CONTENTS
Title Page
Misty
by Gillian Philip
The Promise
by Mary Chapman
The Hanging Tree
by Anne Rooney
The Land Rover
by John Townsend
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Copyright
Misty
by Gillian Philip
Misty
by Gillian Philip
‘Now who – ?’ Thea did a double take and braked.
The man on the bypass wasn’t your average hitchhiker. He was sharply dressed, in a well-cut suit and a blue-green silk tie.
Oh. Thea blinked. Of course: how had she forgotten that pile-up back there? Now she remembered the glimpse of crushed metal beyond the ambulances. How had this guy climbed out of that wreckage and staggered away? Maybe he’d been thrown clear. A head injury? He probably didn’t know where he was. A bit lax of the paramedics.
Shaking her head, Thea glanced at her watch: only half-eight. She pulled over and shoved open the passenger door.
‘Can I take you to the hospital?’
Bending down, the man peered in at Thea. There was something familiar about him, but Thea couldn’t place it. She couldn’t place much this morning, with this headache. God, she felt awful. Vague and hungover. Should have called in sick.
He rubbed his forehead, smearing blood, then frowned as he looked at his fingers.
‘That’s good of you. You sure it’s no trouble, er –?’
‘Thea. Thea Madeley. Here, get in. You look terrible.’
‘I’m sure I do.’
The man sank gratefully into the passenger seat and tugged the door shut. When he turned to Thea, though, he wore an unexpected grin.
‘D’you know, I just knew it was you. Soon as I saw your face through the car window, I thought: that’s young Thea. One of my favourite pupils! Can’t believe you’re old enough to drive.’
‘Passed my test a month ago.’ Thea frowned. ‘Sorry, but I –’
‘Don’t remember me? Well, you’d just started Year Eight when I left teaching. Must be – four years ago? Five?’
Thea blushed. God, what was wrong with her head this morning?
‘Mr Munro! Media Studies! I’m sorry, I –’
‘Harry, seeing as you’ve left school. Haven’t you?’
‘Only this year. I’ve got a job on the Eastwick Chronicle. Just in the office, getting experience. I’m driving there now.’
‘Oh. I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.’
‘No. It’s only half-eight.’ Thea pulled out her phone and checked it. No messages. ‘I can text if I’m going to be late. This is an emergency.’
‘Watch the road, Thea,’ said Harry, giving her a wry look.
‘Oh, yeah. That was quite a smash back there. How’d it happen?’
‘Don’t know …’ Harry frowned.
‘Maybe I should call ahead to the hospital. We’ll be there in ten minutes, but –’ She peered at her phone again. ‘No signal. Typical.’ She prodded a button.
‘Thea!’ Harry tensed. ‘Not while you’re driving.’
‘Relax.’ She was completely in control, of course; Harry Munro was just on edge, and no wonder. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Good, good.’ Harry still seemed nervous. ‘Careful, Thea. There’s mist in the valley ahead.’
‘Oh, yes! That’s where you’d expect a crash, not on the bypass. I mean, how do people manage to – sorry.’ She blushed again. ‘Sorry. Accidents happen, I guess.’
‘I suppose.’ Harry shrugged, then smiled. ‘So how’s the job, Thea?’
‘Good! I mean, OK. It’s a start.’ She reddened.
It seemed less impressive, now that she’d remembered why Harry Munro left teaching. He’d gone to work for that young politician, the one who’d got everyone so excited a few years back. Passionate, sincere, charismatic: Britain’s own JFK.
Matt Cornwell had come from their town – in other words, from out of nowhere. Thea remembered her dad going on about Cornwell, the way his voice filled with respect and his eyes shone. She remembered her mum actually crying about him.
She remembered it better than she remembered her own name this morning. Fizzy water and orange juice tonight. Definitely.
‘I saw you on TV once. A few years back. With that Matt Cornwell.’
‘Just the once?’ Harry teased.
‘Well, I was young. Wasn’t into politics.’
Harry gave a long, sad sigh.
‘You’re still young, Thea.’
Harry Munro had gone with Cornwell as his press officer, fixer, minder. He’d given him a stratospheric profile; run a dynamic campaign on the internet; terrified journalists and charmed them all at once. Together, Matt Cornwell and Harry Munro had been heading for Number 10 …
‘Rotten that he died,’ said Thea.
Her companion sighed again, as if the memory was still painful. Harry had given up everything for Matt Cornwell, hitching his wagon to a shining, shooting star. And then the star had fallen. Extinguished for good.
‘When I think I could have been running the country by now.’
‘Behind the scenes, of course,’ said Thea.
‘Best way to do it,’ laughed Harry.
Poor guy. The end of Matt Cornwell must have been the end of Harry’s glittering future, too, because Thea was sure she hadn’t heard of him since. Harry had the pallor of a man with a permanent, boring desk job. Mind you, if she could get her head together, she could interview him. Hey, a scoop!
‘A plane crash, of all things,’ mused Harry. ‘It’s almost a cliché.’ He shook his head in melancholy wonder.
Not long now and they’d be at the hospital. Surely the Chronicle wouldn’t mind her being late if she was finding a story? Thea glanced at her watch. Half-past eight. But maybe she should check with the editor. Let him know. She checked her phone again. Still no signal.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ said Harry.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Thea, irritated. She added pointedly, ‘Did a phone cause that crash?’
‘I –’ Harry frowned. ‘You know, I think it might have done.’
‘Well, it’s not going to happen now.’
‘No. Fair enough. Silly of me.’
Harry laughed, a genuine laugh that made Thea feel quite relieved.
‘Ah, well. I’m not surprised you didn’t remember me at first, Thea. Nobody ever does, not after Matt. Careful, now! We’re getting pretty close to that mist. Oh, I’m doing it again!’
Thea shot him an understanding look. Of course he was a bundle of nerves. To humour him, Thea eased off the accelerator; but despite the mist lying in the valley, the road conditions were good up here and the air was clear. There weren’t even many other cars on the road.
None, in fact. That was unusual, but she’d been the last to get through before the police blocked the road and set up a diversion. Well, she must have been. She assumed she was …
Thea punched the radio controls in search of a traffic report, but a hissing, white noise was all she could get. Wincing, she switched it off.
In the silence, she heard Harry humming cheerfully. For a guy in shock, he seemed remarkably cool. Pale, but cool.
‘I am glad I met up with you.’ Harry gave her a smile. ‘I was supposed to, you see. After the car crash and all. One of my old pupils!’
‘Fate, you reckon?’ said Thea lightly.
‘You could say that,’ agreed Harry. ‘Fate.’
Thea eyed him nervously.
‘You’ve got to meet it some time,’ added Harry. ‘However young.’
Thea swallowed hard.
‘What a mess it was back there.’ She didn’t know why her voice was trembling, or why her spine was so cold. ‘You’re lucky you got out of it at all.’
‘I didn’t, Thea.’
Into the silence leaked a low, white noise. I thought I switched that off, thought Thea. She punched the radio switch again, then again, harder. Harder. Frantically.
‘Careful, Thea! Watch the road! Honestly!’
‘What d’you – the crash.’ Panic filled her. ‘What d’you mean, you didn’t get out of it?’
‘Oh!’ Harry chuckled. ‘I didn’t mean – oh, Lord, I’m sorry I scared you. I mean, I wasn’t involved in the crash. You assumed that, of course. Sorry. No, no. That crash was nothing to do with me.’
Thea gave a high laugh, dizzy with relief. She felt silly and childish for even thinking it.
‘Sorry. Being stupid. Imagination running away with me.’
‘Oh, Thea. That’s perfectly understandable. The circumstances are a little odd, aren’t they? But no, no. I didn’t get out of the crash.’
Thea’s reply stuck in her throat. She wanted to ask where Harry had come from, then. Why he’d been there on the roadside. Why, when Thea looked desperately at her watch, it was still half-past eight. But her voice had dried to ash.
‘I didn’t get out of that pile-up.’ Harry’s smile was apologetic now. ‘And, um – neither did you.’
Thea stared at the cut on Harry’s forehead. And then at the deep gash on his neck. Self-consciously, Harry tightened his blue-green silk tie to cover it again, to steady his wobbling head.
‘With me it was the plane, wasn’t it? I was a bit of a postscript, mind you.’ Harry rolled his eyes fondly. ‘I was on the same plane as Matt Cornwell. Remember?’
The mist was almost on them. The road disappeared into it just ahead, and there were still no other cars. But she remembered now. His plane. Her car. She remembered everything.
‘I didn’t see a diversion!’
‘There’s no diversion, Thea. No detours. Look.’ Harry tapped his hand affectionately on Thea’s white one, on the fingers locked in terror round the steering wheel. He nodded ahead.
‘We’re going now, Thea. Do watch the road in this mist.’
The Promise
by Mary Chapman
The Promise
by Mary Chapman
I peered at myself in the mirror.
‘I’d do anything to get rid of these,’ I muttered. ‘One on my nose. Two on my chin. Three under my fringe – no, four! Another one’s sprouted in the last minute!’
‘You’d do anything?’ said a voice behind me.
‘Yes, anything!’
Without turning round I snapped, ‘Jess, get out of my room!’
Silence.
That wasn’t like Jess. She’d always got something to say. Usually rude.
I turned round.
No Jess.
I opened the door. Nobody there.
Weird.
And what was even more weird, I thought I could smell smoke.
I rummaged around in the pile of stuff on my dressing-table.
ZAP! Zaps your Zits in seconds!
Well, that’s what it said on the box. I bought it this morning. The girl at the chemists said it was good. But she gave me a pitying look. She didn’t need it. She had beautiful, smooth skin, and didn’t have to grow a fringe to hide behind.
I squeezed the cream out of the tube and dabbed it on. One dab per spot. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Now there were nine! I’d soon be into double figures!
Saturday evening. My spots wouldn’t have gone by Monday morning. I couldn’t go to school looking like this.
The Zit plague started in the summer holidays. At the beginning of the holidays, my skin was like it had always been – clear and smooth. But when I went back in September, I was all spotty and pimply. Mum said it was part of growing up. Well, if it was, I didn’t want to. I was so stressed. Everybody else in my year was growing up, but they weren’t covered in zits. And that horrible Kim and her mate, Charlotte, started calling me Zitty Zoe. They said I’d got zits because I never washed my hair and ate too many sweets and chips. And that was so not true.
Sunday evening. The tube of Zap! was supposed to last five days, but I kept dabbing on another dollop of cream, and then another, until I’d used up the whole tube.
I’d smuggled a load of apples upstairs, and a huge bottle of mineral water. I thought – if I change my diet … So I’d had nothing all day, except apples and water.
I lay on my bed, eyes closed, feeling sick and empty. Tomorrow I’d persuade Mum I was too ill to go to school, but that wasn’t the answer to the problem.
‘I’d do anything to be rid of these zits,’ I thought – well, I must have said it aloud, because I heard that voice again.
‘Anything? You really mean that?’
‘Yes!’
‘Promise? If I get rid of them, you’ll do anything I ask?’
The smell of smoke. Was the house on fire? I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt so heavy I couldn’t.
And another smell – sort of chemical, like the lab at school.
‘You promise? You’ll do whatever I ask?’
‘Yeah, I promise, but who are you?’
‘Never mind who I am. I’m here to help you,’ said the voice. So soothing, friendly, caring. ‘You’re going to sleep now, Zoe, and when you wake in the morning your spots will have gone. Just don’t forget your promise.’
But I was practically asleep.
When I woke in the morning, I had a fuzzy memory of a sort-of-dream. But I didn’t give it any thought. I rushed over to the mirror, as usual, expecting to see the hated spots.
Not a single zit.
I lifted my fringe. My forehead was clear. My skin was glowing and radiant. That Zap! stuff really did work miracles. Maybe the water and apples had helped? I didn’t need to hide away in my room any longer. I started to get ready for school.
I had a really good day. No nasty comments. I couldn’t quite believe it. I kept having a quick peek in my little magnifying mirror. But it was true. No zits anywhere.
And that’s how it went on. Every morning, I wondered if the zits had returned in the night. But, no, it was almost too good to be true. A miracle!
One Saturday night, a few days before Christmas, I was admiring myself in the mirror.
‘Pleased with yourself, are you?’ asked a voice.
‘Go away, Jess!’
‘No, not Jess,’ said the voice. ‘Your friend.’
‘What friend?’
‘The one who restored your beautiful complexion.’
‘But that was the Zap! stuff,’ I said. ‘And apples and water.’
‘No. It was me.’
Then I remembered my sort-of-dream. But the voice wasn’t friendly this time. It was sharp. Less like honey. More like vinegar!
I’d better show I was grateful.
‘Well, thank you very much,’ I said. ‘Everything’s all right now. So I don’t need any more help.’
‘You haven’t forgotten your promise, Zoe?’
‘What promise?’
‘That you’d do anything to be rid of your zits.’
Then I remembered.
‘I just said that … like you do. It’s just something people say.’
‘Without meaning it?’ The voice was cold, sharp as an icicle.
‘Yes … I mean, no …’
‘What do you mean, Zoe?’
‘I didn’t realise … I’m sorry. What do you want?’
‘I want you to keep your promise. You made a pact with me. I don’t take kindly to people who break promises.’
The voice was everywhere, behind me, over by the window, above me. It’s not easy talking to an invisible being, darting about all over the room.
‘Tell me what you want,’ I said.
I could smell smoke, and that horrible chemical stink.
‘I want your soul.’
<
br /> ‘My … what?’
‘Your soul. Spirit. Whatever you want to call it. Your mind. Brain. Personality. Consciousness. What makes you, Zoe, unique, different from everybody else, the only you in the world.’
‘But –’
‘You can keep your perfect complexion,’ said the voice. ‘I’m not bothered about that.’
‘But what will happen to me if I give you my soul, or whatever it is?’
‘You’ll still look the same, but you’ll be a bit … empty. Not sad. You won’t feel anything. Nothing will hurt you. You won’t be upset if people say horrible things to you.’
That would be good. Not to care what Kim and Charlotte said.
‘Imagine that,’ the voice continued. Gentle and friendly again.
‘But if I don’t feel anything … won’t I feel happy?’
‘What do you want to feel happy for? Happiness never lasts. It’s over-rated, in my opinion. Better to feel nothing at all.’
I stared at my reflection.
What would it be like to feel absolutely nothing?
It would be great not to feel sad, frightened or jealous. But then I wouldn’t feel happy, or confident, or loved. I’d be like a robot. I wouldn’t dislike anything, but I wouldn’t like anything either. I wouldn’t feel enjoyment, or look forward to things, or feel relieved when nasty things, like exams, were over. I’d be a zombie. Life might be easier, but it would be very boring.
‘Well?’ said the voice. ‘Time for the hand-over.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have to say you give me your soul freely.’
‘I don’t want to give it to you.’
‘You promised. We made a pact.’
‘I didn’t realise –’
‘I helped you. You owe me.’
‘I’m very grateful.’
‘Then keep your part of the bargain.’ The voice was quiet now, menacing.
‘I don’t want to.’ In the silence that followed, I felt my pulse thudding in my ears.
A swirl of smoke, bright flashes, that awful stench.
Sulphur!
‘THEN TAKE YOUR PUNISHMENT!’ the voice shrieked.
The room filled with smoke. I stumbled across to the window. Opened it wide. Breathed in the cold air.
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