In fact, the accident had several consequences.
Paul and Vanessa Adams were told what had happened when they got home that night and as soon as they had got over the shock, the knowledge of how close they had come to losing their only child, they began to argue about whose fault it was: their own for allowing Scarlett too much freedom, Aidan for distracting her, or Scarlett for showing so little road sense, even at the age of thirteen. In the end, they decided that in future Mrs Murdoch would take up her old position at the school gates. It would be another nine months before Scarlett was allowed to walk home on her own again.
The identity of the man who had saved her remained a mystery. Where had he come from? How had he seen what was about to happen? Why had he been in such a hurry to get away? Mrs Murdoch decided that he must be an illegal immigrant, that he had taken off at the sight of the approaching policeman. For her part, Scarlett was just sorry that she hadn’t been able to thank him. And if he was in some sort of trouble, she would have liked to have helped him.
That was the night she had her first dream.
Scarlett had never been one for vivid dreams. Normally she got home, ate, did her homework, spent forty minutes on her PlayStation 3 and then plunged into a deep, empty sleep that would be ended all too quickly by Mrs Murdoch, shaking her awake for the start of another school day. But this dream was more than vivid. It was so realistic, so detailed that it was almost like being inside a film. And there was something else that was strange about it. As far as she could see, it had no connection to her life or to anything that had happened during the day.
She dreamed that she was in a grey-lit world that might be another planet … the moon perhaps. In the distance, she could see a vast ocean stretching out to the horizon and beyond – but there were no waves. The surface of the water could have been a single sheet of metal. Everything was dead. She was surrounded by sand-dunes – at least, that was what she thought they were, but they were actually made of dust. They had somehow blown there and – like the dust on the moon – it would stay the same forever. She walked forward. But she left no footprints.
There were four boys standing together, a short distance away.
The boys were searching for her. If she listened carefully, she could actually hear them calling her name. She tried to call back, but although there was no wind, not even a breeze, something snatched the words away.
The boys weren’t real. They couldn’t be… Scarlett had never seen them before. And yet somehow she was sure that she knew their names.
Scott. Jamie. Pedro. And Matt.
She knew them from somewhere. They had met before.
That was the first time, but over the next two years she had the same dream again and again. And gradually, it began to change. It seemed to her that every time she saw the boys, they were a little further away until finally she had to get used to the fact that she was completely on her own. Every time she went to sleep, she found herself hoping she would see them. More than that. She needed to meet them.
She never spoke about her dreams, not even to Aidan. But somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that finding the four boys had become the single most important thing in her life.
THE DOOR
Two years later, Scarlett had turned fifteen – and she had become an orphan for a second time.
Paul and Vanessa Adams hadn’t died but their marriage had, one inch at a time. In a way, it was amazing they had stayed together so long. Scarlett’s father had just started a new job, working for a multi-national corporation based in Hong Kong. Meanwhile, her mother was spending more and more time with her own business, looking after customers who seemed to demand her attention twenty-four hours a day. They were seeing less and less of each other and suddenly realized that they preferred it that way. They didn’t argue or shout at each other. They just decided they would be happier apart.
They told Scarlett the news at the end of the summer holidays and for her part she wasn’t quite sure what to feel. But the truth was that in the short term it would make little difference to her life. Most of the time she was on her own with Mrs Murdoch anyway and although she’d always been glad to see her parents, she’d got used to the fact that they were seldom, if ever, around. The three of them had one last meeting in the kitchen, the two adults sitting with grim faces and large glasses of wine.
“Your mother is going to set up a company in Melbourne, in Australia,” Paul said. “She has to go where the market is and Melbourne is a wonderful opportunity.” He glanced at Vanessa and in that moment Scarlett knew that he wasn’t telling the whole truth. Maybe the Australians were desperate for exotic holidays. But the fact was that she had chosen somewhere as far away as possible. Maybe she had met someone else. Whatever the reason, she wanted to carve herself a whole new life. “As for me, Nightrise have asked me to move to the Hong Kong office…”
The Nightrise Corporation. That was the company that employed her dad.
“I know this is very difficult for you, Scarly,” he went on. “Two such huge changes. But we both want to look after you. You can come with either of us.”
In fact, it wasn’t difficult for Scarlett. She had already thought about it and made up her mind. “Why can’t I stay here?” she asked.
“On your own?”
“Mrs Murdoch will look after me. You’re not going to sell the house, are you? This is my home! Anyway, I don’t want to leave St Genevieve’s. And all my friends are here…”
Of course, both her parents protested. They wanted Scarlett to come with them. How could she possibly manage without them? But all of them knew that it was actually the best, the easiest solution. Mrs Murdoch had been with the family for ten years and probably knew Scarlett as well as anyone. In a way, they couldn’t have been happier if they had suggested it themselves. It might not be conventional but it was clearly for the best.
And so it was agreed. A few weeks later, Vanessa left, hugging Scarlett and promising that the two of them would see each other again very soon. And yet, somehow, Scarlett wondered just how likely that would be. She had always tried to be close to Vanessa, recognizing at the same time that they had almost nothing in common. They weren’t a real mother and daughter and so – as far as Scarlett was concerned – this wasn’t a real divorce.
Paul Adams left for Hong Kong shortly afterwards and suddenly Scarlett found herself in a new phase of life, virtually on her own. But, as she had expected, it wasn’t so very different from what she had always been used to. Mrs Murdoch was still there, cooking, cleaning and making sure she was ready for school. Her father telephoned her regularly to check up on her. Vanessa sent long e-mails. Her teachers – who had been warned what had happened – kept a close eye on her. She was surprised how quickly she got used to things.
She was happy. She had plenty of friends and Aidan was still around. The two of them saw more of each other than ever, going shopping together, listening to music, taking Aidan’s dog – a black retriever – out on Dulwich Common. She was allowed to walk home from school on her own again. In fact, as if to recognize her new status, she found herself being given a whole lot more freedom. At weekends, she went into town to the cinema. She stayed overnight with other girls from her class. She had been given a big part in the Christmas play, which meant late afternoon rehearsals and hours in the evening learning her lines. It all helped to fill the time and to make her think that her life wasn’t so very unusual after all.
Everything changed one day in November. That was when Miss Chaplin announced her great Blitz project – a visit to London’s East End.
Joan Chaplin was the art teacher at St Genevieve’s and she was famous for being younger, friendlier and more easygoing than any of the dinosaurs in the staff room. She was always finding new ways to interest the girls, organizing coach trips to exhibitions and events all over London. One class had gone to see the giant crack built into the floor of the Tate Modern. For another it had been a shark suspended in a tank, an installation by
the artist, Damien Hirst. Weeks later, they had still been arguing whether it was serious art or just a dead fish.
As part of their GCSE history coursework, a lot of the girls were studying the Blitz, the bombing of London by the Germans during the Second World War. Miss Chaplin had decided that they should take an artistic as well as a historical interest in what had happened.
“I want you to capture the spirit of the Blitz,” she explained. “What’s the point of studying it if you don’t feel it too?” She paused as if waiting for someone to argue, then went on. “You can use photography, painting, collage or even clay modelling if you like. But I want you to give me an idea of what it might have been like to live in London during the winter of 1940.”
There was a mutter of agreement around the class. Walking around London had to be more fun than reading about it in books. Scarlett was particularly pleased. History and art had become two of her favourite subjects and she saw that here was an opportunity to do them both at the same time.
“Next Monday, we’re going to Shoreditch,” Miss Chaplin went on. “It was an area of London that was very heavily bombed. We’ll visit many of the streets, trying to imagine what it was like and we’ll look at some of the buildings that survived.”
She glanced outside. The art room was on the ground floor, at the back of the school, with a view over the garden, sloping down with flower-beds at the bottom and three tennis courts beyond. It was Friday and it was raining. The rain was sheeting down and the grass was sodden. It had been like that for three days.
“Of course,” she went on. “The trip won’t be possible if the weather doesn’t cheer up – and I have to warn you that the forecast hasn’t been too promising. But maybe we’ll be lucky. Either way, remember to bring a permission slip from your parents.” Then she had a sudden thought and smiled. “What do you think, Scarlett?”
It had become a sort of joke at St Genevieve’s.
Scarlett Adams always seemed to know what the weather was going to do. Nobody could remember when it had first started but everyone agreed – you could tell how the day was going to be simply by the way Scarlett dressed. If she forgot her scarf, it would be warm. If she brought in an umbrella, it would rain. After a bit, people began to ask her opinion. If there was an important tennis match or a picnic planned by the river, have a word with Scarlett. If there was any chance of a cross-country run being called off, she would know.
Of course, she wasn’t always right. But it seemed she could be relied upon about ninety per cent of the time.
Now she looked out of the window. It was horrible outside.
The clouds, grey and unbroken, were smothering the sky. She could see raindrops chasing each other across the glass. “It’ll be fine,” she said. “It’ll clear up after the weekend.”
Miss Chaplin nodded. “I do hope you’re right.”
She was. It rained all day Sunday and it was still drizzling on Sunday night. But Monday morning, when Scarlett woke up, the sky was blue. Even Mrs Murdoch was whistling as she put together the packed lunch requested by the school. It was as if a last burst of summer had decided to put in a surprise appearance.
The coach came to the school at midday. The lesson – combining art and history – was actually going to take place over two periods plus lunch and, allowing for the traffic, the girls wouldn’t be back until the end of school. As they pulled out of St Genevieve’s, Miss Chaplin talked over the intercom, explaining what they were going to do.
“We’ll be stopping for lunch at St Paul’s Cathedral,” she said. “It was very much part of the spirit of the Blitz because, despite all the bombing, it was not destroyed. The coach will then take us to Shoreditch and we’re going to walk around the area. It’s still a bit wet underfoot so I want us to go indoors and the place I’ve chosen is St Meredith’s, in Moore Street. It’s one of the oldest churches in London. In fact there was a chapel there as long ago as the thirteenth century.”
“Why are we visiting a church?” one of the girls asked.
“Because it also played an important part in the war. A lot of local people used to hide there during the bombing. They actually believed it had the power to protect them … that they’d be safe there.”
She paused. The coach had reached the River Thames, crossing over Blackfriars Bridge. Scarlett looked out of the window. The water was flowing very quickly after all the rain. In the distance, she could just make out part of the London Eye, the silver framework glinting in the sunlight. The sight of it made her sad. She had ridden on it with her parents, at the end of the summer. It had been one of the last things the three of them had done while they were still a family.
“…actually took a direct hit on October 2, 1940.” Miss Chaplin was still talking about St Meredith’s. Scarlett had allowed her thoughts to wander and she’d missed half of what the teacher had said. “It wasn’t destroyed, but it was badly damaged. Bring your sketch books with you and we can work in there. We have permission and you can go anywhere you like. See if you can feel the atmosphere. Imagine what it was like, being there with the bombs going off all around.”
Miss Chaplin flicked off the microphone and sat down again, next to the driver.
Scarlett was a few rows behind her, sitting next to a girl called Amanda, who was one of her closest friends and who lived in the same road as her. She noticed that Amanda was frowning.
What is it?” she asked.
“St Meredith’s,” Amanda said. “What about it?”
It took Amanda a few moments to remember. “There was a murder there. About six months ago.”
“You’re not being serious.”
“I am.”
If it had been anyone else, Scarlett might not have believed them. But she knew that Amanda had a special interest in murder. She loved reading Agatha Christie and she was always watching whodunnits on TV. “So who got murdered?” she asked.
“I can’t remember,” Amanda said. “It was some guy. A librarian, I think. He was stabbed.”
Scarlett wasn’t sure it sounded very likely and when the coach stopped off at St Paul’s, she went over to Miss Chaplin. To her surprise, the teacher didn’t even hesitate. “Oh yes,” she said cheerfully. “There was an incident there this summer. A man was attacked by a down-and-out. I’m not sure the police ever caught anyone, but it all happened a long time ago. It doesn’t bother you, does it, Scarlett?”
“No,” Scarlett said. “Of course not.”
But that wasn’t quite true. It did secretly worry her, even if she wasn’t sure why. She had a sense of foreboding which only grew worse the closer they got to the church.
The art teacher had chosen this part of London for a reason. It was a patchwork of old and new, with great gaps where whole buildings and perhaps even streets had been taken out by the Germans. Most of the shops were shabby and depressing, with plastic signs and dirty windows full of products which people might need but which they couldn’t possibly want: vacuum cleaners, dog food, one hundred items at less than a pound. There was an ugly car park towering high over the buildings, but it was hard to imagine anyone stopping here. The traffic rumbled past in four lanes, anxious to be on its way.
But even so there were a few clues as to what the area might once have been like. A cobbled alleyway, a gas lamp, a red telephone box, a house with pillars and iron railings. The London of seventy years ago. That was what Miss Chaplin had brought them all to find.
They turned into Moore Street. It was a dead end, narrow and full of puddles and pot-holes. A pub stood on one side, opposite a launderette that had shut down. St Meredith’s was at the bottom, a solid, red-brick church that looked far too big to have been built in this part of town. The war damage was obvious at once. The steeple had been added quite recently. It wasn’t even the same colour as the rest of the building and didn’t quite match the huge oak doors or the windows with their heavy stone frames.
Scarlett felt even more uneasy once they were inside. She jumped as the door boo
med shut behind her, cutting out the London traffic, much of the light – indeed, any sense that they were in a modern city at all. The interior of the church stretched into the distance to the silver cross, high up on the altar, caught in a single shaft of dusty light. Otherwise, the stained glass windows held the sun back, the different colours blurring together. Hundreds of candles flickered uselessly in iron holders. She could make out little side-chapels, built into the walls. Even without remembering the murder that had happened there, St Meredith’s didn’t strike her as a particularly holy place. It was simply creepy.
But nobody else seemed to share her feelings. The other girls had taken out their sketch books and were sitting in the pews, chatting to each other and drawing what they had seen outside. Miss Chaplin was examining the pulpit – a carving of an eagle. Presumably, most Londoners chose not to pray at two o’clock in the afternoon. They had the place to themselves.
Scarlett looked for Amanda, but her friend was talking to another girl on the other side of the transept so she sat down on her own and opened her pad. She needed to put the murder out of her mind. Instead, she thought about the men and women who had sheltered here during the Blitz. Had they really believed that St Meredith’s had some sort of magical power to avoid being hit, that they would be safer here than in a cellar or a Tube station? She thought about them sitting there with their fingers crossed while the Luftwaffe roared overhead. Maybe that was what she would draw.
She shivered. She was wearing a coat but it was very cold inside the church. In fact it felt colder inside than out. A movement caught her eye. A line of candles had flickered, all the flames bending together, caught in a sudden breeze. Had someone just come in? No. The door was still shut. Nobody could have opened or closed it without being heard.
A boy walked past. At first, Scarlett barely registered him. He was in the shadows at the side of the church, between the columns and the side-chapels, moving towards the altar. He made absolutely no sound. Even his feet against the marble floor were silent. He could have been floating. She turned to follow him as he went and just for a second his face was illuminated by a naked bulb, hanging on a wire.
Necropolis Page 2
