Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover

by James Steven Clark

  ***

  It’s approaching nine pm, when the AKM-modified and patented two-seater bicycle ascends the steep hill towards the old site of the Printing Press.

  Over quick and easy microwavable meals, the decision to carry out this covert operation close to twilight was agreed upon: Quite simply, there would be fewer evening ramblers in this hilly part of Jacobsfield.

  The rain, now falling steadily on my borrowed man-sized mac, would probably have put off all but the most hardened walkers anyway, but this mission is far too top secret to be jeopardised. Night fall it is!

  At the rear of the bike, I pedal hard whilst I think about the telephone conversation I have just had with mother. More police round at the house: Still no Mark; definitely no Elvis. She was grateful that I was pre-occupying myself round at Arthur’s. She cried when I asked how Buddy was and told me that he was playing in my room and I shouldn’t worry about my little brother.

  I’m beginning to exert more force as we climb a particularly steep patch of dirt track, out of view of the main road. Arthur’s front headlight is more like a spot lamp - so much for going unnoticed. He tells me it’s infra-red as well, so we’ll be able to detect if anybody is around. I still haven’t heard from Dezza despite texting and calling him again. I’ll see him tomorrow, providing they don’t cancel school: Fat chance of that not happening.

  In the distance, I see the old ruins of the Printing Press on the summit of the hill. Above, it looks like somebody has splashed the thickest, darkest black paint over the skyline.

  The building itself - over two hundred years old - has kept its basic shape, and what a shape! It looks like something Arthur himself might have designed: It is a rhombus. At each of the four corners of the roof, protrude sharp steeple-esque masts. In a central position, towards the back, stands an old clock tower which is less intact. The clock face is present, but only the stump of the slow hand remains.

  I am reminded that this was a rebuild of the original by Malachi Jacobsfield himself, after the original burned to the ground – an unfinished project that was abandoned suddenly, without explanation. Mr Washwater’s manuscript about the Hidden History of Jacobsfield’s Printing Press, which we read earlier while we ate, was most enlightening about Malachi Jacobsfield, the authors’ successor.

  Arthur veers to the right slightly and heads towards a section adjacent to the Printing Press. Piles of different stones stick out of the ground. There’s the basic foundation of a smaller building and it is surrounded by white tape attached to iron poles; this is the site of the proposed archaeological excavation. As we come to a halt, I consider that this must be part of the original structure that Jacobsfield never got round to finishing.

  We dismount and Arthur does a three-sixty turn with his bike on one wheel, probing everywhere with his infrared headlight, looking for body heat.

  ‘Just our good selves here.’

  The rain patters off my mac and I study the muddy site that we’ll be exploring under rapidly diminishing light, thinking to myself – not enough light; a big flaw in the plan. Suddenly, several huge spotlights illuminate the scene. I rotate to see Arthur standing over a generator. He turns and smiles.

  ‘I think that will help us a great deal.’

  We stand quietly, staring at the cordoned-off section with just the sound of the rain cascading from the sky. In the middle of the sporadic stony outcrops is something of clear importance; a white marquee.

  The wind picks up and hammers against the side, fighting to pull up the sheets tenuously moored to the ground.

  Mr McFadden holds a small device which he informs me is attached to the infrared sensor on the bike, and will emit a low sound if we have company.

  A vociferous gust blows down my hood. With the rain belting against my face, I take an opportunity to check around myself for any unwanted visitors, just in case. It’s creepy around here. This place has a timeless feel of mystery, and something strangely untoward about it.

  ‘Pardon.’

  Mr McFadden turns to me straining to hear something I didn’t say.

  ‘Oh, don’t do that. I didn’t say anything.’

  The fierce gale jostles the tops of the fir trees from one side to the other.

  Voices in the wind.

  Silently, we move forward, pulling the perimeter tape over our heads and stepping carefully into the excavation site. The area is depressed by no more than a couple of feet. It is the size of a twenty-five metre swimming pool. Numerous parts have been excavated and covered in other protective sheets. Instinctively, we both head towards the marquee in the centre.

  My feet squidge on the wet grass, as we approach the section most illuminated by the spotlights.

  Arthur lifts the canvas at the front, and I take a look at the last of the day’s light in the scowling sky, teasing and daring us to go further.

  Once underneath, I survey the scene with the professor: Two ground lights shine inside on damp earth that has been completely excavated; just a top layer of soil. Various sealed tool boxes lie on the floor next to a small piece of scaffolding that covers a dark, deep looking, square hole in the ground. The entrance is propped up by inter-connecting metal poles which hold open a metal hatch.

  We both remove our hoods, the lights providing a degree of warmth. To be fair, the evening does have a bit of a chill to it.

  ‘I can only presume that we are heading underground.’

  ‘Any idea what we are looking it?’

  ‘I can only think that it has something to do with the subterranean entrance mentioned in the manuscript you took from Alan’s cupboard.’

  As well as info about Malachi Jacobsfield, Alan’s small folders threw up some interesting information about a recently discovered secret entrance in an area several hundred yards from the main building - the area we are now exploring.

  Just then, a high-pitched sound reverberates from Arthur’s belt. He removes the infrared device and taps it a couple of times.

  He smiles, ‘Just some interference, no one here; nothing to worry about.’

  If Evelyn Parker really is a ghost, will the device pick up any heat signal from her? I shudder.

  Arthur attaches it back around his midriff and then produces a torch.

  He turns and heads towards the hole. I follow and peer in front of him, down the gently descending shaft. Large stone steps lead downwards towards a large door about twenty feet below. Fear sets in. I don’t like the look of this. I turn back and realise I cannot see beyond the glare of the spotlights from where we came. I imagine evil spirits lurking just beyond the blackness of the rapidly approaching night.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Arthur starts his descent.

  ‘Can I stay here?’ I blurt out.

  Mr McFadden swivels to face me, pausing for a moment.

  ‘That’s quite alright Shelly, I’ll shout up if I find anything.’

  He moves down and I hear him shout up, ‘It’s a bit slippy.’

  A few seconds later, he calls up, ‘There is a huge iron door.’ I hear him shoving it, ‘It’s locked, I think.’

  I glance around again and see a shadow on the side of the marquee; something’s moving outside. At that very moment, the side of the marquee billows inwards.

  I fight to maintain the rational side of my mind. It was just a shadow. It’s just a sheet that’s blown off its moorings, nothing else, chill, Shell, chill.

  ‘It’s definitely locked.’ Arthur’s voice sounds hollow and detached.

  I suddenly remember the key that slipped out from the plastic envelope containing the manuscript and I rummage for it while keeping an eye on everything around me.

  ‘Here, try this, it’s a key. I forgot about it.’

  Arthur shines light back up the shaft.

  ‘Throw it down, Shelly.’

  I chuck the key down and it lands on the penultimate step. Arthur takes it and tries the door. I can hear him grunting and muttering under his breath. ‘It fits!�
� he calls out excitedly.

  Something crashes outside. I spin round, straining to listen…but hear only the howling wind. I’m sure I…

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I shout.

  There’s a pause in the activity below before Arthur calls up:

  ‘No, only the rain, it’s probably the wind blowing something over.’

  The rain continues to pelt against the protective marquee above me.

  ‘It’s opening!’

  I hear a creak and the sound of metal grinding, and I realise that I don’t want to be up here by myself. I wipe the rain and sweat from my face. I can hear Arthur chuntering to himself.

  I reach the darkness of the first step down and then,

  ‘I hate you.’

  I freeze, nearly losing balance.

  I could have sworn it came from Arthur’s direction, from Arthur himself.

  ‘Sorry…Mr McFadden…did you say something?’

  I see the torch bobbing up and down below.

  ‘No, but I’m glad that you have decided to join me, here, give me a hand with this.’

  I’m sure that I heard something; absolutely convinced.

  ‘I think we should go.’

  ‘Nearly there, Shelly. Just come and hold my torch while I get some purchase.’

  I descend quickly. I’m shaking. I take the torch and shine it on the old rusty door. With a heave, the door starts to grind open amidst the professor’s grunts of exertion. I wipe more sweat off my brow.

  ‘I smell your death.’

  I flash the torch back up towards the entrance in an instant.

  Arthur pants in the darkness I have left him in.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  I realise that I’m leaving my friend in the pitch black, but I know that there is someone else here; a disembodied voice.

  ‘There’s someone else here.’ I whisper back.

  Arthur steps next to me, checking his infrared sensor.

  ‘I assure you that this thing is brilliant for a thousand feet.’ he says tapping his device.

  ‘I heard a voice, I’m sure of it.’

  I turn and look at the Professor who gazes into my eyes and doesn’t say a thing. He’s thinking. He’s studying me as I wipe my damp face again, perspiration now dripping into my eyes.

  He looks alarmed.

  ‘What is it?’

  His eyes trace down in the direction of my hands. The torch feels slimy.

  ‘Shelly, you’re bleeding.’

  I aim the beam towards my face; I see my dark palms clasping the torch and blood dripping from my chin.

  ‘Do you feel okay?’ Arthur speaks softly.

  I panic.

  Arthur grabs my arm and produces a handkerchief from his lapel. He wipes my forehead.

  ‘Did you strap your helmet on too tightly?’

  ‘I dunno.’ I’m starting to hyperventilate.

  He looks directly into my eyes.

  ‘You’re bleeding from your forehead.’

  He shakes his head, ‘We should leave.’

  It doesn’t sound like a bad option.

  ‘It might be something to with your head trauma yesterday.’

  I look at the crack in the half-opened door as Arthur hands me the key.

  I don’t know what on earth is happening to me, but we’re so close. Do I dare stop now?

  Arthur bends close and examines my face.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ he exclaims, ‘Hematidrosis!’

  ‘H…Wha..?’

  ‘It’s a medical phenomenon; quite unusual. The capillaries on your forehead have burst, Shelly. It happens under extreme emotional duress; when people think they’re about to…die. The pressure of the thought can literally manifest a physical effect. People during the blitz in world war two sweat blood, when they were convinced they were about to die.’

  He looks into my eyes with compassion.

  ‘You’ve been through too much, we should go.’

  ‘I’m fine, I mean it. I’m fine.’

  He moves his hand towards the torch.

  ‘Mr McFadden, I can’t let this go – we’re so close.’

  He withdraws and gazes into my eyes.

  ‘AKM, I really, desperately need answers.’

  ‘Are you sure, I mean completely sure?’ He’s stern.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be alright.’

  He reaches into his pocket and passes me another handkerchief.

  ‘Completely. One hundred percent sure, Shelly?’

  ‘One hundred and one.’

  ‘Okay, you’re an incredibly brave young lady. Let’s do this as fast as we can and then go home for scones. Let me do all the pedalling and then I’ll give you a lift home in the van.’

  ‘Ready?’

  Arthur turns and braces himself for the final push. He’s still shaking his head – he’s reluctant to continue. I shine the torch as the door is yanked three quarters open before grinding to a complete halt.

  Cool, stale air forces its way out from the gap. We look at one another, sharing a mutually inquisitive look:

  The Printing Press’s Pandora’s box has been opened.

  ‘Gosh, I feel like a real Egyptologist.’

  I sense a slightly apprehensive waver in his statement. I pass him the torch and step closer. It’s strange, but even in this moment, I feel a togetherness that I have never experienced around anyone else other than Buddy.

  The Inventor leads me in as the glow from the lamp radiates across a short corridor leading into what appears to be a circular main section. Something shimmers on the ceiling above this section. I follow the beam like a snake following its charmer, as Arthur highlights the path ahead. We walk through the blank, dull walls of the passage for several feet until we enter the circular section. It smells a hundred years damp.

  Three old oak chairs sit facing inwards towards a large object which I can only describe as a giant, upside-down bottle-stop that stretches up to the ceiling. My description doesn’t do it nearly enough justice. It has a look of carved mahogany, very smooth in some places, but with the rough texture of a tree trunk in others.

  Tiny black orifices have been hollowed into the main narrow body of the structure. Around its thickest part, is a thick ring, like the one that encircles Saturn. In the same way that gravity holds those rings in place, this too has no obvious mooring as it circumnavigates the central structure.

  ‘Amazing…just amazing.’ Arthur proclaims.

  Half way up the thinner, higher section, several spindly wooden legs, with joints at their centre, point down over the rim of the ring. Each leg veers at different angles and different elevations, giving the whole object the appearance of a spider on the move.

  As I trace the torch beam to the ceiling, I’m amazed at what I behold. Every inch is covered in glass chains that hang like garlands; thousands and thousands. At the centre of each, smaller chains hang directly downwards. At the end of each hang ornamental and extravagantly shaped crystals of different colours. They shine brilliant reds, indigos, marine greens and purples, to name just a few. Even in their dust-laden condition, they are dazzling in their vibrancy and complexity.

  A portion of the wall has crumbled away, spilling out dirt and soil on to the floor of the chamber. I move across and slide my hand across something smooth, black, white and metallic.

  This place is weird.

  We are both speechless as AKM heads towards one of the three chairs surrounding spider-tree.

  One of the spindly wooden legs hangs directly on to the rim of the ring. On the end is a pink, rhombus shaped crystal, plucked from the ceiling and placed there on purpose. It sits alone on the ring.

  We move closer, torch positioned on the object.

  Arthur reaches out, his fingers wavering uncertainly, before wrapping them around it. With little give, the withered wooden arm releases its prize. He shines the beam closer.

  ‘Do you think it fits in one of these holes?’ He asks.

  He duck
s under the rim, reaches up and sets the pink crystal into one of the dark incisions in the body of this strange, tall, edifice. I can see that his hands are really shaking.

  There’s a low throbbing, vibrating sound, as the circular ring blazes in a golden, fiery red. Giant black droplets ooze from the ceiling, and land on the ring. They seep deep into its midst, bending and contorting, curving and then - creating clearly some kind of visible script. The ring turns slowly and the words become clearer and sharper.

  ‘Oh…my…goodness…’

  Jonas Harley, Christopher Snarlington and Thomas Boule consulted the Whispers they heard on a regular basis. They inspired their writing. It was their secret and nobody needed to know. Britain continued to benefit and prosper from the rich creativity they provided. They often thought about the origin of the Whispers but presumed them benign. Their work was admired for its astonishing creativity and originality. It pushed the boundaries of acceptance, stretching the conservatives minds of the time, sometimes too far, but with each book, there was a uniqueness that carried with it acceptance and forgiveness.

  It wasn’t until an early release of its last ever known novels: ‘The Last, Mass Hysteria of Mankind’, that a tangible and unacceptable shift occurred.

  Friends and acquaintances of the three authors commented on their irrational behaviour. They were anxious about this set of books and restricted their release to the island itself. Even within the confines of an Island-only circulation, they procrastinated over the release date repeatedly, as the entire nation panted eagerly for anything and everything from the pens of these great writers.

  Within one week, following their eventual publication, rumours and reports of strange happenings began to spread across the island – some beneficent and harmless, but others evil and destructive. The perpetrators of these malevolent acts cited, they had felt ‘led’ to do these things by the book themselves.

  Within weeks, it was claimed that merely owning a copy of one of these books could lead the owner to act in an irrational manner. Rumour spread that ‘The Last, Mass Hysteria of mankind’ was cursed.

  Astonishingly, at this time, Harley, Snarlington and Boule vanished; they simply could not be traced. Then, one evening, all three turned up at the Printing Press they had created and set in motion a plan to retrieve every copy of the book. This was at enormous personal expense, and eye-witnesses and employees told of their visible agitation and apprehension.

  At this point, I, Malachi Jacobsfield, was contacted by one of the publishers. As a major investor in the business, I knew that the entire welfare of the Printing Press was in jeopardy. I insisted on a meeting with all three gentlemen later on that evening. I made it clear in my message, that should they disappear again, I would not even remotely consider using my portion of our investment in retrieving these books. I didn’t want to do this anyway.

  At eight o’clock, on that cold November evening, I hastened on horse-back to these very foundations. I was troubled to see that the door to the Printing Press was locked and there was no visible activity on the hill mount. Most perplexed, and irritated I was about to charge my steed and return home when I noticed a small shaft of light rising from the ground several hundred feet due west from the main building. After dismounting, I walked towards the point of light and discovered a metal hatch, slightly ajar, set into the ground, which had it not been closed properly, I doubt anyone would have noticed it.

  Puzzled, I descended the twenty or so stone steps, until I reached another door, also ajar. Angry voices could be heard from behind it and I recognised these to be the voices of the authors. I peered through the door and was curious to behold the men copying notes from an object like no other I have ever seen; a bright wheel whirred around an old oak-like tree.

  Harley and Boule were arguing fiercely, ‘It’s not good enough, it doesn’t make sense, and it’s not going to work!’ The arguments were bitter and desperate. All three men sat in three chairs silently for several minutes. Intrigued by this sight, I had half an inclination to walk straight up to them and demand to know what was going on, but something kept me from pursuing an explanation. In the pro-longed silence, I eventually left. To this day, I cannot explain why I did so. It felt like I was not meant to interfere in the events of that evening.

  The next day, I heard that all three had sold their homes and their entire possessions and were using all the monies to ‘buy back’ every single book that had circulated across the island.

  I was mortified to hear this.

  Despite sending another urgent request to meet, I received no reply.

  I knew their secret hiding place, however, and so, I secretly attended their meetings.

  I had every intention of interrupting them, but something stopped me each and every time.

  Over the course of the week, seemingly all the novels were returned to the Printing Press at enormous personal expense. I gleaned this information as I continued to listen to their vicious arguments. This time, they appeared to be arguing about a new novel, a different novel. This raised my hopes that they were not about to stop publishing altogether.

  But, there was something about this new book that was causing great consternation between them. To my horror, they planned to burn every copy of the Last, Mass Hysteria of Mankind and if possible, every other book they had written, if this new book wasn’t effective.

  ’What on earth were they thinking? What were they talking about?

  On the Friday, after four previous evenings attending their secret meetings, I arrived slightly later than usual.

  I was shaken to the very fabric of my being at what I beheld: The Printing Press was ablaze. I scarcely could believe what I was witnessing.

  To the north, the door in the ground was completely open, standing upright, with shards of light pouring out.

  I heard screaming from inside the main building, which was rapidly being engulfed in flames. I dismounted quickly and was making haste to the building when I tripped over the barely-conscious frame of Jonas Harley. He had a perforation in his chest – a knife wound – he was bleeding profusely. I told him that I would come straight back to help him, but I could hear people trapped inside. He grabbed my arm with whatever feeble strength he had left and told me that it was too late for Christopher and Thomas. He indicated that I should help him towards the hatch in the ground.

  His breathing was becoming heavy and laboured and as I had formerly been a physician prior to becoming a philanthropist and architect, I realised that he must have had some kind of lung wound. I asked him what was happening and he was unwilling to divulge anything at first. I then admitted that I had being spying on all of them in this chamber for the last few nights. Close to death and with the stark acceptance of this fact in his eyes, he decided to reveal as much as he could. Henceforth, I communicate this dialogue to whoever should read this.

  Jonas feebly began his tale...

  Christopher Snarlington had insisted that they burn the Printing Press to the ground that evening, an action that Jonas found abhorrent. Thomas Boule had also disagreed and had insisted that there was still time for their latest book to right the many wrongs that had been done. All three men had walked over to the Printing Press, leaving a final book, a brand new book, in the secret subterranean chamber,

  Or at least, so they thought.

  As they walked, they discussed this matter further and seemingly had convinced Christopher Snarlington of their perspective. However, at the point of consensus another argument ensued.

  It transpired that, Christopher Snarlington had - in the dying words of Jonas Harley – continued listening to the Whispers of something called the Carrion Crow behind their backs and that he had been instructed to burn everything, including this latest book, which he then produced from under his jacket. The arguing continued as they entered the building.

  Jonas himself realised too late, that Christopher Snarlington had already set out candles inside the lobby of the Printing Press.


  At this point, it appears that Christopher started to light this new book in front of them and when Jonas intervened, there was a flash of steel and he was stabbed. As he fell, he turned to see Christopher and Thomas wrestling and candles being tipped over.

  Jonas informed me that he had clutched his chest, felt the wound, and knew his time was short, so he grabbed the new book and smothered it with his body before staggering out of the building as Christopher and Thomas fought behind him.

  When his strength gave way, he fell on his front and crawled as far as he could. At this point I found him. With his eyes losing focus, Jonas grabbed and hollered at me in a high-pitch voice, his death rattle, that nobody should listen to the Whispers and that I should keep this book. I asked him if I should destroy it, but he shook his head, He then said something most disturbing:

  ‘At the right time...when the Whispers come...only this book can counter those that destroy.’

  I knew not what he was talking about, and through the fear and desperation showing in his face, he told me to drag him down the stairs towards the spider tree, where I should put one crystal on the ring –only one - and listen to it.

  I asked him how I should do this and he feebly replied that I should touch the circular ring. He was beginning to lose his fight to remain lucid, so I dragged him to the bottom. He knew his time was up and so he begged me with dis-jointed words to ensure the best that I could, the safe passage of this final book. He said that all three authors could not understand it; it was too simple, but they knew it held power. However they did not know how to harness it or how it should be used. It was not like any other book they had written and they could not release it. He then told me it had been written by a Whisper, who claimed to be a Cherub…

  As more viscous black liquid, cascades downwards on to the ring, from the crystals above - it feels like several large pieces of the puzzle are finally falling into place. I am utterly gobsmacked. Is this all really happening?

  …His eyes were glossing over and he was clearly hallucinating with his dying breaths. I found his words mysterious and disturbing, but he was determined that I should heed his every one. Barely audible now, he said the final copies of ‘The Last, Mass Hysteria of Mankind’ that had been inspired by the Carrion Crow – a name he had mentioned already – must be destroyed.

  He then, quite simply, died in my arms. As I knelt with his body slumped in my breast, I felt like a witness of great and terrifying events. My mind was awash with revelations of new information that I could not comprehend at that moment. I did not know what to do. I prayed. I needed time to think and I simply had no time.

  I realised that Jonas was referring to Whispers as if they were people: Living beings or creatures - this I knew not. I was none the wiser as to what they did or where they were. I looked at the tall tree-like structure behind me and thought about touching it, but I had more pressing needs. I grabbed the tome next to the body of Jonas Harley and raced back up the stairs.

  I was half-way back up, when a man, completely engulfed in flames, appeared at the top. I did not recognise him, so terrific were his injuries, he was screaming in total agony and rage,

  ‘Where is the book?’

  His lips melted as he spoke.

  He staggered towards me – screeching,

  ‘Jonas, give me the book.’

  The heat from the furnace that completely consumed him, had by no means quenched the will of his rage, as he commanded his body forwards towards me, mistaking me for the deceased Mr Harley.

  I teetered on the stairs, and losing my footing, fell backwards. The man propelled himself downwards with too much force, the flames already having burned out his eyes. He missed the first three steps and went crashing over me. I caught the weight of his body as he slid over me and downwards towards the bottom. I was burned and in great shock; I managed to stand with the book clutched to my breast. It had caught fire. I put the flame out and raced up the stairs for my dear life. I turned to see the man right himself and with astonishing strength, propel himself back up towards me.

  Christopher Snarlington screamed like I have never heard a man scream before, with utter venom and contempt, as he half crawled, half dragged himself back up the stairs, leaving his own sizzling flesh on the steps. I reached the top terrified out of my mind; my old friend, Christopher had gone mad and he was going to kill me like he had killed the others. I looked back, hoping that he would not be able to make it to the top, but, he kept slithering further and further up until he was almost upon me.

  I wept as I searched my heart quickly – he’d killed Jonas Harley and Thomas Boule and using this as justification, I brought the heavy open hatch down as hard as I could on top of him, severing his still blazing forearms and head from the rest of his body.

  I was numb.

  Not quite half a cadaver smouldered before me, as behind me, giant explosions pummelled the night sky. I retched as I fell to my knees once again; the book by my side. I knew the townsfolk would be up here soon and I had to act quickly to get the only thing that could give me some clue to these horrific events, to a safe place. I kicked the blazing remains of Christopher Snarlington underneath a nearby tree and covered the entrance with large damp clumps of leaves that had fallen from the autumn sky.

  Within seconds, I was on my horse and galloping down the opposite side of the hill. I turned to see men with flaming torches racing towards the Printing Press from the way I came. There was only one option I could think of, only one safe place I could hide this book, and so I whipped my horse all my might and raced to the foundations of the school. Harley, Snarlington and Boule had commissioned me to design and build this. I could hide it there at least for one night and give the labourers a day off tomorrow, in mourning for the deceased writers. My mind raced ten times as fast as my steed...

  I turn to say to Arthur, ‘That’s the original old school building he’s referring to.’

  At least, that’s what I want to say, and I think I do, but it sounds blurred and groggy as if my mouth is elastic.

  I say it again, and it comes out only slightly better. I have never been drunk, but my head feels different. It feels like the only care I should have in the world right now, is reading the words on the wheel.

  As more precious black ink cascades downwards on to the fiery, golden wheel, I realise that I am not actually reading anything, I’m hearing all the words in my head and in my heart; two places in one go. I cannot explain it. They seep like luxurious honey into parts of me that I cannot explain. If I have a soul, I guess it must be my soul.

  Arthur looks transfixed by the rotating wheel, captured by its majestic beauty. His face looks droopy.

  I repeat the sentence again, ‘That’s my old school.’ keeping it simpler, so I can say it better.

  Mr McFadden stirs for the briefest of moments before returning his attention to the wheel. He looks like he has seen the invention to beat all inventions.

  I look back at the wheel again. I feel a tugging inside, as if I have missed something so important that I must catch-up on the rest of the words if I am ever going to love, learn or even feel alive again. I gaze back at the beautiful circling wheel and let the smooth ink-drops soak into my heart and mind again; it feels beautiful.

  After returning from the school with the book, and gazing on the unusual mysteries it contained, I had to find more answers. I did not understand the contents of the book. It had a huge metal device at the back and I was careful not to cut myself on the metal spikes. It contained chapters on puzzles, prophetic utterances and nursery rhymes amongst other things. It was an eclectic mixture and did not seem to be cohesive in any way. I resolved within myself to head back to the site of the still smouldering Printing Press at the dead of night; to descend the steps of the secret room in the ground, ignoring the instructions of my departed friend, Jonas Harley: I needed to listen to one of the Whispers.

  I kicked away the huge clump of leaves and descended the steps once agai
n. I gagged at the remains of Christopher. His stench was horrendous.

  A little further in was Jonas laying in a pool of blood on the floor, rigor mortis now setting in. I held a handkerchief of lavender to my nose as I approached the huge spider-like tree in the middle of the chamber. I sat on one of the seats and nervously reached forward, touching the ring with my shaking hands, my eyes held closed. I felt the wheel start to move and I opened my eyes to see the tree come alive. It reached up with its spindly wooden legs and extracted a crystal from the shimmering glass articles on the ceiling. The legs then - jerked and jutted in ridged movements to place the crystal – aqua green in colour – within a cavity inside the tree. The tree stopped moving completely, as if it had returned to being cold and lifeless once again. The wheel continued to turn but nothing happened for several seconds and then from nowhere, a voice began to speak to me.....from somewhere inside me.

  ‘I’ve found you. I have found you at last...’

  I turn towards Arthur, surprised at the clarity of the voice I am hearing. It sounds more detached, more outside than in...

  I’m finding it hard to re-adjust back to the real world. Arthur is looking straight at me. There is terror in his eyes. I’m presuming he is hearing the voice as the story-teller is relating it, but his look is confusing. I try to blink.

  ‘I see you now, I’m coming closer.’

  I feel dazed. I see Arthur opening his mouth. He’s mouthing something. I have never seen Arthur look scared. I’m using all my might to readjust to the real world.

  ‘This is my domain. This is…my…domain.’

  The voice screams directly above my head. Something snaps me awake. I now hear what Arthur is mouthing;

  ‘Get away from it, Shelly. Get away from it, Shelly!’

  I peer up at the shadow hovering above me. It glides silently down; it screams in my head, hissing:

  ‘I can taste your blood.’

  Arthur barges into me, and we clatter down onto the floor. My breath freezes within my lungs. There’s more blood in my eyes, blurring my vision.

  ‘Runnnn...!’ Arthur screams wildly.

  No more than two feet away - the sound of static mixed with the vibrations of a rattlesnake’s tail. It comes closer; almost upon us. I’m scrabbling to my feet…it’s almost on us.

  ‘I am your death. I smell your death. I smell your cancers. You are putrid. I spit on your decaying souls.’

  My arms flail, Arthur is a step ahead; he isn’t waiting. I’m near the bottom of the stairs when the thing moves directly through me…

  I’m being sucked pathetically into a whirlpool, down through bottomless seas. I collapse on the floor; a shadowy torso hangs above me.

  It’s surrounded by hundreds of octopus-like tendrils that reach up to a hood, sweeping over its dark, featureless face. I wonder if it’s midnight yet and if this is the day I die. Several tendrils reach inside me and…

  My eyes narrow.

  I want to kill.

  I want to kill anything. I am hate itself.

  I am hate. I am hate.

  I look to Arthur scrabbling up the stairs for safety. I want to throw myself at him and rip flesh away from his legs with my teeth.

  I half-scream, half-growl and launch myself murderously towards him.

  He stumbles on the slippery steps and stares wildly over his shoulders.

  I picture Malachi Jacobsfield in exactly the same place two hundred years before.

  My inventor friend is Malachi and this time he will die.

  I will not let him escape this time. I feel an urge to get down on all fours and stalk him, accentuating his fear – goading him mercilessly - but it is time to kill, not stalk.

  I slide up the steps like a snake in pursuit.

  He scrabbles to right himself. I’m almost on him. I feel the presence above me. I feel the words seep into my conscious thoughts; they are blood-filled hate; they are the very person I am. I claw at the back of his calves slicing lines into his skin with my nails. He breaks free and manages to roll away.

  ‘I want you to want it. I want you to want to kill.’

  ‘I do too...’

  I pant heavily.

  Above me, the protective marquee has completely blown away revealing the blackest of wet, starless nights. In an adrenalin-frenzy, I launch myself upwards and out through the hatch.

  Arthur stops and suddenly turns around. I hear the pitiful pleas from my prey; a weakling, an utter coward.

  ‘Shelly, it’s me. Shelly, listen to me. It’s Arthur.’

  These words mean nothing to me.

  I thrust into him with my feeble thirteen year old frame. He’s not even looking at me as I floor him. His eyes are above me. A shadow hangs over us both. Moonlight doesn’t even penetrate. I grab the key from my pocket and stab it into his face.

  He screams. He grabs my hair and yanks my head sideways, shoving me into the wet grass. I feel pain, but I feel empowered, victorious. I hurt, but it feels good. I go down on all fours ready to go again.

  ....and the feeling suddenly disappears, leaving me numb and senseless.

  There’s a tremendous amount of pain in my neck and I pitch forward on moist earth, overcome with exhaustion.

  Rolling over to get a better view, I can see the creature descending slowly through the darkened sky onto Mr McFadden.

  He’s screaming.

  I observe a black torso and hooded head with no legs visible extending from a body that’s almost amphibian. It slowly turns to hover over him, at an inhuman angle. Its posture is bizarre. Hundreds of tentacles or tendrils move slowly over and into the inventor’s body, almost completely shrouding him in a dark glowing green. The creature moves slowly off him and I hear chilling instructions.

  ‘You’re stronger than her. Twist her head until her neck snaps and then keep twisting. Keep twisting it round and round.’

  Arthur lets his bloodied face loll towards me. Blood flows into his eyes from where my key punctured his forehead. It spills on to the grass. He smiles and I can see his teeth reddening as his mouth twists in an evil contortion.

  ‘I’ll rake her flesh with my nails....’

  I feel my mouth go dry, ‘Arthur, please....’

  Silver lines exit from his mouth, pluming upwards as he shouts acid and vitriol in my direction. He stands and bounds towards me. He reaches out his hands, hooking them round like claws.

  Grabbing me by my hair, he yanks me to my feet; ripping it out by the roots. I feel pain and terror. He yanks me off the ground and I twist and kick as it feels like my crown is being torn from my head.

  ‘Mc…M…Fadden...’

  His hands move to my throat and he begins to squeeze. I gurgle and splutter, choking under the crushing weight of his grip. Blood pours down the right hand side of his face, mingling with his pointy beard. I grab his wrists but I am hopelessly out-matched by his strength and intent.

  Breath halts in my throat; none coming in, none going out.

  ‘Hate is all I have. You betrayed me, just like the others.’

  I have never trusted men, but I didn’t think my life would end at the hands of the one I allowed myself to trust. How ironic?

  ‘You used me for my inventions you callous thief.’

  My knees buckle and my vision blurs. I’m aware that my throat is making involuntary constricted noises.

  This is what it feels and sounds like to be strangled.

  I see light around the periphery of my vision and suddenly…

  I’m on the damp ground with Arthur.

  He’s let go.

  I cough for my life, clutching my throat and heaving the night air back into my chest. Sparks and flames surround us, fizzing backwards and forwards. I feel the hairs on my body stand on end, as streaks of blue and white and dark green encircle us.

  I hear Arthur mouth, ‘Oh my goodness, oh my goodness...’

  I pitch onto my side, barely conscious.

  Then, I see it.

  It
is like a cosmic explosion of light, as the Stone Angel wrestles the dark shadowy creature. They are spinning round and round and gaining momentum.

  Like an open circuit – sparking dangerously - green shafts of jagged light arch back and forth hitting us both. For every green shaft that hits, I feel death and decay within me. But, for every blue and white shard tearing upwards, I feel hope and vitality.

  Arthur crawls next to me; he takes me and unzips my jacket, freeing some space for me to catch my breath.

  ‘Oh, Shelly, I am so sorry, I am so sorry, please breathe, please breathe.’

  I try and nod at him, vigorously rubbing my throat, feeling for the wind-pipe within my neck.

  There are huge cracking sounds in the night around us. The air throbs and pulsates as the two opponents hold one another face-to-face.

  Then, the words come:

  ‘Hate, Death...Prevail...’

  ‘Fortitude, Sanctify…Hope…’

  Each word is squeezed into the night-air sporadically, some coming in batches of two; contrasting nouns pummelling each other. Some are spat forth like a disease, others spoken with calm, strong authority, as the contenders lock horns.

  They’re spinning quickly now, like a washing machine on fast spin. Louder, louder – the words are spoken so quickly now, they can barely be discerned.

  ‘Die...Life...Di....Lif...e..ee...Hop...De...cay...’

  The ground beneath is pounding with immense vibrations. Shockwave after shockwave drives through us.

  Then, suddenly, both opponents lift off the ground and spin in all directions, like a Catherine Wheel spiralling out of control. There are sharp flashes of light, and with each, huge images of people laughing, people grieving, imprint themselves on the night sky, hovering gently for a few moments before dissolving.

  Showers of sparks, rain down on us; skin tingles as they hit. The Stone Angel and the shadowy creature go into overdrive, tremors tearing into the whole hill. Top soil is torn away from the ground. Trees sway.

  Arthur and I shield our eyes as the light becomes too bright, clasping one another for support as we are rocked up and down on the spot. The wind is so powerful now, we both begin to teeter. I see Arthur pitching backwards, and then...

  The shadowy creature is expelled and is launched into the night sky upwards and diagonally at a phenomenal speed.

  It sails lifelessly for hundreds of metres, before jerking once, very violently; reviving itself.

  And like a moon jelly-fish, undulating and gliding – it flees; contorting its body like an insect sprayed with fly-spray. Up and up it rises, until finally banking left and sailing towards the coast-line. I can imagine it dropping into the sea, but it takes a steady trajectory for over a minute, until obscured completely by a turgid sky.

  I wipe my face of dust and tiny fragments of rock. I wipe several times. Stray hairs seem to cover my face, but they are soft and have a rubbery texture. There’s something globular and slimy between my fingers and I realise that they are the tendrils of the creature. I hastily tear them away, as if they are venomous snakes left behind from the head of a medusa. This thing definitely passed through me, but was physical too.

  Arthur shakes to my right hand side as the Stone Angel glides slowly back to earth landing roughly no more than three yards in front of us. It lands at an awkward angle so heavily, that the impact half buries it. At over eight feet tall, the Angel stands as phlegmatic as I remembered it yesterday.

  The spot lights cast striking shadows along its rigid contours. Small fissures and cracks adorn its surface: Wounds – quite possibly?

  It stands silently for several seconds, its blank, featureless face accentuating its authority and its presence. It cocks its head to look at Arthur before returning its gaze to me. My feeling of relief when I see it is completely opposed to how I felt when I first saw it.

  It speaks - this time audibly - in a low, gravelly voice.

  ‘You are both injured.’

  I am still breathing heavily and I feel light headed. I feel injured.

  Arthur’s trying to form words, but he’s stuttering too much to produce anything coherent. He gives up trying and kneels there shaking.

  ‘It has gone for now, but it will return.’

  ‘What was it?’ I croak myself into a coughing fit.

  The Stone Angel doesn’t speak for a moment. I don’t know if it is considering a response, or assessing my wounds.

  ‘It is a Whisper.’

  ‘What did it want? It was horrible.’

  I pause for more breath. ‘It made me want to kill.’

  ‘This is a very dangerous Whisper. The tides of the Island changed a few hours ago and I was alerted to its presence. It was already here and has been for centuries, but you trespassed on its domain, and it had to respond.’

  Arthur has taken another handkerchief and is wiping the blood away from his brow to get a clearer view.

  ‘What is a Whisper? We read about them from the ring around the tree downstairs.’

  ‘I am a Whisper. We have many different forms and many different agendas. The Whisper I fought had a malevolent and aggressive purpose. It speaks words to this world in order to establish a stronghold and grow in power. It infiltrates the minds of people so that it can will them to do what it pleases. Hate begets hate, begets hate.’

  ‘And, and…w-what is your agenda?’ Mr McFadden squeaks.

  Leaning at a strange angle, the featureless face of the Angel turns towards the troubled inventor, again pausing and assessing the old man before answering.

  ‘Mine? Mine, is to protect the weak and vulnerable, to speak words of comfort to those who have lost or grieve, or feel worthless; to bring hope on desert paths; to bring healing for tormented souls.’

  Arthur looks puzzled. The Angel gets this.

  ‘Your three authors, Harley, Snarlington and Boule, released us all from our many worlds two centuries ago. They channelled us through the envoy tree that you have just consulted. They collected the essence of who we are inside crystals – links to our worlds - and used our ideas and philosophies to inspire their books which they couldn’t possibly have created out of their own imaginations. Unfortunately, their curiosity went too far and they gave too much credence to the ideas of particular Whispers. The words of the Whispers are nothing new, but spoken or written in a certain way, can create a foothold in the minds of humans. Their minds are not powerful enough to contain them. The writers spoke to the times in a powerful and productive way, until they tried to push the boundaries of acceptability. That’s when they started letting in malevolent Whispers who, unbeknownst to the three, had the power to cause acts of evil by influencing those who read their books.’

  A huge sliver of rock disintegrates from one of his wings as he continues undeterred.

  ‘When they consulted the Carrion Crow, he inspired their hands to write, ‘The Last, Mass Hysteria of Mankind’, an incredibly powerful set of books, that allowed the evil, the neutral and benign Whispers to manifest themselves in physical forms through the power of human minds. The Carrion Crow tipped over the balance of the Island to darkness which is why this place is considered such a backwater today. The authors tried retrieve every copy of the book and nearly succeeded, but it was a pointless task as the Whispers had already arrived; mostly on this Island, but a few managed to make it to the mainland.’

  The Stone Angel starts tipping even more to his left.

  ‘We are very uncomfortable in a physical form. We prefer to hide in the recesses of peoples’ minds, or in the words of books. I prefer to hide within the comforting words etched on gravestones. I want to help those who grieve because I grieve myself.’

  ‘How come we have only just found out about you all now, why now? I mean, why is this all happening now?’

  I struggle to ask a question that makes sense, adrenalin surging through me.

  ‘Despite their best efforts, the authors couldn’t retrieve all the books. Some escaped their reach, not many
, but enough. Without these books, which were burned in the original building behind me, the Whispers lost power. They could not influence. However, over the last two hundred years those few remaining books have circulated this Island and the mainland, moving from hand to hand of like-minded people, some good, most of them evil. The books eventually ended up in the hands of certain families, and someone here is trying to use information about these to trace the final book, the finale of them all, The Last, Mass Hysteria of Mankind; inspired by the Carrion Crow itself. This book was originally sanctioned by the authors but never officially released, as the power behind the words they were publishing was finally recognised. They eventually decided to destroy it, but Christopher Snarlington – the author who originally listened to this Whisper - was overcome by the words within, and reneged on the initial agreement with his fellow authors, feeling its destruction to be a personal slight. Under the influence of the Crow, he hid copies of this and other similar books, just prior to murdering his colleagues. Whoever, has recently traced this final book, after its two hundred year absence - has incited the levels of malevolence in Jacobsfield to vast proportions. This person is also aware of the book you hold and thinks it should be destroyed.’

  ‘Who do you think it is?’

  ‘I know not. But this person will use words to great effect. They will be in a position to influence and manipulate people for their own ends. They may have risen to power relatively quickly.’

  I rub my neck as Arthur pulls closer to me. His jaw has dropped; it’s been quite a night for AKM.

  ‘Listen, I have come to terms with all of this, I know everybody is in danger, but in that underground room we listened to Malachi Jacobsfield describe how the authors thought the good book was a bit weird and wouldn’t be able to fight off the Crow’s book. And, I mean...why was it given to me? I’m just not bright enough. I can’t handle this. I’ve just turned thirteen...’

  The Angel answers straightaway,

  ‘...You are precisely the right person for this book. Harley, Snarlington and Boule couldn’t understand it, and hence wouldn’t publish it because it was essentially a children’s book.’

  I ponder this response.

  ‘...They thought it was too simple. They consulted a powerful Whisper called the Cherub, but the authors’ own pre-conceptions and cynicism led to doubt about what it was instructing them to write. They really wanted to right the wrongs they had done, and sought help earnestly from neutral Whispers who led them to the Cherub, but their minds had an idea about how this new book would work to restore order. But, the more they wrote, the more disheartened they became. They saw chapters missing. They didn’t realise what the blank gaps meant. Each chapter was designed to repair a chapter from the Last Mass Hysteria of Mankind, Shelly.’

  He waits.

  ‘Shelly, the good books that remained on the Island were passed directly through benign hands. Somebody, probably somebody you know, pieced together what the good books inspired by good Whispers were saying, and it led them to retrieve Cherub’s book for you. Whether they were consciously aware that they were doing this for you is another matter.’

  ‘Astra.’ I whisper to myself.

  ‘There is a reason why the book has fallen into your hands. Study the book.’

  ‘But, why can’t you do all this yourself? You’re big and strong enough to sort out this mess.’

  Lopsided, broken and balancing precariously at a ridiculous angle, half in and half out of the ground; I realise that this creature, this Whisper before us, has given so much already, but I don’t want this, I don’t want any of this.

  ‘I have been weakened considerably by this encounter, hence I can barely move. I must reduce my size in order to fly home. A few Whispers can still manifest themselves physically. I am one of them because grief is powerful, and people are moved by inscriptions on gravestones; the memories of loved ones. Since the Churchyard has been defaced, people are afraid to visit; no doubt a ploy of the Crow who suspects I am there; or should I say, he will know I am present now that I have battled another Whisper. Only today, something else has happened that has caused considerable ill-will towards Saint Harold’s.’

  My face is as blank as the Angel’s, as I register this new piece of information. I’m finding it hard to process any of this.

  ‘Am I going to die tomorrow?’

  ‘The battle lines have been drawn.’

  I swallow. It hurts. I touch my throat. I taste blood on my lips.

  ‘This is a desperate situation. People do not know they are fighting a powerful adversary. The mind is where battles are won and lost. Words influence people’s minds. You must go and read your book, Shelly.’

  I shake my head, more to myself in desperation than as a denial.

  ‘Do you know the Cherub?’

  ‘We are acquainted through our common purpose, but Whispers do not know one another in a relational sense. At least, not in the way you understand it.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ I sense that I am over stepping the line here; it’s time to move on.

  There’s a pause again, ‘Another world, not in the sense that you can understand it.’

  It’s cooled considerably now and I begin to shiver as the adrenalin subsides, but only a little. A thought passes through my head.

  ‘I’m sorry Angel, just one more thing; in the graveyard at Saint Harold’s - there’s a gravestone for Evelyn Parker.’

  I test the water, and wait to be rebuked for wasting valuable time. None comes.

  ‘It says she died when she was three: Is she a Whisper too?’

  I sense a puzzled expression from Arthur, although it could be that he is just wincing with the pain.

  This time the Stone Angel moves his arm around in front of his body so that his stone palm is facing towards where his heart would be. There’s a creaking and snapping as small pieces of stone fall from his body. I suddenly feel guilty; his last encounter came at great personal expense and this movement may be causing pain.

  His palm glows and lights up and even though I cannot see what he is reading, I do see what look like words shining from the edge of his giant hand.

  ‘I will do this quickly, for we must go. Evelyn Parker’s grave receives few visitors. I have searched the words of those who have stood by her grave and spoken their feelings. I see no clue as to how she passed away from this earth. From the few, many years ago, I feel terrible remorse and shock. I see a gathering now at her funeral; there are a lot of people here, but not too many members of her immediate family. I feel an overwhelming sense of…tragedy. People are too stunned to speak. Other than your presence in the churchyard, I see only Mark visiting on a number of occasions...’

  ‘Mark!’

  Why has he been visiting?

  The light stops shining on the palm of the Angel’s hand but he remains in this position.

  ‘When a person passes from this earth they go to another place, they do not become Whispers. The Evelyn Parker you have mentioned died at the age of three.’

  I shiver.

  Every taunt, every hair-pull, every projectile – whether they connected or not - felt very real. That wasn’t a three year old pulverising me. Then, who the heck is this Evelyn Parker? Is she someone else altogether; an imposter taking on her persona?

  Arthur speaks, a bit more confidently this time; ‘Can we help you get back to Saint Harold’s?’

  His stare has an edge, as if enquiring, was-that-an-appropriate-question-to-ask-your-friend look?

  ‘I have enough energy to get back now, but I will need to gather strength if I am to stay in this body and on this earth. You two must go, now. Shelly, you must read the book. Communicate with it; don’t be afraid of it.’

  The Angel unfolds its wings as it begins to shrink in size. I wonder if it really needed to be that big to fight, and whether it could fight in smaller form; I think of animals making their selves bigger when they fight in the wild.

  It takes flight over our head
s, without another word. Despite its mass, its wings send it gracefully upwards into the night sky.

  I look at Mr McFadden. The wound between his eye-brows is seeping less blood. He is regaining his composure. I feel overwhelmed with guilt that I have hurt him. I don’t care for the injuries he’s caused me. He throws the blood-clotted hanky on the floor and without any hesitation, grabs me and hugs me. His calm, soothing voice, returns.

  ‘Do you want me to drive you off the island?’

  I smile. Thank goodness. Somebody understands; somebody is finally seeing what I am going through.

  ‘We’ll just keep driving. I know places on the mainland where you can hide.’

  Arthur wants out too.

  I shake my head.’ No. This is my mission whether I like it or not.’

  ‘Okay, should we go to the police at least; this is getting out of control.’

  ‘The Carrion Crow could be a policeman...I think...I think we have to do this ourselves.’

  The inventor nods slowly, processing my reply.

  ‘Is there anyone else we can ask for help?’ He’s concerned about the burden I am carrying.

  ‘I have to look at the book and believe that it will speak to me. I have run away from what appears to be the only solution for the last twenty-four hours and the Crow sounds like he could be any number of people we might know.’

  ‘I agree,’ he says, ‘best not inform anybody.’

  Arthur lets go of me and strokes his bloodied moustache, like he’s just figured something out.

  ‘The paper today.’

  ‘Sorry’.

  He looks shocked.

  ‘The paper today; the main article,’ he repeats.

  He swivels his body round like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with it.

  And then I remember - Arthur examining my tattoo and the ‘news title’ about a Priest’s Paramilitary Past. Mr McFadden has hit upon the same conclusion as me.

  But something new is now clearly bothering Arthur.

  ‘You mean the article about the Reverend Llewellyn?’

  Arthur nods – something is bothering him.

  I need to check to see that we are on the same page.

  ‘Yes…what are you thinking Arthur?’

  He looks like he’s going to say something, but then strokes his chin and looks away shaking his head. He looks troubled – deeply troubled.

  ‘Come on.’ he says, suddenly moving towards me and grabbing my hand.

  ‘We need to get you home.’

  We are moving towards his tandem bike.

  ‘Set the sleeping device to four. It will knock you out quicker and give you a deeper sleep. You will wake up feeling a little more refreshed.’

  ‘What, so it does make you sleep?’

  ‘Yes...unfortunately.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  But Arthur is seemingly too distracted to reply. He’s attempting to multi-task - extracting the infra-red sensor from his pocket and fitting it back on to his tandem.

  ‘Damn lot of good this did us against the dead, or undead, or whatever the hell they were.’

  He chastises the device.

  ‘Yes, erm. Shelly, I’ve made a big mistake: Several. But, there’s no time to explain. I need to get to the bottom of this myself. Set to four and place the headset on your head; it will induce a deeper, slow wave sleep instantly – don’t forget to put the card inside your pillow. Set the timer for whatever time you want to wake-up; it will feel like you have slept well even though you really haven’t. Good for one-off night’s only. Not to be repeated on a regular basis.’

  He’s speaking hurriedly, trying to impart lots of important information, ‘...Of course, you shouldn’t set the device like this every night, because your body really does need a regular rhythm of REM and slow wave sleep to repair itself; but you will need enough time to understand what your book is saying to you. Text me and let me know if you need any help...’

  He stoops to pick up the bike. His face is cut-up.

  ‘Will you be able to see, if you drive me?’ I enquire with concern.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Come on Ms Clover, let’s get you home. I’ll put your bike in the van and drive you back when we get back to mine.’

  I scan his face for clues about the info he’s hiding, but before I have time to enquire further, he already has his leg over his bike.

  ‘You coming, Ms Clover?’

  Chapter Ten

  The Hope-Filled Lie