Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover

by James Steven Clark

As I stand behind the white rear mud-guard of the dirt bike, I feel numb with shock. Over the intrusive rattle of its exhaust, I can hear teachers barking at pupils to move away.

  As my brother pulls back on the throttle I jump along with several panicked people in front of us.

  It is complete pandemonium.

  Police scatter and I see one officer point something that looks like a Taser in our direction – I swallow hard and feel my mind start to implode and separate itself from all of this.

  As a torrent of mind-stupefying hormones rush my brain, I smell exhaust fumes; thick powdery smoke. I’m acutely aware of police sirens in the distance and Elvis screaming obscenities with all he’s got, in the direction of the terrified crowd.

  Dezza is saying something to me, but I’m in a daze. I can’t move. I see the sheen of the polished wooden floor and tread marks leading to the rear wheel of the bike. I have no idea where Elvis got it. At last, I truly know what they mean when they say, ‘like a rabbit caught in the head-lights.’

  From the corner of my eye, I see the police officer lower whatever he was aiming at the prompt of several, desperately pleading staff members.

  The officer looks bewildered; everyone does. I concentrate on the disconnectedness I feel in all of this; Dezza keeps shouting at me, his hand now on my shoulder.

  ‘I have nothing else to give this life. Why is this happening?’

  Elvis keeps revving the engine. The exhaust blows.

  I flinch at the sound of the exhaust blowing.

  ...And then something really unusual happens.

  Something flashes into my mind; it’s a strange feeling, I’ve had this feeling before. It’s like your brain can’t handle things and so it floods you with ‘couldn’t care less’ chemicals. My mind drifts from the present and recalls times of being taunted and how I just stand there taking the abuse. I switch myself into some sort of living coma in those moments – just like right now - not being able to handle the insults; my brain just seems to turn off.

  This time, there’s something else there.

  A memory.

  I remember something in my past and my skin begins to prickle. I’m not quite sure what I am remembering. It feels dark.

  I see Buddy and two other kids, and we are by a stream.

  Yes, definitely by a stream. We are playing on a branch, hovering over calm waters several feet from the bank. We are only a few feet above the surface of the shallows. I’m laughing. I look towards the side of the bank. Someone else is here; someone who simply must not be here.

  I feel anxious now. Something is going to happen; something bad. I take a sharp intake of breath, as the memory is suddenly closed tight.

  I must not remember this.

  I gasp as another spurt from the throttle of the bike is followed by a shout, and the screech of tyres. It sways from side to side as Elvis fights to straighten it on the polished wooden floor. There are shouts at different pitches as several teachers are now shoving students (who are trying to film on their mobiles) out of the way towards a side exit. Elvis hangs his feet along the ground, as the bike quickly builds momentum.

  Elvis is yelling, the police are yelling. He’s nearly on them.

  They take a braced position, some crouching. The sirens outside are getting louder. Suddenly Elvis breaks and pulls up sharply, bringing the back of the bike round ninety degrees. He slows almost to a halt, before powering up and veering hard right. He is shaking with laughter as he heads straight for a huge panel of glass, hurtling into it front wheel raised to absorb some of the impact.

  Glass shatters everywhere.

  The old wooden frame harbouring the pane buckles under the force, smashing the adjacent panels on either side. Everyone stands stunned in a moment of surreal silence, before the throttle re-engages and - now outside - the bike begins to build speed again. Dezza grabs me and pushes me towards the tumult. I catch a glimpse of my brother ascending a grassy knoll in the wide-open expanse at the front of the school, before deliberately steering the bike into the path of an oncoming ambulance. He dodges it on its far side on purpose, before heading for the school exit. Shouts ring out once more, as police-officers rush past me, heading towards parked cars with doors wide open. Their shouts are drowned out by the din of an ambulance siren, as it pulls up to the main entrance.

  Utter carnage is all around. Pupils are being directed frantically and police cars do one-eighty turns in an attempt to give chase. Three men in green paramedic outfits race towards the school. I recognise one as Shannon, the man who yesterday tended my swollen head.

  ‘Who’s in charge? Has anyone been hurt?’

  The Head teacher greets him anxiously and motions him inside. To my left stands the Reverend Llewellyn. He stares at me with a look I can’t quite make out. I can’t tell exactly; a knowing look; a disapproving look? His arms are folded and he is neither helping nor engaging in any of the activities.

  ‘What the ‘ell is ‘appening?’ Dezza eyes me wildly.

  Mr Walker strides up to the vicar.

  My tall Head of year barks, ‘don’t just stand there…’trying to get him to engage with proceedings - before running towards the medics. I hear piercing shouts along the corridor. There’s something desperately unnerving about them.

  From behind me, several implore an urgent appeal.

  ‘We need help…upstairs...we need help!’

  A couple of teachers appear from the bottom of the stairs as the medics break off conversations with Winston Jessobs.

  The medics charge along the corridor in pursuit of the calls.

  About ten members of staff are given news that leaves them shell-shocked.

  This is confusing. What is happening now?

  Mr John Walker, swivels one eighty, away from this frantic group of teachers. He shakes his head at the news and immediately strides towards a pupil, who I can’t quite make out. He whispers something in his ear.

  ‘Dad!’

  It’s Eren Washwater.

  Eren breaks away suddenly and rushes past clusters of pupils, desperately trying to catch up with the medics.

  As I turn to Dezza, neither of us speak, staggered by the turn of events.

  ‘Oh no. It can’t be...’ I whisper.

  Dezza stares back at me.

  ‘Ol’ Washo?’

  ‘It can’t be.’

  The men in the green suits are legging it back in the direction we came from. Dezza and I follow.

  ‘It can’t be Washwater, he was fine when we left him.’ he puffs.

  Grabbing the banister, I ascend as fast as I can. Ahead of me, Eren grinds to a halt at the top of the short flight. Within an instant we join him and move to a position alongside, as he stares down at three medics…

  …crouching over a middle-aged man, collapsed and lying half in and half out of his classroom.

  He’s convulsing wildly, and frothing at the mouth. His head arches backward at an unnatural angle as if he’s trying to squeeze it between his shoulder blades. A couple of teachers are here, one already holding the back of his head to prevent him pulverising it against the hard oaked floor. He’s covered in his own watery vomit.

  My legs give way. I stoop and puke.

  ‘Was he like this when you found him?’ Shannon urgently asks the gathered staff.

  Mrs Tyme-Read nods gravely.

  Eren rushes to his father’s side.

  ‘Dad, Dad, what’s happening to him?’

  ‘Eren, we’re not sure, we found him like this…’ Mr Kinsella, our chemistry teacher, attempts to reassure him - but there’s no mistaking the fear in his eyes.

  One of the medics is pulling open Alan’s shirt, checking the length of his sallow, hairy chest with her fingers. They whisper to each other frantically. She places her head on his chest and listens. Another tries checking his throat.

  ‘He’s choking, but...’

  I wipe my mouth and move down next to Eren and instinctively put my arm around his shoulders.
I feel like this is my fault. My bloody stupid brother: My…bloody…stupid family.

  A different medic speaks out. She has short red hair, ‘No external signs of damage, no visible blood-loss; possible internal bleeding; has he been crushed by the bike?’ Her eyes are wide as she looks up at us imploringly for an answer.

  ‘No, we were here with him, he wasn’t hit….’

  The medics stare at us for a moment, ‘Are you sure his head wasn’t struck?’

  We both nod. Dezza is wiping sweat from his brow.

  Shannon, questions Eren, ‘Does your father have a history of convulsions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is he allergic to any substance?’

  ‘No, no, hold on...yes, he doesn’t like wheat.’

  ‘But, nothing more substantial?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does your dad have a history of epilepsy, seizures…?’

  ‘No – never.’

  ‘The symptoms seem to be more like those of toxic exposure,’ the red-head stares up at Shannon; mild astonishment on her face.

  Mr Washwater vomits spills from the side of his mouth.

  Shannon is nodding. ‘Yes, give me the oxygen mask, his pupils have dilated, nail pigmentation...’ The medic opens Alan’s mouth for a brief second and pulls down his tongue, ‘The tongue is white. Strong smell of garlic.’

  Shannon turns back to Eren, ‘Did your dad eat or drink anything unusual today? Has he been anywhere were he doesn’t normally go?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. What’s toxic exposure?’ Eren questions earnestly. I can see terrific fear in his eyes.

  ‘Need... to... call...my sister.’ he suddenly bursts into tears and lowers his head.

  My arm bobs up and down on his shoulder as he sobs.

  This is just awful.

  Shannon places a hand on Eren’s other shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, son, I know this is hard, but I need to know: Has your dad been in contact with any dangerous animals? Your father could possibly have been bitten by something poisonous, we’re just not sure and we want to help him as best we can.’

  One of the medics continues to check his body for signs.

  ‘No, he hates snakes and spiders.’

  Before I know it, I’m blurting out, ‘He complained of his coffee being bitter, he spilled half of it on his shirt.’

  Everybody stops and looks at me incredulously, but then, the red-haired medic turns and examines the brown stain on his shirt.

  A beige cup sits on top of the History teacher’s desk.

  Dezza nudges me, ‘Look at his desk.’

  I give a hushed response and flash an irritated glare at Derek. Not now, Dezza.

  ‘No.’ he implores with a rasping whisper, ‘Look...at ...his...desk...’

  As I gaze beyond the cup, I can see papers strewn all over the floor, some have landed on his chair. All his drawers are open. His computer monitor has been knocked over; complete pandemonium, it’s as if he’s been wildly searching for something.

  Dezza sums up my next thought.

  ‘It’s been ransacked, man.’

  Amongst the urgent loud whispers, I detect a dull chiming coming from my bag, just inside the room. The bell is ringing very quietly. I feel my arm start to burn. I jolt fiercely.

  A medic picks up on this, but promptly turns away having enough to contend with. My hands start to open of their own accord. I kneel down, staring at them, feeling the urge to use them, but not sure how. I stare back and forth between the retching Mr Washwater and my open palms and it’s only whilst I’m doing this that I notice he is jerking up and down on top of something.

  What on earth is that?

  I reach down to the left side of Mr Washwater, and push aside two red pens that have spilled out of his jacket. My hand then reaches underneath the convulsing patient and takes hold of a sheet of blank A4 paper, that he has come to rest upon. I pull it carefully from under him through the pools of sick and phlegm. He jerks upwards at the right moment to allow me to retrieve it intact. The paper is creased and damp, but I can make out a jagged symbol.

  Two triangles resting on their sides and facing one another, so that their points cross in the middle.

  The left triangle has part of one side missing.

  It’s a symbol.

  In his last lucid moments, was Alan Washwater trying to convey something through this sheet? I hold the paper up; everybody crouched down has noticed me, and Mrs Tyme-Read gives me a withering look, a ‘What on earth do you think you are doing look?’

  It’s now or never. I’ve been drawn to this by the bell, the book, my tattoo – goodness knows what else! So much for Dutch Courage. I steady my quivering voice:

  ‘I think this has something to do with it.’ I dangle the page in front of me.

  Everybody looks, but then ignores me.

  The other medic – a pretty brunette – stands and enters the classroom. She walks in the direction of his desk and picks up the cup and sniffs it. She immediately turns towards her colleagues, her eyes darting back and forth frantically, as she sniffs the cup again.

  I feel like a numpty, sat there among professionals waving a sheet of paper at people who know more about what they’re doing than I ever will. I lower my head and place the sheet on the floor, not wanting to be associated with it.

  I’m…an…idiot.

  ‘Hold on,’ Mr Kinsella glances down at it. He cocks his head slightly.

  ‘Hold on.’ He repeats.

  He continues to stare. The blood drains from his face and his mouth drops. He makes a sound that isn’t even close to a word.

  ‘I- I know that symbol. Shelly, hold it up length ways.’

  I pick it up and turn it length ways.

  Mr Kinsella looks from Shannon to the sheet and back to Mr Washwater, who is now jerking himself sideways.

  The medic in the classroom brings the cup and crouches down in front of Shannon.

  ‘Here, smell that.’

  She holds it to his nose while he tends to Alan.

  ‘Faint smell of almonds....amaretto coffee’ He turns to Mrs Tyme-Read, ‘Is amaretto coffee served here?’

  Mr Kinsella suddenly has a look of undiluted terror on his face.

  ‘Amaretto…Almonds!’

  He grabs the sheet off me.

  ‘This is the chemical symbol for arsenic! He’s swallowed arsenic.’

  Everything stops.

  ‘Are you sure? Are you completely sure?’

  Mr Kinsella grabs the sheet, slowly shaking his head.

  ‘…This is the chemical symbol for arsenic.’

  The situation becomes even more heightened. It’s like all three medics have been electrocuted in unison. Shannon responds immediately.

  ‘We need charcoal. Is there any charcoal in school? Science rooms, Premises…art rooms?’

  Mrs Tyme-Read looks lost and shakes her head, but Mr Kinsella nods his, ‘None in the Chemistry rooms, but try the premises team, they might have some. Here…I’ll show you.’

  Shannon nods towards one of his colleagues – the red head - and they race down the corridor together. They begin to descend, but then I hear more shouting.

  ‘Charcoal – we’ve got charcoal?’

  Almost as soon as he’s left, Mr Kinsella re-appears at the top with a tatty apron, still half wrapped around the neck of the art teacher, Miss Gordon.

  The art teacher positively yanks it off from around her neck and throws it at Mr Kinsella. He turns back to us, his hands rifling through the pocket at the front of the apron, producing a handful of pencils, erasers, paint brushes.... He throws them all on the floor and charges back towards us, his hands black with...

  ‘Charcoal!’ he declares, holding out small dusty, crumpled pieces. ‘Will this do it?’

  ‘Charcoal?’ Mrs Tyme-Read enquires apologetically.

  The pretty brunette medic tries to talk to the flailing Mr Washwater. She tries to glean some information from the rapidly expiring Hist
ory teacher, but it’s futile.

  ‘The cup smelled of almonds, it’s possible that it’s been poisoned. He has no outward physical injuries. Nothing we are observing in the patient’s symptoms is synonymous with a motor-bike collision, or assault. A strong smell of almonds and garlic is an indicator of arsenic poisoning.’

  The red-head medic is blasting instructions into a radio; prepping the hospital.

  Before she can help herself, Mrs Tyme-Read blurts out:

  ‘Arsenic! Is he going to die?’

  Everyone goes quiet; even the medic on her walkie-talkie looks over silently. Mr Washwater’s breathing is guttural and forced. He repeatedly slaps the floor with the back of his right hand. I realise he’s been doing this all along. Maybe he was trying to get the sheet of paper out from under him. He’d scribbled on it with one of his red pens. Mrs Tyme-Read looks at Eren and then lowers her gaze, utterly ashamed of her lack of discretion.

  Eren reaches out and steadies his father’s hand, his chin wobbling dramatically.

  Shannon responds calmly, ‘If he spilled most of his coffee - Shelly, you said he spilled most of his coffee, right...? Then, he may only have taken only a small dose, which is still very, very serious.’

  Shannon relieves Mr Kinsella of the charcoal and begins to crumple it in one hand whilst wrestling with the other to keep the oxygen mask on Alan’s face. A few more teachers join the fray, whispering concernedly as they see their colleague on the floor.

  The lead medic takes the paper with the arsenic symbol and creases it down the middle. He crumbles the fragments of charcoal down the centre.

  The other medic is still on her radio giving a low-down on the gravity of the situation and requesting immediate medical standby.

  Shannon takes the crushed pieces of black stone and motions his colleague, the young brunette, to hold back Mr Washwater’s mouth as he quickly pulls back the oxygen mask and guides them down his throat. He takes a bottle of water with a squeezy top and squirts a little into the History teacher’s mouth before closing it and tilting his head back. He repeats this procedure several times while staying in close dialogue with Mrs Tyme-Read. He places him into the recovery position, releasing the oxygen mask now and again to let him spew out black phlegm.

  ‘You’ll need to go downstairs and tell the police to come up. This is now a crime scene.’

  The Deputy nods her pretty blonde head; she bites her bottom lip revealing bright red lipstick on her front teeth. She raises he eyes to meet mine and Derek’s.

  ‘You two, you’ll need to come with me.’

  I don’t have a problem with this, with everything that’s going on and my strange acquisition of a potentially life-saving solution; there appears to be more and more questions than answers. Things are changing by the second. My arm still burns.

  I’m about to rise with noticeably wobbly legs when a hand launches out from my left and grabs my arm. Eren crouches there with imploring eyes; ‘Can Shelly stay here, please, Miss?’

  He turns to face the second-in-charge of the school.

  Learning quickly from her ‘death’ faux-pas, Mrs Tyme-Read unflinchingly responds with a ‘yes, of course.’

  She changes her tone and faces Dezza, ‘Derek, would you mind coming with me, I need to ask you some questions?’

  Derek nods at her, clumsily getting to his feet.

  My best pal has been with me by my side through thick and thin and I feel a gush of gratitude towards him as he finally manages to stand upright, wiping sweat from his brow again.

  ‘Dez’, I try and smile, ‘Call me later.’

  He nods, clearly emotionally exhausted.

  As they both disappear around the corner, three more medics appear with a stretcher and lift the still-contorting History teacher, as delicately as they can. Eren is gripping my wrist tightly, and even with the priority of a man’s life in the balance, I still feel embarrassed and shy, but grateful that I’m deemed important enough to stay. I wonder if I should be feeling these emotions at a time like this; I let the gravity of the situation flood my mind instead of focusing on the fact that I am quite liking the touch from Mr Washwater’s son. I am weird.

  With a drip attached to his arm, Mr Washwater is transported carefully downstairs. Teachers are whispering all around us about not letting the pupils see him in such a distressed state. Policemen and women have arrived at the scene and are asking people to step back. As the medics holding the stretcher disappear downstairs, I turn and gaze into Eren’s sullen face. He looks right back at me; his eyes are red.

  ‘Thanks for staying, Shelly. Thanks for finding that sheet of paper.’

  ‘That’s okay. I think he’ll be alright…’

  I look away, not sure I mean it.

  Another teacher whispers over his shoulder. ‘Your sister’s here, she’s downstairs.’

  Eren nods weakly, but gratefully, before turning and heading downstairs.

  A flurry of police officers and a couple of men in suits surround the crime scene.

  A large hand is placed on my shoulder. The police officer standing behind me is portly and ruddy-cheeked. He’s greying, and has a small moustache drooping slightly over his upper lip. The moustache is darker than his silvery, speckled hair.

  He nods at me.

  ‘It’s Miss Clover isn’t it? Shelly, is that correct? Yeah-yeah.’

  I swallow hard and nod.

  His eyes are warm and gentle and if it had not been for numerous stripes on his shoulder, I would not think he was high-ranking in the slightest.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector, David Rosentahl. Would I be able to have a few words with you?’

  He cocks his head and motions towards Mrs Tyme-Read’s classroom next door. His smile seems genuine and pleasant and he appears to know how to handle a fraught situation, unlike some of the police officers who frequently attend my house. He opens the classroom door and I walk through. He beckons me towards a chair, which I take. He wheezes slightly as he pulls up the one next to it. He squeezes his hefty frame on to the chair.

  ‘They always seemed so much bigger when I was a child…’

  I look at him blankly.

  ‘The chairs I mean.’ He smiles encouragingly. He has a northern accent.

  I look at the floor, ashamed to be stigmatised by my own family. He seems to read this.

  ‘According to your Head teacher, you have been a big help here today. Thank-you for that.’

  I have no idea why the Head has told him that, or how he even knows.

  I glance nervously away from his stare, afraid that the genuineness in his features and the softness in his voice might harden at any moment.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ he suddenly says.

  I have completely forgotten that the bell is still chiming away in my bag.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  An honest enough response, because I still haven’t got a clue what it is. I’m too tired to misdirect.

  ‘These mobile phones, eh? Fair enough.’ He doesn’t want to pursue this.

  ‘Well, you have had quite a week haven’t you? You appear to be at the centre of some very elaborate and dangerous situations at the moment, yeah-yeah.’

  His brown eyes look directly into mine. ‘Why do you think this is happening to you?’

  Good question. No idea.

  I look up at him, puzzled at this line of questioning. Isn’t this guy meant to be interrogating me and forging a link between my brother’s crimes and my own eventual downward spiral along the same path?

  DI Rosenthal sees that he has my attention and continues.

  ‘It’s all rather puzzling really. A thirteen year old girl issued with death threats; her brother decides to ride through her school on a dirt bike a day after she’s been assaulted and knocked unconscious, and to cap it all off,’ he jabs his thumb over his shoulder towards the scene behind, but doesn’t bother finishing his sentence.

  ‘…So what I really want to know is your take on all o
f this…I hear that you are an excellent student.’

  His eyes probe mine with an unusual amount of perception.

  I don’t know what to do at all here. I feel like I’m harbouring the book like a fugitive; like it’s behind all that’s going on – it probably is. I think I should tell him about this but, I know that I’ll come across as insane. There’s a dull ache in my arm and I’m aware that I’m rubbing it; I stop. I realise that I’m taking too long to respond, and I‘m making myself look guilty and somehow I do feel guilty.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Is that it? Is that all I can bloody muster?

  ‘You sure?’

  The police officer sits forward, his eyes widening disbelievingly.

  ‘Shelly, you haven’t done anything wrong. Try not to be afraid. I’m not here to arrest you or judge you. Yeah, yeah.’

  I look away and out of the window towards the car park. I wonder how much it would cost a thirteen year old to fly to the other side of the world for a few weeks.

  ‘My step dad, well, hmmm, my mum’s boyfriend, had an argument with Elvis a couple of days ago, I’ve not really seen Mark since.’

  ‘Mark’s your mum’s boyfriend’.

  ‘Yeah. Elvis upset him and he stormed out.’

  ‘Elvis did.’

  ‘Yeah. Elvis isn’t very nice. I don’t think he’s all there in the head.’

  I swallow hard at my next admission – coppers seem to bring it out of you, ‘I’m a bit afraid of him really.’

  DI Rosenthal nods slowly and, almost knowingly. He stares over my shoulder at Mrs Tyme-Read’s tidy desk.

  ‘How was Elvis after his exclusion? Was he angry?’

  ‘No…’ I ponder this, ‘I’d say he was pleased; he hated school.’

  ‘I’m led to believe that he had a mentor who tried to keep him on the straight and narrow just prior to his exclusion.’

  I did not know this.

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Clearly, it wasn’t working. Has he ever hit you, Shelly?’

  ‘Yeah, a few times’ Here come the tears. Oh, you know what; I don’t give a shit.

  The police officer nods again, ‘Do you have any idea where he could have gone on his bike?’

  ‘I didn’t even know he had a bike.’

  I suddenly feel very fearful. What if Elvis finds out I’m speaking to the police?

  ‘Okay, He was excluded from Jacobsfield and Harley High for supplying drugs; do you know which substances he might have been taking?

  ‘Charlie, Weed, Crystal…’

  The portly inspector nods.

  ‘What’s the relationship between Elvis and…’

  He takes a note-book out from his pocket and opens it, perusing the page for a name.

  ‘…Camille Karrington.’

  ‘Pardon!’

  ‘Camille Karrington, the girl who assaulted you yesterday.’

  He lifts his eyes from his notepad, and waits for a response.

  ‘Nothing. There’s…nothing.’

  ‘Oh, I have it on good authority, namely your teachers, that your brother is romantically involved with Camille.’

  ‘You’ve got to be j...?’ He picks up on my inability to process this. ‘Nah – that just can’t be true.’

  ‘You didn’t know that did you, Shelly? Now that you do, do you think there’s any link with this and you being assaulted by Camille yesterday?’

  I shake my head. I’m utterly stunned. There is something not right about this. Surely, this can’t be true.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Fair enough. Does Elvis keep in contact with his daughter very much?’

  ‘Not really, err, I don’t think he’s allowed access.’

  Elvis got a girl much older than himself pregnant about two years ago. Elvis was always a bad egg, but he got much worse after this. The girl, Ellen was her name, took his daughter and moved to the other side of the island. His daughter was called Josie. He has her name tattooed on his arm: Josie Forever. He was much calmer when he held her. He completely lost it altogether when he split with Ellen and she took an injunction out against him.

  At this point another police officer peers through the door.

  ‘We’re bringing some police line tape, sir’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Are forensics downstairs?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Well, tell them to come up the stairs!’

  David Rosenthal shakes his head and heaves his uncomfortable frame out of the tiny chair,

  ‘Do excuse me for a moment, Shelly. I’ll be back to ask you some more questions in a moment.’

  They both leave and I sit there in shock.

  Elvis and…Camille?

  I saw him at the school entrance with Evelyn and her gang yesterday morning; I just presumed that he was supplying drugs.

  I hear the shuffle of a heavy man descending the stairs and I stand up and stretch, wiping my mouth again. Everything has gone unnaturally quiet.

  I walk to the edge of the classroom and peer outside. My mind is doing somersaults. To the left, I see paper and saliva on the floor and a vivid mental picture of the last five minutes rears up and into my mind. I look at the white door frame that I’m holding on to; old and tattered. I stare at where the paint has flaked off and I press the top of my forehead against it. My head aches dully.

  Tired of thinking; so tired of thinking. I roll my head around the frame until my right eye is gazing upon the scene again. A bolt of pain shoots through my left arm and I jolt and howl, scrabbling to unfasten the sleeve of my shirt.

  The bell in my bag is still chiming.

  My howl of pain becomes a howl of derision and I swivel round and charge next door kicking my bag with absolutely everything I have. It slides towards the front row of tables, and the contents come spilling forth again.

  I curse and curse.

  The bell exits and turns in a three-sixty loop on the floor, before catching the leg of a table and spinning to a halt. The clapper in the middle bounces up and down of its own accord; it’s like watching an open heart operation. Shall I just leave the damn thing where it is? It’s causing nothing but trouble.

  Everything is quiet outside, there’s no one around.

  Rubbing my arm, I leave the bell where it is and walk into the hall and listen. Apart from the bell and despite the smashed window in front of me, I hear nobody. The Inspector will be back soon.

  What on earth was Mr Washwater hastily putting inside his drawers before Elvis showed?

  I turn around and look at Ol’ Washo’s desk, pondering the crime scene. I step over the saliva-laden floor and enter his room again. The desk has stuff strewn all over it. I quickly move to the open top drawer and peer inside. Was it a book he was shoving back in here?

  Someone has been up here; Mr Washwater wasn’t frantically searching his desk for an antidote or anything, He was probably already on the floor succumbing to the effects of poisoning.

  I close the drawer with my elbow, not wanting to contaminate the scene and investigate the next one down-already opened. I see a selection of thin paperback books. The top one reads:

  ‘A Concise History of Jacobsfield.’ It’s been well used.

  It seems pretty nondescript so I leave it there.

  Underneath is another book by the same author, and again, the same again below that. They’re thin and look rather inconsequential. They don’t look like whatever he could be hastily discarding.

  I spin around. I think I can hear noises coming from the stairs. Okay, stop messing around. I’m about to make a quick getaway - concerned that my presence is tantamount to infecting the crime scene - when the bell starts sliding across the old oaken floor, chiming away happily.

  It detours sharply, veering right, gliding again to the back of the room towards the cupboard. It clunks straight into it, and comes to a halt. The bell continues to chime, slowly this time. I move forwards, squeezing between the tables whe
re I was belted around the head yesterday. I crouch and examine it.

  Voices for the first time; in the background and getting closer.

  I bend quickly to grab it. The bell jerks away as I wrap one finger on the handle. It moves out of reach, before slamming itself again. From my crouched position I look up; it’s only now that I realise that it’s reclaimed the same position that I found it in earlier. It’s trying to draw my attention to something.

  In front of me is the very same cupboard I looked in earlier, containing piles of old books. The door is slightly ajar.

  ‘Okay, okay, okay. I’m getting the idea.’

  I open the cupboard, shaking my head emphatically. More dust billows out, glinting in the sun shining through the window. It’s dark in there and I can make out the same old textbooks and some magazines: National Geographic seems to be the order of the day. They haven’t been read in years, and cursory slide of my hand across the top copy disturbs copious amounts of dust. To the left, a solitary clear plastic envelope hangs off the ledge, as if it’s been discarded hastily. It wasn’t there earlier. I lift it up. Its title printed in bold, size fourteen ink reads:

  Harley, Snarlington and Boule: The true story behind the Printing Press (in progress) by Mr Alan Washwater, MA.

  Alan Washwater must have taken this from his drawer after we clocked him, and then rushed over here and shoved it in the cupboard. Whoever ransacked the room was looking for this.

  I hear a shout behind me.

  ‘I’ve snagged it on the bloody banister!’

  I seize the bell, steal the plastic envelope, and leg it as fast as I can, and I’m just about out of the room when my right foot slides on the remnants of Mr Washwater’s sick pool. My spectacular slip sends me crashing into the corridor wall, just below the broken window. I scrabble to my feet as I hear, David Rosenthal’s voice bellow:

  ‘Is everything okay up there?’

  He arrives at the top of the stairs with the police tape dragging along behind him. He looks at me with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I’m blushing guiltily. Stuttering wildly, I attempt to excuse myself, with a feeble, ‘I was just coming to see where everyone has gone.’

  The Detective Inspector pauses staring at the bell in my hand, police tape wrapped around his arms.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Okay, fair enough.’

  I roll up Alan’s manuscript.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’

  'No, I’m fine.’ I lie, flustered.

  I can see the contents of my bag strewn over the floor behind me. I swear silently to myself. I’d never be able to commit a convincing crime - I’d leave too many tracks.

  ‘Shelly, I do apologise, we’ve had some interesting developments in the current circumstances and I’m going to leave your statement until later. If your Head teacher decides to close the school, then I might get one of my colleagues to pick you up and bring you to the station for a statement. It will give you a bit of time, allow you to calm a little. Just talking to your teachers downstairs; everything’s a bit fraught.’

  I edge over to the classroom next door, grateful at this piece of news. DI Rosenthal entangles himself within the blue and white police tape, and I’m just beginning to conclude that he is a bungling cop, when he suddenly asks:

  ‘The flight of your fall: What were you doing back in Mr Washwater’s room, Ms Clover?’

  ‘Pardon.’

  ‘You hit the corridor wall and the glass has been spread towards the window. That could only have happened if you’d come out of his room. Judging by the slide marks, you’ve come straight out and through, rather than across. Yeah, yeah.’

  He eyes the police tape with a look of frustration on his face, weaving it this way and that. His moustache bobs left and right as he tries to figure out the spider’s web in his arms.

  ‘No, I ...’ Sun, headlights, full beam, caught.

  I make an unusual noise, which is not really a word.

  ‘Of course, If I was you, I’d just say I’d left something in the room and I was going back to get it…unless you were taking something from the room.’

  He looks at me very briefly – inquisitively – before his puzzled ‘I can’t untangle this’ expression returns.

  ‘Maybe that’s something you can tell me about later as well.’ One of his eyes peers up at me, full of insight and perception.

  ‘I will.’

  I will? I bloody will, what on earth am I saying?

  ‘Are you any good at untying things?’

  I sheepishly approach DI Rosenthal who has got himself into a right royal mess, freeing him very easily.

  He looks mildly astonished.

  ‘How did you do that so quickly?’

  ‘I have to wrap a big chain around my bike to secure it, and then unfasten it again.’

  ‘Well, thank-you, Shelly. I’ll see you tomorrow. Yeah-yeah.’

  Breathing heavily, I retrieve the contents of my bag as quickly as I can. Get me out of here. Get me home. I depart and turn left, not looking back at the gaggle of cops that has arrived and are now cordoning off the area. I take out my mobile phone and call Dezza. Boy, have we got stuff to talk about.

  His phone rings for several moments before going to his answer machine. He’ll be in his interview with Mrs Tyme-Read.

  I’ll call him again in about ten minutes.

  I pass streams of kids chatting in hushed whispers. The majority point at the freak that is me, Shelly Clover. Even the back exit of the school is swarming with kids and staff. Register lines have been called to account for all the pupils, and I realise that I should be in my form group but I’ve got to get away.

  I slip out, as far away from the playground as possible, and head towards the bike shed. Crouching down and unfastening the bulky chain on my bike, it appears that I have managed to escape attention. I weave the chain off and wrap it around the frame.

  ‘Shelly.’

  It’s Buddy.

  He’s on his bike.

  I’m a bit shocked. Didn’t Buddy catch his bus into school today?

  ‘Hey, Bud, what are you doing here?’

  He smiles a big gangly smile.

  ’Jus’ coming to see you.’

  ‘How come you’re not at school?’

  He looks puzzled and answers:

  ‘No school today.’

  He gets everywhere on that bike. He likes cycling to the west side of the Island in particular.

  My practical motherly tone kicks in.

  ‘Oh, thank you for coming to see me, Bud. We can ride home together, can’t we?’ Does mother know you are here?’

  He nods, but I’m not sure he’s telling the truth. He isn’t wearing his school uniform; he must have gone home and got changed into his favourite black denim jeans and a scruffy black shirt.

  ‘Okay, hon. Let’s go, but we’ve got to be quiet ‘til we get away from school.’

  Then, the thought occurs to me.

  ‘Buddy, you haven’t seen Elvis today, have you?’

  He suddenly looks sad and stares down at his feet.

  I’m not surprised at his reaction. Elvis never speaks to any of his brothers, but particularly his youngest; he acts like he doesn’t exist – just like he treats the rest of the Clover family, but I think he’s ashamed of Buddy in particular.

  ‘Come on then.’ I say, changing the subject whilst I quickly send a text to Dezza.

  We ride together, up the old driveway that leads to the front of the school, surrounded by large grassy mounds. The path forks, and we take a left by the edge of the forest, avoiding incoming police cars as we slowly make our way in the direction of home. I glance over my shoulder to my right and can see the pupils in the distance, lining up in rows. I feel a sense of release; escape. We make it to the road and head in the direction of Harley.

  I consider taking a few days off school; just have a break from things. Maybe if I lock myself in my bedroom, then I won’t die tomorr
ow. Even better, if I catch a ferry from Boule to the mainland, then I can go backpacking by myself for a couple of weeks until everything dies down. Apparently, I have a rich Aunty on the mainland. I don’t know anything else about her because she’s wisely chosen to sever contact with my family.

  I’m all of a whirlwind in my mind, when I notice the edge of the town coming into view. Buddy is pedalling hard ahead of me, weaving from side to side in his element. I peer over my shoulder to see if there are any cars coming, to make sure that he’s in no imminent danger. All is quiet on this sunny lunchtime, and I’m happy to dwell on my thoughts of a better world and a better life; anything to forget the horrible image of Alan. I hear a police siren in the distance, but I know that we are headed in the opposite direction. Buddy is further ahead now and pedalling madly.

  ‘Buddy...’

  No response. He still drives the bike hard. I increase my speed to catch up, calling again. No response. He speeds up even more; standing up to gain momentum.

  ‘Bud!… slow down.’

  We are entering Harley now, which seems unusually sleepy.

  The weight of my bag, which I’ve somehow managed to attach to my back, is substantial, and I find it hard to stand upright and inject a similar pace. I realise that I’m not gaining on him. I begin to panic.

  ‘Buddy, slow down!’

  Periodically checking over my shoulder for cars, I pass the old cinema, the old butchers, the old newsagents; everything old and closed down. Even the street performers in the town centre look apathetic. Many just sit on their storage boxes, smoking.

  We’re through the town centre and are heading out of Harley. I’m gaining just a little, when he suddenly slows down to a halt outside the wall of St. Harold’s.

  Oh Crap! Why’s he stopping here of all places? Why here?

  I’m about thirty feet away when he suddenly looks over his shoulder at me, smiles and....

  …rides through the entrance into the churchyard.

  ‘Buddy!’ I screech, losing my footing, half falling off my bike.

  I half pull up, half fall against the church yard wall, scraping my already injured right hand along the top. He cycles deep into the graveyard without a care in the world. I scream after him once again. No response.

  The little figure, scruffily dressed in black, is nearly out of sight. I steady myself against the wall, preventing the fall.

  I wait for him to come back into view – but he doesn’t.

  Feet back on the pedals, I push through the entrance and bomb after him, looking around anxiously. I pass the ancient tomb adorned with the statue of the Good Lady, Mary; police tape cordons it off. Jacobsfield is going to run out of police tape thanks to my family. Buddy comes into view briefly, approaching the fork in the path just parallel to the church. He takes a right and he’s heading to the exit at the far end behind a buttress at the edge of the Church. He rides in the direction of my previous sanctuary of peace.

  Turning right, he disappears from view.

  To be terrified in a churchyard is a whole new experience for me.

  I turn the same corner, imagining the eight foot tall Stone Angel honing into view. My knuckles are pale from my vice-like grip on the handlebars. Forgetting my nearest and dearest for a moment, I slow to a halt.

  ‘Buddy...’

  No response.

  A light breeze blows through the branches of the trees. Shadows ascend and descend along the path before me.

  ‘Buddy!’

  Eerie silence.

  I’m unsure of my next move. I wipe my brow.

  My phone explodes into life in my bag.

  I jump, half falling off my bike like I’ve taken an arrow in the back.

  I wrestle to release myself from the remaining strap as my mobile rings three times and then stops. I pant heavily; disorientated and scared.

  I place the bag by my bike and move slowly forward towards the edge of one of the buttresses.

  Then, I hear it.

  A soft crying…

  Peering around the corner of the buttress, I see Buddy’s bike propped up against a tree and a few feet ahead, there he is, kneeling and weeping in the middle of the gravel path.

  The little figure in black is hunched over, directly opposite my favourite set of gravestones; the ones that are now cordoned off with yet more police tape.

  Scrawled across Kelly Mortimor’s headstone, it reads: ‘I will kill Shelly Clover on Friday.’

  Tomorrow.

  The gravity of actually seeing the death threat for the first time begins to sink in. I swallow hard and look further ahead. I can see the solemn (and much smaller) Stone Angel, resting back in its original position. It silently peers over the Kelly’s grave. It looks lifeless.

  Checking once over my shoulder, I gingerly move forward as my little brother’s sobbing continues. He is bent over double, his chest heaving. It is a pure picture of grief and I search for clues as to what could have triggered this despair, but see nothing. I have never seen him like this, not ever.

  Then, a truly horrible thought occurs. What if it was Buddy who was spotted trashing the churchyard yesterday?

  I slow down.

  Surely he wouldn’t and couldn’t have vandalised the stones – and then, threaten me?

  I stop in my tracks.

  It doesn’t make sense...or does it?

  Here he is…mourning…weeping in a churchyard like it means something to him. How could he know about my sanctuary here?

  My feet are soft on the gravel as I move towards him, crouching down by his side, preparing to put my arm around him; I whisper in his ear gently.

  ‘Bud. It’s okay, hon. It’s okay…’

  The plume of matted, blonde hair that lifts itself is unkempt.

  The eyes are red and fierce; malevolent and spiteful. I pivot backwards onto my backside, grabbing handfuls of sharp stone beneath me for leverage as I scrabble to get away.

  Dressed in black, the figure climbs to its feet, elevating itself much taller than Buddy ever could. It towers over me vehemently.

  Camille Karrington clenches her fists by her side and doesn’t know where to begin; her spoils at her feet.

  She steps closer and crouches down by my face so her face is side by side with mine.

  I whimper.

  She then turns slowly inwards, facing me eye to eye. Her eyes are crystal blue, lifeless, emotionless.

  ‘She’s dead!’

  Silence.

  ‘She’s dead, Shelly.’

  My legs are jelly. I can’t stand, I can’t even move.

  Camille pushes her hair – clotted by snot and tears - away from her face, before reaching into her jacket pocket, still staring intently into my eyes.

  She takes out a series of old brown envelopes wrapped in an elastic band and thrusts them within an inch of my flinching face…and waits for a response. My mouth is dry.

  ‘Did you know Shelly?’

  My lips are quivering.

  ‘Did you know all along Shelly?’ she bellows.

  ‘Did you know about these – the truth. Is this why you visit this place?’

  She moves her face to within an inch of mine, spits in it, and then traces the letters slowly over the thick phlegm dripping down my cheek.

  Silence.

  ‘Do you...remember...me...?’

  There is calm and precision in her voice; her tone doesn’t waver.

  ‘I need that bell. Where is your bag?’

  ‘Where’s Buddy?’ I gasp.

  She laughs coldly.

  ‘You don’t get it do you, you stupid, stupid cow?’

  She sits backwards, watching me curiously; studying me.

  ‘Elvis gave me these’.

  She fans herself with the letters, waving them to and fro like an ‘A’ star school report worth bragging about.

  But, then she sighs very, very deeply and heavily, staring at the Church steeple.

  I have to really think about
each word I want to say. I have to hope that I can somehow get something out of my mouth despite my fear.

  ‘I know that you’re with Elvis.’ My voice cracks.

  Am I hoping that her relationship with my insane brother will somehow create some affinity between us?

  ‘Old news, Shelly.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ I squeal.

  Her eyes narrow.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The school - he rode away from the school on his motorbike. The police are after him.’

  Something shifts within Camille’s ice cold exterior.

  ‘What!’ She’s incredulous.

  She slaps me very, very hard, before bending over again and grabbing me by the throat. Her grip is vice-like, and more spit hits my face.

  ‘You lying cow, he’s meant to be meeting me here.’

  I splutter and choke and she releases her hold slightly.

  ‘I’m not lying…’ I implore, gasping for life.

  ‘…Mr Washwater has been poisoned; Elvis drove his bike through the...’ I start a bout of coughing.

  Camille turns her head and stares towards the corner of the church.

  She’s silent.

  I wait for a moment regaining my composure.

  ‘Please…Where’s Buddy?’

  ‘Mary had a little lamb, it’s fleece as white as snow and everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to go...’

  ‘What? What...do you mean by that?...the nursery rhymes?’

  This change of tack triggers an altogether new response in Camille.

  ‘What do you know about the nursery rhymes?’

  I fire back with a question, ‘Why did you want my bell yesterday?’

  ‘You stole it from me you bitch!’

  I shake my head, confused. Camille senses this and goes quiet. She may be evil, but she has a good brain in there. She can see that I’m telling the truth.

  Then, without warning, my dream from the previous night comes back to me; the slogan around the edge of the chess board. I hesitate only slightly before letting the words slip out,

  ‘Sometimes we profess to be the players, when we are actually the ones being played...’

  Her mouth drops open, and without warning, she picks up some stones from the gravelly path and throws a fistful at me. I scream and close my eyes.

  ‘How do you know about that? How do you know about that?’

  I shake my head, wiping away the dirt and stones that sting my forehead.

  ‘I don’t know why you hate me so much; I haven’t done anything to you.’

  She shakes the letters furiously in front of me.

  ‘These…’

  I feel like I’m pleading for my life in front of an executioner.

  ‘You are right; I don’t know what on earth is going on. I haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘This is the truth - in these letters; the truth about your family; the lies they spread. Oh, and your baby brother, Buddy...’

  She waves them front of me once more and I feel like she’s inviting me to react.

  ‘What are they? I don’t know what you’re showing me.’

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t you like to know; milk off all my hard work? My boyfriend got me these.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘What?’ Camille scowls.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I’ve told you; Elvis is...was…meant to be meeting me here. Don’t you dare be asking me questions?’

  I don’t know what it is, I can feel sweat dripping down the right hand-side of my face, but I sense Camille is on the back-foot and confused, and I feel just enough strength to make as much of this opportunity as my faltering courage will allow.

  ‘But, why here, why here in the church? He must have chosen this place for a reason.’

  ‘The gravestones, Shelly.’ She nods behind her, coolly, calmly and back in control.

  I stare in the direction of my favourite place; the Angel sitting motionlessly on the headstone.

  ‘What do you mean?’ A sudden feeling of impending dread takes hold of my heart as I remember that only moments ago I found Camille here crouched over and crying.

  She pauses, staring at me for a moment before delivering,

  ‘You don’t deserve to know.’

  ‘What? What’s that supposed to...?’

  ‘Some birthday this is.’

  Camille flares her nostrils and walks towards her bike, propped up against a tree – the one I thought was Buddy’s.

  I’m caught between fighting for more understanding and just taking the relief at seeing her go. I take the latter. She strolls by nonchalantly, passing me no more than a cursory glance, like I’m a dying bouquet of flowers on a grave.

  ‘Camille, please, where’s Buddy?’

  She turns briefly, and sniggers.

  ‘If you must know, he went that way.’ She jabs her finger towards the tiny exit path.

  I can’t tell if she’s telling the truth.

  Then, I remember the defaced gravestones with my death threat emblazoned over them.

  ‘Why do you want me dead tomorrow?’ I shout urgently, scrabbling to my feet.

  If this is going to be the last time we speak, before my nemesis tries to end my life, I need to know why.

  ‘I don’t want you dead.’

  She continues to walk, taking hold of her bike; she doesn’t even look back.

  Her response doesn’t make sense.

  ‘It was you who scrawled the message, wasn’t it? You did it, didn’t you? So, why do you want me dead?’

  ‘I don’t want you dead…’

  She glances over her shoulder.

  ‘…I’m just passing on the message.’

  She walks her bike around the corner of the buttress.

  My mind is reeling. I’m glad to see the back of her, but part of me wants her right back here explaining herself. I’m such a coward. I flop on the gravel, trying to let the last few moments sink in.

  Who wants me dead?

  Is it this Crow thing?

  But how: Is he getting somebody else to do it? Evelyn? Elvis? Buddy? Did my own little brother set me up? He knew Camille was here. I scrabble towards the two gravestones I know so well. I keep one eye on the Angel, but it looks lifeless and his grey sheen, particularly dull and mottled. I clamber under the protective police cordon.

  ‘The gravestones, Shelly.’

  ‘These letters contain the truth and lies about your family.’

  I keep Camille’s words at the forefront of my mind.

  I look at the Angel warily as I peer at the print on the vandalised headstone.

  It reads, Kelly Mortimor, born March 13th 1991; died March 13th 2004. These are the only words; the same old words I’ve always known. There you go, exactly thirteen years old. Her grave is tidy.

  Unlike the one next to it: Overgrown to the point that the grass reaches over the bottom of the stone itself.

  I move slightly closer and scan this next grave along.

  Whittal Corban;

  Born July 16th 1991; died July 18th 2004.

  A beloved son: Forever in our thoughts.

  Again, memorable - if only for this poor boy’s first name.

  We share the same birthday – July 16th.

  I sit back on my haunches and ponder both these stones. Camille motioned towards these gravestones; she was clearly here for these gravestones. She may have thought she was meeting Elvis, but she chose this spot to meet him.

  Or, did he choose this spot to meet her?

  My next thought scares me.

  What if there’s more than one child buried here?

  Oh my goodness.

  I quickly scrabble to uncover the grass at the bottom of the stone, searching for another inscription; I pull the foot long grass back as far as I can, and peer down at the dull, empty stone; nothing there; nobody else buried here. I scratch at the dirt at the bottom, rubbing vigorously, but still there’s nothi
ng.

  Questions, questions, questions.

  A dead end.

  Something puzzles me. What did Camille say? ‘Some birthday this is.’ But, my birthday was yesterday. Is it hers today?

  It’s at that moment I realise that if I’m going to have any hope, any hope at all of solving this; I’m going to have to do the very things I’ve been avoiding; the very things I fear. The thought occurs to me, and it is a very real one, that this is my last full day on earth; I don’t have any time left.

  I turn to the Stone Angel.

  ‘So, I’m all ears; if you have any answers; I need to hear them now.’

  The Angel stands impassively on Kelly Mortimor’s grave, unmoved by my plea.

  ‘I’ll listen.’ I repeat, ‘I wasn’t ready before.’

  I’m begging.

  Nothing.

  I’m not quite brave enough to reach out and yank the stone edifice into life. It looks very much attached, but I can see marks of separation between it and the headstone. So, I know there’s definitely been movement.

  I move in as close as I dare, I’m on my knees now, inching towards the tiny Angel; I can make out its pupil-less stone eyes.

  ‘I’m here.’

  I bend closer and closer.

  ‘Please listen t-‘

  The bells of St. Harold’s thunder overhead for one o’clock.

  Startled, I lose balance, pitching forwards, face-first into the grassy hollow between the two mounds.

  My chin collides with something solid.

  I thrust my head around urgently, checking to see if I’ve been pushed.

  The monumental din above gradually subsides, being replaced by a softer, more solemn noise emanating from my bag flung a few yards away.

  My bell is chiming softly and sadly; it sounds very different to anything else it’s produced. It is hauntingly beautiful. Its tones are reflecting the emotion of the situation.

  I rub my chin and then push my hands through the grass to find what I hit. I feel the sharp contours of something small and square. I wrestle back the grass, tugging out bundles; it comes away easily. Within seconds, something silvery-brown comes into view; a plaque with an inscription. I dust away the remaining dust, weeds, dirt and residue and read:

  Evelyn Parker

  Born July 3rd 2001

  Died July 3rd 2004

  A Tragic Loss.

  A million synapses fire in my head.

  ‘No.’

  My mouth goes dry; hairs tingle on the back of my neck. I cannot believe what I am seeing. This cannot be true.

  Evelyn dead! Evelyn dead!

  Evelyn Parker is very much alive and well and causing me continual misery.

  Is she?

  I feel like my mind is going numb; I’m processing so much.

  I cannot take this. I cannot comprehend this.

  Kelly Mortimor and Evelyn Parker: What’s the link? Is there a link? Has Evelyn faked her own death so she can come back from the grave to hunt, haunt and kill me?

  Or, is she really just plain old dead and haunting me? How does that even make sense? She hangs out at school with all her friends, taunting me at every given moment.

  My initial shock dissipates only marginally, as I grapple to think rationally about Evelyn. Is this just a coincidence? It must be just another Evelyn Parker, that’s all.

  But, Camille mentioned the graves...

  My mind moves onto Buddy, Camille specifically mentioned Buddy too; the truth about Buddy. What on earth does that mean?

  The bell in my bag is still chiming. I stare towards the path Buddy must have used to leave the church yard. Why Buddy? Why mention Buddy at all? Why not Chuck, Jerry, or Elvis? I think about Buddy’s special needs; is there something about this that Camille was alluding too? What about his facial features? He has a very strong likeness to mum; he’s definitely carrying Clover-clan genes.

  I consider that it was Buddy who met me at the school gate and it was he who led me to this place; to this specific spot. There are gigantic pieces of this puzzle missing.

  I stand, looking down at the mound; the plaque clearly readable.

  This Evelyn died when she was three. I have to find out what’s happened. I have to do it quickly. I walk towards my bag trying to think in straight lines. With Mr Washwater on his death-bed, I have little chance of solving the nursery rhyme puzzle. However, I have to get to the bottom of this book and how it works and there’s only one man on this earth who can possibly help me.

  I pick up my possessions and ride out of the churchyard towards Arthur Kingsley McFadden’s.

  Chapter Nine

  Heat on the Hill