12-08

by Bethany Chester

  “Eddie, what are you on ab – holy shit!”

  The end of the ribbon rises up into the air, swaying from side to side like a cobra.

  “I told you so!” I say. We stare, transfixed, as the ribbon lowers itself innocuously back onto the table.

  “What the…oh Jesus, what is it doing?!”

  The ribbon is now airborne, hovering a couple of inches above the table. It twists and turns, resolving itself into a shape, as if it’s being moulded by invisible hands.

  It’s pretty obvious what the shape is – a bird, with a tiny body and a long, slightly curved beak.

  A hummingbird. Of course.

  Jamal can’t take it anymore. He takes a swipe at the ribbon, but it dances out of his reach, somehow managing to keep its shape. It bobs there for almost a minute before slumping back onto the table, resuming its original position as if the past few minutes had never happened.

  “So trivial,” says a female voice. “It would’ve kept it up all evening if I hadn’t come along.”

  We look up.

  “Who the hell are you?” Jamal demands.

  “I’m Clemency,” she says. “Eddie has told you about me.”

  A slow smile spreads across his face. “Ah. The mysterious one.”

  “That’s me,” she says.

  “Were you responsible for – for that?” He gestures towards the ribbon.

  “No, I wasn’t. But I was responsible for stopping it.”

  “So, what you’re saying is, we should be thanking you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Then thank you, Clemency. So what exactly are you doing here?”

  Clemency smiles cryptically. “Leaving.” She turns on her heel and strides towards the door. Then she’s gone.

  Jamal and I exchange a look.

  “She’s always like that,” I say feebly.

  We leave shortly afterwards. When we get back home, I almost trip over a hard rectangular thing, perched innocently on the doorstep. Jamal picks it up. We squint at it in the glow from a nearby streetlight, and I hear him catch his breath.

  “Well, at least I won’t have to buy a new one,” he says.

  It’s a copy of the war memoirs of General William Abbott.

  Chapter Six

  “You really should eat breakfast,” I tell Jamal, tearing open the wrapper of my cereal bar.

  “So should you,” he counters. “That does not count. There’s probably more sugar in it than cereal.”

  “Shut up,” I say. I’m not at my wittiest at nine in the morning.

  Jamal’s phone buzzes, sending vibrations through the table. He reads the message, grinning wickedly.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask. I don’t like the look on his face.

  “You, me, Annemarie,” he says. “This weekend. Camping.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “It’s a bit short notice, isn’t it? And do you seriously think Annemarie will agree to go camping? She won’t go anywhere without a hairdryer.”

  “Oh, she’ll agree to it,” he says self-assuredly. “You know my mate Mike? His family have converted one of their fields into a campsite. The farm’s not doing so great, and they need the extra cash. It’ll be empty until October half term, so Mike’s invited a few of his farmer friends to stay. And me, of course. He asked me to bring some friends along, especially if they’re ‘fit girls’, as he put it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t tell Annemarie that, or she’ll never come with us. She’s a full on feminist, not a part-timer like me.”

  “Ha!” he says triumphantly. “You said ‘us’. That means you’re coming.”

  “Maybe,” I say cautiously. “But won’t we need tents, and…”

  “Nah,” he says. “Mike has spares. It’s fine. He has a four-man we can borrow.”

  My supply of excuses is exhausted.

  “Too bad we don’t have a fourth person,” he muses. “I wonder if Renee would…”

  “She’s visiting her parents this weekend,” I say. “So no.”

  Jamal shrugs. “Don’t think I’d want to share a tent with her anyway. She’s kinda scary in a confined space. Who else…hey, I know!”

  My heart sinks. “If you mean Sam…”

  “No, not him. Hell no. I was thinking about your friend. The strange one.”

  I almost laugh out loud. “Clemency will not come camping with us.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know her!”

  “Just ask. It can’t hurt.”

  “Don’t you find her a bit…um…”

  “She is a bit odd,” he concedes, “but somehow it’s kind of endearing.”

  I snort. “Oh, she would not like that.”

  “So don’t tell her.”

  “She’ll probably find out anyway.”

  “She obviously has a lot of…quirks.”

  “Well, that’s one way of putting it.”

  Actually, I’m really glad Jamal likes Clemency. It’s awkward when your friends don’t get on, and more than that, I want the people I care about to like each other.

  Jamal and I still haven’t talked about last night’s strange events. To be honest, I don’t feel much like broaching the subject.

  “Call her now and ask,” Jamal says, snapping me out of my reverie. “You have her number, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, defeated. I can’t believe I’m about to ask the strangest and most mysterious person I’ve ever met to spend a weekend on Mike’s farm in Somerset.

  Ah well, at least I’m calling her of my own free will this time.

  She doesn’t pick up, which is something I didn’t anticipate, although frankly, I’m quite grateful. I leave her a message with all the details, emphasising that she really doesn’t have to do this if she doesn’t want to.

  I don’t hear from her for the rest of the week.

  “I told you so,” I tell Jamal.

  “Maybe she didn’t get the message.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.”

  Annemarie, to my surprise, doesn’t put up too much of a fight, although she does, predictably, try to bring along some kind of hair-frying appliance. But when Jamal points out that she won’t have anywhere to plug it in, she agrees to go without it for forty-eight hours.

  By Friday evening, we’re all packed up and ready to go. We’re about to pile into Jamal’s car when I get the uncomfortable feeling that there’s somebody behind me.

  I turn around and there she is, startlingly close, her backpack slung over her shoulder.

  “Oh,” I say. That’s the only word that really comes to mind. “What…why didn’t you call?”

  Jamal turns around, simultaneously surprised and amused. “That’s just how she rolls,” he says. “Right, Clemency?”

  She smiles in response. Her smiles are many and varied, almost impossible to decode.

  “Right,” Jamal says, slamming the boot shut. “Better get going, or we’ll be late.”

  We’re soon on our way. Annemarie calls shotgun, so Clemency and I are consigned to the backseat. Jamal and Annemarie are chattering away, but I don’t feel like joining in. I look out of the window instead, watching city fade into countryside and daylight fade into twilight.

  Clemency seems to be doing the same thing. She looks almost as strange in a car as she does holding a mobile phone. Maybe it’s that she seems to belong to another time – but no, that’s not it. She doesn’t belong to any one era. She’s timeless, like the undulating hills bordering the road, or the river sweeping its way over the fields.

  I can’t work her out. For instance, she’s obviously highly intelligent, and yet she has no apparent interest in learning – not of the academic variety, anyhow. It astonishes me that a probable genius could be content with working in the local library, when many people with far less potential are at college or university. Obviously there’s nothing wrong with going straight into work rather than doing a degree. It’s a good thing in many respects. But I still wonder whether
she’s frustrated by her unused potential.

  She’s just completely unfathomable, I conclude. My eyes drift back to the landscape.

  “Just look at those two dreamers,” Jamal says, grinning at us in the mirror. “Care to share your deep thoughts?”

  “I would,” says Clemency, “but they’d probably scare you.”

  Jamal has every right to be unnerved, but instead, he bursts out laughing.

  “You might be right,” he says. “Especially if that thing with the ribbon was anything to go by.”

  “Ribbon?” says a puzzled Annemarie.

  “Never mind,” I hurriedly interject.

  It’s dark by the time we pull up in the farmyard. Jamal gets out and knocks on the farmhouse door. Mike emerges a moment later, a couple of friends in tow. They don’t look entirely sober.

  He directs us to the field, where three tents are already set up in a circle. I’ve only met Mike once before, and I found him a bit creepy. Nevertheless, I’m indescribably grateful that we won’t have to stumble around in the dark fumbling with tent pegs.

  A campfire burns in the middle of the little camp. We toss our stuff into the largest tent and slump down on the damp grass. The crackling heat from the fire is so perfect that I barely notice the moisture.

  “Hey, Jamal,” says Mike. “Why don’t you introduce us to these gorgeous friends of yours?”

  “Certainly,” says Jamal, with a mock bow. “This is Eddie, Annemarie and Clemency.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” says Mike, slurring his words slightly. I wonder how much he’s had to drink. I notice him leering at Annemarie, and suppress a shudder.

  His friends seem okay, if slightly intoxicated. I’ve already forgotten what they’re called. Common names never stick in my head.

  We don’t stay up too late; we’re all tired after the journey. Besides, Mike and his friends aren’t the best of company in their current state. Our tent has a three-person ‘bedroom’, plus a zip-on pod thing for the fourth person.

  “So who are we putting in exile?” Jamal asks cheerfully. “I don’t mind staying in the pod. I’m not sure I’ll fit in it, though.”

  “I’ll sleep in it,” Clemency offers.

  Jamal hesitates. “Are you sure? Don’t you want to stay with the girls?”

  “No,” Clemency says simply.

  Jamal laughs. “Well, that’s sorted, then. I don’t blame you, to be honest.”

  I glare at him.

  Mike’s family have built a small toilet block in the corner of the field. It’s not much more than a glorified shed, but it does the job, and it’s better than nothing. I brush my teeth and splash my face, wishing there was a shower too.

  Jamal is tired after the long drive down, and Annemarie looks exhausted too. They both drift off almost instantly, but for some reason I’m still wide awake half an hour later. I’m lying there, just staring at the fabric above my head, when I hear a rustling noise.

  It frightens me a little; it almost sounds as if someone’s trying to get in. What if it’s Mike or one of his drunken friends? Don’t be silly, I tell myself. They’re probably passed out by now. Maybe it’s an animal of some kind.

  There’s more rustling, louder this time. That’s when I realise it’s not someone trying to get in, but someone trying to get out. No prizes for guessing who.

  I listen out for footsteps, but I can’t hear a thing. That’s not really surprising, though, seeing as this is Clemency. I picture her padding silently across the dewy field. Where might she be going? Perhaps she’s gone to find a stream or something. I can see her now, perched on a grassy bank, ankles dangling in the water, head tipped back so she can see the stars. Maybe she’s a dryad or water nymph who resumes her true form at night.

  She must have planned this in advance. I didn’t hear her unzip the tent flap, so she must have left it open on purpose. So that’s why she wanted the pod. Well, that and the fact that she doesn’t much like anyone. I’m still not sure why she came with us at all.

  I listen out for more clues, but I don’t hear a thing. An hour or so later, I finally drift off.

  When morning comes, Clemency gets up with the rest of us, as if she’d never left the tent at all. I almost wonder whether I dreamt the whole thing. Mike brings down some sausages from the house and fries them over the campfire. Annemarie complains because she’s vegetarian. Luckily, I packed plenty of food. At least one of us is organised.

  Clemency too turns down the sausages.

  “Don’t tell me you’re another bloody vegetarian,” says Mike. He pronounces the word as if it’s an insult, which I suppose it is in his eyes.

  “I’m not hungry, that’s all,” she says. She’s brought along a box of herbal tea and a small aluminium kettle. She kneels on the grass to make herself a cup. That’s when it dawns on me that I’ve never actually seen her eat anything. I begin to worry, noticing just how thin she really is.

  Annemarie meets my eye, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing. She’s not the most observant of people, so if she’s noticed then I probably have good reason to be worried.

  After breakfast, Jamal decides he wants to go for a walk, and I agree to go with him. Annemarie indulges in her habitual grumbling, before putting on some impractical shoes and deciding to come along anyway. Mike has stuff to do on the farm, and his friends are helping out, so we’re left to entertain ourselves.

  I kind of expect Clemency to disappear off somewhere by herself, but she actually deigns to accompany us, albeit lagging a little way behind. We follow a footpath over the hills. It’s full of dips and sudden inclines which make me realise how out of shape I really am. I did a lot of running last year, but I got out of my routine over the summer, and I’ve yet to get back into it.

  Annemarie is still grumbling, and Jamal has started to cough.

  I give him a look. “I still wish you’d lay off those cigarettes.”

  “This has nothing to do with the cigarettes,” he insists. “I’ve got a cold.”

  “Oh, really?” I say. “I haven’t heard so much as one sneeze from you over the past few days. Strange, that.”

  “How would you know whether or not I’ve been sneezing?”

  “I live with you!”

  “Shut up.”

  Despite our various complaints, I think we’re all struck by the beauty of the place. There are so many shades of green, and the hills rise and dip like rolling waves. The sky is blue, and the breeze gentle. It’s a perfect day for walking.

  At some point Clemency overtakes us, but I’m deep in conversation with Jamal and Annemarie, so I don’t notice until I look up and find her several paces in front of us, her dark locks fluttering in the wind.

  “How the hell did she do that?” Jamal demands, following my gaze. I can only shrug.

  She’s walking with a purpose. It becomes clear what it is when she stops by a large rock on the hillside. We watch, mystified, as she rests her palms on it.

  “What’s she doing?” asks Annemarie.

  “How should I know? We’ll have to ask her.”

  “What’s so special about the rock?” Jamal calls out, once she’s within hearing distance.

  Clemency turns to face us, her expression unreadable.

  “It’s more than a rock,” she says. “It’s a monument.”

  “Oh really?” Jamal is curious. “To what?”

  “Someone died here,” she says. “Long ago.”

  I shiver. For some reason, the way she says it really creeps me out.

  “Hey, we have our very own tour guide,” Jamal says cheerfully. “How did you know that, anyway? Have you been here before?”

  “No,” she says. “There’s no need to visit a place to know its story. If you listen closely enough, you can hear it in the land.”

  Goosebumps creep over my arms. Jamal and Annemarie look as if they’re experiencing the same inexpressible emotions as I am. We stand transfixed, as the shivering wind caresses our skin. For a moment,
I think I can feel it too, the untold story of this place, the repressed magic bubbling beneath the surface.

  Then Clemency smiles that strange smile of hers, and the spell is broken. “There isn’t one book in the country that will tell you the story of this place,” she says. “Our collective memory doesn’t stretch back that far.”

  But yours does? I want to ask. I don’t say it, though. There’s no use in asking her anything unless she feels like talking, and right now, I don’t think she does.

  “We’d better head back,” she says. “We shouldn’t stray too far.”

  With that, she turns on her heel and starts to walk back the way we came. We can only follow.

  Chapter Seven

  After lunch, we drive down to the nearest beach and spend a few peaceful hours skimming stones and watching the waves. By the time we get back to the farm, Mike and his friends have already started on the booze. They toss us cans of beer, and we gather around the campfire to drink them. Clemency ignores hers, reminding me of her suspicious lack of appetite at breakfast time. Much to my relief, she ate a sandwich at lunchtime, pulling it apart and nibbling one piece at a time. But one sandwich isn’t enough food for one mealtime, let alone a whole day.

  Jamal opens up the car and retrieves his guitar. He takes it everywhere, however inconvenient it may be. He plays some blues scales, then starts to strum something. I recognise the opening chords of ‘Colosseum’, and smile to myself. He catches my eye and winks.

  Clemency has struck up a conversation with one of Mike’s friends; Josh, I think his name is. Or maybe it’s Mark. It’s out of character, and it puzzles me. She’s talking and laughing as if she’s – well, a normal nineteen-year-old. Although she does keep dodging his questions about what her career plan is and where she lives.

  Mike is trying to chat up a disinterested Annemarie, while his other friend (Mark? Josh?) lights up a cigarette. I sidle over to Jamal, who smiles at me. I don’t really feel like talking. I’m content just to watch everyone else and drink in the camaraderie. We’re not ecstatically happy, but we’re at ease, comfortable in each other’s company. It’s a good feeling. Okay, so the alcohol in our bloodstreams probably has something to do with it, but right now, I couldn’t care less.