by Shea, Alan
‘. . . you’re my brother?’
‘Worse than that. I’m your twin.’
He looks a bit embarrassed, a bit happy, a bit shy, a bit pleased with himself. ‘Well? What d’you think?’
He might just as well have asked me how many miles to Jupiter. I shake my head.
‘I just don’t know Reggie. This is too . . .’
My words trail away. I look at Reggie, then back at the photograph, and all of a sudden, for no reason, I’m sure. I want to shout and sing and dance all at the same time. Instead, I burst into tears.
‘Hey, it’s not that bad! And I j-just thought of something else. If it’s your birthday and we’re twins, it must be my b-birthday too.’
‘Except it’s not my real birthday. Mum called the day I was taken to the orphanage my birthday because no one knew when it really was.’
‘In that case it can be my not-real-birthday too.’
‘Happy not-real-birthday, then.’
I sit back down again.
‘You all r-right?’
‘Think so. I just can’t take it all in.’
‘It’ll take time. Not every day you f-find you’ve got a genius for a b-brother. Still can’t get used to having a little s-sister, come to that.’
‘Not so much of the little.’
He keeps smiling. I just sit and let everything wash over me. Can’t believe it. Us sitting here. The sound of Granddad and Mrs Gilbey chatting. The singing on the wireless. The firelight. I can hear Mrs Gilbey and Granddad laughing in the kitchen. They seem to be a long way away. On the wireless Big Ben chimes out the time.
I count the chimes. ‘I’m gonna have to go, Reggie. I didn’t realize it was that late. I don’t want to get into any more trouble with Bert. I’ll come up for you tomorrow. We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
From outside comes a distant rumble. Reggie goes over to the window. Looks out.
‘It’s still raining. Getting heavy. Think that’s thunder. I’ll c-come with you.’
‘No, it’s all right. I’ll be fine.’
‘You s-sure’
‘Sure. I’ll take the short cut by the old shelter. Won’t take long.’
I can see the uncertain look in his eyes.
‘I can take care of myself. Anyway, I’ve got a lot to think about. I’ll be better on my own.’
I get up, get my things together. ‘See you later, then.’
He still looks worried ‘You certain you’re s-sure?’
‘Reggie.’
‘Sorry, it’s not every day you get a sister. I don’t want to lose you now.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘S-see you tomorrow, then.’
‘Oh, and Reggie –’
‘Yeah?’
‘Thanks.’
26
Facing fears
Outside the sky is all around me. Like it’s wrapping me up. A spider’s web of a sky, trapping me and my thoughts. The rain is heavy. Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance. I walk quicker. There are two streetlights at the bottom of Lyndsay Street. They beacon out a glare of yellow light. Raindrops pattern the air around them. In empty doorways shapes move then fade as I pass them. Strange noises tease. Play tag.
‘Sherlock, you there?’
‘As ever, my dear.’
‘Bit scary out here.’
‘We’ll be all right.’
‘What a day.’
‘You said it.’
‘Got myself a twin brother. Didn’t work that one out, did you?’
‘Who’d have guessed it.’
‘Right.’
‘Looks like a bad storm coming, though.’
‘Afraid so.’
I start to walk towards the old bomb site. It’s a short cut home. I’ve been this way hundreds of times before. But with every step I start to get a strange feeling in my stomach. Like something’s not right. Something’s telling me to stick to the lit streets. Keep away from the dark of the bombed ruins, the smashed houses, the secret shadows.
I start to feel uncertain. Strange. I know this place. Every part of it. Daydreamed away too many days, played too many games here to be scared. So why am I? Somewhere lightning crackles. I look up into a smoky, black sky. The storm is heading my way.
‘Change of plan, Sherlock. We’ll go back up Lyndsay Street then into Sidney Street. Long way round, but it’ll be light all the way then.’
‘Right behind you.’
Lightning tugs at the edge of the sky. I put my head down and walk as fast as I can. The rain drives at me. I pass the two streetlights, get to the bottom of Lyndsay Street, stop. Look down Sidney Street. It should be bright, well lit, but I stand looking into a long tunnel of darkness.
‘Strange.’
‘Mmm. Power cut? Might be the storm.’
‘What d’you think?’
The rain is dripping from my hair. Tracing invisible lines down my face. Making queues at the end of my nose.
‘Come on, let’s go. Maybe the lights will come back on.’
I start to walk. Sidney Street’s a wide street. Lots of factories. Many of them were hit by bombs during the war. Looking down the street now is like looking at a comb with half its teeth missing. Left over, left behind. In the gaps between the factories, broken furniture and rubbish is piled among the bricks and buildings. Prams without wheels. Twisted chairs, broken-backed tables.
‘If we can make it to the bottom I think we’ll be all right, don’t you, Sherlock?’
‘Sure to be.’
The storm is rolling in. I can feel it in the air. Heavy. Suffocating. It seems to be taking for ever to walk down the street. I feel tired. Maybe it’s just all the excitement. Maybe I’m just scared of the storm.
One of the street lights flickers on and off. Above, a fork of lightning streaks across the sky, lighting up black clouds.
‘Fancy a run?’
‘Nothing like a bit of exercise. Bit of an athlete in my day, you know.’
‘Bet I can beat you.’
‘No chance, dear girl.’
I put my head down and charge into the sheeting rain. It clatters into gutters, waterfalls down drains. A racing tide. It’s like running through a river, splashes up all over me. I’m soaked. The sky is dark. The street echoes to the booming thunder. I can’t see a thing, except in the split second when lightning tears open the sky and shows me the black and white world. Still, I’ll soon be home now. Only a few minutes more and I’ll see Hawkins Street.
The loudest clap of thunder I’ve ever heard explodes in the sky. Rings in my ears. At the same time, the sky lights up and I can see everything. The factories. The street. But what I see confuses me. These are not the streets I know. It’s as if someone’s letting me see I’m lost. Laughing at me. But how can I be lost when I’ve lived round here all my life?
I’ve got to take shelter. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Lightning conjures a tall building out of the darkness. I see it just long enough; it looks more or less intact. There’s a sign over the door half hanging off, swaying. It has a name written on it. For some reason I look up at it.
‘Westlands Metals’
‘Seem to know that name, Sherlock, don’t know from where though. Let’s take shelter here.’
‘Careful, Alice, these old bombed factories are dangerous places.’
I grab the door handles and pull them hard. The doors creak. The wind catches them and flings them violently open. I step inside and find myself standing in the shell of an old factory, the size of a football pitch. It’s high and so dark, but in the flashes of lightning I put together what I see. Taking photographs with my eyes. Waiting for the lightning to develop them. Lots of broken windows – jagged glass in twisted frames. The remains of what was once the ceiling sags open dangerously, a ribcage of splintered planks and rafters hanging down. There’s lots of rubbish piled up in dark corners – old upturned cupboards and desks, broken mostly, boxes piled against one wall, covered
in dirt and rubbish. They look like they’ve been here ages.
Rain sweeps through the factory, trickles down on to the floor. I try to feel my way in, using the lightning strikes to see. In front of me is some kind of conveyor belt. I suppose once there would have been dozens of people sitting alongside it. Making things, checking them, putting them into boxes, stacking them. Now it’s completely smashed. Probably bombed during the war. I don’t see the twisted metal sticking out. Walk straight into it. It rips my dress, slices into my leg. I feel the trickle of blood.
Suddenly a crack makes me jump. Lightning forks down, spits in through a window. I duck, and in that instant of light my heart skips a beat. I can see someone across the space. Near the far wall.
I suck in my breath.
‘Who’s there? Who are you?’
The light goes. My voice rumbles around. Echoes back.
Nothing. Just shadows playing tricks. I’m imagining things again. The thunder seems closer. Booms at the building. The storm’s overhead now. Lightning fizzes in again, heading straight for me. I duck. Fall to my knees. Scramble under the conveyor belt. Something hisses past, hits the ground, exploding into a fireball, setting fire to a pile of rubbish.
I look back across the space again. The fire bathes it in orange light. I peer through the smoke. There is someone there. I can see her clearly. I stare into the eyes of a girl. A girl I know. I wasn’t imagining it. It’s me. It’s my reflection. My reflection in some sheets of metal leaning against the far wall, that’s what I can see.
Another fork of lightning plunges through the dark. This time it hits the corner of the conveyor belt above my head. It bursts into flame. I can smell rubber burning. The fires are beginning to spread, sweeping across the factory floor. The doorway where I came in is a furnace of flames. The smoke choking. I’m not going to be able to get out that way. Sooner or later this building is going to collapse, with me in it. I know I’ve got to get out, but if I do I’ll have to face the storm. It’s almost as if I know it’s waiting for me. I know that’s stupid, but it’s how it makes me feel. There’s a terrible groaning noise. Across the other side of the factory, part of a wall collapses and some of the metal sheets clatter noisily to the floor. Above me the roof begins to creak. I wonder how long it can stay up.
Then I hear it. A scuttling black crow of a whisper. That familiar voice carrying on the wind. And the wind becomes his voice. Wrapping around me. It’s like he’s here. In the shadows. In the air. Playing games with me. A cat with a mouse. I edge away. Look up. Up and out through the roof. As I do a cloud rolls away, moonlight leaks cold, grey. Bits of the roof collapse and tumble down in clouds of wood, bricks and rubble and I remember his promise. ‘A birthday surprise, just for you.’ His words seep in through broken window panes, rattle against the frames. Something to teach me a lesson.
I’m frightened. I want to hide, to run away, to get out of this nightmare.
Somewhere a long way off, a dog barks. A simple bark in the night. Sounds like Flash. The thought comforts me and at the same time I get that feeling again. Like someone or something is there. A feather touching my face. I start to think and as I start to think I start to move. Step out of the shadows. My hair is in rats’ tails and I can feel the blood hot and sticky on my leg, but somehow I feel stronger now. Something takes over inside me. An idea. A way to beat the fear. It’s almost as if the storm is in me now. For the first time in my life I don’t feel scared. I suddenly know what to do. I go across to the metal sheets stacked against the opposite wall. The metal that reflected back my face. I’ve got an idea.
I start to pile up the sheets. As I collect them I remember lots of things that have happened since Reggie came to live upstairs. The beatings, the worry about Mum and the baby, finding out I’m adopted, Flash being killed, all the things I’ve been trying to sort out. All those things that seemed to be pushing me down. Scaring me. But now I realize something. That I’ve got stronger because of them and I know that running away isn’t the answer. I keep piling up the metal plates. I pile the metal higher and higher. It’s a simple idea. It might work or it might not. But I have to try. Electricity is attracted to metal and I’m going to see if I can draw the energy to this one point, these metal plates, short-circuit it, burn out its power. Destroy it, and everything that’s in it. All those bad memories. All that fear. I have to believe I can do it. I have to believe in myself.
The storm is all around me now. A roaring, tumbling mountain of energy. I can feel the electricity in the air. I’m ready. Now is the time. I hold my breath.
The air stills. The night stops breathing. The only sound is the slow drip of water. The fires burn soundlessly around me. I’ve done as much as I can. I stand, look up at the night. Wait.
In that moment of stillness I’m sure I see him. Clear as day. Dark as night. His face. Those grey eyes. Then I blink and he’s gone and the lightning hits. A thick, crooked spark of pure white energy. On target. The force hits the pile of metal like a runaway train. I can feel its power. It hits and rebounds in a fury of light. The building trembles. Shudders. More bricks start to rain down. Bits of wood crash to the floor. What’s left of the glass cracks and crumbles. The energy meets and mushrooms up, up and out through the roof in a cloud of fury. Red and yellow flames sheer off, the sky catches light.
Then comes the noise. A deafening roar, like the fire has burned a hole for the sound to pour into, to fill up. Angry. Hard. A split second, then the full force of the blast hits me. I’m thrown back across the floor, into the wall, hitting my head on the cardboard boxes stacked there. They fall around me spilling their contents – hundreds of metal boxes scatter across the floor.
27
Girl on a biscuit tin lid
Slowly, all the sounds fade. Murmur into silence. I’m lying on the floor. I try to move, but can’t. Everything is calm. I ache. My head hurts and my leg is wet with blood. My dress is in tatters. But it’s so quiet now. So peaceful.
Through the holes in the roof the moon slants in. Something on the floor in front of me catches the light. Slowly, I reach out. Pick up it up. It’s a biscuit tin. That’s the last thing I see as the walls of the old factory groan and stumble for the last time.
Who’d have thought it? I smile to myself calmly. Wood splinters and crackles all around. Bricks groan and topple and crash down. The roof creaks, leans at a strange angle, then tips slates down in a rain of dust. But amidst all this chaos, all I can think about is the little tin box I’m holding. Exactly like mine, except this one is brand new. They must have been made here. That’s what the metal sheets were for. They made the biscuit tins here. And they were what I used to beat the memories, the fear, to beat the storm. I start to laugh. Laugh and cry at the same time. Tears roll down my cheeks.
I try to move again. Can’t. But I don’t care. My eyes are fixed, held by the picture on the tin because now, for the first time, I can see it clearly in fresh, bright colours. I’m looking at the little girl with the red hair. She does look just like me. She’s in a field, sitting on a swing. The sky is so blue. The leaves on the trees so green. And for the first time I can see what it is that’s on the floor close to the swing. It’s like a tunic, the sort that soldiers wear. It’s lying there like someone’s just left it for a moment. But that’s not all. There’s something on top of it. I strain my eyes to see it. Can’t make it out. It’s so fine. So light. Barely a mark on the tin. A speckled trace of light. Looks just like a feather.
28
Awake
The sun is golden syrup. It pours itself over my face, spreads itself on my closed eyelids. I try to open them. They move slightly, then butterfly open. I look around. Where am I? Close them again. Open them. Still don’t know where I am. But there’s a nice familiar smell. Soap and lavender. I’m not worried.
I try to sit up. Everything aches. Especially my head. That feels like it might belong to someone else. I put my hand to it. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a bit of something white hanging
down. It’s a bandage. I sink back down into the warm, comfortable bed. A door slowly opens.
‘Alice?’
I peer through squinty eyelids. A face creased into a worried frown looks round the door.
‘Emma? What you doing here?’
‘I live here, dear. I thought I could hear you stirring.’
I try to sit up again. She comes further into the room. ‘You be careful now. Here, let me get your pillows.’
‘What happened? How did I get here?’
‘Just rest. You’ve had a lucky escape, my girl.’
Slowly, my muddled head clears. I remember. Words tumble.
‘It was terrible, Emma. There was this awful storm. I got lost. I went into an old factory. The storm came in and there was thunder and lightning everywhere and the whole building shook. But the storm kept coming, and I knew it was more than a storm. It was like it was after me. Looking for me.’ A single tear curves down my cheek. I wipe it away. ‘Everything burst into flames and I had to hide under this conveyor belt. Then I had this idea. and I stacked up the metal and . . .’ The words gush out. I can’t believe I’m rabbiting on like this. But deep down I know what I’m saying will only ever make sense to two people. Me and Reggie.
Mrs Gilbey moves across the room. Plumps up the pillows. Then sits on the bed and puts a cool hand on my forehead. ‘All right. All right. You can tell me all about that later. You need to rest now. No talking. You’ve got a temperature and a lot of bumps and bruises.’ Her worried frown deepens.
I try once more. ‘I’ve done it, Emma. Don’t you see? I’ve done it. I’ve beaten it. No one is ever going to frighten me again. I have to tell Reggie.’
She gets up. Goes over to a small bedside table. Carefully pours something from a tall bottle into a glass. Then she comes back to the bed.
‘You must calm down, young lady. You’re a very lucky girl.’ She looks at me. ‘It was just a storm. The firemen got you out just in time. Such nice young men. One of them told me another couple of minutes and the whole building would have collapsed, with you in it. Two direct lightning strikes, he said. Worst electrical storm any of them had ever seen. And there were old chemicals in the factory. Apparently, they used to use them to colour the lids of biscuit tins. Dangerous stuff. Caught fire straight away.’
