by Alex Bell
I would never see Dad pull out fish spines ever again.
Because he was dead.
And I had killed him.
I had killed him.
This weird sob burst out of me and I didn’t know why I was crying. I had wanted him to die, after all, the birds had only done what I had told them to do.
But, suddenly, there was this great, gaping, black hole, like a cannon had passed through my chest. Dad was actually dead. He was really gone.
Gone, and gone, and gone. Because of me.
There were hundreds of birds now, bunched up together on the wooden staircase of carved sea monsters. They were all staring at me with their sad, shining black eyes, like polished beads in their heads, and I could tell that they pitied me. I pitied myself. What a mess I had made of things. I couldn’t even manage to save myself, let alone Jem.
I turned away from the reproachful black gaze of my magical birds, and walked into the restaurant. For a flash of a second, I saw all the crew of the Waterwitch sitting at the empty tables, but they weren’t eating and I supposed it was because of the rats, swarming all over the place, fleeing the sinking ship as it went down into the depths.
Then I blinked and they were gone. I hurried across the room, walking straight to the jar of fish hooks on the mantelpiece. They were freezing cold against my skin, as if they’d been deep-chilled at the bottom of the sea, and the tiny barbs on the end looked monstrously cruel.
I reached into the jar, grabbed the biggest hook and was just about to pull it out when a movement caught my eye and I looked up at the massive oil painting that hung there.
It had changed. The Waterwitch was no longer sailing on a stormy sea – instead it was a wreck resting on the seabed. Ships had souls. Someone had told me that once – perhaps it was Dad. All ships had souls, he said. Maybe that was why there was something so profoundly melancholy about the sight of a sunken ship, decaying at the bottom of the ocean, abandoned and alone.
Clutching the hook, I staggered back from the painting a couple of steps, smashing the jar in the process and slicing one of my fingers, scattering fish hooks and pieces of glass everywhere. I couldn’t take my eyes off the painting. The hundreds of barnacles clinging to its prow made the ship look diseased somehow, pockmarked by hideous scars. Through the algae and the grime I could see the pale, doomed faces of the sailors staring out at me from the portholes, trapped inside their dark tomb of water and salt.
Then another movement dragged my eyes to the female figurehead and I realized that she was reaching her hand out for me, reaching it right out of the painting. Her bloodshot eyes were almost popping out of her head, her charred wooden mouth stretched open wide in a ghastly mockery of a smile, and her insanely long fingers came closer and closer and closer…
With a cry of horror, I turned and fled, sprinting all the way back through the empty restaurant, trying my hardest to ignore the shadows sitting at the tables.
I burst out into the corridor and the open cellar door beckoned me silently forwards. I heard the sound of glass on stone and, before my eyes, a single blue witch ball rolled up the final step – it actually rolled up the step and out into the corridor to rest gently against my feet. I stared down at it and a picture formed deep in the depths of the glass, showing me the way out, showing me what I must do next.
Ignoring the protesting squawk of the birds, I clutched the fish hook, which felt cool and beautiful against my hot hand, and ran down the cellar steps as fast as I could go.
Chapter Forty-Four
Emma
When the vet told me that Bailey was doing well, it was like the most gigantic weight had lifted from my shoulders.
“He even ate all his breakfast,” she told me. “If he carries on like this then you’ll probably be able to take him home this afternoon.”
I hung up the phone with a huge smile on my face. Bailey was OK. In that moment, nothing else mattered.
I was still smiling even as I wheeled myself across the road to the Waterwitch. I’d go in there, coax Shell out and then take her somewhere to keep her out of Jem’s way and cheer her up. Maybe we could drive around the coast, stop off for a cream tea – nice, normal things that I should have done with her from the start rather than taking her to witchcraft museums and medieval guildhalls and magic shops.
Shell hadn’t locked the front door and I dragged it open with some difficulty and wheeled myself over the threshold. Then I noticed the smashed jar of fish hooks, and my good mood instantly evaporated. When I wheeled myself over and saw the drops of blood glistening on the glass I felt my first flash of alarm. I glanced at the big oil painting and it unnerved me as much as it ever had. The dark waves glistened wetly as if they really would be damp to the touch, and it seemed as if the figurehead was staring directly at me with those mad, haunted eyes of hers.
I turned away from the painting and wheeled myself out to the corridor with the monster staircase. The cellar door was closed and it was completely silent out there – and strangely, unnaturally cold. I shivered and ran my hands over my arms. No one had thought to turn the heating off when we’d left yesterday, and a nearby radiator was warm to the touch, but the air was absolutely freezing and my breath actually smoked in front of me as I called Shell’s name. There was no reply.
Not knowing what else to do, I hurriedly searched the library and the kitchen and the rest of the downstairs rooms, but there was no sign of her, and she didn’t respond to any of my shouts, or pick up when I called her mobile. I decided she must be on the first floor but, as I couldn’t get upstairs myself, I had no choice but to call Jem.
Chapter Forty-Five
Jem
The ringing of the mobile sounded like a chainsaw that would split my head in two. I fumbled around on the bedside table, finally snatching it up and pressing the button to stop that deafening noise.
“What?” I croaked out the word while clutching at my head with my free hand.
“I’m at the Waterwitch.” It was Emma. “I think you need to come over.”
“I can’t.” The thought of moving from this bed was enough to make me sweat. Every part of my body ached. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so ill. I was about to hang up but then Emma was saying something about Shell.
“Slow down,” I said, trying to concentrate on her rush of words. “What are you talking about?”
“She ran over here earlier,” Emma said again. “She’s in the inn somewhere but I can’t find her – she must be upstairs. She’s hurt herself – there’s a broken jar on the floor of the restaurant, and blood on the glass—”
“All right.” I was already reaching for my clothes. “Just wait for me there.”
I hung up and then got dressed as quickly as I could. I sat on the edge of the bed to tie my shoes but the action made me feel so dizzy that it was several moments before I could stand up at all.
I forced myself down the corridor and out into the street. It wasn’t a particularly sunny day but, even so, the light seemed blinding and I had to shield my eyes as I crossed the road.
Emma was waiting for me in the restaurant. “I’ve looked all round the downstairs rooms,” she said, “and I can’t find her anywhere. She must be upstairs.”
I saw the smashed jar on the floor. The sight of the glistening drops of blood there was enough to clear my head a little.
“I’ll go and look for her,” I said. “She’s probably just in her room. Perhaps she didn’t hear you shout.”
I hoped with all my heart that was true. Emma followed me out to the staircase and said, “It’s freezing in here!”
“Is it?” I wiped sweat from my forehead and said, “It feels hot to me. I’ll be right back.”
Climbing the stairs seemed like the most gigantic effort. My body felt ten times heavier than it normally did, as if I were wearing a diving suit that made every movement painful and slow. The air felt too thin and the stairs seemed to go on and on for ever. I was out of breath by the time I got to the top of t
hem. The sirens and mermaids carved into the wood there seemed to be looking right at me with snarling expressions of dislike that I couldn’t remember ever noticing before.
The long wooden corridor stretched unnaturally out in front of me, the stained-glass window of the squid attacking the Waterwitch shrinking down to the size of a postage stamp at the far end. I pinched the bridge of my nose, closed my eyes and, when I opened them again, the corridor looked quite normal. It was just the flu making me dizzy.
I called Shell’s name, and the act of doing so made my throat hurt, and my jaw ache, and my temples throb. There was no answer so I set off down the corridor, intending to check her bedroom, but as I was walking past Room 22 I heard a thump from within so I threw open the door and walked inside. The door swung closed behind me and, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I couldn’t get my footing on the wooden floorboards. They seemed to lurch beneath me, rising and falling like the deck of a ship tossed about on the swell of stormy waves. I staggered into the wall and had to lean against it to keep from falling over.
In another moment the rocking feeling had passed, although the pain in my head pulsed worse than ever. I looked up and took in the room. Empty. The thump I’d heard must have come from outside. But the buzzing sound in here was louder than I had ever heard it. It sounded like there was a whole swarm of insects trapped somewhere close, desperate to get out.
I left the room and quickly went through the others but Shell was nowhere to be found. With a growing sense of unease, I climbed the steps to check the second floor.
Chapter Forty-Six
Emma
As I waited for Jem, my bad feeling got worse and worse. I could see actual frost sparkling on the carvings of the monster staircase. It shouldn’t be cold like this. It didn’t make sense.
Then, all of a sudden, the cellar door creaked slowly open, just like it had the first day I’d arrived. Dark shadows spilled out of it, along with a laugh that hit me like an anchor thrown straight at my face. A single blue witch ball rested in the threshold. Shell was definitely down there. I should have guessed.
Quickly, I wheeled myself to the foot of the monster staircase, taking care not to look at the mixture of teeth and tentacles carved into it, glittering dangerously in their coats of frost, and called at the top of my voice for Jem. There was silence. I shouted up again but still nothing. Perhaps he was on the second floor. I could sit here and wait for him to come back or I could get myself down to that cellar somehow and check on Shell myself. Jem would see my wheelchair when he came down and would know where we were.
I turned away from the staircase and wheeled myself over to the cellar door. The laughter had stopped now, but that just made me feel even more concerned.
“Shell?” I called down the stairs. But, whether she heard me or not, she didn’t answer, either.
Every instinct screamed at me to get up out of the chair and run down those steps but running hadn’t been a possibility for me for a long time now. Wishing that Bailey was here to help me, I reached around the back of my chair for the walking stick, unfolded it and stood up on legs that already trembled. My spine still hurt from the fall I’d taken yesterday, and the last thing I wanted was to tumble down that stone staircase and crack my head open at the bottom of it. The Waterwitch had had quite enough of my blood and it sure as hell wasn’t getting any more, not today, not ever again.
I put my hand on the wall, my cane on the first step, and carefully lowered myself down on to it.
That movement was too much for my back and it instantly went into spasms. My fingers flexed involuntarily and the cane fell from my grip, rolling away down the stairs. My trembling legs couldn’t take my weight any more and I collapsed down on to the step with a jolt that brought tears to my eyes. My hand balled into a fist and I banged it against the wall in frustration, which really didn’t achieve anything. Then I let out a string of swear words, which didn’t achieve anything much, either.
“You’re not getting the better of me,” I said, through gritted teeth, and I had no idea whether I was talking to my ruined spine, or my feeble legs, or my tired heart or to the Waterwitch itself. All I knew was that I was getting myself down to that horrible, hateful cellar even if I had to crawl every inch of the way on my hands and knees to do it.
So it began. There weren’t all that many steps. In fact there were eleven. I know because each one is seared into my brain. My arms and legs throbbed as I lowered myself down but it was nothing compared to the blinding column of agony that was my spine. At one point I looked back over my shoulder and saw my ugly monster of a wheelchair poised at the top of the stairs and it might as well have been at the top of a mountain. However difficult it was to get down, it would be pretty much impossible for me to get back up. This journey down the staircase would be a one-way trip until someone came to help me.
At last, I was on the final step, and I snatched up my walking stick and pulled myself over to the doorway with the palms of my hands. I saw Shell at once and there was this soft roaring sound in my ears – like listening to the echo of the sea inside a seashell – as all my worst fears were realized right in front of me.
She stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by witch balls, a blue witch bottle at her feet. Gripped in her hand was a monstrous great fish hook, gleaming cold and silver and sharp, with cruel pointed barbs at the end. I could see it reflected back at me in the dozens of witch balls. Shell had the point of the hook pressed against her neck, right beside the jugular. One swipe and she’d have her entire throat ripped out.
“Shell,” I said, trying to keep my voice low and steady. “What are you doing?”
“This is … this is what she wants me to do,” she replied. “She’s here. She’s standing over there in the corner of the room.”
I gripped my stick in one hand and used the other to press against the wall, finally managing to haul myself upright with an inelegant, lurching movement that left me gasping for breath.
“Jem is looking for you,” I said. “I really think you’d better put that fish hook down.”
I took a slow, dragging step towards her, but Shell shrieked at me to stay back.
“OK, OK!” I said, my whole body trembling with the effort of standing. “I’ll stay right here. I won’t move from this spot, I promise.”
I wasn’t entirely sure I could move, even if I wanted to. I was stuck there, unable to go forwards or back, right in the very same room where we first found the witch bottle and my back had been broken all those years ago. I just had to keep Shell talking, that was all.
“Go away,” she said, the hook still trembling in the hand at her throat. She must have pricked the skin because a tiny bead of blood formed at the end of the hook and ran slowly down her neck. “I don’t want you here.”
“I can’t move,” I replied. In fact, I couldn’t even stay standing. My legs simply wouldn’t take the weight any more. I gripped the stick, trying to lower myself down gently, trying to soften the fall, but, of course, the stick slid suddenly out from my grip when I was only halfway down, and there was nothing to prevent me from crashing helplessly in a heap.
I was out of options. Worst case scenario I could try throwing my cane at her. There was a chance that might startle her into dropping the hook she was about to cut her throat with. Obviously, it was a slim chance but slim chances were better than no chances at all.
I was just reaching out towards it, trying to ignore all the little flash-pops of pain that raced up my arm like a line of light bulbs blowing out, when I heard footsteps on the staircase behind me.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Jem
I took in the scene in one glance: Emma sprawled on the floor and Shell with a fish hook pressed against her throat. As soon as I’d seen Emma’s abandoned wheelchair at the door I’d known they must be in the cellar and I’d known that couldn’t be good.
“I killed Dad,” Shell said as soon as she saw me.
“No,” I replied, slowly, ca
refully. “No, you didn’t. Dad had a massive heart attack. He drank too much. Shell, you know that.”
“I killed him,” she repeated, like she hadn’t even heard me. “With the birds.”
Oh God, those birds again! Always with the birds!
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it was wrong. But I couldn’t let him hurt you.”
“You’re hurting me now,” I gasped. Sweat dripped into my eyes and I wiped it away. “Please put down that hook.”
“I can’t,” Shell said. “It’s the witch. She wants me to—”
“There is no witch, Shell,” I said. “You’re upset still, about what happened to Mum. It’s OK to be upset, but it’s making you confused and—”
“I AM NOT CONFUSED!”
It was the first time in my life I could ever remember hearing Shell shout. I flinched as my headache intensified, like a hot metal band being slowly tightened around my skull.
“The witch is real,” Shell said. “Her name is Cordelia Merrick and she’s here, she’s right here in this room with us. I don’t know why you can’t see her but she’s standing over there by the fireplace.”
“There is no one standing by the fireplace!” I burst out louder than I had intended. The hot band tightened another notch and even my eyeballs seemed to ache, as if they were about to explode in their sockets. “The only people in this room are you, me and Emma.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Shell
I gazed at Cordelia. She wasn’t looking at Jem or at Emma, she was only looking at me. Her bloodshot eyes seemed to burn into my skin. She tried to say something but only a gurgle of pain came out as the spikes cut deeper into her shredded tongue. Blood oozed slowly from underneath her metal mask, and dripped softly to the floor. I could feel her watching me and willing me to plunge the fish hook deep into my throat, as far as it would go. It’s the only way, she seemed to say. The only way to be free…
