by Sally Green
She tells me about her life. Her father and brothers sound like male versions of Jessica, while her mother is an unusually powerless White Witch. Annalise’s life sounds miserable, and it makes my home life seem free and relaxed. She has never heard of assessments and doesn’t believe me until I describe the blond Council member who sits on the left of the Council leader. Annalise says that sounds like Soul O’Brien, her uncle.
I ask her one question that has always intrigued me. How many Half Codes are there? She doesn’t know but will try to find out from her father, who works for the Council.
The following week she says his answer was, “Just the one.”
* * *
Another time she asks, “Has Deborah found her Gift yet?”
“No. She’s struggling. She’s too logical.”
“Niall is frustrated too. He’s desperate to be able to become invisible, like Kieran and my uncle, but I don’t think it’s him at all. He didn’t want Mum to perform the Giving ceremony; he said he’d have more chance of getting invisibility from Dad. But I don’t think it would make any difference. Kieran drank Mum’s blood, not Dad’s. I think the Gift relates to the person: it’s in you from birth and the magic of the Giving allows it to come out. Niall’s just too open to have invisibility.”
“Yes, I think it works like that too. Jessica can disguise herself. She’s always been a natural at lying. Her Gift suits her down to the ground. But she drank Gran’s blood and there’s no one on Gran’s side of the family with that Gift.”
“I think I’ll have potions.”
“My Gran has potions. She’s clever but instinctive as well. I think that’s why she’s good with them. You’re like her. She has a strong Gift.”
“I don’t think my Gift will be very strong. I think I’ll be like my mum.”
Annalise is not often wrong, but she’s way off the mark with this. I pick her hand up and kiss it. “No, you’ll have a strong Gift.”
Annalise blushes a little. “I wonder about you. Sometimes you seem wild and mad and I think you’ll have the same Gift as your father. But then other times you’re so gentle and I’m not so sure . . . maybe you’ll be like your mother. It won’t be potions, though.”
* * *
We continue to meet once a week during the school term through winter, spring, and early summer. We are careful to meet only for a short time, and we vary the days. We don’t meet in the holidays.
I’m stroking Annalise’s hair, watching how it falls from my fingers. And she studies the palm of my hand and smoothes her fingertips across my skin. She says she can tell my fortune by reading the lines.
She says, “You will be a powerful witch.”
“Yeah? How powerful?”
“Exceptional.” She smoothes my hand again. “Yes, it’s quite clear. I can see it in this line here. You will have an unusual Gift. Few have it. You will be able to turn into animals.”
“Sounds good.” And I’m holding her hair back and watching it fall.
“Only insects, though.”
“Insects?” I let go of her hair.
“You will only be able to become insects. You will make an especially good dung beetle.”
I snicker.
She carries on smoothing out my palm. “You will fall deeply in love with someone.”
“Human or dung beetle?”
“Human. And that person will love you forever, even when you’re a dung beetle.”
“And what’s this person like?”
“That I can’t see . . . there’s a patch of mud on that bit.”
And I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. She stays still, letting me touch her. My fingers move over her cheeks and round her mouth, over her chin and down her neck and then back up again to her cheek up to her forehead, slowly down the center of her nose over the tip and down to her lips, where my finger stays. And she kisses it once. And she kisses it again. And I reach forward and only dare take my finger away when my lips replace it.
And we are pressed together, my lips, my arms, chest, hips, my body desperate to get closer to her.
I can’t bear to take my mouth from her skin.
It feels like just a few minutes but it is getting late, getting dark, when we finally manage to part.
As we say good-bye she takes my hand and kisses the side of my index finger, her lips and tongue and teeth on my skin.
* * *
We have arranged to meet in a week’s time. The next day seems to take forever to pass. The day after that is worse. I don’t know what to do with myself; all I can do is wait. I am physically aching to see her. My guts are in turmoil.
Finally, the day of our meeting crawls into the light and then takes a year to drag itself to the afternoon.
I wait on the sandstone slab, lying on my back, looking at the sky and listening for Annalise’s footsteps. I am straining at each sound, and when I hear her scrambling up the slope I roll on to my side and sit up. Her blonde head appears over the curve of the hill and I spring down from the outcrop, landing in a crouch with bent legs, the fingertips of my left hand on the ground and my right hand out to the side, showing off a little. I straighten up and step forward.
But something is badly wrong.
Annalise’s face is distorted . . . terrified.
I hesitate. Do I go to her? Do I run? What?
I look around.
It has to be her brothers, but I can’t see them or hear them. It can’t be the Council . . . can it?
I step forward. And then the figure of a man appears, standing next to Annalise. He has been there all the time, his hand on Annalise’s shoulder, steering her up the slope and holding her still. But he had been invisible.
Kieran.
Annalise’s eldest brother is tall like the rest of the family, but he has huge shoulders, and rather than white hair his is red-blond, thinner and cut close to his scalp. His eyes don’t leave me as he bends forward slightly and says something I can’t hear in Annalise’s ear.
Annalise’s body is rigid. She nods her head jerkily in response to Kieran. Her eyes are staring ahead, not looking at me, looking at nothing. Kieran takes his hand off her shoulder and she runs off, stumbling down the slope.
BW
Kieran has the lower routes of escape covered. And now, approaching high to my left, is Connor; to the right is Niall. I could get up some good speed running down the slope but Annalise has told me that Kieran is fast. I could swerve down to the left or right but he is quite a bit below me and if he is fast he’ll . . .
Kieran grins and beckons me forward.
No, forward doesn’t feel like a good option.
I turn and run up the sandstone escarpment. I have made the climb numerous times before and know each handhold and each ledge. I can do it blindfolded. There is no way that Kieran can catch me from his position farther down the slope. But the few seconds’ delay have given Niall and Connor the advantage, and by the time I clear the top Connor is running toward me, not stopping until he stretches out his arms and plants his hands on my chest to shove me back over the edge.
I fall backward, turning in the air to land in a crouch on the bare ground below, back in the position I had been in a minute earlier. It’s a good landing, and now my only option is to barrel down the hill. I have only lifted my hand, though, when a boot wallops into me from the side and my stomach lifts into the air and then I am flat on the ground, winded, face-down.
I start to crawl. Another kick thumps into the side of my ribs. And another. The boots scuff around, kicking up dust and sand into my eyes, and one stomps on the back of my head, pushing my face into the ground.
“Sit on his legs,” Kieran instructs Connor. “Get his arms, Niall.”
Niall gets my arms and holds them down with his hands and feet while sitting on my head. I’m struggling to breathe un
derneath his sweaty trousers. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t see a thing except gray wool but I can hear Niall panting and Connor’s gasping, nervous giggle. I can’t move.
Kieran says, “You know what this is, Connor?”
Connor has to think about it, but eventually says, “A hunting knife.”
Now I squirm and grunt and curse them.
“Hold him still, Niall. To be exact, it’s a French hunting knife. They make great knives, the French. Look at that blade. It folds away beautifully into the handle. Great design. The Swiss go for all the fancy gadgets in their knives, but all you need is a good blade.”
I hear the rip of my T-shirt and feel the cool air on my back. I buck and shout curses again.
“Hold him still and shut him up with this.”
Niall’s legs move and my T-shirt is pushed into my mouth and I’m trying to bite him but then the blade brushes over my back and I try to shrink from it but it follows me and the point stops in the middle of my left shoulder blade.
“I’ll start here, I think. This half is the Black half, I’d say.”
Then the point goes in. And slowly the pain cuts down my back and I scream and swear into my T-shirt, the sounds muffled.
Kieran hisses in my ear. “Niall told you to stay away from our sister, you Black piece of shit.”
He puts the point back into my left shoulder blade and I clench my jaw and scream while he makes another cut.
He stops again and says, “You should have listened to him.”
He makes another slow cut.
And I am going mad screaming and praying for someone to make him stop.
But he makes another cut and then another and all I can do is scream and pray.
“Time for a break.”
No one makes a noise. But it’s not silent in my head. My head is full of the noise of prayer. Praying and praying to please, please not let him do any more.
Kieran says, “Nice here, isn’t it, Connor? Good view.”
I stop praying to listen.
Connor doesn’t answer.
Niall says, “Kieran, he’s bleeding a lot.” He sounds worried.
“I almost forgot. Thanks for reminding me, Niall. I got some powder from camp.” His voice is closer to me. “They use it in Retributions.”
And I’m praying again, praying louder than ever to please not let him do it, please.
“It stops the bleeding. Can’t have Black Witches bleeding to death. I have heard that it hurts a bit. We’ll find out, won’t we?”
And then I start begging. Just in my head, but I am begging. Please don’t, please don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t—
* * *
“Hey. Wake up.”
I can breathe better. Niall is off my head. The T-shirt is out of my mouth.
“Wake up.”
A black boot, polished but flecked with sand and a few drops of blood is all I can see. I close my eyes again.
Kieran’s voice is in my ear, close enough for me to feel his breath.
“How you feeling? Okay?”
I’m feeling frightened.
The pain in my back has faded. But I don’t want any more. I would do anything to stop him doing more. I would beg and plead, and in my head I’m saying, Please don’t do any more. Please. I can’t speak the words, no words come out, but in my head I’m begging, Please, don’t do any more.
“You’re crying. Hey, Niall! Connor! He’s crying.”
Silence.
“Do you think he’s sorry, Connor? Sorry that he beat you up?”
Connor mumbles something.
“Maybe. But I’m not sure. What do you think, Niall?”
“Yes.” I can just hear Niall. He sounds angry.
“Okay . . . Well, that’s good.” And Kieran’s mouth is close to my ear as he says, “So are you sorry you beat up my pathetic brothers?”
And I want to say yes. I do want to say it. In my head I’m saying sorry. But nothing will come out of my mouth.
“And are you sorry you met my sister?”
And I know as soon as he says that, the way he says it, that he hasn’t finished. It isn’t over. He has no intention of stopping there. And nothing I can say will make any difference. All I can do is hate him.
“I said, are you sorry you’ve been seeing my sister?”
And I hate him with all my tears and screams and begging.
“What else have you been doing with her?”
And I want him to know what we did, but there’s no way I’m going to tell him anything.
“I don’t think you’re sorry at all . . . are you?”
And I’m not. I’m not sorry about any of it. I’m too full of hate to be sorry about anything.
“Let’s try again, shall we? On this side. This must be the White half.”
The T-shirt is stuffed back in my mouth and I feel the blade across the right side of my back, close to my spine. All the cuts he has made so far are on my left side and I know what is coming. That was the whole point of his talking; it was just so that I would know what to expect.
The cuts are bad, but all the time I think about the powder. That’s what I fear. Kieran is in no rush, though . . .
* * *
“Wakey, wakey.” A slap on my cheek. “Nearly finished. We still have my favorite bit left. Leave the best till last, that’s what they say, isn’t it?”
I’ve given up thinking; given up praying a long time ago. I look at the sand. The small grains: orange, brick orange, red, some tiny black ones.
“Do you want to put the powder on him, Niall?”
“No.”
“No? So it’s up to you, Connor.”
“Kieran.” Connor sounds really quiet. “I . . .”
“Shut up, Connor! You’re doing it.”
Kieran kneels close to my face and says, “Make sure there isn’t a next time, you Half Code heap of shit, because if there is I’ll cut your balls off before I rip your innards out.”
And I hate him and curse him and scream at him into the T-shirt.
* * *
It’s dark. The ground beneath me is cold. And I am cold inside, but my back’s on fire. I can hardly move but I have to put the fire out. I roll on the ground. Someone, somewhere far off, screams.
* * *
Shouting . . .
Arran’s voice . . .
The trees are like sentries, but they’re moving past me.
Blackness.
* * *
“Nathan?” Arran’s voice is soft in my ear.
I open my eyes and his face is close to me. I think we’re in the kitchen.
I’m on the table. Like a chicken served for dinner. Gran has her back to me; she is making gravy. Deborah is carrying a bowl that steams. Maybe it has potatoes in it.
“You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay,” Arran says. But he says it in a strange way.
Deborah puts the bowl beside me and I know it doesn’t have potatoes in it, and I’m afraid, so afraid. She is going to touch my back. And I beg Arran not to let them touch me.
“They have to clean the cuts. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”
And I beg him not to let them touch me. But I don’t think the words come out.
He holds my hand tighter.
* * *
I wake again. Still a chicken on the table. Arran’s hand locked on mine. My back is hot inside but cool on the outside.
Arran asks quietly, “Nathan?”
“Stay with me, Arran.”
* * *
The sun is warm on my face. My back is tight and throbs fast with my pulse. I don’t dare move anything except my fingers. Arran is still holding my hand.
“Nathan?”
“Water.”
“Move your hea
d really slowly. I’ll put the straw in your mouth.”
I blink my eyes open. I am lying at an angle on my bed with my head on the edge of the mattress. Below me is a glass of water with a long straw.
After I drink I doze for a few minutes then I wake as my stomach churns. I throw up into a bowl that has replaced the glass of water, terrified because each lurch of my stomach sends tight spasms across my back.
* * *
When I next wake up Arran is still by my side. He says, “Gran’s made a drink for you. She says you have to take small sips.”
The drink is disgusting. It must have a sleeping potion in it as I remember nothing else until I wake again in the evening.
I move my fingers, but Arran isn’t beside me. It’s dark in the room, but I can see the shape of him in his bed, asleep. The house is quiet, but then I hear subdued voices and I move my head a little to see through the crack in the door. Gran is on the landing with Deborah. They are talking and I strain to hear what they are saying and then I realize that they aren’t talking; they are crying.
* * *
The next morning I wake up thirsty once again. There is a glass of water beneath me; at least I don’t have to have more of the potion. I suck hard, making a slurping noise as I empty the glass.
“You’re only supposed to sip.”
I tilt my head up to see Arran sitting sideways on his bed, leaning on the wall. He is pale and has dark circles beneath his eyes.
“How you feeling?”
I think about it and move my head. The tightness in my back is bad. “Better. And you?”
He rubs his face and says, “A bit tired.”
“At least you’re not crying,” I say. “I’ve never seen Gran cry before.”
I suck at the straw again, even though there is no drink left, and then I look at him as I ask, “Is it that bad?”
He meets my look. “Yes.”
We are silent for a while.
“Did you come looking for me?”
“When it got late, I went looking in the woods; that was about ten o’clock. You weren’t there so I checked all the back streets. Debs rang me at midnight. Someone had phoned here telling us where you were. Debs thinks it was Niall.”