‘And this afternoon,’ her mother continued, ‘she crept out of the house. She claimed that she had a headache and was taking a nap. Then she made this . . . this lump out of her bedclothes, so if anybody peered in through the door it would look as if she was still sleeping, and she sneaked out into the cold and wind. I don’t know why. I don’t know where. I caught her coming back, but she wouldn’t tell me where she had been. She just stared at her feet with this cold, stony expression . . .’ There was a pause while Triss’s mother gulped down tears. ‘And when she finally looked at me, there was such anger in her eyes . . . This . . . This just isn’t like her. This isn’t Triss at all.’
Every sobbed word was caught by the girl who wasn’t Triss at all. The eavesdropper would have given every dress in Triss’s wardrobe to hear the other end of the conversation. Was her father agreeing? Was he soothing her mother’s fears, or laughing at them?
‘Oh yes . . . that would be . . . I really can’t go on like this.’ Pause. ‘Yes. Yes, please do. When?’ Pause. ‘Could you not leave work a little early? Just today?’ Pause. ‘I . . . I see. Yes. No, I do appreciate that. Thank . . . Thank you. Yes. Yes, I . . . I might have a little tonic to settle myself. We will talk this evening then.’
Not-Triss was back in her room before her mother had set the earpiece back on its hook. She listened as steps creaked unsteadily back down the landing again, and the door of her mother’s bedroom closed.
She knows! She knows I’m not the real Triss!
No. She suspects something, that’s all. She doesn’t know what she suspects. And she’s a bit hysterical and she’s been drinking her wine tonic. So maybe Father won’t have taken her seriously.
It was small comfort. Over and over, Not-Triss kept remembering the fear and distress in her mother’s voice. She was torn between utter misery at being the cause of her mother’s unhappiness, and selfish panic at the prospect of discovery.
I have to be normal. I have to be as normal as normal can be, just until I know what’s going on.
But I’m so scared. I’m so confused. I’m so . . . hungry.
Oh no, oh no! I can’t afford to be hungry again! I can’t afford to start eating like a plague of locusts, not now!
But there was no hiding from it. The clawing hole in Not-Triss’s stomach was back. What could she eat? The panic seemed to make it more intense. Her eyes turned involuntarily towards the wardrobe, where she had hurriedly thrown the rest of her dolls. She took a few hesitant steps towards it, even reached for the wardrobe door, then flinched back as within it she heard a rattle like the gnashing of wooden teeth.
‘I can’t!’ she whispered in despair. ‘I can’t! Oh, isn’t there something else here I can eat? Something that doesn’t scream?’ She tugged open drawers, dragging out the contents and throwing them on the floor. At last, amid the heaps of clothes, she saw a small box shaped like a wooden treasure chest. As she flipped the catch open, the hunger inside her stirred, like a deep-lurking pike sensing a ripple on the surface.
The box was filled with small glittering treasures, a tangle of brooches, ribbons and glass beads. Her borrowed memories told her that they had been gifts from school friends, cousins and Sunday-school acquaintances.
She could almost smell the real Triss’s love for them, like steam from a cooking pot.
Not-Triss drew a long necklace from the box, fascinated by blue-ish pallor of the mock pearls. She closed her eyes and tipped back her head, slowly lowering the string into her mouth, then swallowed once, twice. The beads were hard as gobstoppers against her tongue, and mint-cold. Then the whole string of them vanished down her throat with a swoop, as if they had found a life of their own.
A brooch followed shortly afterwards, its glass jewels fizzing on her tongue like champagne. Then she was snatching up a bracelet with one tiny boat-shaped charm. A part of her cried out that she couldn’t eat that, anything but that, even as she was gulping it down, the tarnished silver like sugar frosting.
Her frenzy ebbed. A wave of terrible sadness took its place. She had devoured things that could never be replaced, she realized. With a shaking finger she stirred the remaining items in the box. So many gifts, so many friends. But how many of these friends were still in Triss’s life? None, she realized. Her mother had considered some ‘too exuberant’ for Triss’s health, and her father had argued with the parents of others. Somehow, every time Triss had formed a connection, it had been severed. These gifts were the stumps of friendships hacked short.
The little silver boat, however, had been a present from Sebastian.
It had been a promise as well. Sebastian had told Triss that when he got back from France he would take her out boating again. To her surprise, Not-Triss found she had cloudy recollections of bright days out on the estuary in a little wooden boat, Sebastian rowing while Pen and Triss giggled and splashed each other with river water. How had that laughing girl become Triss of the sniffles, who needed to be protected from every breeze?
The box held the relics of a dozen dead friendships and one dead brother. Not-Triss closed it with a sting of self-loathing and guilt, knowing how much the little treasures meant to Triss. But, she realized, that was precisely why they were so irresistible. They were soaked with an essence of Trissness that made them delicious, and Not-Triss almost wept with relief when she realized that her hunger was now sated. Perhaps she did not need screaming dolls to satisfy her appetite after all.
‘I’m ready,’ she told her ashen reflection in the dresser mirror. ‘I’m ready to be normal now.’
Father came home at the usual time, and as she heard the Sunbeam draw up Not-Triss felt her stomach twist with anxiety. She peered down from her window as he walked from his car through the increasing rain, but she could not tell from his face how he had reacted to the afternoon’s telephone call.
After he had entered the house, Not-Triss could just make out the sound of a conversation below. She pressed her ear to the floor of her bedroom, hoping to make out what was being said, but the voices remained a bee hum, just recognizable as the tones of her parents. They went on for over an hour, her father’s voice sometimes rising in volume, but not enough for her to make out what he was saying.
By the time she was called down to supper, Not-Triss was almost trembling with apprehension. To her surprise she found her father seated quite calmly at the table and her mother absent. She had expected to find both her parents waiting side by side, ready for an inquisition.
‘Where’s Mother?’
‘She has gone to talk to the neighbours, to see if they have seen anything of Pen.’ For Pen, ‘running away’ often meant fleeing to somewhere safe and dry where she could stay until she felt that her absence had been long enough to worry people. The usual procedure when Pen disappeared, therefore, was to check with nearby friends and relations to find out whether she had unexpectedly turned up at their house.
‘Triss, sit down,’ her father went on, his voice quiet and firm, and Not-Triss realized that the inquisition had come for her after all. He took some time folding his paper, then looked across at her. Only two places had been set at the table, she realized now. There was a plate before her father, steam rising from the buttered potatoes and grilled mackerel. However, no food had been set down at the other place.
Not-Triss understood the meaning of this immediately. She remembered seeing Pen sit down to an empty place on many occasions. It meant that she was in disgrace, and that unless she could explain herself properly, or offer appropriate remorse, there would be no supper.
She sat, keeping her head lowered, so that her hair fell forward over her face.
‘Triss, I hear you frightened your mother badly today—’
‘I’m sorry.’ The moment the words were past her lips, Not-Triss knew that she had spoken them too soon. An immediate apology would look like a greedy bid for supper. There was a disapproving pause, and then her father went on as if she had not interrupted.
‘Your mother tells me that
you left the house, without telling anybody, and tried to hide the fact – and when you returned you lied to her about it and then raised your voice. What could make you do that, Triss?’
‘I’m . . . sorry. I . . .’ Not-Triss thought about telling him the headache had made her do it, but her instincts told her that she was close to rubbing the gilt off that excuse. ‘I . . . don’t really know. My room just started to smell of . . . being ill. I was hot. And I really, really, really wanted to go out all of a sudden. So I did.’
There was another long pause, and Not-Triss heard her father sigh.
‘So. Where did you go?’
‘I . . . just walked around.’
‘Walked around?’ Her father’s prompt was so very gentle that Not-Triss felt her heart break. All she could give him was a nod, and the silence stretched and stretched as he waited for her to fill it with something more. She tried to think of a suitable lie, but the day had left her mind too battered to fashion one on the fly.
‘Just . . . around,’ she heard herself mumble.
‘Was Pen with you? Do you know where she has gone?’
Not-Triss shook her head to both questions, and there was another pause.
‘Triss, you’re hiding something from me.’ Her father’s voice was level but wounded-sounding. ‘Look at me.’
And she could not. She could not let him see that she had cobwebs softly oozing down her cheeks. She kept her chin ducked low to her chest, her hair a stubborn curtain before her face. The tears at the back of her throat tasted like sour cherries. Her fingers gripped the table edge until they ached.
‘Am I a monster?’ he asked, and Not-Triss nearly looked up at him out of sheer surprise.
She shook her head. No, I am.
‘Have I ever given you a reason to lie to me, or hide things from me?’
Not-Triss shook her head again.
‘Then don’t you think I deserve an answer?’ He waited a long time, knowing that his Triss would have to raise her eyes sooner or later. When she did not, he gave a long, somewhat pained sigh, then picked up his cutlery and began to eat.
Not-Triss wanted to sob at the thought of hurting her father. Her mind was a tempest, however, and she could not be sure that a human sound would come out if she parted her lips. She turned her head away so that her father would not see her face when she wiped her eyes, and it was then that she glanced at the window and saw Pen.
The younger girl was outside, beating on the window. She was a creature of coruscating silver once again, and her fists made no sound against the glass. Behind her, against the wall of the garage, Not-Triss could see occasional flickering words appear.
BANG
BANG BANG BANG
WHY WON’T ANYBODY LET ME IN?
The sight ruptured Not-Triss’s thoughts like a spade driving into a mosaic. Her first feeling was disbelief and horror. What was Pen thinking, trying to get everybody’s attention while she looked like that! Even Pen with her talent for mendacity would have trouble explaining her transformation.
Then Not-Triss noticed that Pen’s clothes were sodden, her hair bedraggled and her face crumpled with exhaustion and despair. Slowly the truth dawned. She must have been out in the rain for hours to get that wet. What if their mother had locked the back door again after Not-Triss’s stealthy entry, so that Pen would be forced to knock at the front door on her return and face the music? If so, who could say how long Pen had been beating in vain on doors and windows, producing nothing but silver words hanging in the air?
With a frisson of guilt, Not-Triss saw that there were three long dark parallel marks scoring Pen’s left cheek.
WHY CAN’T ANYBODY HEAR ME?
I DON’T CARE ANY MORE, I JUST WANT TO COME IN.
I’M COLD
She’s nine years old. Not-Triss had almost forgotten this fact, so busy had she been thinking of Pen as a threat. It doesn’t matter how clever she is, she’s a little girl, and right now she’s cold and scared and wants her mother.
Without meaning to, Not-Triss made eye contact with Pen, and instantly regretted it. The younger girl’s face changed, and took on a look of pure frustration, resentment and despair. Pen could not possibly guess at the icy tension around the supper table. She would see only a usurping monster seated in her house, with her father, presumably eating her dinner, and enjoying light, warmth and love while Pen herself was shut out in the cold.
Not-Triss sat paralysed with indecision and guilt. She felt a wrench of pity for the small, soaked figure outside, but what was she supposed to do? If she pointed Pen out to her father, what good would that do? He would demand an explanation, and if Pen was miserable enough, she might just break down and provide one. How would that make things any better for Pen or for herself?
Hoping she was unobserved by her father, Not-Triss risked a small shake of her head, willing Pen to read her mind. However, there was no sign that Pen had noticed the subtle signal.
‘Can I be excused?’ Not-Triss asked impulsively, the tension becoming too much for her.
There was no answer but the scrape of fork on china. The words Not-Triss had spoken were not the explanation for which her father was waiting. His silence was a cold grey sea of disappointment and chilled her to the bone. Eventually he did give a small nod, and she fled the dinner table.
As soon as she was out of sight of her father, Not-Triss slipped down the hall, unlocked the front door and stepped out into the rain.
‘Pen!’ she called out as loudly as she dared. ‘This way! I’ve unlocked the front door!’ There was no response, however, and after a few minutes she ducked back indoors, leaving the door ajar so that it would be obvious from outside.
Just as she was passing back along the hallway, a short silvery figure barrelled past her from the direction of the front door, colliding soddenly with her and knocking her aside. Crumple-faced with misery, Pen thundered up the stairs, or would have done if her steps had not been completely silent. The floating words behind her retreating figure were a poor substitute as an expression of rage.
STAMP
STAMP
STAMP
STAMP
STAMP
And then, a few seconds after she had disappeared from view –
SLAM
Just as Not-Triss was recovering her balance, her father appeared in the hallway. He was confronted by the sight of Not-Triss, hovering at the end of the hall, and the trail of small muddy footprints that ran past her and up the stairs.
‘Pen’s back,’ said Not-Triss, suspecting that she might be stating the obvious.
‘So I see.’ Her father let out a long breath. ‘Well, that’s one worry fewer at least.’ He walked past to close the front door, and Not-Triss retreated upstairs, not wanting to give him time to wonder why she was still downstairs, or to notice the raindrops nestling in her hair.
Upstairs in her room, as she rubbed her hair dry with a blanket, she heard a faint rap of the front door knocker, then the sound of the door opening and closing. Hushed murmurs moved down the hall and into the sitting room, where they were muffled by the closing of the door. One voice was that of her father, the other that of another man, and she could not shake off the feeling that it was familiar. Half an hour later she heard the sound of the front door opening again and shortly after her mother’s voice joined the muted conversation below.
For a long time Not-Triss lay on her bedroom floor, listening to the buzz of three voices which rose, fell and interweaved without ever becoming comprehensible to her. They went on for two hours, and when at last the stranger left the house, it was too dark for Not-Triss to make out more than a solitary, male figure walking away with a purposeful step.
Chapter 15
AMBUSH
Outside Triss’s room, the evening came to an end. There was movement on the landing, muffled voices, door percussion. The faint rustles and ticks of the sleep-time rituals. And then, over the next two hours, quiet settled upon the house by infinitesimal degrees, like
dust.
And this fine dust of silence lay undisturbed, even as Not-Triss opened her bedroom door and glided out on to the landing. She might have been a figure floating across a cinema screen.
Over one arm hung a woollen shawl, which she hoped might serve as a net to throw over her winged quarry. In her hands she carried her sewing box, a gift from her mother. It was made of wood, painted with forest scenes. The inside was lined with silk, the sewing tools housed in sheathes in the underside of the lid. Not-Triss had emptied out the box’s store of cotton reels and wool balls, and could only hope that it would be large and sturdy enough to act as an improvised cage. The night was thistle-sharp, spider-web tense. Not-Triss was part of its secrecy and danger now, but she sensed that she was not the most secretive or dangerous thing abroad. The night had no favourites. She could almost sense it curled around the world, dispassionate as a dragon, the stars mere glints in its black scales.
Not-Triss slipped into the forbidden room and found it much as she had last seen it. Once again, she slid under Sebastian’s bed to hide and wait.
Whatever that bird-thing is, it comes at midnight. If I can catch it, and if it’s able to talk, perhaps I can force it to tell me what’s going on. Maybe it knows what happened to the real Triss, and to Sebastian.
The little mantel clock downstairs could just be heard chiming twelve.
After the lost chimes had hung in the air for a few seconds, the sound Not-Triss was waiting to hear reached her ears. It was the same dry, wispy flutter-tap as before. It was out in the corridor. It was growing nearer. And then, with a whirr like the wind through dry wheat husks, it was in the bedroom.
The room was too dark to see it clearly, but now and then she could just make out the small airborne shape careering hither and thither. A dark shuttlecock in an invisible game, each wing-brush like a rasped breath, the motions unnerving in their unpredictability. Not-Triss could predict it though. That was her one advantage. She knew that it had come to deliver a letter, and that sooner or later it would have to perch on the drawer handle in order to do so.