don’t know what to do.”
“That’s right.” Dylan’s dad nodded in agreement and Tristan thought he might just have scored a point with him. Dylan was beaming in his direction.
Dinner passed without further incident. Her dad paid the bill and they moved outside. It was a brisk, clear night, though there were no stars to be seen, the vast network of streetlights shining too brightly to make out their distant glow. James offered to drive them home, but then admitted that his car was parked haphazardly on a street corner half a mile in the wrong direction.
“It’s fine,” Dylan said for the third time. “We’ll be quicker walking. It’s only ten minutes, and I’ve got Tristan.”
James stared at Dylan for a long moment, deliberating. Tristan could feel his protective instincts warring with the caution not to push too hard given their fledgling relationship.
“You’ll call me when you get in,” he said at last.
“Yes, Dad!” Tristan watched the little thrill of happiness that lit up Dylan’s eyes at using that word, claiming James Miller as family. Something he’d never had. He didn’t resent her for it, though. Dylan was all he needed.
“Give me a hug,” James said, a little gruffly. He was obviously as affected by Dylan’s use of the term as she was. “Go on, then,” he ordered as he stepped back. He folded his arms and planted his feet. He was going to stand there until they were out of sight, Tristan realised. Watching out for his little girl.
Tristan took Dylan’s hand and, making sure she had her crutch in place, walked with her along the little row of shops and cafés. Most of the shops were closed now, just an off licence window spilling out a bubble of bright yellow light as they passed. The streets were quiet, but a weird prickling feeling kept teasing Tristan.
“What is it?” Dylan asked, after he’d craned his head around for the fourth time in as many minutes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. And it probably was nothing.
“Tristan,” Dylan warned. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
A sigh, then she yanked her hand away from his. “Tell me!”
He shrugged. “I just—”
“You just what?” Dylan tried to look over her shoulder as she walked, and almost tripped. Tristan had to reach out and grab her. “Is someone following us?”
“No.” He grimaced. “I don’t think so. I just… feel something. It’s nothing, honestly.”
Dylan stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, in a posture very reminiscent of her father’s as he’d watched them leave.
“I have a creeped-out feeling someone’s watching us, that’s all. But there’s no one there. I’ve looked. I’m probably being paranoid because of the wraith.” He took her arm. “Come on, let’s go, it’s cold.”
Tristan resolutely refused to look behind him again all the way back to the flat. He didn’t want to frighten Dylan. But that ominous feeling, those uncomfortable needles stippling the back of his neck, refused to abate.
This was nothing like the feeling he’d had when he’d sensed Susanna. She was here still, but somewhere distant; a hint of warmth lingering on the fringes of his consciousness.
No, this was something different. Something cold and angry.
TWENTY
“This isn’t right.”
Susanna stared hard at the pale expanse of skin that was revealed when she peeled the dressing away from Jack’s middle.
“What is it?” he asked. “Is it infected? It doesn’t feel like it.”
“No,” Susanna said, “It looks… it looks really good.”
Really good was an understatement. The stitches she’d put in herself under Jack’s careful, if unnerving, supervision were neat. There wasn’t a scab, just a slightly raised line that, while red, didn’t look angry or fresh. It was a normal rate of healing for her, but she knew from her souls’ reactions to her wounds in the wasteland that humans didn’t heal so quickly.
Obviously, Jack hadn’t come back to the world of the living quite the same.
They were in Jack’s mum’s flat. An ugly concrete high-rise decorated with rusting metal balconies. It looked a grim place to grow up. It had been a struggle getting him into the building – especially with Susanna’s scant knowledge of buzzers. Jack’s mum had hastily paid the taxi fare before tending to her son, showering him with attentive questions and slipping away to her room when he rebuffed her. Of course Susanna had seen Jack’s mum in his memories. A small, mousy woman, her hair prematurely grey, and deep lines around her mouth and eyes. She had a perpetually startled look, her shoulders always slightly hunched as if to ward off the world. She’d seen Jack’s stepdad in his memories too – at least he didn’t seem to be around.
Susanna had spent the night on the sofa in their living room, amazed by the heavy-lidded feel of her eyes; the warm, floaty sensation that was lulling her towards oblivion. Sleep. This
was what sleep felt like. Closing her eyes, she revelled in it.
Thirteen hours. She’d slept for thirteen hours. When she woke, she’d come straight in to check on Jack – half-expecting to find him dead – and instead he was well on his way to being fully healed. He was still a little out of it, though, and as he drifted towards sleep again, Susanna heard quiet sounds of someone puttering around in the kitchen. Jack’s mum, she presumed. Feeling awkward, like an interloper, she got up and walked quietly through the lounge to the open archway that led to the kitchen. Jack’s mum was in her dressing gown, fuzzy slippers on her feet, kettle in hand.
“Tea?” the woman asked, a little too brightly.
“I… no. Thank you.” Susanna tried to smile but she felt so out of place the best she could manage was a grimace.
“Jack still asleep, is he?” his mum asked.
“Yeah. He’s OK, though.”
Jack’s mum nodded in acknowledgement.
“Well, I’ve got to go to work in a bit. You just help yourselves to whatever’s in the fridge.”
And that was it. The woman added a quick dollop of milk to her cup and then waddled quietly out of the room, that too-bright expression back on her face. She closed her bedroom door behind her with a soft snick, leaving Susanna alone in the living area, stunned.
Where was the inquisition? The questions about who she was and what she was doing there? It didn’t seem right; didn’t fit with any of the ideas Susanna had constructed in her head about what a ‘mum’ should be like. Although it did match quite accurately the woman she’d caught glimpses of in Jack’s memory. Feeling an uncomfortable rush of sympathy for the woman, Susanna tip-toed past her room and slipped into Jack’s bedroom again.
He slept. All day, waking periodically for Susanna to tip water down his throat and feed him bits of toast. When she was sure he was well enough, she would leave, and that would be that.
It gave Susanna a lot of time to think, though really her thoughts were consumed by just one thing. Tristan. Where was he? Somewhere near: she could feel it. What were the chances that in all the world, their souls had led them near to each other? It must be a sign. Now, how could she get to him? She had to sit down, close her eyes and throw her senses as wide as she could. Then, and only then, could she feel a glimmer of him, right of the periphery of her mind.
It was both reassuring and terrifying.
She was fairly sure that the closer she got, the easier he’d be to pinpoint – that was always how it had worked in the wasteland. But she had no money or transport, and after embarrassing herself by not understanding how to work something as simple as the building intercom, she realised there were a million little things she might not know. Things that would give her away, mark her as different.
She needed to avoid drawing attention to herself until she could get to Tristan, and for that she needed someone to help her negotiate this strange new place.
For that she needed Jack.
She weighed it up all day. Remembering how difficult he had been in the wasteland. Worrying about how to go it alone. Several times she found herself on her feet, ready to walk out the front door, but each time she paused, gripped by panic and uncertainty.
If she wanted to get to Tristan, she needed Jack.
Just for a little longer.
When Jack finally woke, he was worryingly chipper. He knocked her hand away as she went to check his bandage a second time.
“I’m fine!” He shoved his t-shirt back down his stomach. “God, I can’t wait to have a shower.”
“You really shouldn’t get it wet,” Susanna said, scooting out of his way as he rolled out of bed.
Jack gave her a dismissive look on the way to the bathroom.
“Fine,” she muttered to the empty air. “Shower. Get it soaked. What do I care?” She clambered to her knees somewhat stiffly. “I hope you get an infection, stupid arse.”
She mouthed the last bit because, even though he was too far away to hear, she wasn’t stupid. You didn’t mouth off to a thug like Jack.
He took a long time in the shower. She was starting to wonder if maybe he might have collapsed when suddenly the water shut off. Jack emerged moments later, wearing nothing but a towel slung round his waist, the new bandage Susanna had applied sopping wet and sticking to his skin. He was all pale skin and stringy muscles, but there was strength there and once again she was gripped by how easily he could hurt her.
In the wasteland, she’d had some of the power – not to mention he needed her to survive. Now that they were in the real world, that balance had changed. She doubted she could control him with commands any more.
“You can use the shower if you want,” Jack told her, sauntering past to disappear into his bedroom.
Susanna hadn’t dared take such a liberty while Jack had been laid up in bed. It had been almost impossible to resist – hot water! Just the idea made her weak.
“Thank you,” she called softly to Jack’s departing back. Then she all but ran to the bathroom.
It was just as good as she had imagined it would be. The shower stall was tight, almost claustrophobic, but the delight of having a cascade of water raining down on her, as hot as she could stand it, made up for the coffin-like feel of the enclosure.
She had to force herself to get out. Wrapping herself in a large towel, she contemplated her clothes. In the wasteland she could alter her ensemble with a thought, but here she’d been in the same jeans and jumper for over a day and to say they were grubby was an understatement. She couldn’t bear the thought of putting her soiled clothes back on her scrubbed clean skin.
But as soon as she appeared in the doorway of his bedroom Jack barked out “Here” and flung a bundle her way. Catching it, Susanna saw it was women’s clothes.
“Some of Sammy’s stuff,” he explained. “Should fit you. You’re about the same size. But then,” his eyes narrowed, “you already know that.”
“Right.” The least said about that the better, Susanna thought, hurrying back to the steam-filled bathroom to change.
He’d given her a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a blouse-like shirt that wrapped across her front and left a deep, deep v at her cleavage. Oh well, she’d see about using the washing machine and get back in her own outfit as soon as possible.
Susanna lingered in the bathroom, drawing out little tasks like combing out her hair, adjusting her revealing clothes, because now that Jack was up and about it was time to broach a sticky subject. She wasn’t sure how Jack would feel about her attempting to renegotiate the terms of their agreement – especially when he’d already gotten his part of the deal. She had nothing to barter with, could only appeal to his better nature.
And she wasn’t all that sure that he had one.
When she got finally forced herself to approach him, he was pulling on his shoes.
“I need to go out,” he told her, picking up a black leather jacket. He snatched his keys from the coffee table and then finally he looked at her properly, eyes raking over the clothes she wore. His expression remained utterly blank, giving no indication of what he thought. “You going to be here when I get back?”
Caught off guard, Susanna hesitated. Now was the time to speak up, to ask Jack to help her. Staring into his hard, emotionless expression, she chickened out.
“I…” she swallowed. “I can leave if you—”
“Stay,” he told her curtly. “Get yourself sorted or whatever. I won’t be that long. Just… if you hear anyone at the door, shut yourself in my room.”
By anyone, she assumed he meant his stepdad.
“All right,” she said. “Thank you.”
He grunted in acknowledgement, then headed for the door. It slammed behind him and, for the first time in days, the first time in her life, really, Susanna allowed herself to relax. She breathed out a sigh, tilted her head back on her shoulders and listened to the blessed, empty quiet.
Susanna enjoyed the peace and quiet for all of seventeen seconds.
&
nbsp; It started with an unexplained anxiety deep in her chest. After that, her skin began to prickle, to sting. She felt dizzy, light-headed. Sure she was going to be sick, Susanna scrambled off the sofa, but when she got to her feet, her legs couldn’t hold her.
“What’s happening?” There was no one to answer her. A pain suddenly flared deep in her gut, so searing it sent her to her knees. “Jack!” she screamed, though the sound barely travelled past her lips.
Forcing herself to move, drawing on the times she’d been clawed, bitten, savaged by the wraiths, Susanna crawled towards the front door. Stumbling into the landing, she half-fell down the stairs.
She found Jack six flights down. He lay in a crumpled heap across several stairs, his head against the sharp edge of the top tread. One hand was clamped to his stomach, the ugly red of blood staining his white long-sleeved t-shirt.
“Jack! Are you all right?” she asked, edging round the stairs until she stood immediately below him. The intense pain she had felt in her gut was fading as fast as it had come on, but she still felt weak, her body trembling.
“No.” Jack lifted his head, stared down at his stomach at the bloody stain. Tugging up his shirt and peeling away his bandage, he touched the wound, which looked just as it had earlier when Susanna had changed the dressing – despite the blood. He blinked rapidly, like he was trying to bring himself around from a heavy sleep. “What the hell happened? Did I fall?” He eyed her suspiciously. “What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”
Susanna reared back a little at the venom in his gaze. Did he think she’d pushed him?
“I was in the flat,” she said quickly. “Less than a minute after you left, I started feeling awful. Really disoriented and dizzy, sick to my stomach. Then I got a burning pain here,” she rubbed her side, “right where your knife wound was. It seemed too much of a coincidence so I ran after you. And found you like this.”
“You think this happened because I left?”
Trespassers Page 14
