The Fourteenth Summer of Angus Jack

by Jen Storer

  Imagine that.

  Angus dismissed it. It was ludicrous.

  I’ve got to stop eating Frosty Loops, he thought as he threw back the sheet and got out of bed. The sugar’s rotting my brain.

  But then he felt like a Milo.

  In the kitchen he placed a mug in the microwave and flicked it on. Upstairs he could hear muffled jazz coming from the study. The Prof was obviously lost in the zone. At least he’s home for once, thought Angus sullenly. A stab of regret caught him off guard. He wished that, just once, he could stroll up to that studio, flop down on a chair and talk to his father. It didn’t have to be anything serious. Maybe they could even laugh about something. Anything. How strange that you could live with someone and yet miss them at the same time — as if they were miles and miles away. Sometimes actually seeing or hearing his father in the house made Angus feel lonelier than ever.

  The mug journeyed around and around. Angus went and stood by the window. Number thirteen was still and silent. The shop was shut, for sure. His thoughts began to race. Where were those girls now? Had they gone back to the abandoned hat factory or were they still next door? If they’d gone, would they come back again soon? Angus felt his pulse quicken at the thought. He leaned over the sink, opened the window and took a deep breath. Had he and Martha really stumbled into a family feud last night, or something else entirely? He wondered about the snow dome too. Who had it now and what was so special about it? He almost groaned with confusion.

  The microwave beeped and Angus jumped. He sat the mug of Milo on a saucer and left the kitchen. He was glad Martha was still asleep. He was glad she was off his back. He needed time to think properly.

  Across the way in number thirteen, Reafen sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her bedside cabinet.

  ‘My, oh, my. Goodness gracious me,’ she moaned. ‘My, oh, my. Goodness gracious me.’

  Whatever was she to do now? It had been a terrible night, a night of the most distressing and appalling kind, and the full impact was only just hitting her. She had plastered herself in make-up and curled her hair lovingly. She had patted and brushed and fed the pretty felines who had made this place their home. But nothing seemed to work. She could not think straight at all. And as for her arm, it was not healing, it was not responding to the ancient healing arts. The wound gaped and had begun to fester. Her poor, thin arm — it throbbed, it burned, it ached.

  She tore open a box of Jelly-Tarts and tossed the packaging over her shoulder. Cherry-glazed, her favourite. Roughly, with shaking hands, she stacked the Jelly-Tarts one on top of the other and drenched the pile with maple syrup. Then she licked her lips and devoured the sweeties in quick succession. Midway through, she looked up and sniffed the air. Was that Milo she could smell? She shuddered — it was Milo and milk.

  She chewed angrily, cherry-glazed clumps sticking to her lipstick. How could anyone be so wasteful? Everyone knew that Milo was much more effective eaten dry, straight from the can.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ____________________________________________

  Protecting the pretty

  Angus heard the pounding in his dreams. He must have dozed off in front of the TV. He sat up in the armchair and almost sent his Milo flying. Except for the chatter of cartoons, the house was quiet. Even the music upstairs had stopped. Angus assumed the Prof had slunk off to work — or to see his new girlfriend — without saying a word. Typical, thought Angus bitterly.

  ‘Open this door immediately!’ The voice was familiar. It came from outside. Angus headed down the hall. Martha’s door was shut. She was still sleeping or reading or whatever.

  Angus wandered out to the back verandah and looked across to number thirteen. It was the Donut Lady! She was hammering on the back door of Reafen’s shop.

  The Donut Lady caught sight of Angus and summoned him with a jerk of her flabby arm. What could he do? She was a very commanding woman.

  He lurched down the back steps, reeling like a vampire in the midday sun. He pushed through the plumbago hedge then literally hotfooted it up number thirteen’s steep steps. His bare feet stung on the blistering timber and he leaped over the last few steps, landing with a grateful thump in the shade of Reafen’s verandah.

  The shredded hammock was dangling from one hook. The chocolate wrappers and lolly papers were now scattered across the verandah or gathered in mounds against the lattice railing. A crow pecked at a bag of fairy floss — the contents now a shrivelled pink rock. There were cat bowls too, empty except for one large ceramic water bowl in the shape of a fish. Maybe Jarly’s here? thought Angus, then dismissed the idea right away.

  The Donut Lady looked him up and down and frowned. He poked his hair self-consciously. It was brittle with sea salt, plastered to his scalp with sand and sweat. His nose was peeling too. And he was still wearing the same Doctor Who T-shirt he’d worn all week ... and slept in every night. The Donut Lady eyed his thin, shapeless legs. For an awful moment, Angus felt like a dork.

  The Donut Lady nodded at the shop. ‘Do you see this woman recently?’ she said, resuming her hammering. ‘Do you see this Reafen?’ she said above the din.

  ‘I saw her last night,’ said Angus.

  ‘Ah, good,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘I tried the rooms below but no answer. She must take cover up here in her ugly shop.’

  While the Donut Lady continued to hammer, Angus stepped quietly around her and opened the door. It wasn’t locked.

  The Donut Lady pursed her lips.

  Angus popped his head through the doorway. It was dark inside. Airless.

  ‘Reafen?’ he ventured. ‘You have a visitor.’

  ‘A visitor, am I?’ The Donut Lady was fuming. ‘Reafen stole my cinnamon sugar and my batter, I am certain of this. As if one like her could possibly make good donuts!’ The Donut Lady shook her head with disdain. ‘And now, to top it off,’ she added fiercely, ‘she has stolen my Barney.’

  The Donut Lady muscled past Angus and into the shop. ‘I will take it from here,’ she said, disappearing into the darkness.

  There was a thud and a loud twang and Angus hurried in. He glanced about. The Donut Lady lay spread-eagled over a broken guitar. She glared at him when he offered to help, and struggled to her feet, muttering and cursing, plucking splintered rosewood from her pants.

  Angus wrenched the drapes apart and hot, dusty light streamed in.

  The Donut Lady rubbed her elbows. ‘Such a disgusting housekeeper.’ She surveyed the shemozzle. ‘I am almost breaking my neck on her rubbish.’

  But Angus was not surprised. The shop was just as it had been when they left last night. Souvenirs, books, ornaments, silk flowers and plastic dolls were tossed about willy-nilly. China was smashed. On impulse, he scanned the room for the white otter. The remains of its display case were still there but the strange beast had gone. Angus felt a prickle of dread.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said the Donut Lady, picking up a broken vase. ‘This is not just bad housekeeping. This is ... trouble. Reafen?’ she called. ‘You are here?’

  A rich burp rose from amongst the shambles.

  ‘Aha!’ The Donut Lady charged off toward the sound, her rubber thongs clacking with all the authority of high heels.

  Angus seized the opportunity and ducked over to the ‘viewing box’. He ran his eyes along the glass shelving. All the snow domes were in place. All except the one he was looking for — the one they were fighting over last night. Did that mean those freak-girls had actually made off with it? He left the cabinet and picked his way through the shop, following the sound of voices.

  Reafen was on the floor, slumped against a steamer trunk. She was stuffed into a frilly sun frock that bunched about her knees in great flounces of pink gingham and rickrack petticoats. A pillbox hat was propped on her head like a teacup on a basketball. She wore hefty workboots and her leathery face was smeared with make-up. Her hair was curled and teased into a frantic bouffant. Close by, a mannequin leaned against a stack of hatboxes. The mannequin
was stiff with indignity, naked except for her long white gloves — Reafen had almost stripped her bare. Angus averted his gaze.

  Reafen clutched a large bottle of Peachy Pepp. She looked up at Angus with a bleary smile. It was the first time Angus had noticed her teeth. They were bucked and crooked like those of that girl called Graini. They made Reafen look defiant. And kind of endearing.

  Reafen shook the Peachy Pepp and it fizzed and frothed. She slurped at it noisily.

  ‘Have you come to return my pretty?’ she croaked, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

  Angus shook his head.

  Reafen let the bottle drop to her lap and burped wetly.

  The Donut Lady knelt down, her knees cracking like kindling. She tried to take the bottle but Reafen resisted.

  ‘No,’ she whined. ‘Don’t confiscate my fizzy-whizzy.’

  ‘Is she drunk?’ asked Angus.

  ‘She is drunk ... and she is not drunk,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘She is best to describe it, overloaded.’

  ‘I see,’ said Angus. ‘I think.’

  ‘Reafen!’ The Donut Lady tapped Reafen’s cheeks. ‘Reafen, you wicked woman. My Barney has disappeared. Kapoof! What do you know about this?’

  The Donut Lady shook Reafen gently. Reafen blinked through glassy eyes at Angus.

  ‘My pretty?’ She struggled to focus her blurry eyes. ‘Come on, boy. Hand it over. If you do, beautiful Reafen will show you some magick.’

  ‘Bish bosh,’ said the Donut Lady testily. ‘We will get nowhere with her until she is sleeping this off.’ She turned to Angus. ‘What is this “pretty”? What is this she wants?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ lied Angus, still wary of who he could trust. ‘Who’s Barney?’ he added casually.

  ‘Barney is my good friend.’ The Donut Lady smiled to herself. ‘And when his carnival visits, Barney is also my lover.’

  Angus felt his face flare. Did she have to be so frank?

  ‘Barney cannot always be trusted.’ The Donut Lady hitched up her hippy pants. They were brilliant purple. ‘I showed him something special. Something magickal. And when I go back later, this special something, it is gone. And so is Barney.’

  ‘Something magickal?’ Angus tried to remain composed. Surely she wasn’t referring to the snow dome? ‘What do you mean?’

  The Donut Lady considered Angus, her chin rumpling thoughtfully. ‘Ah, boy,’ she said finally, ‘there are things in this world you do not yet see.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ agreed Angus carefully, ‘I admit I have a lot to learn. But I’m fourteen, you know. I’m not entirely ignorant. But of course, I respect your privacy. I wouldn’t dream of intruding on your ... secrets.’

  Reverse psychology. It was a skill he had perfected. It always worked on his sister.

  Reafen took another slurp of Peachy Pepp.

  ‘It was a boat,’ said the Donut Lady.

  ‘A boat?’ said Angus.

  Reafen tried to get up and slid back down. She waved a flaccid hand above her head. ‘Come here, boy.’ Her voice was thick and wheedling. ‘Be a kindly neighbour. Seat yourself beside me.’

  Angus knelt down reluctantly. He feared this interruption would prevent the Donut Lady from sharing any more of her secrets.

  Reafen studied his face. Then to Angus’s surprise, she reached out and touched his peeling nose.

  ‘Ah,’ she sighed, ‘you queer little pasty ones. Not the best design for the wondrous hardships of this world.’

  Her finger was sticky and cold, and for a moment Angus felt a deep melancholy sweep through him. It was just how he felt when he heard the willow flute. He had an almost irresistible urge to rest his head on Reafen’s shoulder, as if they were somehow family. Reafen let her hand drop, the moment passed, and Angus felt like an idiot. What on earth had come over him?

  Reafen tapped the Donut Lady’s knee to get her attention. ‘They’re here,’ she whispered. ‘They have found Reafen at last. They have ramshackled her emporium and ...’ Reafen drew a long, soggy breath, ‘they have broken Reafen’s heart.’

  The pillbox hat fell off her head and Reafen began to sob.

  ‘Who is here?’ The Donut Lady shook Reafen gently. ‘Who is here and what is all this weeping?’

  ‘I have been the brightest of wandering stars,’ Reafen said with a sniff. ‘For years I have tripped from trading post to trading post. I have been a vigilant entrepreneur of the utmost kind. I have protected the pretty too, and kept it from villainy. But now ...’

  She raised the Peachy Pepp to her lips but Angus intercepted. He eased the bottle from her gently.

  ‘I don’t think this is doing her much good,’ he muttered.

  ‘No,’ agreed the Donut Lady. ‘This drink, it is not even good for humans.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ____________________________________________

  The hawk

  While his son was next door dealing with Reafen and the Donut Lady, the Prof sat in his study, oblivious. And rather than get on with his lecture notes ... he drew sketches. More sketches. By now his walls were covered with them.

  In many ways Angus took after his father — both shared the admirable ability to draw accurately, beautifully, straight from memory.

  The amber snow dome. The Prof had been drawing this ornament, this thing, for days. What exactly was it? What was its purpose and where did it come from? The questions never changed. All his research had been futile. Not even the hint of an answer.

  The old woman next door, oh, she was a crafty old devil. She lured him in with it, paraded it before him, but would she sell it? Not on your life. There was no way he could persuade her to part with it. She would not even discuss a price.

  It was a stunning artefact though. Not just a collectible or a fancy antique. It was a museum piece. It reminded him of ... well, it reminded him of the relics his wife used to search for; treasures from an unrecorded time in history. Treasures with no obvious link to human innovation, human invention.

  He contemplated his latest sketch, adding details here and there, shade and tone, playing with the light, enhancing the delicate scales on the silver serpent.

  Behind him, the cheval mirror began to sway quietly. Back and forth. Back and forth. A breeze drifted across the room, ruffling the Prof’s papers. He felt a chill and shivered.

  A hooded head appeared in the mirror — just a head, no torso, no limbs. Varla’s disembodied head.

  Varla drew closer to the surface of the mirror and the mist from her breath beaded on the glass. She caught a glimpse of the sketch and gasped. She looked around the room at the multitude of other sketches taped to the walls — all of them the same.

  Ignoring the danger (for this was perilous, unpredictable magick), she pushed her face further into the room. The surface of the mirror stretched and pulled taut across her features as curiosity got the better of her. She watched, enthralled, as the Prof pored over his latest creation. Greed flooded her. She was flushed with renewed hunger. She had come to the right place after all. She would wait no longer. She jerked her head back. ‘Bring him through,’ Varla whispered hoarsely. ‘Round him up and bring him through.’

  Suddenly a bird screeched, loud and piercing, and the Prof fell back in his chair. He spun around as a large hawk with a leather strap dangling from its leg butted and thrust and burst out of the mirror like a missile through a wall of silver membrane. It swooped at the Prof’s head, clawing and pecking and shrieking.

  The Prof sprang to his feet, tipping the chair in his rush to get up. ‘What on earth?’ He punched at the bird, hurled books and papers as it flapped and scratched and raked at his face.

  The bird drove the Prof around the room, into walls and corners, chairs and cabinets.

  A brutal wind howled around them. It seemed to be coming from a hole in the mirror. The hole left by the bird.

  Shelving rattled as books and journals tumbled to the floor. Cardboard packing cases tipped on their sides, spewing their co
ntents across the room.

  Half blinded by the wind and cowering beneath the bird’s slashing fury, the Prof finally tripped and fell against the mirror.

  The glass exploded and the Prof, his arms still curled over his face and head, fell through the frame — and was gone.

  In the stillness that followed, the bird, Varla’s unfortunate pet and envoy (who was ill-prepared for such a transition), dropped to the floor, gave a pitiful screech and died.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ____________________________________________

  Theories and proof

  Angus stood up. He stared at Reafen, still crumpled on the floor. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘what’s going on here?’

  The Donut Lady also rose to her feet. ‘Reafen is a goblin,’ she said bluntly.

  Angus did not exclaim. Nor did he argue. For, of course, on some level he already knew that Reafen was a goblin. He just didn’t want to know it. It was too weird.

  ‘You do not argue?’ The Donut Lady eyed him playfully. ‘Perhaps you see more than I thought ...’

  ‘Oh, I’m surprised,’ said Angus, turning back to Reafen. She was squashing the hat onto her head, trying to force it to fit. ‘I just don’t know how I can believe it. You say it’s a fact. But where’s the proof?’

  ‘You believe in Vikings?’ said the Donut Lady.

  Angus nodded.

  ‘You believe in dinosaurs, woolly mammoths, Richard the Lionheart, Joan of Arc, the Tollund Man?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Angus, ‘in one form or another. But there’s proof. Fossils, documents, bones, artefacts ...’