‘DNA gets everywhere, Heidi. It’s not always important, or relevant.’
‘I know. You said. But were there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
She walked straight out of the Learning Centre without speaking to the others. She could call it delayed shock, if anybody asked: but how could she talk to them, and seem normal, when she kept asking herself how much did they know? George and Sorrel, she could accept. What about the others? Even Brook, even Challon—
Everything stayed on hold for a few days. Clancy didn’t come back, and his stuff was gone from the Chinese Temple. Nobody sent Heidi any messages. Except for checking the WiMax for news of Brook, she was as isolated as she’d been at the beginning. She did her chores; she worked in the Gardens. At night she lay awake in her narrow bed, the Bad Dream Cat beside her: listening to torrents of birdsong, and wondering how she could ever dare to carry out her plan.
After her lunch chores, the Tuesday after the police interviews, she went to the Rose Arbour. It was looking good. There were gaps in the beds, but roses are tough and a lot of them had really profited from Heidi’s slash and burn tactics. The climbers she’d pegged and tied were flourishing. The bonfire circle where she’d burned dead wood was thick with new grass. The water-feature basin held a pool of clear rainwater; the rescued herb pots were full of pungent shoots. With a warm feeling of achievement she picked herself a posy: naming the herbs as she laid them in her trug basket. Fresh quills of chives; spiky rosemary, sprigs of marjoram (a kind of English oregano); sage and thyme.
Take that, Portia Knowells.
She wanted to wrap the lost dimension feeling round her like a blanket. Horror was all around, but here, within these walls, she could feel safe—
I’d like Tallis to see what I’ve done, she thought, as she caught up with the weeding down on her knees. One day when the early season roses are properly out. She’d found a lot of metal tags when she was clearing the beds, each bush and climber must have had a name plate. Time, and a rose catalogue, would tell if she’d put them back in the right places. Gloire de Dijon, Abracadabra, Rosamundi, Great Maiden’s Blush. One fine day I’ll coax her out of the house. I’ll say, look, I know you’re getting paid off to keep quiet. I don’t care. So is everybody else in Mehilhoc.
Stop blaming yourself for what your brother did.
He’s been punished, he’s being punished. He’s harmless.
She couldn’t quite put it together yet, but Heidi felt she was close to understanding why Old Wreck was how she was. A child in an old photo. A brother on a serious tag. The ruined pictures in that murky bedroom—
Gardens heal people. I’ll bring you down here, and you’ll be healed.
She could make a party of it. Invite Brook and Challon (first having convinced them they wouldn’t meet Dodgy Roger). And Clancy. Tallis would be dressed. Not neat but dressed, like a normal person, and she’d walk in here, on her own two feet, as straight and tall as any boy in Yorkshire . . . Lost in this daydream, in which her owner had merged with a character in The Secret Garden (who had also needed to be rescued from wilful despair), she heard a strange noise; like a hissing snake. She looked round. Old Wreck, in her dressing gown and a grubby nightie was standing in the entrance to the Arbour. Her feet were bare. She didn’t say a word. She came in and stood there, stone-faced.
‘I tidied up a bit,’ said Heidi, uneasily. ‘Is that okay?’
Tallis moved her head up and down, and then from side to side.
‘I did ask if I could do some work, and you did say it was all right. This is the best thing I’ve done. There’s so much, but I’m making an impact?’
‘Might I have a bit of earth? ’ whispered Tallis, still without a smile.
Heidi nodded. ‘Yeah, like you said. Same as in The Secret Garden.’
‘How sweet; how heart-warming.’ Old Wreck’s volume went up, ominously. ‘Perhaps you’d like your pretty young friends from the village to come and play with you.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Get out!’
‘Okay, I’m going.’
‘GET OUT!’
Tallis burst into furious weeping. She leapt into a rose bed, bare feet sinking in the soft soil, grabbed handfuls of budding shoots and tore them from their bushes.
Unfortunately Heidi hadn’t thought to grab her tools. Tallis snatched up the secateurs, and went wild. All Heidi could do was dart around, trying to get hold of her owner’s arm and being flung off, while Old Wreck stamped the trug basket to pieces, overturned the herb pots and charged up and down, slashing, tearing, wrecking everything in sight.
‘You know nothing!’ she screamed, strings of spittle whipping from her contorted mouth. ‘Get out of here! No take! No take! NO TAKE! Get out, you filthy little canaille! ’ And finally flung herself, like a stage-diver, into the heaps of ruin she’d made—
Face down, blood-speckled, Tallis flailed: dressing gown and nightie rucked up, withered bum and stringy thighs exposed, her whole body convulsed by gut-wrenching sobs.
‘No take! No take! Oh God, NO TAKE—!’
Heidi retreated, very shaken, and crouched against the wall outside, her head in her hands.
‘I’m stressing out,’ she muttered. ‘Stressing out, not thinking straight. Why the hell did I answer back? I know what she’s like.’
It just shows how you can take an awful risk, and not even know it. What if Old Wreck demanded to have the offensive slave removed?
When the screaming had died down she wiped away a few tears, and went to have a look.
Thankfully Tallis hadn’t stabbed herself, or climbed the walls and fallen and broken her neck. She was just lying there, worn out. She’d done an amazing amount of damage.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Heidi. ‘I should’ve made sure it was what you wanted. Let’s go in.’
She helped Tallis to her feet, and they went back to the house.
At seven Heidi served dinner, and everything was as before. Old Wreck at one end of the table, Stubbly Chin at the other, eating what was put before them, in total silence.
23: An Evening With The Immortals
Corporal Harris’s body was released. His funeral was announced on the WiMax: St Mary’s Church, ten in the morning. Heidi decided it would be wiser not to ask permission, but she was determined to be there. She slipped out after her breakfast chores, and ran down to the village. She was in time, but the little church at the end of Church Lane was already full. Unsure of herself, she spotted a hooded shadow behind a pillar at the back, also trying not to be noticed. She hid behind a different pillar.
It was the first time she’d been inside St Mary’s. It was a candlelit cave, speared by shafts of sunlight, coloured by the stained glass windows. Words and music washed over her (Dr Gunn was presiding), as she tried to remember what Dad’s funeral had been like. She knew she’d been there, with an Angel Care minder and a brand new tag, but no memories would come. That whole time —from when the police made her let go of Dad’s body, until the day she was brought to to Mehilhoc— was a blur around ragged holes. Maybe one day she’d get her memories back. She wasn’t looking forward to it.
After the service there was the burial, out in the churchyard. Heidi stayed at the back of the crowd, which included the lord and lady of the manor: but she saw her friends, and they saw her. When the work was done, the congregation broke up into talking groups, and the Exempt Teens gathered, one by one, under the biggest yew tree: looking at each other warily - as if they’d had a huge fight and weren’t sure who was still friends with who, instead of having suffered a life-threatening ordeal together.
‘I’m glad you’re out of hospital,’ Heidi said to Brooklyn. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Not too bad,’ said Brook. She was very pale. She ran a hand over her soft brown head. ‘I kept my hair, that’s the main thing. Hey, before I forget, thanks for saving my life.’
‘It was Chall.’
‘It was both of y
ou,’ said Brook. They hugged tight, let go, and stood looking at Challon: who was deep in a private conversation with her former boyfriend.
‘She’s really getting back with him?’ asked Heidi, under her breath.
‘’Fraid so,’ said Brook softly. ‘She says he’s hassling her to ditch the Wild Card thing.’
‘Just great. I hope she isn’t listening—’
Clancy came up. ‘Greetings, Brook. Greetings, Running Girl.’
‘Greetings, Hooded Boy,’ said Heidi. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Around. Lying low. I couldn’t go far, had to visit my old dear.’
‘Will you move back to the Chinese Temple now the cops have cleared off?’
‘I’m planning to.’
‘I’ll drop by,’ said Heidi.
Clancy nodded. ‘Okay. What about the film show? Are you coming?’
Heidi didn’t know. A poster had appeared on the WiMax events board, but she hadn’t really looked at it. Immediately everyone started telling her. It was a brilliant movie show; in the May Meadows on Friday night: a bar for the adults, a free barbecue, a band and dancing. It was a regular Carron-Knowells treat, like the Wild Garlic picnic.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘But it’s Film Night,’ protested Jo Florence, astonished. ‘You can’t miss Film Night.’
Sorrel and George had left with their parents, the rest of the Exempt Teens were now a single group. Heidi was surrounded by shocked faces. Even Elaine looked worried.
‘It’s the highlight of our year!’ said Challon. ‘ And it doesn’t stink of garlic.’
‘Yeah, but, I’m in bother with my Old Wreck. I did something stupid and I’m scared to ask her permission in case she blows up again.’
‘Don’t ask!’ piped Andy Mao, wiping snail-tracks of tears with the dangling cuffs of his work shirt sleeves. ‘We don’t ask Mum anything when she’s in a strop. You only get hit. We just get on with it, until she’s better. She never minds.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Brook. ‘They’ll drag me home early, but I wouldn’t miss it.’
‘There’ll be pulled pork,’ said Cyril seriously. ‘Fried chicken, sausages, and roast trout.’
‘And elderflower champagne!’ added Challon. ‘Come on Heidi. Sneak out!’
‘The Werenips have a great drummer!’ added John. ‘And really heavy bass!’
‘Okay,’ said Heidi, overwhelmed. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘It’s a date,’ said the Hooded Boy.
Friday was the first truly warm day of the year. It was even still warm when Heidi arrived at the site. A banner on poles hung above the field gate to the meadows, glowing white in the twilight and announcing boldly:
AN EVENING WITH THE IMMORTALS.
The first thing she saw was a shiny Knowells Farm Land Rover (with their CK insignia on the doors), and the lord and lady of the manor getting into it. Portia’s mane was piled into a tower and fastened with gold combs. George’s dad wore a classic black leather jacket, probably the same one as at the Insanitude. Heidi dodged back and hid in the hedge, ridiculously scared, until the Land Rover had gone by. She didn’t need to see that face again.
There was a marquee, and an open-fronted outdoor kitchen that was giving out delicious savoury smells. People were queuing, people were carrying off gorgeous heaps of meat, and sauce and slaw, on paper plates. Heidi’s mouth watered. The pulled pork ought to smell like drowned bodies, the elderflower champagne ought to choke her. But she was always hungry, and she hadn’t eaten meat for months. Never eaten Organic pulled pork, fried chicken or roast trout in her life. At home all they ever got was vat meat in various disguises, and good old grey, dry and gritty English Venison. The monsters were gone. They wouldn’t see her tucking in. She joined the queue, got her plate filled, and her cup dipped in pale foam, and took her riches over to the table the Teens had claimed.
‘You’ve missed Gravity,’ said Clancy, making space for her. ‘And Rivermead.’
‘I don’t mind. Seen them both.’
‘D’you fancy the second show? It’s the antique, black and white, subtitles feature.’
After the meal break Film Night was offering a rare chance to view two masterpieces by Renoir, a famous old French director: Partie de Campagne and La Grande Illusion.
‘I’m not scared of subtitles. Let’s give them a go.’
‘Hey!’ shouted Sorrel. ‘Cinderella Laureate and the boyfriend, pay attention! D’you realise we never celebrated! We didn’t get drowned, nobody ended up a foreign farm-slave!’
She and George were drinking beers from the ice barrel, supposed to be for adults only.
She waved her bottle, rather wildly. ‘Here’s to US!’
‘Who’s us?’ muttered Jo Florence, wiping beer slosh off her teeshirt. Her brothers had been gone before the police arrived. She didn’t know where they were now. There could be a warrant out for them, over that False Head wreckers’ fire stunt. She hadn’t dared to ask.
‘I’ll drink to not getting drowned,’ said Clancy. ‘Here’s to Cyril, and his hotline to Jesus.’
Cyril turned red. ‘I did what I could.’
Andy Mao jumped up on the bench. ‘Here’s to Corporal Harris. He’s the hero!’
‘Here’s to old Eric Dyson,’ added Brook. ‘No particular reason.’ She stood up. ‘And goodnight all! My late pass just expired, Mum and Dad are making wind up gestures.’
The Exempt Teens, even Sorrel, who had clearly already emptied a bottle or three, were silent as they watched her walk away: head high, but looking so fragile.
‘Here’s to my old dear,’ bawled John, to break the moment. ‘She’s a proper hero too!’
Here’s to my dad, thought Heidi, raising her paper cup. Here’s to my plan.
Despite what she’d seen in the churchyard, and despite what Brook had said, she’d half expected to be fighting George off this evening. She’d even been counting on it, as a chance to get him to talk. It wasn’t going to happen. He was sprawled by Challon, tickling her with a grass stalk: they were giggling and whispering together.
Heidi wasn’t proud of the way she’d felt about Gorgeous George, a short while ago: but this was hard to take. Chall, who must have suspected; who now definitely probably knew George’s dad was a dirty Recruiter, all over the Golden Boy—
Good luck, Chall. Hope you know what you’re doing.
The second showing was announced: hardcore movie fans drifted to the marquee. The Wernips were setting up, the drummer and the bass guitar already smacking out raucous rural thrash riffs. John Fowler hopped onto the sprung wooden deck to test the vibrations, and went in search of his mum and dad; who also loved dancing.
Later on, Heidi and the Hooded Boy sat opposite each other, sharing the last paper cup of flowery champagne, sip by sip.
Jo, Cyril and Andy were enjoying the cheesy horrors of the midnight show. Challon and George had disappeared together into the night. Elaine was long gone; Andy’s brothers and sisters slept on a heap of coats. A few couples were still dancing: Daffodil Dyson with her current beau, Bald Dave from the Garage Shop. Andy’s Mum with one of the Knowells heavies. John and his parents, their arms around each other—
‘It’s the pure sadism that gets to me,’ said Clancy. ‘The Demon Crace is well-paid. She lives in that nice house, all her bills covered. There’s no reason to be so nasty, except she enjoys it. Won’t even let my old dear out into the garden, fixes it so she misses visitors, even tries to stop me coming round—’
‘Is she physically abusive?’
‘I think so, yes. Nothing to leave a mark, she’s not stupid. But Mrs Scott-Amberley is terrified of her. It’s sickening.’
Heidi thought Clancy had too many issues to be doing Share the Care. But that didn’t mean he was making it up about Irene Crace. She took the cup, sipped, and rolled her eyes.
‘In ways you’ve led a sheltered life.’
The Hooded Boy drew back into his hood. ‘Yeah, right.’
> ‘No offence. Your old dear’s got money, hasn’t she?’
‘I suppose. The house; and probably savings.’
She wouldn’t have that house all to herself, thought Heidi, if she was anywhere but here. And she’d be better off, from what you’re saying—
‘Well, it’s classic. It’s all in Sharing the Care One. Elder abusers pick a lonely old dear with assets, and move in like sharks. They cut the vulnerable person off from friends and family, they turn away visitors. They keep the victim totally scared and dependent, and it’s all to manipulate them out of their savings. Put it this way. If your Mrs Scott-Amberley had made a will, for instance, I bet she’d got a different one by now—’
‘Oh, my God. You’re right.’ said Clancy, staring at her. ‘My God! Amazing! ’
‘Huh? If the abuse is for profit, you feel better?’
‘Yes! Absolutely. I’m an idiot, I’ve had things all the wrong way—’
‘You are weird, Hooded Boy.’
‘I can’t tell you,’ breathed Clancy. ‘Can’t tell you what this means, but thanks a million.’
‘My pleasure, strange creature.’
The horror show ended, the Wernips started packing up. Knowells Farm staff were noisily taking down the field kitchen, flinging table tops, trestles and benches onto a horse cart.
Merril Florence walked around clapping her hands and shouting ‘Time to go home!’
Clancy drained the last drops of the delicate wine.
‘The night is young. How about coming back to the Temple to hear the nightingales? Their season’s nearly over, it could be your last chance.’
Heidi laughed. ‘I can hear the immortal birds from my attic. They never shut up.’
‘They sound better from my Temple.’
They scrambled over the wall, and no one saw them go. The blackberry sky, brimming with stars, disappeared. In beechen green and shadows numberless, where birdsong replaced the scent of meadow flowers, they climbed the hillside to the thickets where the rooftree dragon pranced; and found the stars again, hanging over the Temple courtyard. They sat outside, each of them wrapped in one of Clancy’s blankets, and listened to the nightingales: and talked, for hours.
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