Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover

by James Steven Clark

  ***

  I’ve been running for maybe a mile, probably just over, feels more like three. The sky above me is pink and blue, and it looks wild and cold up there. I’ve got sweat dripping into my eyes. A wet patch has formed around my neck line.

  Many people have checked out the young girl running hell-for-leather past them; a rabid look in her eyes. It’s not an uncommon sight in Jacobsfield – but, one old lady asked if I was okay. I nodded and kept running. My destination is my home. It’s the only place close to solace I can consider – St Harold’s is definitely out, but I’m about to run past it.

  I stop and get my breath back.

  I can only think basic things when I’m running; putting one foot in front of another. In-depth thoughts and contemplations are out of the question, especially on this occasion.

  I bend over and let my body inhale and exhale, daring to turn round at the same time, praying that I’ve put enough distance between me and the angel. I can see nothing on the road behind me. I didn’t hear any astonished shouts from any pedestrians I overtook, showing their shock at the winged messenger shadowing my flight.

  Leaning on an old fence, I turn and stare at the top of St Harold’s steeple, a few hundred yards away. My chest heaves nervously. I’m nearly hyperventilating. My sandy brown fringe is moist, and I push away the hairs that have stuck to my brow.

  What on earth is going on?

  I feel crushed inside. I feel fear. Fear wants me to start picking up the pace. A bell chimes overhead, startling me. And, I realise that I don’t want to be anywhere near my own bell that I fought so valiantly to retrieve earlier.

  And as for bell-ringing later? No. I’m not going anywhere near that dark bell-tower!

  I steady myself, placing both my hands on my hips. A bus approaches on the opposite side of the road. I check right for cars, aiming to dart across the road and use the back of the bus as cover. I notice that there’s only one person waiting at the bus stop and so it won’t be waiting long. There are no cars, so I bound across the road as the double decker pulls up. I make it into the bus shelter just as its doors swish open and some people get off.

  Mother’s partner, Mark, is one of these people.

  I don’t want to be seen. Mother may even have called him by now, ‘Shelly’s disappeared from Astra’s. Have you seen her?’ He’s not somebody I’ve ever felt comfortable around. He’ll ask questions.

  As he is walking with the others in the opposite direction away, from me, there’s little chance of being seen. Suddenly, he grinds to a halt and lets the others walk past him. He looks at something across the road. I can’t quite see the graveyard from this angle, but something’s caught his attention. The last of the people move ahead and he still hangs back.

  As the bus pulls away, I have a premonition that he is going to turn. I hop out of the bus shelter and press into the side of wall, peering around carefully.

  Sure enough, he half turns and jogs back into the bus shelter.

  I press myself further back. Crap. What is he looking at? Has he seen the angel? I can’t look around again without being spotted. I hear somebody running, I glance around hesitantly, ready to pull my head back just in case he’s still there, but instead, I observe him sprinting across the road, ducking down behind the churchyard wall. He glances over, lifting himself slightly. He looks around nervously checking to see if anyone is watching him.

  The Stone Angel said ‘Save Mark.’ It referred to him separately.

  I feel my breathing start to slow a little as I watch him bobbing up and down across the road.

  Edging a little way out of my alcove, over his shoulder, I watch something moving inside the churchyard. They move quickly between the gravestones. Mark stealthily creeps along, underneath the wall, until he reaches the very end and then rises when he knows he can’t be seen anymore, and starts walking away. His walk looks forced like someone trying to act a little too normally in order to disguise their true behaviour.

  Now what do I do?

  Mark has never been into St. Harold’s as far as I’m aware. He has no business looking in a churchyard unless something out of the ordinary has caught his eye and, added to that, no one knows where he’s been since his fall-out with Elvis yesterday.

  I strain harder to see what he’s looking at and hiding from. I’m totally convinced that the Stone Angel has made it back to Kelly Mortimor’s gravestone and he has seen it swoop down upon its perch.

  I scan the cemetery.

  I see it again.

  A dark figure sweeping in and out through shrouded trees and bushes.

  I want to close my eyes and take five minutes rest, but I’m afraid that if I do, new words; new instructions will suddenly form in my head as the Stone Angel tries to summon me with its mind. I’m scared to even blink although I know I have already done this countless times on my crazed run. I can see Mark’s silhouette disappear in the distance. He has glanced round a few times (obviously checking in the direction of the Church).

  From this distance he won’t be able to make me out, so I stand and walk back into the bus stop for cover. I remember that I’m meant to be at Arthur’s for tea shortly. My mobile bursts into life and I jump, scrabbling to answer it quickly and quietly.

  ‘Shelly, Where are you?’

  ‘Hi mum, sorry, I felt a bit rough so I went for a walk – the sun came out.’

  ‘That’s okay, hon. Where are you?’

  I want to ask if they’d seen anything at the front door.

  ‘Erm, I’m at the Church.’

  ‘You’re as far as the church! Have you been running?’

  ‘Yeah, fast walking. Get the lungs going.’

  ‘Would you like me to come and pick you up?’

  ‘No, I’m nearly home. Mum, is it okay if I go round to Arthur’s? He said he’s got me a card.’

  My eyes are fixated on the Churchyard. I want this call to end. Something is happening in there.

  ‘Okay, Shelly. Whatever you feel up to? Don’t push yourself too hard.’

  ‘Thanks. Say sorry to Astra for me for leaving so abruptly. I probably won’t see her at bells later...’

  ‘Not up for going to bells? Sure, I understand. No problem. She didn’t get to give you her present by the way. Did you leave the boot open on the car?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I forgot to shut it. Was everything okay?’

  ‘Your bag was open and left...did you take anything out of it?’

  ‘Err. Yeah, bits and bobs – the usual girlie stuff. Sorry for leaving it open.’

  ‘I’m coming home now, Shelly. I’ll leave your bag in your room.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Bye love.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I hang up and put the phone away.

  Somebody or something is weaving in and out of the gravestones. Its movements have been strange and erratic. There is something sinister in there.

  I definitely don’t have any energy or drive to pursue another investigation. I’m scared stiff of being anywhere near this place, and even more so now. I certainly won’t be going anywhere near the Reverend Llewelyn or his Rectory, to tell him about his mobile grave adornments.

  I take a deep breath and walk along the opposite side of the road until I’m parallel with St. Harold’s. I desperately want to steal another look across. Something nags at me not to, and just keep walking. I can see a blur of movement in my peripheral vision.

  My heart is thumping, I pick up pace.

  The most terrible thought comes to me - Is this thing the Carrion Crow?

  At precisely that moment, the sporadic movements in the corner of my eye stop. I sense I’m being watched. Taking another couple of steps, I near the end of the cemetery wall on the opposite side. I sense the person, the thing, that can take many forms, heading closer, rather than further away. I could be imagining this but synapses in my brain, fuelled by paranoia, have won this feud. I bolt once again. I’m heading f
or Arthur’s and I won’t stop till I get there.

  About ten minutes later I place a sweaty hand on Arthur’s mysterious gate. The black metal shines with the condensation from where my palm has imbued its sticky prints.

  Nobody followed.

  Whatever was in the graveyard (my former favourite place in the world) did not decide to extract itself from the midst of the tomb stones and chase me like a rabid zombie.

  I’m so grateful to see Arthur’s topsy-turvy house. I bend over and rest my head on the gate to let the coolness spread across my brow. I close my eyes expecting words to flash across my mind; I’m too tired to care. Minutes pass before my heart gathers a steady rhythm and stammers less. I keep my eyes closed almost to make a point to myself. Has the angel rejected me? The words aren’t there.

  This is all too much.

  A hand grabs my shoulder and I scream.

  Someone else screams too.

  A male voice: Arthur’s.

  I open my eyes and stagger back. He tries to match the pitch of my scream and its power, but fails. In my face, he’s waving some device that looks like an IPad.

  ‘Sorry to scare you, Shelly. Say something. Don’t scream this time, you scared me.’

  He continues to wave the instrument as if he’s fencing me with it.

  ‘Arthur. Sor-sorry. You scared me.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump. Your mum said you were on your way. Keep speaking. How’s your day been?’

  ‘Not good.’

  I always feel a little in awe of Arthur; respect I guess. He stands there waiting for me to continue.

  ‘I got hit around the back of my head at school and erm, it’s my birthday.’

  ‘Thank you Shelly Clover, please stop there.’

  He takes the object and starts to speak into it.

  ‘Shelly Clover tells me that she’s had yet another horrendous day, but what she doesn’t quite understand is that the trials she’s going through will be the very making of her.’

  A girl’s voice repeats the exact same sentence – it sounds tinny, and lacks bass, but it is essentially my voice.

  I’m glad to see AKM, he has a knack of getting my mind off things.

  ‘That’s pretty cool. Hasn’t that been invented?’

  Arthur smiles and strokes the end of his wispy moustache.

  ‘Glad you approve, my dear. Come in, come in.’ he beckons, ‘Triangle sandwiches, delicacies and Earl Grey await. You’re bang on time. Many Happy Returns.’

  I glance down at the shattered watch face. Half past five. Pure luck that I arrived on time.

  I follow the nimble inventor along his footpath, passing the array of mechanical devices he stores in his garden – far too large and non-descript for anybody to steal.

  There’s a whirring, wiry object that looks like two penny-farthings; one inverted and straddling the top of the other.

  To my right, a slide descends into a paddling pool with water being blasted back up to the top. The idea, so I’ve been told, is that you don’t need a ladder. You just sit at the bottom and wait for the torrents of water to kick in and jettison you upwards. I’d like to have a go, but it’s far too dangerous to be patented. He’s been testing it on squirrels, but it works more like a rocket launcher on anything smaller than a human.

  Just behind this, and extremely audible, is Arthur’s wind turbine for powering thirty percent of his energy needs. It has one main propeller and two side propellers just underneath, their rotors intersecting with the main propeller, timed perfectly to miss it with every turn.

  We approach the lavender front door of the upside-down house and he places his hand on the door knob. It has been formed with grooves that his fingers slide into. He fits his finger-tips into what looks like an old circular landline phone-dial at the base, and turns it a couple of inches to the left. The door swings open.

  We walk into a large and perfectly functional kitchen. There are seven tables containing an assortment of small to medium sized paraphernalia. I see some new tanning designs on the table closest to us. I know those tribal patterns from somewhere. The walls are red and the cupboards are white with black work tops. There’s a clock on each wall next to each upside down window, measuring the four different time zones.

  All these devices redirect my thoughts to the back of my book. I have been desperate all day long, for Mr McFadden to see the pop-up metal object. That was until about an hour ago! It would have been so exciting to show Arthur something that would make his wispy moustache curl and his wide old eyes widen even further. He would have been proud that I’d found such a thing, and he would have inspected it with the utmost diligence and curiosity. I doubt that even Arthur could understand how it worked, but maybe he could.

  He beckons towards a table to our left containing an assortment of food on beautifully ornamental plates and, as if on cue, says, ‘Was there something you wanted to show me today, Shelly?’

  We take a seat.

  ‘Yeah, there was, but I left it in the car. It wasn’t that important, really.’

  Arthur smiles and his whole face lights up. I often wonder if he feels as happy on the inside as he shows on the outside: Do smiley people feel like that?

  ‘Really? You sounded very excited about it earlier on.’

  I don’t want to lie, but I want to forget about the book, the angel, the bell.

  ‘So much has happened today, Mr McFadden, I left it in the car. You have far more interesting stuff here.’

  ‘Fair enough, Ms Clover. You’ve had an incredible ordeal by all accounts today.’

  He chooses one of his pristine sandwiches and starts to chew before picking up the tiered plate and offering it to me.

  I take one, it has no crusts and is not made from the supermarket economy white that I normally have in my packed lunch box. Realising that I’m ravenous, I begin to eat. I’m already eyeing the cakes.

  ‘Thanks Mr McFadden.’

  I smile.

  I begin to relax a little as AKM pours some tea from the pot.

  ‘That – as always - is my pleasure. Happy Birthday.’

  He grins like a pompous Cheshire cat.

  I feel safe here, safer than normal; comfortable, like I’m inside the eye of a storm, shut-out from danger and pain.

  Moments like these are few and far between in my life and because this is so, I’ve learned to recognise them. I’m damn well going to make the most of this. The alternative – saving people - is something I’m quite happy to block out. I feel myself get a little teary.

  I scan Arthur’s magnanimous kitchen to distract myself. I look up at the impressive solar powered lights. Their lightness will accentuate the glassiness of my eyes, so I look down as quickly as I can, and search for the nearest unusual object to distract me.

  ‘What have you got under there?’ I say without even thinking about what I’m looking at. One of the tables has a grey sheet covering it.

  For one moment, Arthur looks agitated, like a hare in headlights. He strokes his chin and ponders. A most strange look.

  ‘That, Ms Clover is one of my key inventions, and as much as I’d like to disclose more to you about it, I have a buyer who doesn’t want me to reveal anything about it...as much as an industrious and ingenious lady like you deserves to know.’ He smiles apologetically but cheekily too.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand and I sit silently, not sure if I’m satisfied with his response.

  I feel myself suddenly blushing, knowing that I am going to ask the same thing again. I feel that if I close my eyes now, a certain set of words will appear, possibly instructing me to repeat the previous question.

  Am I completely losing my mind?

  I let a little too much time elapse, appearing rude.

  ‘Erm, give us a clue.’

  Arthur ponders.

  ‘Well, Ms Clover, I have agreed…’ he sighs, almost apprehensively, ‘…to not patent this device – and a device is what i
t is – because my, err, buyer has made me a deal. As you know, not all my whims turn into something practical and when they do, from registering a patent, to production and eventual success – if any – is a long, laborious process.’

  He raises his hands as if addressing some ephemeral congregation and surveys his kitchen.

  ‘To maintain a building of this size and majesty requires me to pay the bills and with the paltry royalties that come from my other minor successes, and, well, let’s face it, I’m not getting any younger and I don’t have a pension.’

  There seems to be a tone of resentment in Arthur’s voice. I hope that it doesn’t stem from feeling pressurised into telling me, but I know him well enough. I sense it’s something else. Arthur’s never been money-orientated. I’ve always known him to live day-to-day, hand to mouth and he always loves the process. To receive the patent is the prize, and to reach it is the pleasure. His oddity of a house is clear evidence of this.

  ‘As it’s my birthday, would you mind telling me who it is?’ I add a ‘please’ as a cheeky afterthought.

  Arthur laughs and splutters his tea back into his cup, and then I see something new in his eyes, something I have never seen before.

  Fear.

  He puts his cup and saucer down on the table and sighs. ‘My, straight into our teen years with steeliness, Ms Clover.’ He smiles sadly. ‘I’m really sorry, I can’t tell you, Shelly.’

  I know not to push further. I change the subject.

  ‘Do you know anything about nursery rhymes?’

  He fixes me with that inquisitive stare, as if he’s pondering a maths formula.

  ‘Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool.’ he chuckles, ‘Why do you ask?’

  Now it’s my turn to feel a little defensive. Do I tell the truth? Well, it’s Arthur and I would, but talking about nursery rhymes as I enter my thirteenth year feels, well, lame to be honest. I answer in part.

  ‘Well, I’m just curious about what they mean, if they mean anything at all.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, I don’t know an awful lot about them I’m afraid.’ He blows out air, ‘But Alan will. Alan Washwater. He still teaches at Jacobsfield, doesn’t he?’

  I have one of those feelings like when you drop a cup and then catch it again just before it smashes. Of course, Ol’ Washo would know. Why didn’t I equate nursery rhymes with history?

  ‘Alan’s written all sorts of books on Jacobsfield itself and of course, Harley, Snarlington and Boule. It’s safe to say his knowledge would extend to nursery rhymes.’

  ‘Do you know Mr Washwater?’

  ‘Well kind of. I think we share common ground in the sense that we share fields that are relatively exclusive; me with my inventing and him with the Island’s history. We like a Rich tea biscuit and a natter in the town hall whenever we meet at various council functions. He’s your man, Shelly. I can think of no other to answer your question. I saw him a few weeks ago in fact. He tells me the way Jacobsfield High is being run it is in danger of going in to special measures.’

  ‘Special Measures..?’

  ‘Ooops. I’ve told you something you shouldn’t know.’

  I knew things were getting bad.

  ‘Didn’t you know Shelly? I thought you might have picked up on some of the problems; all these exclusions, a dodgy head teacher, misguided school governors; I mean how can they get away with using those ancient grounds for the coming festivals and fun fairs...not least to say, the fire alarm going off all the time.’

  I hear myself swallow.

  ‘No, I had no idea about that.’

  A dodgy Head teacher? Winston Jessobs’ always seemed out of place.

  ‘Thanks for the advice about Ol’ Washo.’ Arthur looks puzzled at my phrase. ‘So, you think he’ll know a lot about the old Printing Press here in Harley?’

  AKM fixes me with a long, discerning stare. I’m sure I can see the slightest of smiles form on his lips, but before I have time to confirm this, he’s talking again; this time it’s short and slow.

  ‘I’m sure he does.’

  ‘Do you know anything about it Mr McFadden?’

  My inventor friend pauses. ‘I think he’s the man to ask on that front. I’ve read one of his books about Jacobsfield and I found it particularly informative about Harley, Snarlington and Boule – the three towns were brought to the mainland’s attention because of the Printing Press. You know where the building is, don’t you Shelly?’

  ‘I do.’

  I have cycled everywhere on this tiny Island. I’ve visited dilapidated World War II defences; the dilapidated old building where they committed the insane; the dilapidated stone monuments on south east coast, where the old slave port was. I’ve discovered places I’m sure few others have.

  The Printing Press is not a building I’ve given a lot of thought to, despite preparing for a quarter peal marking two hundred years since it was built.

  The whole Island in fact, is famous for a series of books and papers printed here in the early Nineteenth century. The Jacobsfield stamp is not known outside this area but the badge on my school blazer mimics it exactly.

  The badge looks like a gas mask. How appealing?

  I’m also accustomed to the fact that Jacobsfield’s council has leaned too heavily on past glories in an attempt to attract people to the Island and into the towns, but no one here really cares for this Island anymore.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘there’s a stream of fascinating stories associated with the place. Alan told me at the town hall last month, that he has received permission to enter an underground chamber at the old Printing Press, and he tells me that it’s equally fascinating inside.’

  Arthur shakes his head disbelievingly.

  ‘I don’t know how the council has managed to let it go, quite as badly as it has.’

  He takes a sip of tea.

  ‘Needless to say, this place thrived until the mid-eighteen hundreds. The Jacobsfield Press was renowned across the British Isles for publishing original and cutting edge books. We had a gamut of gifted and interesting authors who all came together to form the Printing Press. This was the hot-bed of talent by all accounts. I was brought up on some of the fiction it inspired.’

  He wipes his white moustache and looks up.

  ‘Ahhh, yes. His name, his name was....let me see. Malachi Jacobsfield! That’s right. He was the benefactor and supporter of Harley, Snarlington and Boule – I forget their first names. Our three towns are named after them, of course. He was a strange one, this Jacobsfield. From what I remember about the book, it was not too dissimilar to Alice in Wonderland. In fact, were any of them alive today, and saw this house, they would feel right at home living here.’

  He stops to cough on a mouthful of tea that’s gone down the wrong way.

  ‘Ahem. Ahem. Excuse me. I’m afraid that’s where my knowledge on the subject ends. Another cake? Help yourself you know.’

  He holds out a tray and I eagerly help myself to a large slice of fudge cake.

  ‘Except, now that I think about it; I do recall that the whole escapade came to an end quite suddenly in the mid to latter part of the nineteenth century. In fact, your blazer-badge,’ he points to my jacket, ‘is based upon the moniker of the Printing Press, it was only reinstated as school uniform attire about ten or eleven years ago, because the whole area wanted to disassociate itself from its past.’

  ‘Yeah, come to think of it; why is Jacobsfield hated so much?’

  ‘This place had a bad reputation for decades and decades. Only after the Second World War when everywhere was trying to rebuild itself, did Jacobsfield get a fresh chance to form a fresh reputation. In fact, that’s when people started once again referring to the Island as Jacobsfield. Prior to that, it was known on the south coast simply as Dante’s Island. Your school was financed, and some parts of the original old school building were built, by Malachi Jacobsfield.’

  I did not know any of that. Why did it go so bad? They’ve never mentioned any
thing at school, not even Mr Washwater. I’m absolutely fascinated by all of Arthur’s anecdotes.

  ‘I’m sure Alan was busting out of his breast to tell anyone who asks. He probably thinks that no pupil is really interested in that kind of thing.’ He smiles and winks, ‘It would be a sure-fire way of courting his immediate interest, if you engage him in a question about it; just make sure it’s the start of your lunch break, and you have a packed-lunch box that is well stocked. You won’t be speaking much.’

  Arthur chuckles to himself, before continuing.

  ‘Yes, so as I was saying, a lot of scandal was associated with this place, and Washwater’s your man for giving you the lowdown on that saga. The Printing Press did in fact, burn to the ground, and quite mysteriously at that, and the building you see today was an attempt at rebuilding it. That building work also came to an abrupt end and nobody knew that about this underground chamber until a few weeks ago.’

  I look down at the Jacobsfield badge on my blazer. It’s a series of blue, intertwined ovals. They contain the name of the school, a small shield and the same Latin phrase that was on the inside of my pawned ring.

  Dante’s Island, eh?

  Think about a place you’re so familiar with, a place you trust. Everything has a routine and tinkers on, day after day, without anybody giving it a passing thought. That place: a town, a village, an area; the time when it hustles and bustles; the times when it’s quiet. It all seems normal. Sometimes you’re blissfully unaware of any undercurrents in the place itself. I think it has something to do with being a child itself. Naivety maybe? You don’t see the cracks.

  Then, one day, you somehow gradually begin to see it in a different light. Suddenly, you become aware of its problems and the more you look at it, the more your perception alters. The innocence of that place gradually wilts and sometimes you don’t recognise it, but you know that it will never be the same again.

  I feel the rough texture of my school badge with my one hand that hasn’t been bruised and consider the horrible history of an Island so bad that it was renamed. I contemplate the parallels with my own horrific home life. Nobody really knows how bad things can get sometimes and nobody really cares.

  My mind is then drawn to thoughts of social workers, key workers, the youth offending teams that have worked with my brothers; the restraining orders on my mother’s exes. I then inexplicably think about Buddy waiting at the bus stop just outside our house for what he calls, ‘the blue bus’, to take him to his special needs school on the days when it’s too wet for him to cycle. I haven’t given my lovely brother much thought at all today. He’ll be missing me.

  I continue to look at my badge – a change of identity. Jacobsfield is a hole, but once it wasn’t. I just want my life to be mundane, to be normal. Just to be normal.

  Or do I?

  I sip my tea which is now at a comfortable temperature. Truthfully, I wonder how much of this area has contributed to my misery. Have I got something to look forward to by living in the ‘walled city’, as the Islanders call this place? I’m bored of the same routines that bring grey rain clouds into my life.

  I think about the book. I think about the angel. This area has something that goes back years. Is it about to give up its secret?

  Too many coincidences here to ignore.

  I haven’t got an awful lot to live for. Looking after Buddy maybe. Every day is like surviving walking across a desert. The book has given me a different perspective. So what if I’m scared, so what if I’m depressed to the point of suicide. I may as well die trying to solve a mystery that may help people live. It may give people here some meaning, may give my pointless life some meaning.

  But, what if the book is fake? What if I just imagined the angel? It was all the result of the powerful knock on my head.

  ‘You look like you’re having an epiphany.’

  ‘W-what? I wake up from my reverie. ‘An epiphany…something I’ve never realised before? Yeah, I guess I am. I’ve had a strange day Mr McFadden. There’s so much that has happened.’

  He fixes me with a sympathetic gaze, tilting his head to one side enquiringly.

  ‘I think turning thirteen is my...epiphany. I just don’t think I have an awful lot to look forward to.’

  Did I just say that? I attempt to stumble and stutter out an explanation, but Arthur speaks to me warmly.

  ‘You’ll make it Shelly. I know it. I saw your spirit and your compassion within the first few weeks of you coming to my house. You are an intelligent and gifted young lady. Do something that really counts and matters with your life.’

  I nod and take more focused bites from another triangle sandwich having already demolished my slice of fudge cake.

  For another hour, Arthur and I talk over the day. It’s comfortable and relaxed and I enjoy the solace it offers me. Eventually, I get up to leave, grateful for the afternoon tea. I’m about to exit the topsy-turvy house when Arthur splutters the last piece of sandwich from his mouth.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ he exclaims, wiping some wet crumbs off his lips.

  ‘I nearly forgot to give you your present and your card.’

  He moves with gazelle-like swiftness, renouncing his elder years, and pulls out one of the kitchen drawers. He takes out a gift, wrapped in bright, purple, shiny paper and a white envelope. He offers them to me, trying to smile with his mouth still full of sandwich.

  ‘Here you go, young genius, with love of course from your favourite inventor.’

  ‘Thank You.’

  I clasp the parcel and feel the contours of the small package. I have no idea what it is. On opening it, I discover something that looks like a black Games console. Underneath, there is a thin black pad about the size of an A4 sheet, it’s soft to the touch and flexible. I turn it over and see a flat tiny microchip embedded in the centre. I hold it aloft, it feels soft and it bends easily.

  Arthur takes his opportunity, ‘What you have in your hands, is an exclusive Miss Clover; a prototype. It won’t kill you, I promise. It’s a brain wave monitoring, alarm clock.’

  He looks back at the other table, containing the mysterious object.

  ‘Let’s just say it’s a relation...’ He stops and clears his throat.

  I retain what Arthur has just inadvertently revealed.

  By the same token, I’m holding my gift and I’m curious as to what it is. It’s not easy to look grateful whenever Mr McFadden gives you a present, or lends you something to ‘trial’ on his behalf – I never know what they are. I know by now that a look of curious bemusement is exactly the expression he wants to see on your face.

  He keeps talking,

  ‘You take the soft pad and fit it underneath your pillow cover. You set the alarm on the clock and when it is time for you to wake up and go to school, the wireless chip will work in conjunction with the digital clock, sending gradually stronger waves into your brain and adjusting your melatonin levels instantly, which will simulate the effects of being fully awake. This procedure will constantly help you wake up faster; you’ll feel more attuned and will be prepared to go and face the day. Essential survival kit for any teenager, wouldn’t you say?’

  I let out a laugh. It feels good to laugh. I consider this for a moment and feel immensely grateful to have a friend and maybe even a mentor in Mr McFadden. Not many people get gifts like these and I feel very privileged.

  ‘Thank you.’ I repeat with a sated look on my face.

  AKM will not know that the grin covering my face is one of deep appreciation and admiration for the old man, more so than for the gift. I open the envelope and find a postcard with a picture of Arthur’s face beaming away. (My smile widens further.) “To Shelly,” It reads, “kind regards, Arthur Kingsley McFadden.”

  I can’t tell if he is half-joking by giving me a postcard with his face on the front.

  ‘Glad you approve.’

  ‘Thanks for getting my mind off things, Arthur.’

  ‘You called me Arthur.�
�

  I blush.

  ‘No, no, no. Keeping calling me that.’

  I remain quiet.

  A horn sounds outside and Arthur puts his hands to his face.

  ‘Whoops! I forgot to say, I had a call from Astra and she said she’d call round and pick you up for bell-practise tonight.’

  ‘W-what? You’re joking!’

  Mother mustn’t have passed on the message that I didn’t want to go anywhere near St. Harold’s tonight. An angel, or a freak racing around the graveyard - not my cup of tea. I’m going to have to think of some excuses to get her to drive me home.

  ‘Is everything okay, Miss Clover?’

  ‘Yeah, just feeling tired that’s all. Thank you so much for the present and the card, and thanks again for the sandwiches.’ I motion towards the wrong table – the one with the grey sheet -and avoid eye-contact out of embarrassment, ‘...and above all else...the company.’

  ‘My absolute pleasure. Now just to pre-empt you, your company is always appreciated, but I might not be in as frequently as I’d like to be over the next few days. I have a tight deadline to meet.’

  Again, something flashes across his face.

  The horn beeps again outside. I check the time on my broken wrist-watch. It’s coming up to quarter to seven.

  ‘Better go.’

  I exit the topsy-turvy house and head towards the brown Robin Reliant at the end of the garden. I wonder why she didn’t just come to the door, Astra knows Arthur, but then I remember the tricky gate.

  Astra has a lop-sided smile on her face as I hop into the passenger side. She sets off quickly and before I can open my mouth to persuade her to bypass Church and drive home, I realise that we’re already driving away from St. Harold’s.

  ‘I’m afraid Bells has been cancelled tonight, so I figured I’d come and take you home; keep you safe.’

  My heart leaps within my chest, relieved in the extreme.

  Hold on…

  ‘…Keep me safe.’

  ‘Turns out somebody had a little rampage through the cemetery this afternoon. The police are there and the Reverend has had to cancel the practise tonight. Did you pass the church yard on the way to Arthur’s by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, I did…and I did see someone in the graveyard.’

  The car slows.

  Astra looks fixedly at the road ahead.

  ‘I was a bit scared actually. Who was it? What did they do?’

  Astra turns and looks directly at me. She looks concerned.

  ‘We’re not sure who it is? But, they’ve thrown stones at the stained glass and have taken a hammer or something to a whole set of random gravestones. You know that great big tomb with the Virgin Mary statue – they’ve tried smashing that. Rev Llewellyn thinks they’ve tried scratching the names from some of the newer gravestones, but he’s not sure why? Shel, did you see who it was?’

  I tell her that I was afraid to look, whilst omitting the details about the Stone Angel.

  ‘Mark was there too!’ On hearing this, her jaw drops.

  ‘Mark!’

  ‘Yeah, and he was watching somebody in the graveyard. I was too scared to look at who it was. I felt really anxious and I was on the other side of the road. I did get the sense they were moving between gravestones really, really quickly, as if they were looking for something. I got the sense that they noticed me too.’

  I’m getting goose bumps on the back of my neck as I recall the incident.

  ‘I thought at one point they were coming out of the cemetery and were coming after me.’

  ‘And so you ran. I don’t blame you; good decision, Shel. Are you sure Mark didn’t go into the graveyard?’

  ‘Yeah, he didn’t want to be seen. He was I guess…’ I didn’t think of this, ‘…hiding from whoever it was.’

  There’s an unusual pause between us, as if Astra’s not divulging some information. Her knuckles have whitened as she grips the steering wheel.

  I’m not sure how to break the ice, but we’ve been rehearsing for the quarter peal on Friday and tonight’s session will have to be re-arranged.

  ‘Will we be allowed back in St Harold’s to rehearse another night this week?’

  ‘We’re going to have to, but it might be best that you give it a miss, Shel.’

  I’m feeling a strong sense of relief that I don’t have to go anywhere near that Church for the time being but I’m also acutely aware that I’m getting a reprieve for a different reason.

  ‘Is there something you’re not telling me Aunty? Why can’t I go?’

  We’re coming closer to my house. Something is flashing in the distance.

  ‘The police think it’s in your best interest to stay clear, which is why I agreed to escort you home.’

  ‘Police?’ Why the Police?’

  The normally chilled-out hippy swallows hard.

  ‘They are concerned with what the vandal did in the Churchyard. They were destroying particular parts on purpose.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They wanted to draw attention to one thing.’

  She’s fighting what to tell me.

  ‘Aunty, go on.’

  ‘It seems whoever trashed the cemetery, the sole point of doing it was to leave a message, a message for you; they wrote something about you on one of the gravestones, Shelly.’

  She pulls up outside my home, where three police cars wait. Two officers stand by one of the cars. Two others are talking to mother outside the front door step.

  She looks frightened.

  ‘Astra, please.' My whole body sinks and deflates, ‘What does it say?’

  Astra hits me straight.

  “I will kill Shelly Clover on Friday.”

  Chapter Six

  Danish Gambit