Warily, I take a look around. I don’t actually move my head, though – I remember what happened last time. I can’t see anything new, but I do notice a change in the air. It caresses my face rather than closing in on me, and it feels clearer than usual, more refreshing. I breathe in as much of it as I can. The road noise fades away until it’s barely audible, but the natural sounds are amplified. It’s as if I’m in the middle of the countryside.
Next, I hear what sounds like the beating of wings. I look around for its source, but I can’t find it. Still, I know it’s benign, in the way that you sometimes just know things in dreams.
As I listen, fascinated, a tremendous calm passes over me. It’s simple, beautiful, magical.
I’m here, says a not-quite-voice. I’m always here.
I reach out my arms towards it, although I know I won’t be able to touch it. That’s when I wake up.
Guardian angel, whispers my mind. I smile, hearing its words again in my head. I’m here. I’m always here. The mere idea of having a guardian angel is both awesome and intimidating, but I’m not afraid.
Back in the days when I addressed my diary to a guardian angel, it entered my dreams a few times. It was a human figure with wings, an angel in the traditional sense. I always woke up feeling strangely tranquil.
Those dreams were magical, but they were nothing on this scale. The past five nights were horrendous, but if this is what they were leading up to, if I had to suffer through them to get to this – well, in that case, it was more than worth it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I think Clemency notices a change in my attitude the next morning, but she doesn’t comment on it. She just keeps watching me in that way she has. We talk about the usual things. I almost give in and share last night’s vision with her, but again, something tells me not to.
Jamal and Annemarie will be at the university all morning, so we’re alone in the kitchen. I’d like to get out of the house, but it looks so cold outside that I decide against it.
We lapse into a comfortable silence, which isn’t unusual for us. I guess that’s what happens if you stick two introverts in a room together. She still glances at me every now and then, though. The curiosity is getting too much to bear. Finally, I summon up the courage to ask why.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” I ask, before I can chicken out.
“Like what?” she asks innocently.
I’m about to get frustrated, but then I remember Clemency’s previous words. If you’re curious about something, chances are, you’re capable of finding the answer.
I am capable of finding out the answer; I just need to figure out how.
That, it turns out, isn’t as difficult as I expect.
All I really have to do is think about it, and once I do that, it’s pretty obvious.
The only other person who looks at me like that is Jamal.
It all falls into place in the space of a few seconds.
I look questioningly at Clemency.
“Got it in one,” she says wryly.
“Why didn’t you say?” I ask helplessly, although I don’t know what I would have done if she had.
She laughs. It’s one of those bitter laughs that I hate. “The thing with being psychic is that you know when something’s never going to happen. I wasn’t about to compromise our friendship for no reason.”
“It wouldn’t have compromised anything.”
“I wasn’t going to risk it. I needed our friendship to be strong if I was going to protect you.”
“Exactly how long have you known that you’d need to protect me?”
“From the moment I first saw you,” she immediately says. I stare at her.
“So all the time I’ve known you…”
“Yes,” she says. She smiles. “I only agreed to go on that camping trip because I was afraid to leave you. You’d have been vulnerable if I wasn’t around.”
“I did wonder why you deigned to accompany us,” I say.
She looks sombre. “You people are the lucky ones,” she says. “You still have the luxury of making your own fates. You’re in control – well, as far as that is possible. It’s different for me. I sacrifice my own fate to care for other people’s. That’s the way it has to be.”
I remember the strange dream-vision where Clemency fought the wave of earth. She was doing it to protect other people, not herself. She made the decision to let one person she loved die in order to preserve the lives of hundreds more who she didn’t even know. She’s not exaggerating. Her fate is everyone else’s.
I think about Aiden, wonder what she felt for him. Did she love him, or was she so affection-starved that she fell for the first person to display an interest in her?
As usual, she knows exactly what’s on my mind.
“I did love him,” she says. “I cared for him as deeply as was possible.” She laughs harshly. “I never did put much stock in genders.”
“I’m sorry,” I say weakly. I’m doing it again, apologising for something I have no control over.
“Stop it,” she says firmly, smiling at me. “You’ll be happy with Jamal. I’m glad his affections are returned.”
I don’t know why it bothers me so much that she knows about me and Jamal. Then again, now I think about it, I don’t know how she could have failed to notice, especially when she can find out almost anything she wants to in the blink of an eye. Perhaps I’m uncomfortable with the idea that Clemency may know things about Jamal’s future that even he doesn’t. I’ve grown to accept her insight into my own life, but I’m uncomfortable knowing that it’s spreading to my friends.
She knows almost everything about me, but apparently she doesn’t know about my dream-visions. There’s something strange going on here.
“Could someone block things from you, if they really wanted to?” I ask. It’s not a subtle question, but I have to know.
She frowns. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“Would it be possible for them to withhold information about themselves, or about something they were planning to do, so that you couldn’t find out about it no matter how hard you tried?”
She hesitates. “There are ways of masking things, but it’s an uncommon skill amongst humans. I can do it myself, to some extent, but it wouldn’t hold up for long if someone was directly attacking it.”
“But that’s amongst humans. What about…other beings?”
“It depends on their powers. A strong being could theoretically hide something almost entirely, but then if it was that powerful, there wouldn’t be much reason for it to bother. It would be confident it could get its own way.”
I’m chilled. This changes things.
“Why are you asking?” she inquires. Her tone is innocent, but suspicion lurks beneath the surface.
“I just wondered,” I say quickly. “It’s interesting.”
“Hm,” she says. I recognise her tone – it means that she doesn’t believe me, but she’s not going to press further.
I don’t know why I can’t just tell her. It could be important.
There’s a tapping at the door. Clemency and I exchange a puzzled glance. It doesn’t sound like a knock – it’s fainter, more irregular.
“Should I open it?” I ask, uncertain. Something about this doesn’t feel right.
“Wait a moment,” she says decisively. “The energy has changed.”
I don’t know what that means. All I can do is watch her and try to guess at the workings of her mind.
She doesn’t move for a minute or so. It feels like an age.
“The energy feels normal now, or near enough,” she finally says. “Open the door.”
“But surely there’s nothing there anymore, if it’s gone back to normal?”
“I asked you to open it for a reason.”
I do as she says before she bites my head off.
At first, I can’t see anything or anybody. I’m about to be all told you so, but then I notice it, plugged into a wall
socket in the corridor.
It’s my alarm clock.
12:08, it flashes. I dig my phone out of my pocket. It’s only twenty to eleven. Perhaps the clock has been traumatised by its recent experiences. I certainly have.
“Clemency?” I call shakily.
Soundlessly, she appears at my side.
“I see,” she says.
“Do you?”
“Bring it in.”
I don’t question her this time. I unplug the clock and watch the digital figures fade away. Carefully, I carry it into the kitchen.
“Plug it in.”
I unplug the toaster and shove it to one side, replacing it with the clock.
12:08, it says.
“Funny, it should have gone back to the default time,” I say. “I should probably reset it.”
“No, leave it,” Clemency says.
“What for?”
“Just wait.”
Five minutes later, I’m getting tired of waiting.
“What exactly are we waiting for?” I ask.
“Look at it.”
I look at the clock.
12:08, it informs me.
“So?” I say. Then I realise what she means. “Oh. The time hasn’t changed. That’s odd.”
“Is it?” she says, arching her eyebrows.
“Oh,” I say, as it dawns on me. “You’re saying it’s stuck on that time for a reason?”
She looks as if she wants to clap patronisingly. Well, it’s not my fault I can’t keep up with her. She’s had more practise than I have.
“But then what is the reason?”
“I don’t have enough information to answer that question,” she says.
I’m about to mutter something ungrateful, but then I remember what she said before, about sacrificing her fate, and bite back my words.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t make an educated guess, though,” she adds.
“So what’s your best guess?”
She looks thoughtful. “That time is obviously significant for a reason. I’d say something important either happened or will happen at that time. That’s all I can really think of, unless those numbers represent something other than the time.”
“It could be a date,” I suggest. “The twelfth of August, or the eighth of December.”
“Possible,” she agrees. Apparently that’s all she has to say on the subject.
I’m delighted that it’s found its way back to me, but there’s something very disturbing about the fixed time on the clock. I move it back to its rightful place in my bedroom, but can’t deal with the way it keeps informing me that it’s 12:08.
Since Clemency’s proved her point, I decide I might as well reset the time. I do so, using my phone as a guide. Then I get out some work – I’ve been falling behind lately, what with all the sleep I’ve been missing, and if I don’t catch up now then I never will.
After a while, I look absentmindedly up at the clock, wondering if it’s acceptable for me to have a break yet. I started working at around quarter past five, and it’s now... 12:08. Oh.
How is that even possible? I mean, at what point did it change? Would it have changed if I’d been watching it the whole time?
I give it a distrustful look. We’re having a standoff, me versus the clock. Let’s see who cracks first.
Predictably, it’s me. I can’t take it anymore. I get up and rip the plug out of the wall. Problem solved.
Sadly, I still don’t have a usable alarm clock. Never mind. I’m kind of warming to this whole mobile phone thing.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Two nights later, I don’t want to go to bed.
It’s strange – I do feel tired, but each one of my cells is screaming at me to stay awake. Jamal and Annemarie have both gone to bed. I don’t know what there is to stay up for.
I look out of the window. The blackness is stifling. It lurks at the fringes of every streetlight. All of a sudden, I need to be out there.
I slip into the hallway and go down the stairs. Reverently, I push open the front door and embrace the night.
My bare feet lead the way; there’s no input from my brain. My mind is suspended for the moment. I barely feel the road surface digging into my soles.
I don’t find out where I’m going till I push open the gate.
It’s bitterly cold, a late autumn evening just melting into winter. I didn’t put on a coat, but I can’t feel the cold, though I’m dimly aware that I’m shivering.
The fallen leaves are turning to sludge, and the bare branches are stark in the starlight. The railings glisten with dew.
I finally know where it was, the place in my visions, but there’s no mist tonight. The darkness is the only thing impairing my vision.
It’s all there, the sounds and the smells and the feel of the grass beneath my feet. It’s a wonder I didn’t work it out earlier.
Oh well, at least the bench is still where it ought to be. There are no airborne missiles as yet.
That’s when my brain kicks in, and I begin to see how ridiculous my situation is. I’m standing barefoot in the local park, in the middle of the night, for no apparent reason.
I begin to feel a deep-rooted sense of unease. Something about this just isn’t natural. I’ve been drawn here for a reason, and it probably isn’t a good one.
There’s a whispering sound behind me. I want to turn and look, but I can’t move. The visions are coming true.
Will I start to suffocate? The idea panics me. I won’t be able to wake up from it this time.
A hand touches my shoulder, whilst another rapidly muffles my shriek.
“Be quiet,” whispers Clemency.
“How the hell did you know I was here?”
“You should never have to ask a psychic that question. I found out about your visions earlier today. You should have told me about them. I knew there was a reason why you asked me about masking information. But perhaps it wasn’t your fault. It might have had a hold on your mind. Wraiths are perfectly capable of influencing your emotions if you don’t know you’re being manipulated.”
I’ve underestimated her again. I should probably just accept that she’s all-powerful. After that vision with the rolling earth, it’s a wonder I ever considered anything to be beyond her abilities.
“Why can’t I turn around?” I ask.
“You could, if you tried hard enough,” she says. “You just have to overcome the protective force. But I wouldn’t advise it – it’s there for a reason.”
“That reason being?”
“Can’t you hear it?”
“Hear what? That whispering sound?”
“Yes. It means the other side is close.”
I shiver. There’s something simultaneously terrifying and thrilling about the idea.
“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask tentatively.
“Perhaps,” she says. “Do you know what the date is?”
It’s such a trivial question that it confuses me for a moment.
“Yesterday was Halloween, so that means it’s the first. What about it?”
“The first of November,” she says. It’s evidently supposed to mean something to me.
Then it clicks.
Most of the houses on the street were destroyed by a German bomb, just after midnight on the first of November 1944.
“It’s the anniversary of the bombing,” I say. “Or the attack, should I say.”
“And what else?” she says.
I fumble with my phone until the time lights up on the screen.
12:07, it says.
“Oh my God,” I say. “Something’s about to happen.”
Clemency hushes me. “The louder we are, the more anchors it can gain on this world. It’s getting stronger. Can you hear it?”
The whispering is louder, more intense. I can even pick out individual voices – at least, I think I can.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“People who have gone over to the other side,” Cle
mency answers. “You can hear them on nights like this, when the two sides are closest.”
“Why are they getting louder?”
“There’s a rift opening in the wall between the worlds. Something is moving from one world to the next.”
“The wraith?” I whisper.
“Probably. I can’t be sure.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
Judging by the sounds, the rift is behind us. I don’t like that idea – if we’re going to be attacked, I’d rather be able to see it coming.
“What would happen if we did turn around?” I ask.
“It would gain more anchors. Best not to acknowledge its presence until it’s inevitable.”
The air around us feels as if it’s being drained away. Dread fills me.
“It’s going to suck away all the air and suffocate us,” I say, semi-hysterical.
“No, it’s not,” she says firmly, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Listen to me. It’s not really sucking away the air. It’s a psychological thing. It’s manipulating you. If you fall for it, you may end up killing yourself, because your brain and lungs will just shut down. Keep inhaling and exhaling as you normally would, and you’ll be fine.”
I’m sceptical, but there’s no point in contradicting her. We don’t have time to argue.
The voices rise to a roar so deafening I’m amazed the whole city doesn’t wake up. The air already feels too thin, but I do as Clemency says, and surprisingly, it seems to work. It’s an unpleasant feeling, but it’s not insufferable. Clemency barely seems affected. I wonder how many times she’s done this before.
“It’s time,” she whispers. “Turn around.”
The protective restraints must have been lifted, because there’s nothing to hold me back. As yet, I can’t see anything strange, but the strained air is alive, humming.
“Now,” Clemency murmurs. Reflexively, I check my phone.
12:08.
The sky erupts. It glows and pulses, but not with a pure white light like the one Sidney created in our kitchen. This light is a lurid orange, violent and bloated and unhealthy. I can sense the crackling power that emanates from it.
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