For a second, her mind slows her. Abruptly, she shuts up. Isn’t that what she and Callum are doing? Denying what happened in the forest?
For a second, her mind allows doubt. Abruptly, she shuts it up.
‘What happened to her last night?’ Kira spreads her hands, palms up. ‘By all measures of science and logic, she shouldn’t be alive. We should get the police involved. We should at least alert the commune. Will we?’
One second, two seconds, three. Mathew doesn’t speak. ‘No.’ Kira twists around and turns her back. ‘No. I thought not.’
Her mind buzzes. Shock, rage, concern. She could shatter. Kira forces herself to focus on the road. Less snow-caked, it’s turned to slush, winding through a lopsided, multicoloured village. Christmas lights above windows flash red and green and white; plastic model Santas climb ladders flung from balconies, jaunty sacks of gifts hanging down their backs. A lone donkey stands on the pavement. A boy in a gnome hat grips its reins. A faint-pink sunset daubs the edges of the sky.
Kira’s rage ramps down and numbs. Something isn’t right. Something more than what happened in the forest; something to do with Romy.
‘Why does Romy want to apologise?’ she asks. She’s not calm enough to speak, but it’ll have to do. The silence was thicker than blood. ‘She doesn’t say sorry. Well, she does’—Kira twists her mouth with her fingers—‘but only with this sort of—’
Mathew doesn’t look at her Romy-mimed sneer. Despite herself, or because of herself, Kira twinges with guilt.
‘Kira.’ He sighs, dips his chin, and sighs again. The sound is muddied with anger. ‘Just appreciate the gesture, Kira. For your mother’s sake’—his fingers flex—‘we need you to be mature.’
Kira raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure my mother can deal with it,’ she says tartly. ‘Just like I’m dealing with your stupid way of coping. Mum’s not weak, and she’s not some victim. She just doesn’t want to face what’s going on.’
Mathew shoots her a glare so fast his driving glasses bounce.
‘It’s true, though.’ Her chest flutters. This is baiting. He’s her dad. ‘Mum’s the one dealing with Romy while you’re working, so I don’t understand why you’re acting like this. You’re both being so stupid about—’
‘Just shut up, Kira!’ Mathew shouts. ‘You’re a bloody broken record!’
The car’s front wheel bumps the roundabout. Kira’s funny bone bumps the door, and she chills with panic and idiocy. ‘Dad, I—’
‘You can’t begin to imagine how much this is killing us.’ The car kangaroos through the exit. The indicator tick-tick-ticks too late. ‘Do you know why that is? Because we’re adults. We don’t voice our every frustration, and believe me, we have them.’
Kira twinges again, but it’s a battle, a war. Guilt is cold and anger is hot, and she fills with them both like steam. ‘Maybe if you did, I’d understand.’
‘Be quiet.’ Mathew lifts a finger off the wheel. ‘Just stop. Until you have children of your own, you can never understand what it’s like to see your daughter the way we saw Romy today. She was brought back to us unconscious, frozen half to death and in her pyjamas, by a stranger. Dammit.’
He swerves the car violently. Kira slides into the door. Knocks the pavement, barely missing the red-and-white hospital sign. His savage distraction almost cost him the turn. ‘Jesus, Dad.’
‘“Jesus, Dad” me when you’re acting your age.’ Mathew growls down the twisting roads. A speed-checker board lights up in red. A sad face. Fifty-six. ‘I’m not asking you for much. Don’t say anything inflammatory, for all our sakes, until we can sort this out.’ He glances at her. ‘Which we will. Now can you please leave it alone?’
And he said she was a broken record. ‘I was only pointing out that Mum isn’t weak.’ Kira keeps her voice as civil as she can. ‘If you’re under the impression that she is, then you clearly don’t know her.’
Anna, handling school sanctions that Mathew knows nothing about. Anna, holding them both whenever Romy let them get close. Anna, combing the county in the car while Kira tried to track Romy down through Snapchat. She never broke down. She never gave up.
Something here isn’t right.
Mathew doesn’t reply. Ramming the 4x4 into park, he’s out of the door and away.
Kira can’t decide whether to roll her eyes or cry. She crossed more lines than she knew existed, but nothing she said was wrong. It all had to be voiced, and if not now, when?
Climbing from the car, she hesitates. The cake packet lies askew on the floor, icing smudging the box. Pushing down the lonely sight, Kira scoops them up. One of them was for her.
Keys. She pulls them out and locks the car. Amusement almost sparks at her father’s stormy exit. His glasses lie crooked where he flung them on the dashboard. It’d be the cherry on top of a hell-to-pay day if someone stole the rental.
The hospital is blocks of white and glass, stacked like childhood Duplo. It’s more imposing than protective, more money than charitable. Approaching with a plastic packet of cakes, Kira feels like a little girl. Her family’s in there, though, and they need her.
Pushing through the glass doors, everything but her urge to cry spikes, quavers, and dies.
‘Dad?’ she asks. Her voice is tiny. He’s thrown himself onto a shiny metal chair, his head on his arms on his knees. Ignoring the receptionist, white-coated and interested, Kira takes the neighbouring chair and puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. ‘Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t—I don’t know…’
With a hefty breath, Mathew sits up. It’s the slog of a man with a hundred thousand monkeys on his back.
‘I know.’ He tips his head back against the wall. ‘None of us know anything.’ Shaking his head, he sighs again, staring at the air. ‘It’s okay, K.’
Kira pulls in her lips and squeezes them tight, as if crushing the life from the sudden ache. ‘You haven’t said that in years.’
Mathew rolls his head along the wall to face her. ‘Because you told me not to.’ He smiles, but it’s flat. ‘It’s okay, Kira. Really. I just need a minute.’ He nods at another glass door. ‘You go on up. Romy’s one floor up from here. The door at the top of the stairs, and the bed at the end by the window. You know how much she loves light.’
He smiles again, and this time, a glimmer of his normal bravado peeks out. Half-hearted, Kira laughs. ‘She’s a vampire.’
‘Maybe light will do her good.’ Mathew squeezes her knee. We’re adults. We don’t voice our every frustration. ‘I’ll be up in a minute. I promise. You go.’
Carefully placing a cake on his thigh, Kira goes. The thick block stairs are white. The glass doors are framed with white. Even the ceiling lights are white. Its brightness is blinding as she emerges onto the first floor, the only colour a pale lake painting, peaceful on the door in front of her.
The door at the top of the stairs. Apprehension fizzes through Kira’s chest, sudden and heady. This is the ward.
She hadn’t thought to feel so unprepared. It’s only Romy; if the roles were reversed, she’d power on in, blustering and banishing illness from the room. Years ago, she did.
This isn’t reversed, though, and it isn’t only illness. Bronchitis; she’d coughed like a champion. Battening down a rush of anxiety, followed by guilt, followed by anxiety over her guilt, Kira puffs a preparatory breath and nudges through the open door.
The ward is brimming. Vibrant red flowers wobble on tables, televisions murmur on the walls. The air-con blows like the day is drenched in summer. Everything smells of lemon. Kira makes her self-conscious way to the other end of the room. Romy picked the perfect time to issue a summons; twice she’s barged into, as doctors, nurses, or visitors pass, and twice she almost trips over a trolley leg, a table, a chair. She’s clumsy at the best of times. As much as her mind hums, it’s amazing she doesn’t go flying.
Romy. There, in the very last bed beside a large, bright window: Romy and Anna, as silent as space.
‘Mum.’
<
br /> In a tired chair between Romy and the window, Anna looks up. ‘Hey, love.’ With a pale smile and a sigh, she gets to her feet. Her face is bleached by the hospital lights, her eyes flicking over Kira’s shoulder. ‘Is Dad not with you?’
Uncomfortably, Kira folds her arms. ‘Downstairs.’ She shifts her weight to one hip. Even averted, the sight of Romy scratches her eyes. It’s nails on glass, a muffled scream. Wan and sleeping, stiff against the pillows, she’s more than unnerving. She almost died. ‘We argued in the car.’
Anna’s eyes widen, enough to register faint surprise. ‘What about?’
Oh, the guilt. Two pangs, three pangs, four. ‘He told me I shouldn’t bring up what happened because you want to forget it.’ Kira scratches the side of her face, her chin. ‘And I said you weren’t weak. Basically, I think we’re okay now, but he said he needed a minute.’ She retrieves the remaining carac from her pocket. It’s smushed and cracking. ‘How’s Romy?’
Glancing down the ward, Anna takes the proffered half. ‘Unresponsive.’ She sighs. Cagily eyeing the little green cake, she bites into it regardless. ‘For a while, she was adamant that you had to be here, so maybe she’ll start talking now that you’re here. She hasn’t moved in over an hour, though. Mmm.’
Mouth full, Anna indicates her recently vacated chair. ‘Sit, have some coffee. See if she wakes up. Whatever you feel like, really. The best coffee is on the third floor.’ She attempts a small smile. With her sugary, chocolatey delight already gone, Kira nods. ‘While you decide, I’ll go find Dad. He must have got the wrong idea when I said we shouldn’t dwell on this. All I meant was that we should focus on the present.’
Anna tightens her ponytail. Kira notes it with a pang of sympathy. The tighter the ponytail, the deeper the worry. ‘Primarily,’ Anna continues, ‘getting Romy well enough to go home and sorting out new flights so we can go home. Mathew’s got himself into such a state, which is completely understandable, but to pin it on me…’
Her words drift off, and with a headshake and a tracing-paper smile, she moves away.
‘Mum.’ The word comes before Kira plans it.
Shielding her crumbling cake, Anna turns. ‘Hmm?’
Kira hesitates. ‘Is everything okay?’
The ward fluorescents are blinding. She’s had too much madness on too little sleep. She’s had too much madness, full stop. For a second, there’s something in Anna, a sharpness that threatens to razor her edges, simmering, glittering gold. It’s a touch she’s felt before when she’s thought one thing, looked up, and found her mother thinking the same. This time, it’s wild.
Winter. Pine. Fires. Herbs.
Anna doesn’t say everything’s fine. Anna turns and walks away.
Kira watches her leave. Her upper body lifts and tightens, nothing but a tiny pocket of air. Something isn’t—something—
‘Kira.’
It’s a whisper, almost inside her head. Nipped again by the hospital ward, Kira braces. Romy. Any second now, and she’ll be ready to face her. Any second.
Ish. Squinting, grimacing, and dropping it all, Kira turns around.
Romy’s eyes are open. Her head tilts quietly. Her expression is mildly curious, moderately cold, and highly unsettling. Kira turns to slush. Just like this morning.
‘Why did you want to talk to me?’ Taking Anna’s bedside chair, Kira sits on her hands. Notes her mistake, removes her gloves, her scarf. Something to do, anything. She drapes her coat on the arm of the chair, careful and meticulous. Her gloves come next, folded in together. The blue scarf Anna crocheted, delicate on top. It feels mean, but Romy’s stare is unbreakable.
Harsh on her bent head, eventually, it’s too much. Fiddling with her cardigan, Kira looks up.
She could scream. Romy lies still, too still, staring and emptily absurd. ‘Why are you staring?’ Kira spreads her hands, keeping the biting cry from her voice. Exasperation and fear, worry and distaste. The eyes, the eyes, the eyes. ‘What do you want? Please, Romy.’ She crushes her eyes with the heels of her hands. If only Romy’s scrutiny could just be ground away. It feels like disease. ‘Stop looking at me.’
When she drops her hands, her wish has been granted. Romy’s gaze has slid to the window, angled over Kira’s head to the trickling snow. Kira digs her nails into her fingers to stop her shaking her head. Propped against a hillock of pillows, Romy’s bandaged hand flops limp, pallid on the sickly blue sheet. A thin gown hangs from her thinner body, and her hair, incongruous beside the rest of her, lies combed and shining to her ribs. Kira swallows. Anna must have brushed it. Anything, everything, to coax her daughter back.
It makes the image so much worse. Gaunt. Creepy. Dead.
‘Mmm.’
Kira starts. Humming, Romy rolls her head along the pillow. Despite its innocence, the movement is unnatural. Kira’s breath sticks, somewhere cold between her throat and her chest. She can almost hear moaning, screaming, laughing, the sick creak of the bones of the dead. Romy’s eyes are flat. Her smile is bruised.
When she speaks, all else is lost.
‘I know where you’ve been,’ she whispers. Her voice is sore, but firm. ‘You and him. I know where you’ve been.’ She sits up stiffly, jerky like a jump cut, backing into the headboard. ‘Pinky promise.’
Kira raises an eyebrow. The flippancy quails inside her. Romy has never said that in her life. ‘And where is that, exactly?’
Righting her head with an awkward spasm, Romy smiles. ‘Whiteland.’
Let me out, let me out, let me out, let me—
It’s an infestation, a puppeteer. Romy screams and shouts, but nothing’s there, no one hears. Kira wavers in front of her. Her long hair brushes her fingertips. Hers and Kira’s. So often, they’re the same. Same hair. Same skin. Same love of piercings. Same longing for tattoos.
So often, they’re different. Kira’s sense of justice. Kira’s lack of hatred. Kira’s safety.
‘And where’s that, exactly?’
Kira’s words come through in a bubble. It’s like she’s drunk. Her sister’s blue eyes, wide. Her sister’s lips parted, the front teeth slightly bigger than the rest. The bony bed. The evening through the window. The foreign language jabber.
The soul incinerating her mind.
Kira, she’s mad. Romy scrabbles to fight, but she needs a window, and she only has a crack. Lost footsteps, covered by snow. No sooner does she think than she’s smothered. She’s playing a game, and she’s laughing. They’re all laughing. They went mad before we were born. I can’t—
Breathe. Romy darkens, suffocated. The puppeteer smiles and drowns her. ‘Whiteland.’
Although the name means nothing, Romy’s confidence knocks her. She’s making eye contact. It’s disconcerting. Leaning forward so the chair squeaks, Kira struggles with nonchalance and draws out a sigh. ‘Whiteland?’
Romy nods, once. Sure.
‘That’s not a place.’ Kira sighs again, forced, weary. ‘If it is, I haven’t been there. We went to the forest. I wanted to see where Callum found you. I wanted to see if we could tell what happened.’
Mirrored clearings, the impossible ocean. Kira frowns and swipes it away. ‘Oh, but he made me go on the chairlift. You know how we refused all week? Believe me, we were right to.’
Nothing. The silence stretches like space.
‘How could you know where we’ve been, anyway?’ Kira fiddles with her sleeves. The quiet with Dad was blood. This is yawning, torrid, layered, hiding the underworld. ‘You were here the whole time. And it’s only the forest. We saw it every time we used the car.’
Romy’s laugh cuts the words from her mouth. A tinkling sound, high and pretty, it’s at odds with the rest of her. ‘Whiteland is the forest.’ She spreads her hands, condescending and amused. ‘Are you stupid? The forest, and the footprints, and the paths that change. The road from the cliff to the river. Although I bet you thought it was an ocean, didn’t you?’
Kira’s expression drops. Oh, God. Oh, my—
&n
bsp; ‘Oh-ho, there we go!’ Romy laughs again with a sick clap of her hands. ‘I knew, I knew, I knew I was right. I knew that’s what you saw! Are you scared?’ She sits forward, away from the pillows, an odd smile parting her lips. ‘You are.’ The smile morphs into a gash of a grin. Kira’s every atom tenses. Nodding, Romy leans closer. ‘How lovely. But are you scared of me, or what you saw?’
Closer, closer still. Her cold breath flicks onto Kira’s face. It smells of metal.
‘If you’re scared of what you saw, you’re more pathetic than I thought.’ Romy looms over her. ‘You didn’t go nearly far enough to see anything worthy of fear.’
Kira resists the urge to shrink in her chair. ‘How do you know where I’ve been?’ How can Romy be so larger than life? Cornering her like a giant in a fairy tale, a witch with a waiting oven? How can she know about any of this? ‘It’s impossible.’ I’m starting to hate that word. Kira tightens her fingers on the stingy chair. ‘The cold messed with your head, or you’ve got a fever, or something. None of what you said is true.’
It is, though.
And that’s not Romy.
It’s a thrill of realisation, a matching thrill of fear. Whoever, or whatever, this incarnation is, it’s not Romy. It’s barely human.
‘It is true.’ Romy breathes. Despite herself, despite the horror budding and stealing her breath, Kira hushes her mind to listen. ‘You know full well it is. It’s probably what you’re thinking right now.’
Kira tenses, further, further still. Now her skeleton will be the one to split its skin. None of this should be—
‘See.’ Romy smiles, dead. ‘There’s no point denying it. You’ve been to Whiteland; you saw the wooden window, you felt your mind slide. And now that you’ve been there’—she drops her voice—‘you can’t go back. Stay out.’
She lets the words hang. Their gravity is discordant. ‘What?’ Thrown, Kira narrows her eyes. ‘Why would I go back?’ She leans forward on her arms. Jack fought the giant, Hansel and Gretel burned the witch; no protagonists win by getting tangled in their minds. She can’t let Romy see the knots. ‘I don’t believe there’s a separate land somewhere in the forest, but after what happened today, I do believe I never want to see another tree.’ Disquiet wants her to frown. Instead, she cocks her head. ‘Anyway, why does it matter to you?’
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