‘Why don’t you come and have some breakfast, then we can talk about whether you should go to school today or not,’ Amy says, patting my knee. ‘How about some bacon and eggs to get you going?’
‘Please,’ I say around another yawn, stretching hugely like a cat – or a dragon, I think – as I go to brush my teeth.
Over breakfast, I realise that Amy is watching me eat, and then I realise that I’m stabbing my bacon. I sigh and start eating properly.
‘Do you want to go back to bed?’ Amy asks. ‘I’m happy to call Ms Winters . . .’
I shake my head. ‘Phee’s mum’s having more radiation stuff today. Lynne and I got a present for her. I need to take it.’
Amy’s smile is proud. For once, she doesn’t argue.
‘Everyone has the odd bad night, you know,’ she says as I put my plate and tea mug in the dishwasher. ‘It doesn’t mean you’re going to go back to having nightmares all the time, darling.’
I give her a tight little smile and drag myself off upstairs, wondering why last night of all nights the Dragon didn’t wake me. Especially after all that rubbish about it being the third dark moon: our dark moon. Maybe that was where my nightmares came from: too much mystery, too many hints at dark magic.
There’s a police car parked on the street when I arrive back from school. The front door opens before I’m even halfway up the path.
Paul has come home from work early. ‘Evie darling,’ he says, taking my bag from me.
There are people talking quietly in the living room.
‘Let’s get your coat off,’ Paul says.
I let him help me. He keeps a hand on my shoulder as we go into the living room. There are two police officers there, sitting on the sofa: a man and a woman.
‘Hello, Evie,’ the woman says. ‘Do you mind if we call you Evie?’
I shake my head.
‘Evie sweetheart,’ Amy says, coming forwards and towing me by the hand to the other sofa. She sits down so close her leg is pressed to mine, my hand pressed between hers. Paul perches on my other side. ‘Evie sweetheart, this is Sandy and Brian. They’ve . . . they’ve come to give us some . . . some news.’
She waits for me to ask. I don’t.
‘Evie, your . . . Fiona’s . . .’ Amy casts an uncomfortable look at the police officers and changes what she was going to say. ‘Your grandparents’ house burned down last night. They . . . they died in the fire.’
I turn to stare at the police officers. The woman nods regretfully at me. ‘We don’t think they suffered at all,’ she says. ‘They probably died from the smoke long before the fire got to them.’
I consider her silently. I have no idea if she is lying or not.
Paul squeezes my shoulder. ‘I’ll go and get you some hot chocolate, sweetheart, OK?’
I turn my gaze to the policeman. He doesn’t seem to know quite what to do with his face. I realise that he must be rather younger than the woman. Perhaps this is the first time he has gone to tell someone news like this.
‘It’ll take a while before we know for sure – there’s always an investigation after house fires involving fatalities – but preliminary indications are that someone left a cigarette burning on the edge of an ashtray on top of a stack of newspapers.’
I see a photo-flash of their living room, all the old, familiar furniture and ornaments.
‘It’s very common,’ the policewoman is saying. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many house fires start that way.’
I see the ashtray tipped at a precarious angle by the newspapers stacked underneath.
‘Unfortunately, they didn’t seem to have checked their smoke alarm lately. Lots of people don’t.’
I see the old alarm box on the wall by the kitchen door, right above the back of the armchair, within easy reach.
Amy laughs nervously. ‘Paul had ours wired up to the mains only a month ago so I wouldn’t keep worrying about changing the batteries.’ She gives him a tight-lipped smile as he comes back in with a tray of steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits. ‘I didn’t think it was necessary at the time, but I guess I should have been more appreciative.’
The policewoman nods sagely. ‘It never hurts to be on the safe side, though battery-operated alarms are very reliable if people check them often enough.’
I look at her, but see the long fringe of the table lamp just dusting into the ash on Fiona’s parents’ coffee table.
‘Now, your parents . . . your adoptive parents, that is, have told me that your grandparents didn’t have any other family,’ the policewoman says, turning back to me. ‘We’re still trying to find out if they had a will or a lawyer, but we’ll be in touch as soon as we have all of that figured out to help you start the process of . . . well, sorting out the funeral and stuff if there aren’t already arrangements in place.’
But I’m barely listening as I stare into an image, frozen out of time, of our old sitting room: behind the lamp, I can see the old curtains, faded into yellowness, with the faintest trace of a pattern of meadow flowers. But now I see the flame take hold there and the pattern blazes out, suddenly bright, as if newly printed. Then it is swallowed by the advancing black as the fabric turns to ash, as the fire devours its way upwards, up and along . . .
‘Anyway, we’re here today to acquaint you with the process of what happens in these sorts of situations: to see if we can offer you any help in dealing with your loss,’ the policewoman says. ‘Brian’s going to tell you a bit about what we can offer, while you have your hot chocolate, if that’s OK with you . . .’
The policeman gulps and nods. ‘Uhm,’ he says, and clears his throat.
The policewoman’s smile turns frozen for a moment and I see her foot twitch as if she wants to kick him. ‘Just remember that you can interrupt any time you’d like to ask us questions: any questions you want. We’re here to try to make things just a little bit easier for you, Evie, so you stop us whenever you need to, OK?’
When Amy closes the door after the police officers, I sigh and push myself to my feet.
‘Is it OK if I go to my room for a bit?’ I ask Paul.
‘If that’s what will help,’ Paul says, giving me a kiss on the forehead.
‘Evie darling, are you sure you want to be alone?’ Amy asks as she comes back into the living room. ‘We could play a game, or watch something nice on TV. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’
I smile. ‘Maybe later. I just want to think for a little bit.’
Amy starts twisting her wedding ring: a sure sign that she thinks it’s a bad idea.
‘Let the girl have some peace, Amy,’ Paul says, getting up to put his arm around her waist. ‘You and I can go and make something nice for dinner, and Evie can have a little time to herself.’
Amy twists the ring anxiously in the opposite direction. This means she is about to give in. ‘You will call us if you’re upset, won’t you, darling?’
‘I’m not going upstairs to cry,’ I tell her. ‘I just need to think. I promise to come down and find you if I decide to do the weepy thing instead.’
Paul grins, but Amy starts plucking at the ring as if it’s a spinning top, turning it faster and faster. ‘Maybe I should just come upstairs with you for a moment,’ she frets, wrenching at the ring so violently Paul moves to capture her hand in his.
‘Our Evie’s perfectly capable of deciding what she needs,’ he says firmly. ‘And if that’s a couple of minutes’ respite from the two of us, then that seems quite reasonable to me.’ He jollies her shoulder with his. She makes an attempt to smile: although she fails, she does let Paul usher her into the kitchen and doesn’t call me back as I start up the stairs.
Although it is daylight, the Dragon’s head turns to follow me as I close the bedroom door behind me. Once I’m settled cross-legged on the bed, the Dragon leaps across to join me, sitting neatly down on my crossed ankles and smiling smugly up at me.
‘Was that why you never woke me up last night?’ I ask.
>
The Dragon doesn’t answer, but its smile deepens. A wisp of smoke curls up from its nostrils.
‘We’ve got to be careful,’ I whisper. ‘We’ve got to be very, very careful.’
I went up to bed too early tonight. Now I am tired of my audiobook, but it’s too early to go out with the Dragon. As I shuffle down the hall towards the stairs, thinking that a second helping of dessert is just what the situation calls for, something of the conversation below quiets my steps. I creep forward to crouch unseen on the top step.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Ben. I’m not saying that I don’t think it’s all worked out rather well. Lady Justice taking a hand and setting things to rights. Or at least as far to rights as they’re going to get.’
‘Purifying,’ Amy says quietly, with a thoughtful satisfaction that makes me start. I grip the banister with sweaty fingers.
‘Well, the world’s certainly a better place without such scum in it,’ Paul says, biting out the word. ‘And I’ll be damned if I apologise for feeling glad about the whole thing. Evie’s taking it OK so . . .’
‘I think she’s relieved,’ Amy says softly.
‘Well, she would be, wouldn’t she? Seeing as how they’re not all that far away in real terms. Well . . . weren’t that far away.’
‘Yes, but that’s exactly it. Why do you think the police aren’t even curious? Not a question about where any of us were . . .’
‘Don’t be a twit, Paul,’ Uncle Ben interrupts.
Paul gives a sigh and I hear a dull sound as if he’s knocked into the table in the process of getting up to pace. ‘It just seems odd, that’s all. That perhaps they’re trying to . . .’
‘To what? Lull you into a false sense of security so that they can catch you red-handed doing what exactly? Burying empty petrol drums in your garden? Amy, you’re usually the nitwit: tell your husband not to be such an idiot.’
A murmur from Amy and a grumble I can’t make out from Paul.
‘Look, I’m sure they’d have been round here like a shot if there were anything suspicious about the fire. But there’s obviously nothing fishy going on: they know how the fire got started and there’s clearly no sign of anything sinister. They must be able to tell that the doors weren’t forced. No windows broken from the outside. No petrol or lighter fluid sprayed about. No sign of anything other than two horrible people quietly putting an end to themselves by accident. The police are probably no sorrier about it than we are.’
‘Maybe so,’ Paul says, heaving a sigh I can hear from the stairs. ‘Maybe they were glad to see no sign of anything suspicious so they could write it off as an accident right from the start.’
‘You got a guilty conscience worrying you that they’ll find stray fingerprints, Paul?’ Uncle Ben teases. ‘Or have you never heard of plastic gloves?’
‘Ben, don’t be awful,’ snaps Amy.
‘Not that your conscience would need to prick you if you had.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Ben,’ Paul says.
I can practically hear Uncle Ben roll his eyes when he says, ‘I’m not the one fretting over the fact that, for once, things have worked out like they should. Besides, I know you’d have called me over to help if either of you had even considered it. And you both know I would have come.’
There is silence below. I see Amy reach out to the coffee table and pick up the smart brass picture frame that holds the last picture of Adam, taken only two days before all chance of further photos was lost for ever. Amy wipes her sleeve across the glass one way, then the other. It’s a nervous habit, like twisting her ring: there’s never any dust on the photo. She and Paul both take it up too often for any to settle.
‘But you didn’t and I didn’t . . . And thank God that our collective cowardice has been rewarded. We’ve got what we want – what Evie needs – and none of us even had to get our fingertips dirty.’
‘I just can’t help feeling like we’ve still not seen the end of it yet,’ Paul says, with a weary sigh. ‘Like we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, as the Americans would say.’
‘For God’s sake, Paul. Just be happy about it. It’s practically a fairytale ending. What more do you want?’
I creep down one step, then two, leaning forwards until I can just make out the matching picture frame at the other end of the coffee table: a portrait of Adam’s family, everyone present and accounted for. Behind it, on the wall, I see the picture of my family.
In the kitchen, on the fridge, my latest drawing is taped next to one of Adam’s: I press my hand against his sometimes, just at the corner so I won’t ruin it, just to feel . . . I don’t know what exactly, but it’s a good feeling that has nothing to do with jealousy. And I’m proud of myself for that. Proud and happy. Somehow that picture makes the house feel full.
Paul collapses back on to the sofa, his hands clasped white-knuckled between his knees. ‘It just feels like there’s a price to be paid.’
‘Oh for Gawd’s sake,’ says Uncle Ben impatiently. ‘Don’t give me any rubbish about karma. If it’s karma, then it’s just what’s coming to them. Don’t you think Evie’s paid any price ten times over? This is just settling up the score. Balancing the scales. Why do you have to worry over the best thing to happen since she came through the operation such a star?’
Paul’s hands come up to rub at his temples. After a moment, he slumps back so that his head is tilted up to the ceiling over the sofa back.
‘Maybe some things are too good to be true.’ He sighs, and then rolls his head to look at Amy. ‘If you made chocolate mousse tomorrow, I might be persuaded that you were one of them.’
I return to bed, smiling.
It turns out that Fiona’s parents didn’t leave a will. No one can even seem to work out if they had a lawyer. I’m their only family so it’s been decided – I don’t understand exactly who did the deciding, but it seems to be something Amy and Paul’s lawyer arranged – that I inherit. They had a bit of money in a bank account and then there’s the insurance on the house. I don’t really care about all that. The important bit was that the lawyer asked me what I wanted by way of funeral arrangements and so forth. So I got them cremated and the ashes put in a plain wooden box. Amy offered to get something nicer for them if I wanted, but I said that I knew exactly where I wanted the ashes to go and so they wouldn’t be staying in the box for very long.
We’re with the lawyer now, in his office, and they’re all watching me carefully: Amy with worry, Paul with pride and the lawyer with rather excessive sympathy.
‘Well . . . Well, I’m sure it’s all been a bit trying for our young lady,’ the lawyer says, smirking all over his big, fat face. ‘Maybe we should . . .’
‘If there aren’t any wills and that means it’s all up to me, does that mean I can change something?’ I interrupt.
‘What sort of thing were you thinking of changing?’ the lawyer asks, looking puzzled.
‘Fi— my . . . my mother’s grave,’ I say, refusing to let myself dwell on the words. ‘If . . . if my . . . grandparents,’ I get out, ‘put something – an inscription – I don’t want, can I change it?’
The lawyer opens his eyes as wide as they’ll go and blinks. ‘Well . . . Well, I suppose it would be possible. Provided that your mother didn’t leave a will specifying any of the arrangements that you would like to . . . er . . . undo.’
I smile. I know that Fiona can’t have left a will – at least none that was honoured. The grave must have been her parents’ idea. I might talk to Ms Winters about that, actually. It would be interesting to see if she thinks they knew it was the last thing Fiona wanted.
The day before we went to live with her parents, Fiona took me out on to the fens and we scattered Dad’s ashes. We walked for hours and hours, scattering a bit here, a bit there. I nearly cried at first because I had a horrid image of the ashes being blown about the fens, trying to reunite into my father. I remember asking her if it would hurt him to be all divided up like that, but Fiona just smiled and
took my hand and guided it into the little wooden box.
‘It wouldn’t hurt him at all,’ she said. ‘He loved to feel free. He would want to be spread out so he could be in lots of places at once. Then, if his ghost decides to come back, he can wander around, all over the fens. He won’t have to be trapped. Stuck in just one place. That’s why we didn’t get him a grave. He would have hated that. Being stuck in a box: being put down into the ground in a box. Being trapped there in the dark.’
Her face is haunted and pale in the sunlight. I tilt my head back to look up at her. The sun is like lightning in a white sky. In the glare, her eyes glow like glass. I turn to follow her gaze, to see what she is looking at that is making her face so sad and desperate. Almost as if she’s afraid. Tightening my hand around hers, I wonder if she is seeing ghosts: other people whose ashes have been scattered here and are walking through the fens with us. But there is nothing. Just the golden late-summer grass and the dazzle and shimmer of water glinting through the reeds.
‘She didn’t leave a will,’ I tell the lawyer. ‘I’m sure she didn’t.’
The lawyer sighs. ‘Well, I don’t doubt you’re right, but I’m afraid that we’ll need to establish that as fact. We’ll need to prove it,’ he explains, as if I’m five and stupid.
‘So can you find out?’ I ask. Then I suck in a breath. ‘I want you to find out,’ I amend. ‘And when you do and you establish that there’s no will or anything then I . . . I want the grave to just have her name and the dates. I don’t want anything else. Not even “RIP”. Just her name and the dates. If it says anything else, then I want it taken off or the stone changed or whatever has to happen, but I just want the name and the dates.’
‘Evie dear . . .’ says Amy, putting her hand on my knee.
‘That’s what I want.’
Amy looks up at Paul, her face a picture of worry, but Paul is looking steadily into my eyes. He nods. ‘If no one said anything in a will about what has to go on the grave, then it’s up to you, Evie.’
The Bone Dragon Page 22
