by Rachel Burge
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1. Martha – 24 January
Chapter 2. The Stain of a Soul
Chapter 3. No Bullet Can Stop the Dead
Chapter 4. Rotting Leaves and Dead Things
Chapter 5. There’s Something Out There
Chapter 6. Dead Men Rise with the Mist
Chapter 7. A Howl Shatters the Night
Chapter 8. Winter Brings Hard Choices
Chapter 9. I Know Nothing About Him
Chapter 10. Why Would It Follow Me Here?
Chapter 11. Things Passed Down in the Family
Chapter 12. Time Is Running Out
Chapter 13. Just Leave Now
Chapter 14. A Dark Shape on the Ground
Chapter 15. At Least We Have Each Other
Chapter 16. A Horde of Desperate Faces
Chapter 17. Blow Out the Candles
Chapter 18. I Don’t Want to Die Without Kissing Him
Chapter 19. No One Should Suffer This Fate
Chapter 20. Pure Evil Stares at Me
Chapter 21. Black Hole of My Nightmares
Chapter 22. Where There Is Thread, There Is a Blade
Chapter 23. Our Family Tree Is Twisted
Chapter 24. A Single, Clean Blow
Chapter 25. No More Secrets
Chapter 26. A Tiny Knock at the Door
Chapter 27. A Pretty Girl Smiles Back
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
This book is dedicated to Odin,
inspirer of poets; god of wisdom,
magic and sacrifice.
1
It started the day I fell from the tree at Mormor’s cabin in Norway. The day I became blind in one eye.
I’m going to write it all down here, no matter how crazy it makes me sound. If I have a daughter one day, she deserves to know the truth –
The truth.
Why couldn’t Mum have just told me? The thought is like a knot in my brain, and the more I pick, the tighter it gets. If I had known, I could have done something and no one would have died. If she had told me, the horror of these past few days might never have happened.
2
My stomach shrinks to a hard ball as we pull into Heathrow. The platform is heaving with people. Holding my rucksack in front of me, I grit my teeth and push my way through the crowd. As people brush past me I get flashes of their lives – their memories and emotions – but it happens so fast I can’t make sense of it.
My hands are sweaty as I pull my phone from my pocket. I check the time, then wish I hadn’t. Last check-in is in fifteen minutes. I can’t miss this flight.
A train pulls into the platform opposite and dozens of passengers spill out. Worried their clothes will touch me, I veer left and head for the escalator. A man passes me, coming up the other way, and for a horrible moment I think it’s Dad, but it’s just some other grey businessman.
Inside the departure hall people rush around me, dragging reluctant suitcases and even more reluctant children. The noise is like a swarm of bees, all wanting to sting me. It’s not just the hubbub of conversation. The air sparks and crackles – it’s like their clothes know I’m here, walking among them.
A wet-faced toddler wobbles in my direction, hands outstretched, closely followed by a tired-looking woman. I swerve but not quickly enough to avoid her brushing my arm. The woman had five miscarriages before she had her daughter. She’s pregnant again but lies awake at night, terrified she might lose this baby too. My chest aches with emptiness, her loss so sharp it makes me catch my breath. I walk away, then glance back at her red coat. I’ve been through Mum’s wardrobe enough times in the past few months to know it must be at least fifty-per-cent cashmere. Wool holds a person’s emotions but cashmere is different – it makes you feel them.
Spotting the familiar sign for Scandinavian Airlines, I head towards the check-in desk, then stumble over a suitcase and nearly go flying.
‘Hey! Watch it!’ a man snaps.
‘Sorry. I didn’t see. Sorry,’ I mumble.
‘It might help if you took off your sunglasses!’
I join the back of the queue, my face burning with embarrassment. Being blind in one eye messes with your depth perception. I can’t work out distances; when I focus on something in the foreground it makes stuff in the distance go blurry. It wasn’t a problem at home because I know where everything is, but now … if I can’t even make it across the airport without falling over, how am I going to make it to Norway?
I hold the silver charm around my neck and tell myself to get it together. I’ve done the journey with Mum lots of times, and I had no problem travelling around London by myself before the accident. I just need to focus.
There are two families ahead of me; if they’re quick maybe I can still make my flight. I rummage through my bag and pull out my printed e-ticket and ferry pass to Skjebne. You pronounce it Sheb-na – heavy on the Shh, which is kind of fitting, as it turns out. We used to spend every summer there – Dad too before he left us – but since the accident Mum refuses to talk about the island or Mormor, my grandma.
‘Next customer, please.’
I step forward and lay my passport and e-ticket on the desk.
‘Where are you travelling to today, miss?’
‘Bodø. Well, Skjebne, actually. But I have to change flights at Oslo and then get the ferry from Bodø. And it’s Martha Hopkins. My name, that is.’ My face reddens. I sound like such an idiot.
As I put my rucksack on the scales, the woman behind the desk leans over and whispers to her colleague before turning back to me. I stare at my feet, convinced she can tell I’m a runaway just by looking at me.
‘Can you remove your sunglasses, please?’
My voice is as shaky as my legs. ‘Why? Is there a problem?’
‘I need to verify you’re the person shown in the passport photo.’ She glances behind me. ‘Travelling alone? No parent or guardian?’
‘No, but I’m seventeen and your website said –’
‘The picture in this passport shows a much younger child.’
I bite my thumbnail as she slides my passport across the desk, open at the page with my photo, as if I don’t already know what it looks like. I glance at the image of the pale-faced girl with long blonde hair and quickly look away. I hate seeing pictures of me from before.
‘I’ve always been small for my age,’ I blurt, then instantly feel stupid.
She studies the photo and I clutch my necklace. Most of the jewellery I made after the accident was rubbish, yet this piece came out perfectly. The feel of its cool edges always calms me. I love metal; it tells me nothing.
I take a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m actually late. So if you could –’
‘Take off your glasses, miss.’
Somebody behind me tuts. I snatch off my shades and stare at the woman, or rather my right eye does. My left eye is looking who knows where. Her eyes widen, then flick down to my passport. ‘Thank you. A last call was put out for your flight five minutes ago. You’ll have to be quick. Gate 33 – up the escalator and to your left.’
I shove my glasses back on with a trembling hand and turn away, but not quick enough to avoid seeing her pity smile. I don’t have to touch her clothes to know what she’s thinking. Her thoughts are written all over her face: poor girl, how terrible, she would be pretty too, if it weren’t for that. A patronising look and then she moves on, anxious to lay eyes on someone who doesn’t look like a freak.
At the top of the escalator I go through security, where I have to take off my sunglasses and necklace again. Thankfully people are too busy patting their pockets for loos
e change that isn’t there to notice my face. Once I’m through the metal detector, I snatch my stuff from the plastic tray, replace my shades and hurry to my boarding gate.
An air stewardess wearing a jaunty blue hat looks at my pass and shakes her head.
My heart lurches. ‘Please. I really need to get this flight.’
She takes in my trainers. ‘You can run?’ I grin and she ushers me onto the connecting air bridge and we rush to the end. When we get to the plane I put my necklace on, grateful to feel its cool silence against my skin.
Everyone is seated, ready for take-off. I walk along the aisle, searching for my place. Boarding the plane was always the most exciting part of the journey when I was little. Now the thought of being crammed in a box with strangers makes me feel sick. I look at the people around me: a white fur coat bristling with outrage; a chunky knit heavy with sorrow. I can’t tell what secrets they hold just by looking at them, but it’s hard to stop my imagination sometimes.
I find my row and my heart sinks. There’s a huge man next to the aisle, and my seat is by the window. Brian – according to the stretched name on his rugby shirt – is wearing earphones, and his eyes are closed.
‘Excuse me, I need to get in.’
No response.
A flight attendant is heading this way, folding up tray tables and opening blinds with the determination of a trained assassin. I raise my voice, but Brian doesn’t hear. The normal thing would be to touch his shoulder, but I don’t want his rugby shirt to speak to me. Maybe I should prod his hand. In the end I pull down his tray table, bashing it against his knees. He jumps awake and grumbles, then stands to let me pass.
I smile a thank-you, then stash my coat and try to make myself as small as possible. Luckily my own clothes tell me nothing. I guess it’s like the way you can’t smell your own scent.
My phone bleeps: a message from Mum asking if I’ve arrived at Dad’s. I text back straight away, then turn my phone to flight mode. My parents have barely spoken since the divorce; as long as I reply, there should be no reason for her to call Dad.
The plane speeds up and I feel myself pushed back into the seat as the ground rumbles beneath me. Suddenly Brian’s elbow nudges mine. An onslaught of facts washes over me – they come so fast and hard I can barely keep up with them. His mother would lock him in a room as a child. Some nights he dreams he’s still there, crying for his mummy. My breath catches. Anger, fear, rejection. They come at me in waves.
I flinch, then rub my head and try to make sense of the jumbled impressions in my brain. His rugby top must be made of polyester. Man-made fibres don’t breathe; they throw things at you like a sobbing toddler too distraught to come up for air.
The world tips away beneath me and my stomach turns. I close my eyes until I feel the plane level off. When I look out of the window there is nothing but pale empty blue. The light bouncing off the wing of the plane is brilliant white – too pure, almost.
I close my eyes and instantly I’m back in hospital: waking up to blackness. Just remembering the feel of the bandages on my face makes me shudder. Maybe it was the shock, but after I came round, I couldn’t stop shivering. Mum draped her jacket around my shoulders and then … even now I can’t explain. Something wrenched apart inside me, as if a gust of wind had banged a door open. I saw myself under the tree, my blonde hair caked with blood, and then I felt a rush of emotion: fear mixed with guilt and love. Feelings that I knew weren’t mine.
At first I was convinced I must have imagined it – until it happened again. After the operation they weren’t sure how much of my sight had been saved. When the doctor unfurled the bandages from my eyes, his jacket sleeve brushed my cheek. As soon as the material touched me, I saw an image of a bearded man in a reflection on a hearse window, his face pale and drawn. The man’s father had died and left everything to his new wife. My heart twisted with jealousy. I could almost taste the bitterness he felt. The doctor removed the last of my bandages and I blinked in disbelief – he was the man I had seen.
That night I lay awake, terrified I was losing my mind. I told myself I must have been hallucinating, even though deep down I knew it was real. The hospital psychiatrist came to see me, concerned how I was coping with my disfigured face, but I didn’t tell him anything. If he knew I can tell a person’s secrets just by touching their clothes, I wouldn’t be on a plane right now. I’d be listening to the ramblings of a straitjacket.
Brian takes out a book and cracks open the spine. Anyone who does that is not a good person as far as I’m concerned. It’s up there with cruelty to kittens and nose-picking in public. Yet I can’t help feeling sorry for him. If I touched his top again, maybe I could offer him some words of comfort. Something tells me his mother couldn’t help the way she was. I’m sure lots of mental illnesses went undetected in previous generations; nowadays she would be given medication. Like Mum.
Thinking about Mum makes my head pound. I turn my shoulder to Brian and snap the blind shut. His life is none of my business, and besides, what can I say that will make a difference? The past will always haunt him. Pain like that stays with you; it seeps out of your pores and into the fibres of your clothes, and nothing can remove the stain of a soul.
3
Wearing dark shades at night is a risky strategy, even if your eyesight is normal. People won’t see my horrible eye, but bouncing off walls and stumbling over toddlers is pretty much guaranteed to draw attention. Luckily Bodø ferry terminal is brightly lit. Not that I have to worry. Apart from the woman behind the kiosk across the hall, I’m the only one here.
I unscrew the cap of my Coke and the fizz sounds weirdly loud. There’s something creepy about busy places when they’re deserted, like a school at night with rows of empty desks, or a fairground with no blaring lights or music.
When we came before, Mum used to pick up a rental car from Bodø airport and drive us onto the vehicle ferry. At least being on foot means I can get the express boat. Just as well – I’m going to be knackered by the time I get there.
Suddenly it hits me. How can I have been so stupid? Mum isn’t here to drive me from the harbour to Mormor’s. Even if there was a taxi service on the island, which there isn’t, I couldn’t afford it. When we get to Skjebne I’ve got a long walk ahead of me – in the dark. Too late now. I haven’t got the money to go back even if I wanted.
My phone bleeps with a text from Kelly. What time you getting here hun? Hope you’ve got something sexy to wear, Darren is coming x
The party! I’d forgotten. I hate missing out, but then Kelly’s cousin Darren is the last person I want to see my face. I’ve been flirting with him on and off for about a year. We kissed at her last birthday party, and I always thought … Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.
I text back: Sorry Kels can’t make it. On way to see Mormor. Was a last minute thing. Waiting for ferry now!
I feel bad for letting Kelly down, but I was always planning to make some excuse and bail. She thinks it’s because of how I look, but it’s not just that. I can’t face being in a room with lots of people. I’ve tried wearing gloves but it makes no difference; people’s clothes only have to brush mine for me to know their secrets.
My fingers grip my phone so hard my knuckles turn white. I can’t even go to my best friend’s party! If I don’t get rid of this thing, how am I ever going to go to university or have a life? Being able to tell things about people seems like this amazing gift, but it’s not. Not when I can’t control the flood of emotions I get. Knowing someone’s secrets doesn’t make you feel closer to them – it pushes you away. There are some things you don’t want to know, trust me.
My phone bleeps: What?! Is that a good idea? Text when u arrive. Worried about u x
I sigh and drop my phone on the table. Kelly is just like Mum. She thinks I should stop hiding in my room and go back to school. They want me to forget about the accident and move on – but they don’t understand. I told Kelly about my weird ability once. She hugged me and s
aid she believed me, but her raincoat was so full of doubt I could practically feel the disbelief dripping from it. After that, I kept it to myself.
I glance around the deserted terminal and shiver, feeling suddenly alone. I take out my wallet and flick through the colourful foreign notes: I have 100 NOK left, less than a tenner. Echoes mock my steps as I cross the hall. When I get to the kiosk, the assistant’s head snaps up like the dead waking. I spend the last of my money on chocolate cookies – one dark and one white. My grandma has a terrible sweet tooth; we can celebrate my arrival by eating them together.
Before me, blue ropes mark the winding path to the exit. Silly to walk miles for no reason. I shove my rucksack under and duck after it. It feels a little bit wrong, even though there’s no one to queue. Blowing my last dime on cookies and bucking the system. I can almost hear what Kelly would say: You need to get out more, girl.
I touch the charm around my neck and feel bad for being cross with her. I know she cares about me. Kelly wears her heart on her sleeve – and unlike some people, I don’t have to touch her clothes to know she loves me.
‘Eie du ingen skam?’ calls a voice. This time it’s not just the kiosk assistant who startles. Three teenage boys appear behind me, laughing. They’re older than me by a couple of years. One of them holds a can of beer. Tall with fair hair, freckles and white teeth – a typical good-looking island boy. I carry on walking and he calls again. ‘Ingen skam!’ I have no idea what it means, but he’s so cute I can’t help smiling.
When I get to the exit doors, I glance back. The boy is sprawled across a seat, chatting to his friends. He raises his beer in a friendly gesture and I half smile, then turn away, my face hot. I’m rubbish with boys, never mind ones that speak a different language. Besides, he’s hardly going to be interested in me.
Outside, the night air is so cold it takes my breath away. A razor-sharp wind cuts into my face and blows my hair about, tugging me in every direction. I head towards the ferry and rub my arms with relief – I’ll soon be at Mormor’s. She might pretend to tell me off, but I know she’ll be pleased I came. The thought of seeing her warms my insides. My grandma gives the best hugs.