White Crow

  As she does, she sees her jewellery box, and lifts it out. Feeling very young and with a tinge of sadness, she feels something inside the box almost call out to her. She opens it, lifts her father’s heart pendant out, and holds it in her hand for a long time, wondering whether to put it back on again, and what it will mean if she does. If anything.

  Saturday 31st July

  The next day, she finds herself standing at the bar of

  The Angel and The Devil at eleven o’clock in the morning, speaking to a man who must be the landlord of the pub.

  ‘Yes, Miss?’ he asks, friendly enough, though there’s the slight mistrust in his eyes that everyone seems to wear in Winterfold. He keeps on wiping glasses with a ragged tea towel as he speaks to her.

  ‘I just wanted to know something,’ Rebecca says, and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, ‘and I thought you might know. In here.’

  She looks around, even hoping to speak to the dreadful Melanie rather than this old guy.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well,’ Rebecca says, ‘I was wondering if you know where Ferelith lives. Do you know Ferelith? The girl I was here with the other day. I know she lives in Long Lane, but…’

  ‘Yes,’ the landlord says. His voice has changed. ‘Yes, I know where Ferelith lives. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I just wanted to visit her. That’s all.’

  The landlord considers this for long time. He stops wiping glasses, and puts the tea towel down on the bar. He leans towards her.

  ‘She lives in the Old Rectory,’ he says at last, ‘but I wouldn’t go there if I were you.’

  Rebecca feels a bit weirded out all of a sudden, as if she’s in some cheesy Vampire movie.

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ she says, turning to go.

  ‘Your funeral,’ the landlord adds as she goes.

  Give me a break, thinks Rebecca, now having the distinct feeling that she’s heading off to visit Dracula’s castle. She’s had the warning from the spooky innkeeper, now all she needs is a black coach and four to stop by and pick her up.

  She even looks up The Street waiting for the clipclopping of hooves on the tarmac.

  ‘Thank Goodness I have my father’s love to protect me,’ she jokes to herself, fingering the little silver heart at her neck.

  It’s ironic, she thinks. The crucifix that Adam gave her would have been better protection against vampires.

  She finds The Old Rectory easily enough, and is surprised. It’s the big house with the high wall that she heard the loud music coming from on her first trip round the village.

  She stands at the entrance to the drive, a pair of large iron gates stuck permanently open, overgrown by bindweed and ground elder. The gravel drive is a lovely, sweeping semi circle, but like everything else about the place it could do with some attention.

  The house itself is big, very big, with a crazy mix of architecture, pointed Victorian gables on the front, giving way to an older stone building at the back.

  Once again feeling as if she’s in a lite-bite movie, she hesitates at the threshold of Ferelith’s world. Maybe she’s not in, maybe she’s busy, maybe she’s got friends, maybe she doesn’t want Rebecca to call anyway.

  ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ Rebecca says out loud and, feeling nervous, though without knowing why, she crunches across the weed strewn gravel and gives the doorbell a long push.

  Nothing happens for a while, but she can hear sounds inside, so she tries again and eventually the door opens.

  It’s not Ferelith, but a young guy, maybe twenty-something. The first thing Rebecca notices is that he smells. His hair is long, dreads reach down his back. He’s unshaven and dressed as if he’s going to work in the garden, even though he clearly isn’t. He’s just woken up.

  He stands and stares at Rebecca, and straightens his back; she tends to have that effect on most males.

  ‘Er . . . Hi. Is Ferelith in?’ she asks.

  The young man nods, and turns, heading off into the gloom. Inside the house it’s surprisingly dark given the bright sunlight outside.

  ‘Where is she?’ Rebecca calls after the disappearing figure.

  ‘In her room.’

  ‘Which is?’ she says, starting to feel a little frustrated.

  He points up the stairs.

  ‘Keep right, head to the back of the house. Big black door.’

  He goes into the kitchen, the door of which swings shut behind him, and Rebecca’s left alone in the hall.

  She looks about, and can’t quite work out what’s going on. She’s never been in an English country rectory before. There’s an old umbrella stand by the front door, with three battered umbrellas in it; there’s a mirrored hall table, and various old paintings of quaint rural scenes. But then there are other unexpected paintings, disturbing abstracts and even more disturbing figures. Bodies.

  And there’s the sound of music coming from somewhere upstairs, but it’s not Chopin or Brahms, it’s some weird noise with shifting beats and detuned guitars.

  And rather than burnt toast and marmalade coming from the kitchen, it’s the smell of dope.

  Rebecca heads upstairs, and follows the directions the hippy guy gave her.

  In front of her is a big black door, just as he said.

  From behind it comes more music, which again Rebecca can’t place.

  She approaches, and knocks on the door, twice, hard.

  It opens, and Ferelith is standing there. Somehow Rebecca is not surprised that Ferelith can even do goth in her sleep-wear, but she can. She’s wearing loose dark grey cotton shorts down to her knees, and a baggy black T-shirt. She looks deadly somehow.

  For a second Rebecca thinks she might be angry, but then realises that she’s just thrown.

  Ferelith smiles.

  ‘So,’ she says, resting her weight on one hip. ‘You came.’

  1798, 10m, 3d.

  It was Dr Barrieux himself who solved the problem.

  At last, he had come to dine with me, having kept himself to the Hall for the duration of our labours.

  Our views differ greatly. In fact, aside from the single fact that we share the same objective, our views on what is meant by every term we use could not be more different.

  If I say, - Hell, then the doctor says to me, - describe Hell!

  And when I do, he merely laughs.

  And if I mention the celestial realm of our wonderful Lord, he laughs twice as hard.

  And yet, when I say, - Doctor, so tell me, where are your daughter and your wife now? Where are they? Tell me! Where are they? He falls silent and will not work for the rest of the day.

  We each have our demons, but whatever they may be, there still remained the problem to solve, and so we turned our talk to that end.

  We need souls. In short, we need people, and we were both at a loss as to how to tempt them to cross the threshold.

  The only thought we clung to was that the participants must come willingly to the Hall, not through threat, or through coercion, or bribery.

  And then, as we drained another jug of wine, Dr

  Barrieux suddenly sat bolt upright.

  - Hear me now! He said.

  And he expounded his scheme, and I bethought it subtle in its design and powerful in its simplicity.

  He outlined the message that we would put out to the world, and wait for the world to come to us, and I saw the power of what he said, for the thing that we would offer the world would be the very thing that we ourselves craved.

  The knowledge.

  The truth.

  The answer, to what lies beyond.

  And now, there only remained one obstacle; how should we send this message, how should it become known what we were offering?

  And at that moment, Martha entered the room to clear our plates, and to bring us more wine.

  The doctor smiled at Martha, who, bless her modesty, attended her gaze only to the top of the table, and so she did not see as the doctor smiled at me ins
tead and then returned his gaze to the innocent woman.

  Yes, I thought.

  Yes.

  That is the way.

  Saturday 31st July

  Ferelith and Rebecca sit on the floor of Ferelith’s bedroom, on a big Turkish rug that’s seen better days. Ferelith has turned the music down but it still chunters on quietly from some unseen speakers.

  ‘Your room is amazing,’ Rebecca says, quite honestly. She’s not jealous of it, because it’s not how she would ever like her room to be, but amazing it is.

  It’s full of stuff. Every square inch of floor, wall, and in some places ceiling has something on it. Every bookcase, and there are many, is crammed to overflowing, not just with books, piled in sideways where there’s no room, but with all manner of things: interesting stones from the beach, bone-dry sticks, bleached by sun and saltwater, smooth green sea glass. There’s a bunch of dried mistletoe, rusty scissors that will cut nothing again. A jar of feathers, all of them black, save one that is white.

  There are two big wardrobes, and the door of one of them is open, showing a mirror and a rail full of what Rebecca can only think of as ‘Ferelith clothes’, mostly black, some muted colours, all very simple, all quite sexy in an unusual way.

  ‘You want a drink or something?’ Ferelith asks, but she doesn’t really seem to be offering, so Rebecca shakes her head.

  ‘So, you’re kind of famous, then,’ Ferelith says, changing the subject.

  Rebecca bristles.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Do the press know your dad is here? I bet they do. They know everything. I guess there’s just something else to write about for now. I remember it though. It was last year, wasn’t it?’

  Rebecca is about to correct her, but decides she doesn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘I came here so I wouldn’t have to think about it, all right?’ she snaps angrily.

  Ferelith sits back. She doesn’t say anything for a very long time, waiting for Rebecca’s anger to pass.

  ‘God. You are so beautiful,’ Ferelith says eventually.

  ‘Shut up,’ says Rebecca, but she’s speaking gently. She frowns. ‘Do you like me?’ Her nose wrinkles. ‘Or something?’

  ‘You mean, like I . . . Why? Would you like me to?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then why do you ask?’

  ‘Because of the things you say.’

  ‘But you are beautiful.’

  ‘I told you to shut up.’

  ‘Fair enough. Do you like me, though?’ She turns away, hiding her eyes behind a curtain of hair. Then adds in a small voice, ‘Would it kill you to tell me I’m not ugly?’

  Rebecca considers this. Ferelith is not beautiful. She is not pretty. Nor can she apply the words gorgeous, or stunning, or even handsome to her. But she’s certainly not ugly. And there’s something powerful about her, something powerfully attractive.

  ‘Do you think you are?’

  Ferelith shrugs, still turned away.

  ‘They all said I was at school.’

  ‘Kids say anything if they think it will hurt.’

  Ferelith nods.

  ‘Yeah. Why is that? Why do kids say things far worse than adults?’

  ‘Trust me, adults can say bad stuff too.’

  ‘Like what was on your car?’ Ferelith asks, looking back at Rebecca now. She holds up her hand. ‘Sorry. We don’t have to talk about it, even if everyone else in the village is. It must be really hard.’

  Rebecca says nothing. Then her face crumples and she folds into a small ball on the rug, and cries her heart out.

  Ferelith watches her, thinking, waiting, thinking some more. Then she crawls over to Rebecca and puts a hand on her shoulder, then strokes her hair with her other one.

  Rebecca whimpers like a wounded dog, and Ferelith pulls her into her arms and holds her tightly.

  ‘Poor Becky,’ she says, but Rebecca just rocks back and forth, sobbing quietly.

  Eventually, the tears stop, and Ferelith finds a box of tissues for her. She blows her nose and wipes her face, and then Rebecca speaks again.

  ‘You want to know the worst thing?’

  Ferelith nods, not daring to speak, in case she breaks the spell.

  ‘The worst thing. Worse than all the things kids said to me at school, worse than the newspaper people on our doorstep, worse than the things they said on the TV. The worst thing is that I look at my dad, and I don’t know.

  ‘I don’t know what I think. I don’t know whether he did something he shouldn’t have. I don’t know whether he’s responsible for that girl dying. Or not. That’s the worst thing.’

  Cry Me a River

  I spent a long time with Rebecca that day. In fact, it was late by the time she went home, back down Long Lane in the dark.

  She seemed better after she’d cried, but that’s often the way. Something to do with endorphins. Or serotonin, or some other chemical the body releases to make you feel better. Seems a shame that the stupid body can’t release some of the same bloody chemicals and stop you from crying in the first place.

  That’s what I would have done if I was designing the body. But I didn’t, God did. And if he didn’t, then it was Charles Darwin who did. If you see what I mean.

  But even then, some things don’t make sense. Like, why do we cry? I mean, I can understand the physical need to cry if you get some grit in your eye. It washes it out, stops the grit from damaging your precious organs of sight.

  But apart from that, why do we cry?

  When we see a sad film, when Kevin says that he doesn’t love you any more because Julie’s not as fat as you are, when your hamster dies. Or when your mum goes crazy and your dad leaves you, why do we cry?

  What’s the point?

  From evolution’s point of view, I mean?

  So anyway, we talked for a long time that afternoon, and I found some pizzas in the freezer that were mine and that no one else in the house had stolen, and we ate them, and I found a bottle of wine in Matthew’s room that he won’t miss because he’s too stoned most of the time to know what’s going on.

  Rebecca said she didn’t want to drink, but I told her it was medicinal, and that was all it took for her to slug back half a bottle in half an hour.

  Then we dozed in the sun coming in from the big window over the garden, until we watched it set behind the firs at the end of the garden and the room grew dark, and as it grew dark, all Rebecca’s pain and all my pain grew darker and softer too, and a gentle tired ease entered my body and my mind.

  I felt really happy, but just as I was thinking that, Rebecca spoke, for the first time in hours.

  ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘I feel so bloody, bloody, bloody lonely.’

  I sat up.

  ‘But you’ve got me, now,’ I said.

  And then she sat up too.

  She looked deeply at me.

  ‘Have I?’ she said, like it was a surprise.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘of course you have. For better or worse.’

  And she smiled.

  1798, 10m, 4d.

  What are the tools of the angels?

  The tools of the angels are light, sunlight, golden sunlight. The light illuminates us and displays the truth, God’s truth, and this leads us to the path of righteousness, and the path of righteousness leads us to Heaven.

  These are the tools of the angels.

  What are the tools of the Devil?

  The tools of the Devil are shadow, illusion, and darkness. With these tools he obscures the truth, and casts false images to rise before us, and hides the path to righteousness. In its stead we are led down the path of evil, and the path of evil leads us to Hell.

  These are the tools of the Devil.

  Saturday 7th August

  Rebecca becomes a regular visitor to the Rectory, as the two girls spend more and more time with each other.

  One day, Rebecca suddenly realises that life has got easier, despite everything. She’s stopped lookin
g at her mobile every ten minutes, hoping there’ll be a text, a missed call.

  Despite her father’s problems, nothing more has happened since the business with the car, and although it’s unspoken, they both wonder whether whoever did it, person, or persons unknown, realises they’ve overstepped the mark and have backed off.

  John Case has noticed that his daughter is wearing that heart pendant again, and it helps him, though he knows better than to mention the fact.

  Maybe they can settle down for the rest of the summer until it’s time for her to go back to London, time for her father’s appeal. And she’ll have to face Adam, too, when school starts again. Suddenly Winterfold seems like an attractive option.

  The weather burns fiercely, day after day. There’s been no rain for almost two months, and the land is scorched and dry. Everyone moves slowly, drags themselves about in the heat, and the days are long and light, making it seem as if time itself has slowed.

  But it’s always cool in the darkness of the Rectory.