Summer’s Shadow

by Anna Wilson

  ‘They were photos of Mum—’

  ‘I have no idea what half the stuff is—’

  ‘It was her, on the rocky beach—’

  ‘I guess there’s probably stuff from ages ago—’

  ‘LISTEN TO ME!’ Summer had had enough of him brushing over her, always trying to ignore what she had to say, pushing her aside. ‘LISTEN—!’

  ‘CAT!’ Tristan was staring at her, his eyes wide, his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘What? Oh, for heaven’s sake forget the flipping cat!’ Summer shouted.

  Looks as though he’s seen a ghost!

  Tristan gave her a little shake, moving her away from the sink. ‘I meant, Summer – stop talking! Sit down – you’re bleeding!’ Tristan urged.

  What?

  She put her hand up to her face. It felt wet. She took her fingers away and saw they had dark red smears on them. Tristan caught her by the elbow and pressed a hanky to her face.

  ‘Tilt your head back. It’s OK. Just a nosebleed. I used to get them all the time at your age. Has this happened before?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  ‘Pinch the bridge of your nose and keep your head tilted. I’ll fetch something to cool it.’

  ‘It’s OK, there’s no need,’ Summer said.

  Tristan was already scurrying to the freezer, seemingly relieved to have something to do other than answer Summer’s questions.

  Summer did not get the chance to talk to her uncle alone again that evening. After her nosebleed had stopped, the phone rang. Summer listened in to start with, thinking she might pick up something of interest, but it seemed to be a call regarding a local matter Tristan was involved in. The conversation went on for so long, Summer gave up waiting for him to finish.

  She was going to go straight to her room for another early night, but stopped at the top of the first flight of stairs, eyeing the way up to the attic. She had convinced herself by now that Tristan did know about the photos and that he would do anything to avoid talking about them.

  Maybe if I fetched some, forced him to look at them.

  She was reluctant to go up there alone again, however. She imagined Kenan finding her. Told herself not to be pathetic.

  Suddenly the events of the day – the swim, the climb, the nosebleed . . . the very effort of always having to be on her guard in the house, of being a stranger there (whatever Tristan had said) – all this fell on her in a crashing wave of exhaustion.

  Just sleep now. Think about it tomorrow.

  She turned from the stairs and went into her room.

  Summer was sinking, sinking fast. All around her was black. She strained to catch even a sliver of light. There was nothing to guide her, to let her know where she was. She was falling, dropping down through the darkness like a rock from the edge of the cliff.

  What will I fall on to? The rocks below? The sea?

  But she could not see the rocks or the water. She tried to scream, to attract attention. But whose? There was no one here. Nothing but darkness. She reached out to grasp at something, anything. Her hands closed on thin air. She opened her mouth, uselessly. Straining to make a noise she closed her eyes against the blackness, then . . .

  ‘Huh—?’

  She jerked upwards, her heart pulsating, her face wet. She was still surrounded by blackness, but she was awake now and could extinguish the dark with a flick of a switch. The light blazed, momentarily blinding her – but not before she had caught a flash of red on the white sheet. She blinked, rubbed her eyes and forced them to open.

  Blood. Lots of it.

  Her fingers tentatively touched her nose, her mouth.

  Not again!

  She scrabbled free of the sheets. Dropping to the floor, she saw that the front of her pyjamas was bloody, and when she took her hand from her face, there was fresh blood on her fingers. She swallowed. A metallic tang filled the back of her throat.

  The image of her mother flashed before her again, just as it had when Tristan had hit the car horn.

  Lying in the road, blood collecting in a puddle, mixing with her long dark hair – that trickle of black-red from her nostrils . . .

  Summer felt the room tilt. She grabbed hold of the side of the bed to steady herself.

  OK, calm down. This is not a car crash. Only a nosebleed.

  Padding slowly across to the door, she tiptoed out on to the landing. The rest of the house was dark, just as her room had been. No friendly lamp left on for night-time excursions to the loo. She shivered as she felt her way to the bathroom, using the light from her room to guide her; not wanting to announce herself to the rest of the house by turning on any other lights.

  Once in the bathroom she turned on the light with one hand; swiftly closed the door behind her with the other. The floor was freezing under her bare feet. Two spots of red fell on to the white tiles.

  She looked up and saw herself in the mirror; saw the blood-smeared, white skin, the wide-eyed shock. Repeated to herself to calm down.

  It’s only a nosebleed, Summer.

  So why could she not shake the image of her mother out of her head? She had not thought of this for weeks before today, but now it replayed in her mind over and over on a loop.

  The car’s brakes screeching.

  The sharp scream from her mum.

  ‘Summer, watch out!’

  The shock of the crash as the car hit the wall.

  The car horn blaring as the driver hit the steering wheel.

  And her mother, lying, twisted.

  In her own blood.

  Summer was shaking as she filled the sink with cold water, splashing some on to her face. Then she pulled off her pyjama top and flung it into the honey-sweet water. Red swirled and mixed, diluting the rust-dark stains.

  Her nose was still dripping.

  Ice. I’ll have to go down to the kitchen.

  She tensed at the idea of walking downstairs, alone, in the dark. The quiet was heavy around her, the house closing in on her. The tiniest creak and groan of timbers set her heart skittering.

  But I have to do something. I can’t go back to bed like this.

  Holding her flannel to her face, she went back to the bedroom, grabbed a T-shirt and lowered it gingerly over her head with one hand, keeping a grip on the flannel with the other, the taste of blood, ferric, in the back of her throat.

  She fumbled for her torch and found her trainers, cramming her feet into them. Then she crept out and down into the kitchen.

  The cat was curled up on the work surface and lifted its head in sleepy greeting. She thought it was safe to turn on a light now. No one would notice, unless they too had woken and come down for a midnight visit.

  The animal let out a low miaow of protest at being disturbed, but it did not move from its spot. Summer went to the fridge and opened the freezer compartment. She took out a packet of peas and pressed them to her face.

  The relief was exquisite, although quickly the cold became a burning sensation. She looked around and saw a tea towel draped over the stove and wrapping the peas in that, held the packet to her nose again.

  Sinking into the old armchair by the dresser, she closed her eyes, tilted her head back. The cat jumped lightly on to her lap, and she stroked it absent-mindedly.

  She was drifting back to sleep, the bag of frozen peas slipping from her grasp, when the cat suddenly nipped the hand that had been stroking it.

  ‘Hey! What was that for?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Roooaaaw!’ The cat’s pink lips were pulled back over its teeth in a snarl.

  It stared at her wildly, its eyes wide, its ears pinned flat. Then it flipped off Summer’s lap and bounced on balletic paws to the kitchen door, where it paced up and down, hackles raised, teeth bared.

  This strange behaviour sent a shiver down Summer’s back.

  ‘What are you doing—?’ She stopped with a gasp.

  She was sure she had heard footsteps.

  Her stomach lurched, even as she told herself not to be stupid.

>   So what if it’s Kenan or Tristan? I’m allowed to sit in the flipping kitchen, aren’t I?

  She listened. No noise other than from the cat, who was now scratching at the door, seemingly desperate to get out of the room.

  Summer slowly got out of the chair and put the peas on the worktop behind her. Touching her nose gently, she noted with relief that the bleeding had stopped. As she approached the cat, it went into paroxysms; its fur on end, its tail waving a warning. Summer pushed the door open a crack and the cat shot through. She followed it out into the hall where it continued its angry hissing and back-arching, its ears flat as it paced to and fro.

  ‘What are you trying to tell me? There’s nothing out here.’ Summer turned to go back to the kitchen to put the peas back in the freezer.

  Then the ringing began.

  The phone in the hall, jarring, high-pitched, pierced the silence like an alarm going off.

  Summer was immediately back at Jess’s house, answering a phone ringing in the middle of the night; hearing her mother . . . ‘Bye, love.’

  No! Not again. Mum?

  Summer froze in the doorway.

  It wouldn’t be Mum. Couldn’t be. She’s dead! She’s DEAD! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO BELIEVE THAT?

  Should she answer the phone? Would it wake the others? Might it be Tristan’s wife? Or Kenan – she did not know where he had gone last night.

  Then the grandfather clock in the hall began chiming.

  What the hell—? The clock never makes a sound. It doesn’t work!

  The cat yowled and ran away. Summer did not see where it went; the house was too dark.

  The clock struck on and on.

  It was sounding the hour – albeit an hour that didn’t exist.

  Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. On and on and on . . .

  It echoed through the hall, clashing with the shrill phone. Summer whirled from one to the other, decided she could at least do something about the phone, so grabbed the receiver and shouted into it above the noise of the clock, ‘Hello? Hello!’ The ringing continued as though she had not answered it at all; ringing in her ear and ringing out into the dark house; the striking of the clock and the phone combining in a discordant siren.

  Summer dropped the receiver and covered her ears with her hands.

  Nightmare! It’s a nightmare!

  The noise continued. It was real. She wasn’t going to wake up out of this.

  But if this was real, where was Tristan? Surely he would have heard the racket and come running by now?

  Then the ringing stopped: both phone and clock were silent.

  That is when a low rumbling sound started up. It came from somewhere on the next floor, above the hall.

  Summer closed her eyes, willing the house to return to its former stillness, praying in vain that she would wake in her bed in a moment, the sun streaming through the curtains, the rooks and wood pigeons cawing and cooing.

  The rumbling overhead increased in urgency.

  Then the faint scent of an autumn afternoon filled the air. Smoke. But who would have a bonfire in the middle of the night?

  ‘FIRE!’

  Her body sprang back to life.

  Where’s the cat?

  She ran, frenzied, up the stairs, grabbing the wooden banister and swinging herself up, leaping over the steps two at a time. She could not worry about the cat. What about Tristan? Had Kenan come back? Why were they not awake?

  This whole place is made of wood. It’ll go up like a box of matches.

  The fire was coming from the attic: she could see an unearthly orange glow at the top of the stairs. She did not stop to flick on the lights on the half-landing as she hammered on Tristan’s door. She heard her own voice screaming as she burst in, not waiting for a response.

  ‘TRISTAN!’

  Her uncle’s hand reached out from the sheets and fumbled with his bedside light.

  ‘Fire!’ Summer pulled back the bedclothes, grabbed her uncle by the shoulders, shaking him, pushing her face into his. ‘Got to get Kenan. Get out! QUICK!’

  ‘What?’ Tristan fiddled with his pyjama top, running his hands through his hair, sleep-confused. She left him to follow and ran along the landing to Kenan’s room.

  There was still no sign of the flames coming closer.

  It’s all right, we’ll get out.

  Smoke was seeping down. Summer’s eyes watered and she narrowed them against the stinging, choking air. She coughed and dropped instinctively to the floor, obeying some long-distant instruction from a health-and-safety talk at school. Covering her face with one hand, she crawled to her cousin’s door, her voice rising in a muffled, hysterical descant over Tristan’s.

  ‘Kenan! KENAAAAN!’

  A dark shadow appeared above her.

  Thank goodness. He’s OK.

  ‘Kenan – quickly—!’ A hand fell sharply on to her neck. She was dragged backwards, away from the door, back towards Tristan’s room.

  ‘It’s – all – right—!’ She tried to speak, to say she could walk, she was fine.

  He thinks I’ve fallen.

  But: ‘What have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?’

  Kenan was screaming in her ear, gripping her hair, yanking her head back so that her eyes and throat filled with the smoke that was filling the air now.

  What have I done?

  ‘You stupid little cow!’ Kenan’s voice choked, rasping. ‘If you have hurt Mum . . .’ He broke out in a fit of coughing, then yelled, ‘WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?’

  Me? Hurt his mum? What—?

  His words stunned her like a bolt of lightning. It was as though she were pinned down by the weight of her nightmares again. She felt herself being dragged along the floor, only dimly aware of Tristan screaming something from above her, howling at his son; of Kenan relaxing his hold; of someone lifting her as she heard herself say, ‘But it wasn’t me . . . wasn’t me . . .’

  Kenan disappeared that night. Tristan told her later, once the fire brigade had put out the fire, the police had come and the paramedics had checked them over. She had been so desperate for him to stop yelling at her, to stop his unbearable accusations, that it had not occurred to her to look out for him while the house was teeming with people.

  Of course he was angry, she thought woozily. It was his house. Nothing had been the same for him since she had arrived. His father had become a recluse, not talking, not answering any questions; his mother had disappeared after an awful row.

  And now this.

  She sat with her uncle, on the bench outside the kitchen window; the morning sun filtered through the pines, casting long shadows on the lawn.

  She did not know what to say to Tristan. His voice was barely audible, his face lined and drained, his hands shaking.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ he was mumbling.

  Summer thought for a horrible moment that he was talking about the fire.

  Then he said, ‘I shouted at him. Raged at him. The way he was with you – laying into you like that, screaming that you had started the fire. He was crazy. I told him to get out of my sight. And now he has.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Summer protested. ‘You can’t blame him. I would hate me if I were him,’ she added quietly.

  Tristan shook his head and reached out and touched her hand. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘But it’s true, of course it is. I’ve ruined everything. You were all fine before I came along—’

  ‘The way I see it, we wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for you,’ Tristan said. ‘We might have been burned to death.’

  Summer shuddered. She remembered sitting outside, being checked over for smoke inhalation, wrapped in blankets afterwards, sipping hot tea. A fire officer had spoken to her: ‘You and your uncle did well. We got here in time to save the place. Incredible, really. All that wood in the panels on the walls and the staircases; could have been a towering inferno in no time.’

  It’s not down to me. I was warned.

  ‘It wasn’t because o
f me. You would have – you would have heard the phone . . . and the clock,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Tristan looked puzzled.

  ‘The phone – it was ringing and ringing. It – it even carried on when I answered it. Maybe the fire had damaged the line upstairs somewhere . . . and the clock, it wouldn’t stop chiming.’

  Tristan was shaking his head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Summer felt nauseous as something occurred to her.

  It was just like a fire alarm.

  Then she remembered the cat’s behaviour. It had tried to tell her too. She nearly asked Tristan if it was OK – she had not seen it since the night before. She stopped herself, realizing Tristan had enough on his mind already.

  ‘I – I can’t believe you didn’t hear the noise,’ she persisted. ‘The clock went on and on.’

  Tristan looked at her curiously. ‘That clock hasn’t worked for years. Not since—’ He bit his lip. ‘Not since Becca and I moved here,’ he said haltingly.

  Summer shook her head. She was not making this up. She had heard it.

  Tristan had gone back into himself, staring at his hands, silent and unreachable.

  Summer thought again about the evening before. She had toyed with the idea of going up to the attic, hadn’t she? She might have been there earlier to stop a fire spreading. Or maybe she would have been caught up in it. The nosebleed had preoccupied her. She had been upset by the memory of her mum.

  Had that been a warning too? And the car overheating . . . Mum? What are you trying to say?

  No, she was letting the shock get to her. She was linking things that had nothing in common. Reading into things.

  But what if they had all been linked? What if they had been a warning that had become more and more insistent, until she had had to take notice?

  Why would Mum want the attic to burn?

  It was ridiculous. She tried to talk sense into herself.

  ‘Did – did they say how they thought the fire had started?’ she asked Tristan.

  His head jerked up, startled out of his reverie. ‘Oh, an electrical fault, the fire service reckons,’ he murmured. ‘The police say that, at first glance, they very much doubt foul play.

  Kenan thinks it’s foul play.

  Tristan went on with a sigh, ‘They will have to look into it, of course. For insurance, and everything. Poor old Bosleven. There’s always something: leaking roof, bad electrics. Hardly surprising in a place this old.’