It was intensely, suddenly cold. Like stepping into a freezer
Angela collided with something solid, soft and immovable. She bounced off it, hearing a male voice say – “I beg your pardon” – and became airborne, landing heavily on her backside and ended up sitting like a toddler, legs apart, back straight, hands held up in front of her face. She was even drooling
Her hands, turned this way and that in the moonlight breaking from the clouds, were coated in thick, brown, icy mud. She saw a man dead ahead, also knocked onto his backside, sitting across the path, looking dazed and bemused. And there they were: those eyes again. Staring eyes; a sea of white around the dark, blue yolks. He had a high forehead. The earring, too. Balding, startled but friendly: all like the picture in the book
“Who are you?” Angela asked. She was half up on her palms and the balls of her feet, ready to flee
“I only want the school,” the man replied, lifting a dirty hand. He had an accent; sounded like a farmer
“Which school?” Angela stood and the two circled each other slowly. The moon was slipping away again, being smothered
“The school.” He put one hand up and turned from the waist, like an actor on the stage. “The school I know is hereabouts.”
Hereabouts? “Who are you? Why are you dressed like that? So … weird?”
The man was wearing big leather boots and his pants fluffed up over the tops of them at his thighs. His fingernails were black as night, rimed with dirt. When he spoke, Angela noticed his teeth: uneven, sparse and inky. “I might ask you the same question, my girl.”
The man’s face seemed to fade away and no matter how hard she stared, Angela could only see his clothes: no nose, no eyes, no hands, and no neck. But then he spoke, from a space where she could see dark boughs hanging leafless in the air. “If you would be so kind as to show me the way to the school, I would be much obliged.”
Angela backed away from the strange, headless figure without saying a word
“Don’t go, miss!”
Angela scrabbled through the scrub, banging her head on low branches and clawing at bracken until she’d made it diagonally up the hill to the path she’d been on. Without looking back, her breath heavy and laboured, she ran home along a Gallop’s path occasionally lit by temperamental moonlight
Only when she got to the school, the lights at the main entrance glowing with dim orange halos, did she stagger to a halt. Right on cue she saw the bobbing, flickering lights of the cross-country club coming down the main road from St Catherine’s and the Admiral Benbow.
“Oh thank god for that,” she said, the sweat on her forehead making her acne sting
Tuesday
1
It was the middle of the night and Gillian was wide awake
The middle of the night might have been the middle of the ocean. She was in the middle of nowhere, the full moon hanging high ahead of her through the gap in the curtains, staring back at her with its dark, uneven eye. It was dead, floating, circling the earth, pulling the tides, stirring up the oceans, dividing the year, being howled at and stared at and wished upon, ignored and cursed
Tick.
Gillian had tried all of her usual tricks but was still awake. It was as though someone had turned a radio on in her head. Thoughts were playing; music too: a song she hadn’t heard for months. A slow song. A love song. A sad song. A song she hated that everyone was singing: why was it always the awful, cheesy ones you couldn’t get out of your head?
She tried turning around in bed but her body was tired of the same troughs in the mattress and folds in the sheets. The more she thought about sleeping, the more awake she felt. Then came quiet desperation: she knew that she was going to be tired the next day, dropping off in class, in a bad mood with everyone, probably suffering one of those headaches that made you want to unzip your skin and step out of your body
Tick.
This was not going to be funny in the morning
Tick.
What?
The intermittent noises were coming from the window and the explanation that made the most sense to Gillian was that the old panes were creaking due to changes in the temperature. It was the coldest part of the night now, deepest night. Clear, cold and empty
Normally I sleep through this. This is something normal. It’s completely normal.
Gillian slipped out of bed with practised ease. She could hear one of the other girls sighing, dreaming, and see the bundle of shadows which was Kizzie
At the window she looked down through the gap in the curtains at the playing fields and back lawns lit up by the moon and thought how different everything looked at night. The school swimming pool, a covered over, seemingly bottomless, square, looked terrifying, like a portal to hell. Yet in summer it was full of screaming, merry children, the very definition of fun
A portal to hell. Gillian couldn’t help smiling at her own words as she checked the handle. Huh. Someone’s happy.
Looking out, she thought of the boy and stared through her dark reflection in the glass, out at the wooded hills, at the cold night, and hoped he was all right, wherever he was. Oh, why you? she thought. Why now? Why here? Why can’t I ever do anything properly? Why does everything have to be so complicated?
Why couldn’t they simply have met that night when she was on holiday, perhaps talked, perhaps kissed? Everything could have been normal. They could have gone swimming together, gone for walks, maybe sailing. They could have eaten meals together, sworn undying love; promised to always remember each other when they looked up at the stars or the moon. They could have made each other happy the usual way. The right way
They might even have kept in touch. They might have visited each other
She might have gone back to Italy to see him and they might have ridden around sunny plazas on mopeds and eaten fast-melting ice creams by the fountains they were dipping their feet into. He might have taken her to visit his family somewhere up in hazy hills covered with stumpy, smelly olive trees, brittle with heat. His mother would have loved her because Gillian would have radiated charm
Hmm. He might have had older brothers, too.
Or, or, he might have come home with her and they could have gone for walks along the coast at home. Or she could have taken him to Inverness and they could have spent a week hunting Nessie in a log cabin high above the loch. Or just spent a week in a log cabin high above the loch. He would have met and charmed her parents and … and …
Maybe not
Tick.
This time Gillian saw the cause of the noise. A tiny pebble, no more than a slither of rock, collided with the window pane right in front of her nose. It left a small, dusty mark
Tick.
Now another. And she knew it was him. That same sixth sense she’d felt before, which arrived accompanied by a small surge of joy and pleasure which coursed through her body, told her it was true. It was the feeling that everything was all right, that for once the stars were aligned, that for once things were going to go her way
Gillian opened the old jamb carefully to avoid the squeak and let herself out through the small gap which filled with icy, inrushing night
Sometimes in summer, at the weekends, when the school was quiet, the girls sneaked out onto this small, tarmac-covered balcony to sunbathe. Now it was soaked with the milky glow of moonlight and Gillian crouched by its edge
“Hello again.”
Down in the darkness a figure formed. It was him, the boy, beautifully handsome and quite magical. Gillian felt her face pulled in odd contortions: she was smiling, a natural movement, and it almost hurt. “What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you.”
He was wearing clothes, she was glad to see, beaming up at her, happy to hear in her tone, if not her words, that she was pleased to see him. Gillian couldn’t help remembering what Alain Verne had told her outside the office and hissed down at him, “How did you get here? I want some answers!”
“I don’t know,” ca
me the accented reply, delicate and cute. The boy was grinning, arms out from his sides, shrugging, bottom lip pushed out. He looked as though he genuinely didn’t know but, at the same time, genuinely didn’t care
“Well, where do you come from, then? Can’t you tell me anything?”
“I remember driving,” he replied thoughtfully, dancing with her eyes. “It was a normal night, coming home from a party. I was with my motorcycle. And then I remember nothing. Here. I remember waking up here, over there.” He pointed into the darkness
“The playing fields? Where we found you?”
“Yes, yes. Football.”
“What’s your name?”
The boy was about to speak, thought better of it, looked around at where he was, looked up to where she was, and winked. “Call me Romeo, no? I think it’s perfect.”
“What?”
“And you? What? Julia? Juliet?”
“Gillian. Near enough, I guess.” She put her hands on the low brick wall. Romeo and Gillian. Oh lordy. “This is my balcony then, is it?”
“Gillian.” Jee-Lee-Anne.
“Are you real?”
“Real?”
Gillian thought he hadn’t heard her and became impatient. “Oh, I’m gonna come down there. This is ridiculous.”
The boy – Romeo, for that’s what he wanted to be called – quickly took in the situation. “No, no, no. Wait, wait!”
Gillian, chest against the low wall, watched him disappear. He seemed to be swallowed up by the night, a crow drowning in ink, and she blinked and stared but couldn’t see where he’d gone. Immediately she thought she’d imagined the whole thing but knew she hadn’t. But the night was persuasive. Gradually its insistent enveloping of her senses, its vastness and its creeping chill made her pull her dressing gown lapels closed and think of going back inside
“Mind if I join you?” Romeo hopped over the wall and landed softly beside her. “I like your slippers.”
“I like your duffel coat.”
Face-to-face, eye-to-eye again, they became nervous. They sat side by side with their backs against the wall looking at the closed windows, the backs of the ugly dorm curtains, the redbrick wall, the roof and stars, in a weird silence. Despite all their eyes had told each other and the sheer unlikelihood of ever meeting again, both were paralysed
“Are you going to tell me where you’re really from?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“But you are real, right? I mean – you exist?”
“Touch me.” He held up his hand and she took it. “Feel me. You can feel me, can’t you?”
“I’m scared that you’re not real.”
“But I’m here. Feel me! I’m here.”
“Yes, but –” Gillian looked up at the sky – “look at the stars. Their light is here but they’re dead, aren’t they? It takes so long for their light to get here it’s not really them we see, is it? Or, or look at the moon. The moon’s here but it’s dead, too, isn’t it? It’s there, yes. It affects us. It’s real but it’s dead. It’s a stone, that’s all. Without the sun it wouldn’t shine. Wouldn’t live.” Her thoughts and voice trailed off. “Oh, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”
“Don’t compare me to the moon,” the boy replied, keeping hold of her hand. “It’s too far away, it changes too much. I’m not. You know I’m not.” He waited for her to turn her head. “I don’t change. I’m here now. I don’t know how. I don’t even know why. I only know what I feel. Why I had to come. And that’s you, Gillian. Only because of you. Since I saw you, I don’t know, this makes sense. I am here because of you. Because of this. It’s the only thing that seems to make the whole thing make sense.”
“How did you get away from them before?” Gillian had her head in her hands and had been groaning. “How did you climb up here? This is crazy. It’s impossible. You’re not real!”
“I did it because I love you. That’s all I can say.”
“They’re going to kill you if they find you here.”
“Kiss me and I’ll die happy.”
“No, really. I’m serious.” She stared at him as seriously and as coldly as she could, hoping, in some part of her, that he would disappear. “You really shouldn’t be here.”
“There’s nowhere I can go.”
“How did you even know I was here? In this dorm? This very dorm, I mean.”
The boy laughed and it was beautiful. He laughed in a carefree way, a true way, which Gillian felt, even as she fought to keep a straight face, lift her own soul. “I don’t know. I wanted to find you. I knew you were here. I can feel you before I see you.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Do you love me?”
“Are you serious?”
“You do.”
“What you are saying?”
Gillian’s true self, which she kept hidden, divided in pieces between her heart and soul, protected by witty words, behind a shield of answers, routines and diversions, briefly surfaced in her eyes. She was terrified and looked it. It was the most precious thing she had and she kept it well guarded
Romeo saw it and his own face changed: they were like two flames flickering alongside each other, blown by the same breath. “I swear I love you. I swear by …” He looked around. “Just look at me and tell me you do. You don’t have to swear by anything. Just tell me the truth.”
“I do! I do! I do!” Gillian felt a brief moment of ecstasy, of fulfilment, but then all her insecurities, past hurts and worries, and her instinct to withdraw and take care of herself, returned. “Oh, this is too fast. Too stupid. What am I thinking?”
He watched her stand up in her dressing gown and smiled at how much he loved her. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t do this!”
He took the crook of her arm, standing in front of her, not letting her go. “You’re going to leave me now, no? Like this?”
“What do you want?” Another Gillian appeared and with her the ball of anger and fire which had kept her alive so long, which burned around her innermost self, protecting she and her secrets as a dragon does its treasure. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to marry me.”
“What?” Gillian couldn’t help thinking: Kizzie could do it. She’s always going on about it. Her magic stuff. Her spells. Her hippie stuff.
“Say you love me!”
Gillian turned at a light from the window. “Oh, no, this is too much. No. I have to go. You have to go. Go!”
In the time it took Kizzie to open the window – to a squeak like a mandrake’s scream – Romeo had vanished
“What the hell are you doing out here, Gil?” Kizzie asked, her eyes swollen with sleep
“Nothing,” replied Gillian, rubbing her cold neck. “Thinking. Couldn’t sleep.”
“You’re nuts. It’s freezing. Come inside.”
“I know, I know.”
Gillian climbed into bed and lay waiting for Kizzie to come back from the toilet, the other girl’s creaking footfalls creaking back along the old corridor as the clanking flush dissolved. The others stirred as Kizzie settled, turning once or twice, but finally there was a moment of complete silence followed by the beginnings of a steady snoring rhythm from Kizzie’s bunk. Gillian counted to one hundred as slowly as she could and eased herself out of bed. She turned the handle in the special way and stepped back out onto the balcony
In a hoarse, strong whisper, she called, “Hey!” It must have been three now. The school grounds were dead silent. Even the moon was covered up and dozing. “Romeo!”
From the gloom came a sound and Gillian made out a shadow. “Here!”
Do it, she told herself. The only thing she’d been able to think in bed, the only true thought she’d had, was that she must see him again. Despite not knowing who he was, how he’d got there or what was going on, she had to see him again. “Let’s meet tomorrow.”
“What time?”
Gillian sighed, her hands on the low wall,
which felt like a shelf of ice. This was a fantastic dream, a special one all right. “Eight.”
“Where?”
“The Dips. Do you know it?”
“No.”
Gillian shook her head in frustration. Of course he didn’t. “The tennis courts? The farthest wall? Near the road? There are two trees there, old trees? Sycamores? Their branches make a kind of roof?”
“I will find it.”
“At eight!”
“Eight!”
“If you’re not there I’ll kill you!”
“It’s a deal! Go to sleep!”
Gillian backed away, smiling, lifting the hinge, stepping over the threshold and getting back into bed. She lay with her hands clasped on her chest in a knot. Her heart was thumping like a rave and she felt that if she smiled any wider she might split her face apart
She was still in her dressing gown and didn’t care
She was still in her slippers and didn’t care
She didn’t care about anything anymore
She was happy
2
Just over four hundred years to the day earlier, a snorting mule hauled a cartload of dead bodies up a frosty hill and a well-wrapped traveller stepped aside as blackened fingers wagged at him. Another cart, driven by a toothless man with his head bowed and his collar drawn up over his nose, came lurching up the black ice behind the first. It, too, was laden with corpses: gaunt cheeks and pecked-out eyes filling up with falling snow
The traveller stumbled backwards into a ditch. The black water was frozen but gave way and chilly juice soaked him to the ankle. He sucked himself out and trudged away across the frosted, ploughed fields. Anywhere but the road. Anything but the plague
A night’s solid walking brought the traveller to the grounds of a ruined abbey. There was a flickering light in a wattle and daub outhouse whose windows glowed like tigers’ eyes. As he trudged up to the door, his bandaged feet numb, the traveller heard chickens clucking. The hatch snapped open at eye-height and a woman with a throbbing boil right between her eyes barked, “Well? What is it? Whaddya want at this time-a night?”
Cold Fire Page 5
