Holly forced a smile.
‘But if you want a solution, I can help you. I know traditions aren't cool these days, but deep down you know it works. Remember what I did for your mum?’
Holly narrowed her eyes. She had never believed Dahlia's spell drove her mum's loser boyfriend away. But Holly nodded. Sometimes it was easier to agree than dredge up the past.
‘You look tired. Have you been dreaming?’
Holly rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I've had this headache. And last night I—’
‘The dandelion tea should do you good.’ She lifted the teapot and offered more but Holly waved her away.
‘I should be getting home, I guess. The rain seems to have gone.’
‘How did your mum’s interview go?’
‘You know what she's like,’ Holly said. ‘She’s already plotted out the whole thing, with Plans A, B and C, depending on what happens. I better go. I'll just use your loo first.’
Holly splashed cold water on her face and stared at her reflection with a sigh. Dahlia lived in her own little world surrounded by spells and magic. But if Dahlia didn't have the answers, who did? Holly rubbed her forehead and wished someone would tell her what to do. Sometimes she wondered whether any of the adults knew what they were doing.
She dried her hands under the hot air and noticed her ring finger was naked. She groaned. The slim silver ring, her fifteenth birthday present was gone. She grimaced, anticipating the blast she'd get when her mum realised. What else could go wrong today?
The table was now empty and Dahlia was at the shop counter by the door. Holly picked up her satchel.
Her aunt handed Holly a paper bag. ‘A few things in case you change your mind.’
Holly frowned and kept her hands by her sides.
‘It's all there. Instructions and everything. Just in case.’
‘I don't want it.’
Dahlia rattled the paper bag. ‘Humour me. You don't have to use it.’
Holly clenched her fingers. It would get Dahlia off her back, but taking the bag felt like admitting defeat.
‘Any questions, you know where to find me,’ Dahlia said.
Exhaling through her nostrils, Holly reached out a reluctant hand.
Dahlia smiled as Holly took possession of the bag, and a chill slithered down Holly’s spine. ‘After Friday, the light will take over again soon. Things always get a bit funny at this time of year when the dark is at its strongest.’ Dahlia held out her arms. The knot in Holly's stomach loosened for a second as her aunt’s big hug enveloped her in a waft of lavender and sandalwood.
Holly turned to leave.
‘By the way. You dropped this.’ Dahlia presented Holly's missing ring in the palm of her hand.
‘Phew.’ Holly slipped the ring back on her finger. She squinted up at Dahlia. She swore the warm silver was humming. ‘What did you do?’
Her aunt smirked. ‘I thought you didn't believe in that stuff. Blessed be, little one.’
Holly grimaced and shoved the paper bag into the bottom of her satchel. She buttoned up her woollen coat and stepped out into the cold.
As she walked past the bakery and the hairdressers, she promised herself she would never use the contents of the paper bag.
No matter what.
***
VIOLET
The mist swallowed Violet up as she crossed the empty carpark and stepped onto the thin dirt path which led through the acres of bush surrounding the school.
She pursed her lips. Lionel didn't care, Holly was a traitor and Lila was off in one of her moods. As usual Violet had no one to rely on. No surprises there. A drop of water dribbled down her cheek. It wasn't a tear, it was rain. She would swear her life on it.
Violet trudged down the track where the grey-green gum trees met the high back fences of the houses. She knew Lady Macbeth backwards and forwards and inside out. She’d watched Ravenswood’s amateurish stage directions closely all day. She was fully prepared for the moment when she would eventually take over.
Something stirred to her right – a snap of broken twigs and the sound of movement through the scrub. Violet spun around, and glanced in all directions, but she couldn't see a thing through the ghostly air. She rubbed her eyes, shivered and sped up.
The crunching grew louder and then there was a snuffling. Violet jerked to the left and right but everything past the path was a shifting veil of white. She pushed her feet faster, her own breath rasped through her open mouth. She was only halfway home. It was too far to run back to the school and no one in Beacon Hill left their back gates unlatched. Her pulse thumped in her ears.
Violet’s pursuer came closer, panting and slapping through the wet undergrowth. Her stomach flipped. She thought it was a man but the sounds were uneven. Was there more than one of them? A gang?
She gulped as every Beacon Hill urban myth flooded her mind. The cults, the cannibals, and the ghosts of their victims. The missing girls from back in the 1980s, Rebecca, Danielle and Tracy, whose bodies were never found. The doorway to hell, Peter the Butcher and even yesterday, the bus driver's prediction.
But they were all bedtime stories for gullible kids. Weren’t they?
A silhouette crashed out of the bush. Violet lunged for the nearest tree and flattened herself against the narrow trunk of the nearest tree, her heart thundering in her chest, her throat clamped shut.
She could hear huffing and snorting. Her knees trembled as she gripped onto the tree trunk. What made huffing and snorting sounds like that?
Violet peered around the trunk.
The black hooded raincoat shadowed their entire face. A big black dog dragged them down the path towards her. She sucked in a shaky breath. She could never outrun a Doberman. She was always last in cross-country runs. The tree was pointless, too. The dog would sniff her out straight away. Violet bent down, fumbling for a fallen branch or anything to use as a weapon.
They came closer.
Violet wanted to shut her eyes and block everything out but she forced herself to watch.
Her heart was on the brink of bursting.
They were only metres away.
Violet tensed every fibre. Only the boys at the bus stop knew she was in here. Hours would pass before anyone noticed her missing.
The figure and the dog passed straight by her, the dog tugged at the leash, his nose pressed firmly to the dirt as it snuffled along the path.
She rested her cheek against the rough bark.
But the hooded person turned their head and stared right at her, their eyes like the slice of a knife. Every hair on Violet’s body jerked upright.
‘Beware,’ they whispered and the dog pulled them towards the school.
The warning hung in the fog. Violet frowned. Beware of what?
She waited behind the tree until the bush was quiet and her heartbeat settled. When she was sure she was safe, she ran all the way home down the path, not stopping until she deadlocked her front door behind her. Gasping and damp with sweat, she leaned against the locked door. The word still rang in her ears.
Beware.
***
ANGELIKA
Ravenswood was not as useless as Angelika had suspected. She rolled his advice around in her mouth as she hurried towards the exit sign, the heels of her ankle boots clattering over the grey mottled linoleum.
She hurried towards the exit sign. The school was more like a jail than a place to nurture learning. Rumours claimed its box-shape was designed to withstand a nuclear attack and despite the public-spirited architecture, there were permanent dark corners, cold spots and classrooms Angelika never liked entering.
She didn't believe a word of their stupid superstitions: that scatty Lila and her silly curse. There was a myriad of rational explanations: old wiring, electric pulses or possibly low frequency sound. Sometimes Angelika wondered if she and her family were the only sane ones in the whole suburb, and that was saying something. But still, she didn't want to hang around the school alone at night.
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She left the school building and crossed the pot-holed car park. She didn't pull up her hood and instead tilted her head to the sky and let the wet air sprinkle her cheeks and dampen her hair. The day was over, hair and make-up no longer mattered. Unlike some of the women in Beacon Hill, her mother never cared about appearances. She was more inclined to glare at Angelika if she lingered too long in front of the bathroom mirror.
Her footsteps crunched on the gravel as she dodged the puddles and left the car park for the bush. She quickened her stride, keen to get home to the empty house to play her new chess computer game Sargon and listen to Dustin Gramley - ‘Power and Passion: the keys to an Extraordinary Life’ tape: two more things her mother disliked.
Branches snapped. Angelika pressed her hand to her solar plexus. Something barrelled towards her. She jumped off the path and listened to the sounds of undergrowth being shoved aside. Surrounded by the whiteness of fog, she glanced around in vain. Violet's name popped into her head. Had she underestimated Violet's little tantrums?
A dripping black dog and a hooded figure crashed out of the fog. The dog, probably weighing more than Angelika, came hurtling towards her.
She froze, but the preoccupied dog dragged his owner down the path, past her without a sniff or a glance in her direction. The hooded person turned their head and stared at her. Angelika sucked in a shaky breath but remembered a quote from her favourite book.
‘Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.’
She converted her fear and matched the man's harsh glare. She still couldn’t see his face but it had to be a man. He said something in a barely audible whisper that sounded like 'Beware.'
‘Beware? Beware of what?’ she replied, hands on hips. Maybe she did have some acting talent she thought as she hid the wobble in her voice.
But he'd disappeared into the mist and she was left alone, cursing the Beacon Hill weirdos. With a shake of her head, she started off again along the track home. Perverts.
She went back to pondering Ravenswood's advice. She knew her own limitations, her acting skills were no match for Lionel's. She'd be envious if he wasn't so nice and, as Dustin Gramley said, envy was wasted energy. But Ravenswood had handed her a gift. Lady Macbeth now made perfect sense. Angelika smiled as she was reminded of another favourite phrase.
‘The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent.’
Angelika hummed the Ace of Base song she couldn't get out of her head as she headed for her own cul-de-sac. Mist curled around the tree trunks as she marched past the back fences. The scent of wet eucalyptus filled her nostrils and decaying leaves crunched under her boots. She'd travelled this path a thousand times but now she flinched at the slightest sound, the remnants of fear vibrating inside her.
Mr Ravenswood was oddly intriguing. He wanted something from her, they all did, but this wasn't the usual thing. Grown men and boys with their lusting eyes made her sick. Everything had changed around her thirteenth birthday. It happened almost overnight, she was playing in her backyard in her cut-off denim shorts as she always did, and her brother's friends suddenly noticed her. They had stared with expressions she didn't understand. Then the teasing started, the offers of cold drinks and lollies, trips to the movies, any excuse to be alone with her. Then it was everywhere, every time she left the house, at school, the shops, on the bus.
At first, she shied away, she'd never asked for this. Until one day she was unwrapping the fish and chips for the family dinner and the bag heaved with an extra free portion of chips. And all at once Angelika realised that if she was clever and determined, this could be a gift of great value. But the awkward high school boys and the dirty old men never understood they had nothing she wanted in return.
Now, finally, Ravenswood had offered up something Angelika did want. She'd never heard the name Alan Wolf before this morning, but if he was as influential as they all said, Friday night could change everything. Her belly fluttered. A true commander needed to be flexible to modify her plans. The right opportunity to get off the island had arrived.
Angelika halted as she spotted a strange bright yellow symbol painted on a fence. It was the second time she'd seen this graffiti today. She traced the curves with her finger. The flow of the lines reminded her of the Queen's Gambit chess play sequence.
Light blazed from a few houses and wood smoke belched from their chimneys, but in the darkness of late afternoon, most of Beacon Hill was still at the office. Even when they were home, Angelika's neighbours moved in and out like ghosts. Only the rumble of lawnmowers and the rattle of roller doors reminded her that she and her family were not alone. Not that she minded.
A gust of wind rushed past her head, followed by the beating of powerful wings. Angelika ducked as a tawny owl with a white mask landed on a nearby tree. Its unrelenting black-eyed stare seemed to bore a hole into her skin, its glare froze her to the spot, trapped her breath in her chest.
‘What do you want?’ she spluttered, but the owl only blinked in reply.
She shook her head at herself. It was only a bird. She let her breath free and set off briskly down the track. The owl hooted out after her, its mournful cry echoed through the foggy bush. Angelika didn't slow her pace. She hummed again and the owl's call faded away.
That Violet was a fool, Angelika thought. Her undermining attempts were laughable. Angelika could show her how to get her own way but she wasn't the mentoring type, especially not for a piece of work like Violet Black. Anyway, there was no time for distractions. Dustin Gramley was always right, opportunity could come at any time.
Angelika licked her lips. She'd never be like her sister Briony with her hog-like husband and whingeing kids whose life revolved around interest rates, soap operas and spats with the old woman next door. How could Briony live so small? When there was a whole world of five-star hotels, tropical islands and designer dresses out there?
Tomorrow Angelika would return to the drama room and play Lady Macbeth as a warrior queen, the version of herself of herself she pictured whenever she read Sun Tzu, listened to Dustin Gramley on repeat, or lined up her rooks and knights. She grinned. This version of Lady Macbeth fit her perfectly.
Angelika veered down her empty driveway and into her dark house. She closed her bedroom door, shut out the world and switched on her motivational tape. She lay on her bed, stared up at the ceiling and repeated his mantras, imagining champagne-coloured silk sheets and room service on silver trays. As the tapes said, if she focused hard enough, her goals would materialise. She pulled out her script and read her lines with different eyes. She stood at the foot of her bed and rolled her shoulders back with a smile. Lady Macbeth’s lines were perfect.
‘Leave all the rest to me.’
Angelika forgot all about the hooded man's warning.
***
RAVENSWOOD
Ravenswood whistled to himself and hoped there was wine left in the cask at home as the school’s fire door clanged shut behind him. He shivered as he turned up his faux fur collar and stepped over a yellow squiggle painted on the footpath.
Only two cars remained in the foggy carpark. The other one on the far side under a row of trees was even more of a bomb than his own. He promised himself that by next year he'd have a place of his own and a car with a heater. Or, if everything went perfectly to plan on Friday night, he'd be somewhere warmer, moving up in the world by next year.
Something shifted in the darkness to his left. Ravenswood stopped whistling and his stomach clenched. The movement was strange, a slithering. The hairs on his forearm bristled. Ravenswood scoured in all directions. He seemed to be all alone in the carpark but nothing was clear through the haze. He paused, listening hard to the rumble of cars on the freeway in the valley below, the slow drip of water running off the leaves, and the electric hum of the car park lighting.
Ravenswood pushed his glasses firmly against up his nose and checked all around again. Only him and two cars.
He shrugged it off and made for his car, his fingers wrapped firmly around his keys. He was a grown man now, he had nothing to be afraid of, even if he was on their territory.
A cold breeze ruffled the back of his neck, close to his skin like someone’s exhaled breath. He spun around, his shoulders hoisted around his ears.
‘Who's there?’ he demanded.
His voice bounced across the empty car park.
There was no reply.
‘Bloody kids,’ he muttered and picked up the pace for the final metres to his dented Datsun. He looked left and right before unlocking the door and sliding inside. He checked the back seat. The seat was stacked with empty pizza boxes, jackets and months old copies of The Saturday Mercury. The footwell was littered with greasy wrappers, crushed cans and a broken blue umbrella. There was no attacker, but he should clean his car.
Swearing at his own cowardice, he started the engine and prayed there was wine left at home. The engine coughed, wheezed then died. Ravenswood turned the key in the ignition again. His little car spluttered like a phlegmy old man and then went silent.
‘Great.’ He slumped.
Thud.
Ravenswood jumped in his seat as something dropped onto the car roof of the car.
Thud.
He stared up. The roof flexed. Whatever it was, it was heavy.
‘What the hell?’ His stomach flipped.
Thud.
Ravenswood’s hands shook as he tried the ignition again. The car gave a series of pathetic clunks and then nothing.
Thud. Scrape.
Something scratched along the length of the roof.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Biting his bottom lip hard, Ravenswood scanned outside, but there was only a deserted carpark. Long shadows were broken up by patches of yellow streetlight. Was it him?
Automatically the words from the Lord's Prayer escaped from his lips. ‘Deliver us from evil.’ He stopped his tongue as soon as he realised what his subconscious was doing. After ten long years, he assumed it had all washed away.
The Flower and the Serpent Page 8
