Don’t. Don’t do that, Robbie thought.
Run.
Do something.
Run.
There was a shout from Tommy. Fleet had been spun round by his shot, and as she turned to face the light a wound on her back leg glistened with blood. She limped sideways, and the beam followed, but couldn’t find her. This time the shout was angry, and there was fear in it too.
Because she had disappeared.
The searchlight swung madly.
Suddenly she was there again, running in from somewhere, under Billy, between his legs. And he was falling, so fast Robbie could only see it when he thought about it afterwards, twisting, throwing out his left hand, his right holding the gun whirling fast, out of control, towards Tommy.
One barrel of shot was all it needed, spraying wide.
Then it was quiet. Long, lingering quiet that settled in as the crackle of the burning stubble subsided.
Until a sound bubbled up, and after a while Robbie realized what it was.
It was Billy, sobbing.
27
MAGS WASN’T moving, her head was on the ground as if she’d given up at last. She’d gone too, far away.
What had she said? Follow her? How can you follow something you can’t see in a field in moonlight? But the moonlight was very bright now. It was pure, very white.
The flames were inching towards Billy. They had reached the truck. The tyres started to go one after another, the truck jumping as they blew. Billy stomped through the fire, gunning the engine into reverse so the truck slewed away fast.
Robbie looked down at Mags. The stubble didn’t reach this far, so if he went she’d be okay. It was her or Fleet, but Fleet was nowhere to be seen, so he didn’t need to make any decisions yet. He bent down to touch her neck.
No response. She was warm, at least.
This was how she’d said it would be, how she’d known it would be. So quick, so sharp, so neat.
People would be coming soon.
‘Mags,’ he hissed. ‘Mags.’
There was a faint movement, a flicker of her eyelids. He stroked her hair, then rolled her over so the moonlight fell full on her face. Her eyes opened.
‘Where am I?’
‘How long have you got?’
‘Is it over?’
Robbie looked up over her head.
‘Not yet.’
Fleet was in the field again.
Mags followed his gaze.
When Fleet started to run he didn’t think about staying. It was as if a voice in the back of his head was commanding him to go, go now. She didn’t run too fast, because of the damage to her left leg. Even so, keeping up wasn’t easy. Everywhere was light, it was like running along the underside of the surface of the sea in sunshine. Her whiteness blended like camouflage, but she was lolloping not belting, and she was going down the road between shining hedgerows, down past fields and crossroads. There was no one about, and soon they were among the outlying houses of the village. Robbie could see his house on the right, then the Allardyces’, then he was down the road and passing the store, all the time wondering how long this was going to go on for, feeling like it could be forever. He didn’t think he could do forever.
He saw her turning uphill, up the road to the church, and they were climbing again. He felt a surge of energy. He didn’t know where it was coming from, but suddenly he thought maybe he could do forever after all.
The lights were on in the church, though it was empty. The door was wide open.
A movement caught his eye. In the graveyard among the moon-washed tombs were three solemn brown hares, sitting in a circle, their eyes on him. There was a feeling in the air, not kind, but not frightening either, like a stilled heartbeat, a suspension of things.
The universe was full of things he didn’t understand. Dark energy. Dark matter. Dark matters.
And something was ending here, Robbie realized, in this churchyard, in this church, which was full of good old human light. Something that had happened many times before in the same place. A story that rolled like a wave or the curl of a whip though time and space, through seen and unseen, and there had never been anything anyone had ever been able to do to stop it.
He went into the church. The candles were lit. It felt warm and smelled of the benevolence of time.
Was he expecting to find Fleet sitting under the cross looking pleased with herself, or sorry for what she’d done?
She was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she hadn’t come inside in the first place. Why would she? But he was sure he had seen her run in, and he was sure she was here somewhere.
He took his time walking up the aisle, squinting along the pews. In front of the altar he stopped. He thought about saying a prayer, but he’d never done that before, and he wasn’t going to start now. Then he saw the vestry door was open, and the light was on. And he remembered Mags, radiant in the long mirror.
There was someone in the mirror this time too.
‘Fran,’ Robbie said.
She didn’t say anything, she just looked at him. She was wearing a white dress, like the first time he’d seen her, and her left shin was covered in bright red blood. Robbie was shocked by the sight of it. It was a bad wound, but her face was peaceful and calm, not angry or sad or even happy. She wasn’t locked in the past any more, and she didn’t seem to be in any pain. And as he recovered himself, he remembered Mags’s words when he’d seen Fran by the pool, about mirrors and dimensions and twinning. Fleet must be behind the door, he thought, but he knew he wasn’t going to see her again in that shape. He could only see her reflection in the mirror, her original self, for a little while. And even as these thoughts came to him, Fran began to fade, but as she did so she was replaced by another woman, then another, just like outside the garage, and so many came so fast, a hurricane of faces, Robbie couldn’t keep up with them, until one stayed.
His mum.
She looked peaceful too, and healthy. No illness wrinkles, no wrinkles at all. She was smiling at him.
And as they looked at each other, there was something new, a new feeling he experienced, and he didn’t know what it meant, but it was as if she was telling him something. It was a feeling, and it was a thought.
It doesn’t have to be this way, Robbie.
He didn’t know whether she was saying this to him, or whether he was saying it to himself. But a deep peace spread through him, even as he raised his hand towards her, hoping to touch her, to stop her from going. Step out of the mirror and be with me again.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
He knew what she meant, because he was remembering her letter, and he was no longer angry. As she faded away she smiled slightly and blew him a kiss, and in the church the lights began to dim. The candles were going out one by one, leaving the smell of wax heavy in the air. Slowly they were extinguished, and the lights were switching themselves off, and soon Robbie turned and he ran, through the darkening church that smelled of love into the warm bright night.
28
‘BILLY STRICKLAND’S gone mad.’
They were down by the bridge.
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘He shakes his head and rolls his eyes and talks about hares and ghosts.’
‘I know, Mags. Dad saw it on the local news. They didn’t mention hares and ghosts, though. They just said he was insane.’
‘What a way to go. Shot by your own brother.’
‘You’re lucky you didn’t see it. It’s me should be in the trauma ward.’
‘Yeah. That was so weird. I felt so tired, it was like all my energy was being drawn out of me, and when I woke up I was left with all these crazy visions.’
‘Visions? Visions of what?’
‘Of fire, of running, of blood, of the moon, of a church. And the strangest one was seeing you. I remember seeing you, staring at me. What was that about?’
For the first time with Mags, Robbie was the one with the answers.
‘I think I wa
s right. She needed you. She used you. For a little while, you were part of her. Your friend. She knew you wanted to help her and you did.’
‘I’m not sorry. I’m not. I should be, but I’m not.’
Robbie hadn’t told her everything about what had happened in the church. He would, eventually. But not just yet.
‘Mags?’ He was thinking about his mum’s letter.
‘Yes, Robbie?’
‘What are the chime hours?’
‘The chime hours. Okay. Chime hours. Or chiming hours. In the old days it was when the monks rang their bells. Why?’
‘Nothing. Well, yeah, something. What was special about them?’
‘The only thing I know is that if you are born during the chime hours, you have second sight. You can see things other people can’t.’
‘Is that when you were born?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not why I’m the way I am.’
‘Would Dad know about them?’
‘It’s well-known round here.’
‘So he would.’
‘When were you born, then?’
‘It’s something I need to talk about with Dad, but I can’t.’
‘It’s bad the way you are with your dad. I said that to you. ’Specially as there’s only him and you now.’
‘It’s better that way.’
‘But it’s still no good. Can’t you forgive him?’
It was as if she could read his thoughts.
He could see his mum in the mirror, hear those words.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
He shook his head. ‘No.’ But it wasn’t what he was feeling any more.
She sighed, and the water ran on under their feet.
‘I’ll bet you were born in the chime hours.’
‘Yes,’ he said. The letter, again. ‘Yes. Maybe. What are people saying?’
‘People in general, you mean? They can’t take it in. Everyone thinks the boys were hunting, but no one can work out why they were burning stubble in the moonlight. Unless maybe to flush the animals out, but nobody does that any more. So in the end people think they were just being fruitloops. You know, they always were crazy. Another mad Strickland thing, only this time it went wrong. Poor Billy.’
‘Poor Tommy.’
‘Rough justice.’
‘How’s Mrs Strickland?’
‘She’s not been seen since. He was her prince. I feel sorry for her.’
‘And what about the people who do know?’
‘They’re there. They’ll always be there. Watching and waiting.’
‘Your favourite phrase.’
‘There’s not much else you can do sometimes. There’s lots of things happening you and me don’t know about. ’Specially you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well, it’s true. You might learn, though. And most of them you can’t do much about, but some you can. That’s something else you’ve got to learn. How to tell the difference.’
Robbie took the memory stick out of his pocket. It lay in the palm of his hand, innocent, ordinary.
‘I thought I should do something about this. Still want it?’
‘Yes.’
He flipped it over to her with his thumb. She reached for it, fumbled the catch, and had to jump down into the river after it.
‘Ruined, I imagine,’ she shouted up.
‘Might be better that way,’ he replied. ‘You wouldn’t like it much.’
She was splashing about in the river, her Converses soaked, the dark wet climbing up the legs of her jeans.
He looked down at her corn-coloured head.
‘We didn’t do much, did we?’
‘You can’t.’ She started lobbing stones downriver, lazily trying to hit a tree trunk that was leaning over the water. ‘And –’ she bent down to pick up more stones, brown and glistening from the river bed – ‘it’s not over.’
‘Not over?’
‘Believe me. Not over yet.’ With every syllable she hurled a stone, then bent again for more from the cold rushing waters.
29
IN THE night Robbie swam out of a deep sleep. He knew something had woken him, but for several moments he didn’t know where he was or even who he was. He reached to switch his bedside light on and nothing happened. There was light under the door, but for some reason it was flickering. Then he realized what it was that had woken him. It was the smell of burning.
And in his head he heard a voice. Mary Allardyce. Faint but getting louder and louder as the acrid smell filled his nostrils. ‘It’s said that when a hare runs through a village street a fire will break out in one of the houses very shortly afterwards.’
It had taken its time, a couple of days or so. But here it was.
If he opened his door the air would feed the fire, but he had to, he had to take the chance.
The flames were climbing the walls of the stairwell. They had crossed the banisters that ran along the hall, and the blaze was building quickly between him and his dad’s room. The clouds of smoke were so bad he had to shut his door immediately. There was no way through.
Dad.
‘Dad!’ he screamed.
There was no response.
He called again and again, but there was only the roaring of the fire.
He had to get out, and there was only one way.
Once he was through the window he hung on to the sill, swaying slightly from side to side, and then he took a breath and dropped, hit the ground and rolled. The moon was hidden by clouds, but there was enough light to see by. He called 999 on his phone and raced round the house until he was under his dad’s window and he got through.
‘Dad!’
‘Can you just give me that address again, son?’
‘Dad!’
‘We’ll have the fire service and an ambulance there in ten minutes. What was the name again?’
‘Dad, can you hear me? Robbie, Robbie Lawton.’
‘And the address? Can you just confirm that?’ He did, hardly knowing what he was saying. All he knew was that there was no movement in his dad’s room. Smoke was billowing from the open window. He didn’t have ten minutes.
Okay, Robbie, concentrate. There’s a ladder in the shed.
The shed was locked, but he thought he could break in. He kicked hard against the door. It was tougher than he had thought and he was losing time. Another kick. It held.
With a yell of anger and hatred he took a run at it. To his astonishment the door splintered open. There was a stab of pain in his shoulder. He ignored it.
He couldn’t see the ladder. He knew there was one in there, because he had seen his dad putting it away. He took a step back and fell over the lawn mower, to find himself staring up at the ladder, lying on struts that ran from one wall to another under the roof. He jumped up to grab the end rung, hoping his weight would tilt it so that it would slide down, but most of it was on the struts and was too heavy and that didn’t work. He was panicking so much he could hardly see or think, then he saw a chair to stand on so he could pull the ladder properly, and it came cleanly.
He dragged it through the door, over the lawn and to the front. He put it against the wall of the house. After a while he could see the flames at the door of his dad’s bedroom and the dark shape of a body in the bed.
He couldn’t tell if he was still alive.
‘Dad! Dad!’
Nothing.
He pushed himself through the window. He pulled the duvet off the bed and shouted in his dad’s face.
‘Dad! Come on, wake up!’ His voice was rising to a shriek.
The smoke was suffocating, even with the windows wide open, and Robbie was beginning to choke.
He hooked his arms under his dad’s shoulders and yanked, swinging him out of bed. How was he going to get him out of the window?
His dad’s body was a dead weight, the smoke overpowering and the heat intense. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the door of the bedroom was beginning to go. He dragged his
dad to the wall by the window, and climbed out. Then he leaned down and heaved. The pain in his shoulder felt like a bullet wound.
He had to push through the window into the smoke again. Leaning in, he lunged out and down to feel for his dad’s body. Suddenly there was light beyond the smoke as the door went up in flames. Fire ballooned into the room. He ducked at the top of the ladder for a moment, recoiling from the heat, then forced himself back. At least he could see his dad better, slumped against the wall beneath him.
Okay, Robbie, lean in, push down and pull.
He was going to have to use his left arm, the right one was no good any more.
He couldn’t do it. Too far, the pain too much.
Come on, Robbie, stretch. Stretch. You can do this.
He manoeuvred his hand under his dad’s shoulder and round.
It’s too hot, it’s too hot.
His back felt like it was going to go. This just might be impossible.
Come on, Dad. I need you now. Come on, someone, somewhere.
Something shifted in his dad’s weight. He was moving. He was alive. He was pushing himself back and up. He was coming with Robbie.
In one quick rush, as if they were bursting out of a flooded tank, his dad slid out of the window and they were falling, falling together, back down the ladder.
30
MAGS CAME to see him, and sat at the end of his hospital bed eating the grapes she’d brought.
‘You were right, as usual,’ he said. She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘It wasn’t over.’
She broke into that big grin. ‘Well, you know what everyone’s saying now.’
‘What’s that?’
She rolled her eyes, as if to say you’re never going to believe this, but isn’t it obvious?
‘People think you started it. ’Cos of your conviction.’
‘You’re kidding me. I started a fire in my own home?’
‘That’s what they’re saying. You’ve got form, remember?’
‘My conviction? Do you know what my conviction is, Mags? My conviction is your village is mad. And I am being kind.’
The White Hare Page 14