“Oh my God,” I groan, mortified. He sniggers.
“You’re all out of excuses,” he says. He points to his guitar, leaning in the corner of the room.
“Take it,” he says. “Write.”
I huff a bit, but I do as he says. I take the guitar to my room, and I write. I write about campfires and companions, stories and symbols, myths and monuments. The lyrics are stranger than anything I ever thought I was capable of, but when I read over them, I’m proud of them. I play the series of chords over and over again, changing them, varying them, watching the images move in my mind. Eventually, I can’t contain myself anymore, and I have to sing. I do it quietly, self-consciously, occasionally stopping to think, What if Jamal is listening through the wall? But then a new thought takes its place – Why should I care whether Jamal is listening?
There’s no reason why I should care, I realise. So I don’t. I just carry on.
After an hour or so, there’s a knock at my door.
“Come in,” I call, startled from my musical reverie.
Jamal stands in the doorway, that smile lighting up his face again.
“I really love it,” he says. “Your song.”
I recognise my own words, and laugh.
“How could you not?” I say.
Chapter Eleven
Nothing odd has happened in a long time, and despite Clemency’s warnings, I’m beginning to get a little complacent. The strange events of a fortnight ago might as well have happened last century. They hardly feel real anymore.
My deceased friend evidently doesn’t approve of this state of affairs.
I never used to have trouble sleeping, but of late my thoughts always seem to be keeping me awake. A couple of nights after I write my song, I’m doing the staring-at-the-crack-in-the-ceiling thing again. I’m not boring you with these details without reason; my peace is soon shattered.
A strain of distant music interrupts my thoughts. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but I assume it’s a car stereo outside, though God knows why someone would be sitting in their car in the street at one in the morning. I try to ignore it, but it quickly begins to annoy me. It’s so faint I can’t quite make out what it is, but it sounds a little old-fashioned.
I get up and go to the window, looking down the street for the offending car. Aside from the neighbours’ cars, there are none in sight. Strange.
I shiver; there’s a draught coming in through a gap in the frame. Well, it is the end of October – it’ll be getting cold soon.
Wrapping myself in my duvet, I try to come up with an alternative explanation. If it’s not outside, then it must be either in this building or the one next door. But the couple who rent the attic conversion are away, and the elderly lady downstairs is unlikely to be up at night playing loud music. I have no idea who lives next door. One of our neighbours must be responsible.
I hope someone will switch it off, but no. In fact, I think it’s getting louder. I frown; it almost seems to be coming from our living room. What the hell? Jamal and Annemarie went to bed ages ago.
I can really hear it now. It’s that forties-style music you associate with the Second World War. It’s not as if my flatmates would be listening to that sort of thing anyway, even if they were still awake. It must be coming from somewhere else.
But there’s only one way to be sure.
I get up and grab a jumper from my chair. I refuse to catch pneumonia as a result of someone else’s bad manners. Seriously, who plays music on full volume in the middle of the night? I mean, it may be acceptable if you live in the middle of nowhere and don’t have neighbours, but otherwise it’s just rude.
When I reach the living room door, the music is still louder. By this point, I’m downright annoyed. I’m having trouble sleeping as it is – this is the last thing I need.
I step into the room and look around. Jamal’s stereo system is in the corner, where it always is, but none of the LEDs are lit. My eyes flick to the wall switch.
It’s off.
Well, okay. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I already knew it couldn’t be the source of the music.
Maybe there’s a window open somewhere? But no, they’re all shut and locked. We don’t open them often at the moment, seeing as it’s October.
I go into the kitchen and the bathroom, all to no avail. The music keeps rising in volume, until it’s almost deafening. I go back into the living room, where it’s loudest of all, still failing to come up with any feasible explanation as to where it’s coming from.
By now, I’m beginning to get a bit freaked out. That’s when I notice that something about the music isn’t quite right. Yes, it’s all around me, but at the same time, it almost seems to be – well – inside my head.
That doesn’t even make sense, I tell myself. It can only be one or the other. Besides, it’s not as if I’m imagining this. Why would my mind keep itself awake with deafening forties music?
I should probably just go back to bed and forget it all, but I can’t. For some reason, I don’t feel comfortable leaving the room where the music is loudest. It’s as if I’m afraid it will wreak some kind of havoc in my absence.
I flick on the lamp, reasoning that nothing is so scary when it’s light. But it does nothing to lessen my apprehension. If anything, it makes me realise just how impossible the situation really is.
My senses are heightened. I’m very alert, very awake, perceiving every change in the light, every variance in the ever-present music. There’s no way I’m going back to bed.
Resolutely, I sit down on the sofa, tugging the throw off the back. It’s a heavy, old-fashioned thing that Grandma Edna gave me as a moving-in present. I’m shivering, so I wrap myself up in it. It all becomes more bearable once I’m warm.
The music changes again. This time, it increases in pitch as well as in volume, building up to an ear-splitting, deafening crescendo. I get to my feet, as if I’m preparing to face it off. The throw is still wrapped around my shoulders like some sort of absurd tartan cape.
The room seems to be trembling, vibrating, rattling with the sound. The framed pictures and the mirror tap gently against the wall. There’s no way this can all be in my head.
One picture – a painting Annemarie did some time last year – moves more violently than the others, see-sawing towards and away from the wall. I watch it with alarm. Any minute now it’s going to…oh.
The frame flies off the wall and lands on the floor with an impressive crash. Reflexively, I jump backwards, even though I’m nowhere near it. I go to pick it up, and the room begins to stabilise. I stop to listen, and realise the music is fading. Within a minute, the room is totally silent.
I pull the throw more tightly around me. There are footsteps in the hallway, and my heart rate accelerates. Has my dead friend come visiting? I try to hold the door closed, but I’m shaking too hard, and it bursts open anyway.
“Eddie?”
I steady my breathing. “Jamal. Why are you up?”
“Because I heard this bloody crashing noise and thought we were being burgled again! Why do you think? What happened?”
I hesitate. “You’re not going to believe me,” I say.
“Not going to believe you? Eddie, after that thing with the ribbon, do you really think there’s anything I won’t believe?”
“Okay,” I sigh. “I was lying awake and I could hear this forties music playing somewhere. It sounded like it was coming from in here, so I came in. It was so loud that the room was shaking. A picture fell off the wall, which explains the crashing sound you heard. After that, the music faded away.”
Jamal raises his eyebrows. “So this deafening music didn’t wake me up, but the sound of a picture falling off the wall did?”
“I said you wouldn’t believe me!”
“I never said I didn’t believe you. I only meant that it couldn’t have been ordinary music.”
“Oh,” I say sheepishly. “Okay. Sorry.”
“Apology accepte
d. So, what was this music like? Was it in your head?”
“Yes and no. It was the strangest thing…I don’t know. I can’t even remember what it sounded like anymore.”
“More weird paranormal stuff?” he asks.
I bite my lip. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Why?” he yells. I’m alarmed by the sudden vehemence in his voice.
“Why what?”
“Why is someone doing this you? It’s not fair. It was kind of funny at first, but now you’re losing sleep over it, and that’s not right.”
I can’t help but laugh at his righteous anger. “Seriously Jamal, it’s fine. I can handle it.”
“You shouldn’t have to handle it. You should be worrying about your degree work, not all this crap. It’s your future career that’s at stake here.”
“Missing out on a few hours’ sleep is not going to damage my career prospects.”
“Maybe not, but losing a few hours every night would be damaging.”
“That isn’t going to happen.”
“How do you know?” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for a reply, but this time I don’t know how to respond.
“Clemency won’t let that happen,” I finally say, though I’m not sure I even believe myself.
“I should hope not,” he says. “What kind of friend would that make her?”
There are some things even Clemency has no power over, I think.
*
Explaining the situation to Annemarie is more difficult. We claim the picture fell off the wall of its own accord. She’s a bit pissed off about the damage to the frame, but personally, I think she should be grateful that the painting itself escaped unscathed.
The truth is, she’d be either disbelieving or terrified if we told her what really happened last night, and neither of us really feels like dealing with a hysterical Annemarie. If we breathed one word about the paranormal, she’d dust off her claims that “there’s something creepy about this place”, and we’d never hear the end of it.
So Jamal appeases her by buying a new frame, and we try to forget the matter. But I don’t think either of us really believes this will be the end of it.
Chapter Twelve
Someone rests a hand on my shoulder. I spin around, prepared to defend myself.
“That,” Clemency says mildly, “was an overreaction.”
I really should be used to this by now.
“Oh, I do apologise,” I say. “I should have been looking around to make sure none of my so-called friends were creeping up on me.”
“You’re in a bad mood,” she diagnoses. “Something happened last night. Ah, I see. Unusual…”
“Will you stop doing that?” I snap.
“I’m not actually capable of tuning it out. So no. Anyway, about this music business. Forties music, did you say?”
“No, I didn’t say.”
She winces, disarmingly human for a moment. “No, I don’t suppose you did. I’d apologise, but that would be futile.”
I feel sorry for her, all of a sudden. She didn’t ask for this lot in life. She never asked to be an outcast.
“Don’t apologise,” I say. “You’re right, I’m in a bad mood. Yes, it was forties music.”
“Then we should probably be looking for our mystery person in that era.”
Evening is already drawing in. Surreptitiously, I scan the streets around us. The whole day has had a strange feel to it, as if time isn’t behaving quite the way it ought to.
Clemency has noticed it too, of course; nothing ever gets past her. She pulls up the hood of her jacket, transforming herself into a cloaked prophetess.
“The other side is close tonight,” she says, tipping back her head.
I huddle into my coat. I don’t ask what she means by the other side – I can make a pretty good guess. I’m not sure I’d be able to handle it if she said it out loud.
“I need to go,” Clemency says abruptly.
I don’t know why, but the thought of being left alone terrifies me. Even the idea of walking a few yards down the street to Hamilton House makes me uncomfortable. So does the idea of going into my room alone. What’s to say the music won’t return the instant I try to get to sleep?
I’m starting to see this from Jamal’s point of view. He’s right – it isn’t funny anymore.
Sensing my emotions, Clemency stops in her tracks.
“You’re afraid,” she says. It’s not mocking or accusatory. Her tone is soft; she feels bad for me.
“A little,” I say. There’s no point in denying it.
“You shouldn’t have to be afraid,” she says. She pauses, before decisively lifting her head to meet my eyes.
“Stay at mine tonight,” she says. “Nothing will bother you there.”
I hesitate. “Are you sure?” I know how Clemency likes to be alone. Does she really want me shattering her solitude?
“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” she replies. “Go back to yours and get some overnight stuff. I’ll wait outside.”
I can’t deal with the idea of spending another night alone, so I do as she says, giving Jamal a hurried explanation and shoving some things into my rucksack.
Clemency is waiting outside, as promised. As I rejoin her, I realise I have no idea where she lives, but I don’t ask – I just follow her.
She ducks down a few alleyways I’ve never even noticed before. We end up in a narrow street, bordered by unremarkable blocks of flats. It’s a little disappointing – this isn’t where a prophetess should live.
She leads me into one of the buildings. We climb two flights of stairs, before walking along a hallway and stopping in front of the third door on the left.
“I’ve never taken a lift in my life,” Clemency says airily, “and I never intend to.”
I smile to myself. I don’t much like lifts, either.
Clemency unlocks the door at lightning speed. We go inside, and I instantly change my mind about the flat. It’s Clemency all over.
There are dreamcatchers everywhere. They inhabit every hook, every light fitting, the edges of every shelf. They vary in size and colour and decoration, but they’re all stunning; I can’t even think how to describe their combined effect.
“You have a lot of dreamcatchers,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Yes.”
“Do they…” I hesitate. “Do those things actually work?”
Clemency smiles, flicking on a table lamp. It illuminates the decorations from underneath, creating an effect which is simultaneously eerie and comforting.
“Only if you believe they will,” she says.
I look around the flat. I don’t mean to be nosy, but when you meet someone like Clemency, you can’t help but be curious about her.
The furniture is old and fairly basic – rickety chairs, a sagging sofa. There’s no television or computer; the only nod to the twenty-first century is a small portable radio on a table in the corner. A few framed photographs are gathered around it like worshippers. I’d like to know what they are, but I’m afraid it would be rude to go and look.
“I’ll get you something to eat,” Clemency says, disappearing through a door in the back of the room.
Well, I can’t turn down an opportunity like this.
I get to my feet and go quietly to the table. Crouching down, I examine the photos.
The first shows a landscape, all rolling hills and beautiful sunset sky. It’s pretty, but I suspect its value is more than aesthetic.
The second is of Clemency herself, or so I think at first. When I look again, I’m not so sure. It’s a close-up shot, and the background isn’t really visible, but the colours are faded. The photograph looks to be twenty years or thirty old, and the woman seems a little older than Clemency.
I can’t quite shake the thought that she’s been around since ancient times, never ageing, never changing. What if she keeps this photo as a memento of a previous era?
No, that’s just silly.
There’s a
third frame protruding from behind the radio. I carefully pick it up.
Clemency is standing in a garden of some sort, next to a boy. He’s nice-looking, attractive in an unconventional kind of way. The picture is a fairly recent one – they may be a little younger than we are now, but I can’t be sure. They aren’t looking directly at each other, but nevertheless, he wears a look of total devotion. Her expression isn’t as easy to define, but I know her well enough to perceive that she’s very happy. Happier than I think I’ve ever seen her.
Cutlery clatters in the kitchen, and I hurriedly replace the photo. I don’t have time to step away from the table.
Clemency walks in with two plates of sandwiches. Her expression, as usual, is blank.
I don’t quite have it in me to pretend I wasn’t looking at the photos.
“What are these?” I ask, gesturing towards them.
“Which one do you want to know about?”
“All of them.”
She breathes a world-weary sigh, setting down the plates on the coffee table and coming to stand at my side.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say hurriedly. “I know it’s none of my business.”
“But if you can’t tell your friends,” she muses, “then who can you tell? No, I’ll explain.”
She points at the first photograph. “That,” she says, “is Willford Down. It’s a common, a little way outside the city. I know you’re about to ask me why I have a picture of it. It’s because it was the place where I really learnt who I was – and what I am.”
Then what are you? I’m tempted to ask, but I resist. I just nod, waiting for her to continue.
“I used to go there as a child,” she says, “and subconsciously, I always felt close to nature there. That was where I first discovered I could…manipulate the natural power all around me. Basic, trivial things, but they were the foundation of everything I can do now.”
She looks up, perhaps to assess my reaction. It makes perfect sense to me. Clemency isn’t the sort of person to frame a photo of a landscape just because it looks pretty.
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