by Mike Revell
Shuffling and moaning. The smell of burned meat wafting from the kitchen. You can tell the ones who have been living with a demon for a long time, because their eyes are blank and they stop every now and then looking lost, or groan at you, or say things like “You should have seen my prize-winning goats of ’98,” and “I never can remember how I invented the moon,” and “There’s a monster on the roof, you know. I dreamed about it last night.”
That one makes me stop, but Mom grabs my hand and hurries us along the corridor. My shoes squeak on the polished floor as we round the corner toward Grandma’s room.
“Wait till you see,” she says. She’s said it the whole way here and she’s still saying it all the way up to the door. “Jess is already in there. Wait till you see!”
Mom shoves open the door, and there she is, there’s Grandma, sitting up in bed with the sun shining on her face through the open window and the fresh air flowing through and taking the old musty smell with it.
“Liam!” she says, as soon as she sees me.
What?
My feet stop.
She smiles and beckons with her thin, bony hand. It doesn’t have food on it today—
It’s clean and white as she curls her finger to call me over. I check Mom’s face in surprise, but she just nods and pushes me gently forward.
“My, how you’ve grown,” says Grandma.
Her eyes are bright and blue and shining and they’re surrounded by smiley wrinkles and they don’t drift closed every few seconds. All the gray and gloom have gone from the room, blasted out by fresh air and flowers.
“I can’t believe it!” she says. “Come closer and give your Grandma a kiss.”
I automatically check her face, but there’s no food, no muck, just white wrinkly skin. I bend down and kiss her and she kisses me. When I pull back, she reaches out and clutches my hand. Her grip’s so strong that my fingers turn white too. I squeeze her hand back.
Mom and Jess are behind me. Warmth comes off them in waves. But I can’t take my eyes off Grandma. I stare into her happy blue eyes, trying to find the demon, trying to see if it’s in there, but there’s only cleverness and stories and jokes waiting to be told. And memories. So many memories.
“Such a handsome one, this,” she says, winking at Mom. “You’ll have the girls chasing after you when you get older. How old are you now?”
“Eleven.”
“Double digits! Eleven is a great age. My, they do grow up fast, don’t they?”
She turns to look out of the window. People are sitting out in the sun on benches and their laughter flows through into the room. Laughter!
“Do you know,” says Grandma, “I was just telling Jess—I wouldn’t mind going outside for a bit. Do you think we could manage it?”
She tries to get up, her thin arms struggling with the effort, then falls back onto the bed. There’s nothing to her, no muscle, just bone with skin hanging from it like a tent without pegs.
“I’ll try to find a wheelchair,” Mom says.
I bend down and give Grandma my shoulder to lean on. She grips my arm and wobbles with the pressure as she tries again to climb over the railing on the bed.
“It’s like they think we’ll escape,” she says, chuckling despite the strain.
Mom comes back with a wheelchair, and Jess and I help Grandma into it. She lands with a thud and for a second I think she’s hurt herself, but she only slaps the sides with her wrinkled hands.
“Let’s have it, then,” she says, grinning.
We’re laughing as we wheel her out, out into the sunny garden. Laughing like loons. Laughing like we’ve never laughed before.
41
“Aren’t I the lucky lady?” Grandma says when we help her back into bed. “It’s not every day you get an adventure like that.”
Her eyes . . . they’re dancing. It’s so easy to see the recognition in them. She’s still shrunken and skinny, but somehow she’s fuller, more alive.
One of the nurses brings in a pot of tea, and we sit there drinking and talking and eating the leftover chocolates from Grandma’s birthday.
“Eighty-six,” she says. “Like that.”
“We found your diary,” Jess says.
“Oh, you did, eh? And I suppose you read it too.”
Mom grins. “I think she’s itching to ask you about Rupert.” Then she whispers, “She’s got a boyfriend herself.”
“Mom!”
“Is that right?” says Grandma. “And when am I going to meet him?”
They start talking about boys, laughing over old stories and mushy details. After a while I step back toward the edge of the room. They don’t see me going. They’re too interested in their conversation. And I don’t blame them.
You know how something can be so amazing or such fun or so unbelievable that you think you’re dreaming? And you’re scared to pinch yourself because if it is a dream, then you don’t want to wake up?
That’s how I’m feeling now.
I don’t want to pinch myself and I’m not going to pinch myself, but there is something that I do want to do.
I slip out of the door and into the hall.
Old men and women pass me by, and nurses too, walking to the common room, where I can hear the distant sounds of a TV in the background.
It doesn’t take long for me to find the room I’m looking for.
I hesitate for a second, listening for any sound. Will Matt’s mom be any better, like Grandma is? If not, I don’t know what I’ll do. Nothing I say can make it any better. Matt will probably want to kill me all over again.
The door’s open, just a crack, but enough for me to see into the room.
Matt’s there. And Gary too. They’re sitting around the bed, sitting around Matt’s mom, and although I can’t hear what they’re saying, I can tell one thing.
They’re smiling.
“Here he is,” says Grandma, when I make my way back to her room.
She calls me over, and I sit beside her on the bed.
“You know what?” she says to Mom. “I’d love another cup.”
Mom stands up and gives Jess a look that says, Follow me, and they both head out of the room, leaving me on my own with Grandma.
I know Grandma’s only done it so I can have my own time with her. There are so many things I want to ask, but now the moment’s come, everything’s bubbling up at once, and I don’t know what to say.
“I hear you’re looking after your mother,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“And your sister too?”
“Trying to,” I say.
“I bet she gives you hell, eh?”
A smile creeps onto my face. “Sometimes.”
We’re quiet for a while. Her eyes are so bright. You can tell they’ve seen so many things, but even so they’re the youngest part of her face. Looking at them, I can almost see the thirteen-year-old girl I’ve been reading about in her diary.
“It’s not just me, though,” I say.
“No.”
She knows. I can tell she knows.
I feel in my pocket for the egg, and take it out. As soon as Grandma sees it, her eyes light up. “Ah,” she says. “Yes. It’s been a long time since . . . I’ve seen this.”
“Mrs. Culpepper gave it to me,” I say, and I know it’s a lie, but Mrs. Culpepper did warn me that she was leaving, so maybe she wanted me to take it.
“Of course. And so it comes full circle, eh?”
“Is it true?” I ask her.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Is what true?”
“Did Stonebird really follow you from Notre Dame?”
She smiles, showing her false teeth. “It’s true if you want it to be.”
I don’t really know what to say to that, so I think of another question that’s been on my mind, and try and find a way to word it so she can’t answer in riddles.
“Grandma?”
“Yes, dear?”
“What happened on January 16?”
&nb
sp; “Oh,” she says. “That. You’re a clever one, aren’t you?”
Something flickers in her eyes. I can’t stop thinking that she did it, she killed that girl, or at least she asked Stonebird to—which is the same thing really. My throat tightens and I want to step back, I want to leave, but I can’t. I have to know.
“You can take that look off your face, mind.”
When I swallow, it’s loud in my ears.
“You’re wondering if your poor old Grandma had it in her to murder a schoolgirl?”
“It’s just that—well, you said . . .”
Grandma taps the side of her head. “Dementia,” she says. “It’s a nasty thing. Once it gets a grip on you, it doesn’t let go. Makes you say things that never ought to be said. Makes you say things that aren’t you at all.”
But she must recognize the look on my face, because then she says, “I’ll tell you what. Take a look in that cupboard there, and see if you can’t find my sketchbook. I know it’s here somewhere, because I was showing it off to the nurses last night.”
“You’ve got your sketchbook here?”
“Of course! Where else would it be?”
I shift off the side of the bed and open the cupboard. There’s a DVD player and a CD player and a few old birthday cards, and there’s a box that looks like it might have jewelry inside. And there, at the back, is a black leather sketchbook.
“That’s the ticket,” Grandma says, as I bring it over to her.
She flicks through drawing after drawing—some of Paris and some of the countryside, and there are loads of gravestones and gargoyles. Then she stops and holds a page up to me. At first I don’t really get it. There’s a girl, which I guess must be her, but around her it’s a mess of black. And shielding her head with its wings is—
“Stonebird,” I whisper.
“Now,” Grandma says, “you pass that egg here. I’ll tell you a story.”
42
“There was a girl who came to Swanbury during the War,” she says.
“You.”
“Of course me. Now keep quiet for a moment, will you? Didn’t Mrs. Culpepper teach you not to talk when you don’t have the egg?”
“Sorry,” I say quickly, but she grins to let me know she’s joking.
“I didn’t think I’d be in Swanbury for very long. Paris was our home. We moved there so my father could take over the family business. And you have to remember, back then people said the War would be over by Christmas. It wasn’t. Days became weeks and weeks turned into months, and the lady I was living with, dear Mrs. Woods, decided I’d better start going to school.
“As I’m sure you know, it can be a bit horrible, moving schools. If you try too hard, they’ll be on you. If you don’t try at all, they’ll think you’re some kind of hopeless case. And if you’re too good at something—well—bully for you. Quite literally, in my case.”
The graveyard flashes in my mind, the headstone with Claire’s name on it.
“Claire didn’t take well to my joining her class. She picked on me, called me names, put things in my hair and chocolate on my seat so it would melt all over my skirt. Then it got worse. They had this ritual, you see. Even in those days the church was haunted. People thought it was, anyway, and that’s as good as the real thing half the time. They used to dare each other to go in there at night, then shut them in. See how long it took for them to come banging on the door in terror.”
It’s all so similar to Matt and his friends. They never tried to lock me in the church, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if they had. It’s not that far from dumping me in a pond or chasing me around school.
But I’ve never wanted to kill them. Hurt them, maybe, but never kill them.
“Naturally Claire came after me. She chased me into the church. I tried to fight her off, and that’s when I heard it—a deep, thunderous crack and a rumble so loud you’d have thought we were getting bombed. We were both frozen in shock as the stones fell.”
Grandma stops talking, her face frozen, staring into the distance.
“What happened?” I whisper, leaning closer. “How did you get out?”
“Thankfully Stonebird wasn’t quite as slow as I was. As the roof split open, he dived in, plunged down and covered us with his huge wings. The stones crashed against him. The noise was hellacious. I’ve never seen his eyes burn as bright as they did that night. Flames of pure gold they were. But Claire didn’t realize he was protecting us. A gargoyle moving? You can imagine the look on her face. It wasn’t far to the door. I could see the cogs whirring in her brain. Get down, I said, get down, but she wouldn’t listen. She ran. She ran, that foolish girl, and it was the last thing she did.”
I realize I’m holding my breath and let it out slowly. She’s telling the truth. Or at least I think she is. But part of me still believes that all stories are lies, and if that’s true then how do you know what’s real and what’s not?
“You were wondering what happened on January 16, Liam. You were wondering if I killed Claire Smith. Well, that’s what happened. You can decide for yourself how to feel about it. Goodness knows I’m not sure what to think, even after all these years. I just try to forget it. Which was easy, until today.”
“It was an accident,” I say. “It was just a horrible accident. You’re not a killer at all.”
She smiles, and her eyes crinkle around the edges. “Maybe. But I might have been able to do more. And isn’t that the same thing?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”
All this time I thought Grandma used Stonebird to kill that girl. You can’t control him, not properly, and I know how easy it is to go too far. I made a mistake with Matt because I was angry and upset, and he broke his arm. It could have been a lot worse.
But Grandma isn’t a killer. I should never have suspected her.
“Does it ever get any easier?” I say. “Moving, I mean.”
“Oh, yes.” She winks and rubs my arm with her wrinkly hand. “I think you know it does. Here, look, we’ve got company again. And tea! I love a good cup.”
Later that evening, when we get in the car to leave, I poke my head out of the window and look up, and he’s there. I can see him, keeping watch on the roof.
The dark shape of Stonebird, crouching in the shadows.
43
“It worked,” Matt says excitedly, rushing up to me at the school gates. “It bleeding worked! You did it!”
“We did it.”
Matt grins, and I smile right back.
“Have you got the egg?” he says.
I hold it out to him. The warmth of the story has long since vanished.
“Mrs. Culpepper didn’t even look for it yesterday,” he says. “I guess she didn’t want to do the story circle without you there. If you put it back this morning, she won’t even know it was gone.” He glances up and spots Cheesy and Joe lurking at the edge of the playground. “Better go and meet up with them lot,” he says. “See you in class!”
Apparently the human body is sixty percent water. But right now I feel more like sixty percent balloons, as if I’m floating up and up and up. I can’t take the smile off my face.
Grandma’s had a demon in her for so long that I couldn’t remember her from before, but now I don’t need to. First I had the diary, then I got to speak to her, properly speak to her, and the whole time she was completely back to her old self.
And Mom—it seems like she’s really been trying hard to stay happy. But staying happy must be impossible when Grandma’s so ill.
Once, five years ago, Daisy ran away and I thought I’d never see her again because there was no sign of her for sixteen days and thirteen hours. But then one day there was a knock on the door and there she was. The woman who brought her back moaned about how she turned up in their garden wrecking the garbage bins. But her voice was drowned out by the electric sparks of happiness surging through my body as Daisy wagged her tail and barked and bounded into my arms.
Mom must feel
a bit like that, but a million times more, because even though Daisy is my best friend, she’s still just a dog. And Mom’s got her own mom back.
I’m so lost in thought walking into school that I don’t notice the signs that something’s wrong.
The first thing is the quiet.
Our class is never this quiet in the morning.
Halfway to the desk, I see the second sign.
“Where’s Mrs. Culpepper?” I ask the teacher who is not Mrs. Culpepper.
She has her back to me at first, but as she turns, her face tightens and her eyes shrink to points.
“You’re late,” she says. “Sit down, please, and don’t disturb my class again.”
But I don’t sit down. I blink, taking it all in, her ragged face and her scraggly gray hair and the class all around me sitting still as statues, not daring to move.
“Where’s Mrs. Culpepper?” I say again, panic rising in me.
“She’s gone,” she says simply. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me now.”
A whisper beside me: “Sit down, Liam!” But I ignore it. Something rises inside me, something raw and fiery and real. I don’t know what it is, but what I do know is I’m not sitting down. Not here. Not for her.
“Sit down, boy,” the woman says again.
“Where—is—Mrs.—Culpepper?” I say, loud and slow.
Her face is white and strained, and there are no smiles in her eyes.
She reaches out to grab me. I yank my arm free, but I’m still holding the marble egg and it slips out of my hand.
It falls in slow motion . . .
It hits the ground hard.
It cracks in two.
Everyone in the class gasps when they realize what’s happened. All I can think is How is this happening, how is this happening how, how, how—? The teacher steps back, and in that moment of distraction a sudden thought catches fire in my mind.
I run.
Out through the door and across the hall and into the playground. Because Mrs. Culpepper’s gone. Her egg is broken. And if the egg’s broken, my connection to Stonebird might be too.
