Mona laughed. ‘No, actually. Especially not standing on someone’s wounded chest.’ She went a little pink.
‘I think Arnold likes you,’ I ventured.
A little pink turned to bright pink.
‘And I’m sure he’d love to discuss all things science with you.’
Mona raised her eyebrows in a Really? question and dried her hands on her skirt. Boodle’s hairs were visible straight away on the navy fabric. She brushed at them absentmindedly.
‘Really,’ I said. ‘He’ll probably have to stay at home this afternoon, though. You two seem to have clicked. He’d love it if you popped round to see him.’
Mona was bright red now. ‘What? Today? To his house?’
I nodded encouragingly. ‘I’ll come back in with you and we can ask him if he’d be up for a visit. His mum will be fine with it.’
‘Y-you sure?’ stammered Mona.
‘Do you like Wham and Duran Duran? Maybe even Elvis?’
‘Uh, I don’t usually te– okay, yes. Yes, I do. You’re going to use that against me?’ Mona was now grinning.
‘Nope, that’s perfect. Just don’t let Hilda know.’
Chapter Nine
Wednesday morning, back at the hovel
Boodle and I made our way home back down Mason, into Stanton, into North, into Beaufort and up Hill Street, all to avoid the remotest chance of encounters with St Alban’s boys. It was only eight thirty, so technically I still had a whole three days before my birthday, and everything was going miraculously to plan.
No need to stress.
In a few hours I’d have just two and a half days left, but, again, no need to stress.
A headache was pressing against my skull, and a mindless mantra ticked through my head like the bicycle wheels spinning beneath me: two and a half days, two and a half days . . .
It only stopped when I squeezed my eyes shut so tightly I saw spots. Not because the spots were distracting. No, rather the near-death experience: Mrs Sidment was backing out of her drive and would have run me over for sure if Mr K hadn’t yelled out from the other side of the road. I swerved away from the slow-moving vehicle and waved thanks across at Mr K. He just lifted his fedora in acknowledgement, and called, ‘Keep your eyes open, Tallulah! That hound is not a guide dog!’ with a disbelieving shake of his head.
So I was exhausted when I got home, but I suddenly had perspective again, thanks to Mrs Sidment’s silent Lexus. And the part of me that had panicked for so long re eligible boy for kissing was quieted. Definitely. I did a few complex calculations in my head, e.g.:
Arns + Mona × 1 afternoon encounter = Thurs evening date and possible snog
Just to, you know, check that I wasn’t GOING TO RUN OUT OF TIME. Seeing as my birthday was on SATURDAY.
Okay, breathe in, breathe out. Keep perspective! It’s all going to be okay, I thought.
Boodle pushed the back gate open for me and I put the bike away in the shed, then poured water into one of Boodle’s bowls from the tap outside the back door. I sat down on the step and stroked her back with one hand while she drank. Long tufts of hair came off with each stroke and I leaned against the door in the sunshine and carried on with the grooming motion.
Sigh.
I felt a Piz Buin tan coming on.
All was right with the world.
Inside, I heard the kitchen door thump open, the noise echoing clearly through the window over the sink to my right. Dad must be taking another sick day, I thought idly, my hand still littering the courtyard with clumps of dog hair.
An angry voice at the sink inside made me jump nearly clean out of my skin.
‘I’m not coming back!’
Silence.
It was Dad, sounding like I’ve never heard him before. Angry and upset and almost on the brink of tears. Shocked, I kept completely still, my hand motionless on Boodle. I couldn’t let Dad know I was here, could I? No. Just those four words told me this was not something my father ever wanted me to hear.
‘Freya,’ he said then. ‘It’s too hard. My family will find out, and I – I just couldn’t stand it.’
Find out what? What the hell was all this about? Who on this earth was Freya? Boodle lay down quietly and stared up at my stricken face.
‘What do you mean it helps that my wife knows? She doesn’t really know, Freya! That’s just not possible!’ He yelled so loudly I’m sure the window above me shook.
There was a crash then and a sob. I heard my father’s slippers shuck shuck away, followed by the slam of the kitchen door and silence.
I still couldn’t move. The sun suddenly felt harsh and bright, my skin itchy under the salt of sweat. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes for blissful darkness. There had to be a reasonable explanation. Anything but that my father was involved with someone else. I just had to think. Think.
Was Freya his new editor? And he was refusing to meet with the publisher again over some issue or another and Mum knew he wasn’t going to get a book out this year and there’d be no money coming in . . .
That must be it.
I bit my lip.
But it could be anything. I’d be silly to jump to conclusions, crazy to add this to my list of worries.
I’d ask Dad later. Quietly, when he was on his own.
I took a deep breath. And another.
Dropping my hands to my knees, I noticed my fingers were trembling. In fact, my whole body was shaking. I needed a drink of cool sweet juice. A shower. A refuge. I looked across the courtyard at the annexe as I pushed myself slowly to my feet. Boodle jumped up with me and loped over to its door.
She’s a mind reader, I thought.
I tried the handle. Locked of course. Then peered through the window of the living area. There were heaps of boxes and piles of old clothes. To the left of the front door was another window, but tall and narrow. It looked on to a small square area with a door to the bedroom and bathroom. To the right was the kitchen breakfast bar and living area.
It was bigger than I remembered. Right now it was dingy and horrible but with hard work it could be a lovely refuge.
Hard work. That’s what I needed right now.
I should go and get paint, cleaning materials. But I was still frozen by the distress of my father’s shouted words, still shaking.
Pull yourself together, Tallulah! Stop overreacting!
I scratched at my arm, trying to concentrate on the annexe instead of my freak father, and noticed a smear of rusty red on my wrist. Was that . . . Arnold Trenchard’s blood? Ew!
I needed a shower. And before that a drink. Something strong, like Lucozade. Maybe even Lucozade Tropical.
Moving quickly and quietly round to the front of the house, I then came in noisily through the front door. ‘Anyone home?’ I called. There was no reply.
I sighed and dropped Boodle’s lead on the hall table with the rest of the household clutter and noticed the phone wasn’t there. I remembered the crash in the kitchen. Okaaay.
Shouldering my door open, I found a note from Pen taped to it.
Fatass
I’ll be home for lunch. Salad?
P
Little chancer. Mum would have told her I wasn’t well.
I showered first. It was beautiful. Hot water thundered over my face, hair, body till I thought of the planet and turned it off regretfully. I got into ancient tracksuit bottoms, pink, and a mustard yellow T-shirt that Pen had got me last Christmas. I’d never had such an awful gift in all my born days and our sibling relationship had taken a turn for the worse from the moment I unwrapped it.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and grinned despite myself. I looked a lot like a pustule.
Bong went my computer, as if in agreement. Message. Carrie, Alex and Tam were on MSN.
CARRIE: Yoohooo! We’re back from busking and we want the lowdown. T? You there?
TATTY BIRD: I’m here. How’d the busking go?
CARRIE: Awful. Wet. Tam got a pity tip from Alex’s da
d for two quid and the rest was small change. Alex is in a state about Coven’s Quarter. What’s going on?
TATTY BIRD: Huh?
CARRIE: It’s Alex. Don’t huh me. Coven’s Quarter on the Guardian page 7. WHAT THE HELL? Come on, T! What’s going on? Why is someone else getting the scoop on the Coven’s Quarter story? Please sort it out otherwise our English grade is going to be poo and my portfolio pooier. I need this work experience to go well. Laters, okay? You’ll message me?
And then they were gone. I felt a little miffed that they’d not asked about Mission Arns + Mona, but clearly I needed to see the paper. It was probably strewn across the kitchen table.
It wasn’t, but the innards of the phone were – wires trailing across it like gutted intestines.
The front door slammed, shaking the entire house.
‘Hello, slaves,’ trilled Pen from the hall. ‘Put the kettle on!’
She appeared in the kitchen doorway and took in the destruction of the telephonic device at a glance.
‘Lula’s gonna get into trou-uble,’ she lilted, tossing her bag on the table, narrowly avoiding a glob of strawberry jam that would have stayed stuck to the faux leather forever.
I ignored her. ‘Seen the paper?’ I queried.
‘Nope,’ she said.
I checked everywhere downstairs. No way was I going up there to ask Dad. I needed to mull over what I’d overheard before I could face him.
Freya wasn’t a homewrecking kind of name.
Definitely a publishing kind of name. Yes, definitely.
I gave up on finding the paper and slammed out the back door, feeling breezier already, keen for renovation.
Yanking the shed door open, I discovered cans of paint – and it was white, frabjous day! Now for brushes. I began lifting out bits and pieces I’d need. Elsa’s work on Arns’s room last night had left me feeling inspired.
‘What are you doing?’ came Pen’s voice behind me.
‘Preparing for the renovation of 155A Hill Street.’
‘We’re just 155, not A – oh, aha, I see what’s up. The annexe.’ Pen put her hands on her hips and stared at me belligerently. ‘You’ve already taken over the cellar, Tallulah. Don’t you think you should finish fixing that car in there before you start something else?’
‘I can’t do anything for Oscar till I’ve found a gasket for him.’ I hefted up a bottle of white spirit and added it to the pile, then began wrestling with the wheelbarrow.
Pen scrunched her face into a you’re sooooo pathetic expression. ‘How could you call him Oscar? It’s totally lame.’
‘You’d rather I called him Angus?’ I stopped tugging on the barrow handle to drag irritating tendrils back into my pony bunch.
‘No!’
‘Pen lurves Angus! Pen luuurves Angus!’ I chanted.
‘You’re such a child.’ Pen hoisted the front of the barrow over a bunch of DIY essentials, and set it down neatly next to my modest pile.
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Thanks. What do you want, Penelope?’
She suddenly looked overly innocent. ‘Shall I put this stuff in the wheelbarrow?’
‘Yes, please,’ I answered promptly. I knew my sister and I knew myself. Whether she told me now or later, I was going to have to give in to whatever she wanted anyway – might as well get my pound of flesh while it was on offer. ‘So, Pen. Fancy giving me a hand with the renovations?’
It took us an hour to clear out all the empty boxes and paraphernalia from the annexe. During which time I’d sent Arns several messages like: Is Mona a go? Do you owe me yet? A date tonight would be perfect, thank you very much.
Pen trotted about in a disturbingly helpful way and we scrubbed and scoured the place from top to bottom, till we got to the bathroom. My sister drew the line at toilets, but she came in after a while to see how I was getting on with the cistern. (You don’t wanna know.)
‘I wonder what’s behind that bath panel,’ said Pen, tapping it firmly with her toe.
The old MDF caved instantly into a soggy hole.
‘Yeek!’ squealed Pen. She dropped to her knees to inspect the damage. ‘Maybe some Polyfilla,’ she suggested optimistically.
‘Yeah, right.’ I crouched down and peered in. ‘Pen!’ I said excitedly. ‘It’s an old claw-foot bath!’
We looked at each other and hefted a kick at the panel. It fell apart to reveal a puce-pink bath beneath, but, yep, it was claw-footed nonetheless. Pen began knocking the rot away enthusiastically, rattling on about what colour the bath should be repainted.
I watched her for a minute. ‘You’re working awfully hard for that salad, Pen.’
‘I’m bored,’ she admitted. Then, ‘And I might live here one day,’ the last words said with threatening emphasis.
I looked at her long and hard. ‘I can’t believe you’re only here to make sure I don’t paint anything avocado green.’
‘Well . . .’ Pen glanced down. ‘Maybe I want to move into your old room today.’
I blinked and shook my head. ‘Firstly – why? Secondly – it’s going to take forever to get this place sorted out. Today is not an option.’
Pen held my gaze, unwavering: I groaned in despair, and ordered her to help pull off the rest of the bath panel.
In minutes the clean bathroom was clean no more, yet that tub was truly splendiferous.
‘Cool,’ said Pen. ‘But you’d better get this place cleared up before Mum gets back. She’ll freak if she sees you’ve been tearing down structures without her say so.’
‘Tearing down structures?’ I mimicked. Pen dodged the rotten clump of wood I threw at her. ‘It’s a good thing you want to be a solicitor, little sis, because you couldn’t sound like anything else if you tried.’
‘Whatever,’ retorted Pen, being all fourteen again. She clomped down the steps and out the door.
‘Hey, where’re you going?’ I called, suddenly aware that there was still a lot of work to be done.
‘To get bin bags,’ Pen called back, halfway across the courtyard. ‘Got to conceal the evidence.’
Ha! It was good having the law on my side.
Reaching for the broom, I began pushing the debris into a pile near the door. Pen came rustling back with a load of bin liners.
‘Whoa! Stop! Stop!’ cried Pen.
She was frozen in fright, her mouth open and her index finger pointing at my face. Her lips moved but nothing came out. I felt something move across my forehead and into my hair.
‘Nyaaarr!’ I yelled, shaking my head wildly. ‘Wha- where-wha–?’
From the sheer horror on Pen’s face I knew it could only be one thing.
‘Spider!’ she gasped at the exact moment it fell inside my shirt from its tenuous grip on my left earlobe.
I snatched at the shirt and pulled it away from my spine, arching my back and jumping even harder. I prayed urgently that I was wearing my Per Una knickers with the reputable elastic, and not one of the old twenty-in-a-pack-for-5p numbers that had lost their hold on my waist after the first wash.
‘Where is it? Where is it? Pen? Pen? You’ve got to help me!’ I pulled the shirt off over my head and whirled around. ‘Is it still on me? Pen? Pen?’
‘Uhh – uhh – uhh –’
It was no good. My sister was in full meltdown. I was still dancing around when I saw her index finger move, shaking, to the shirt that I still held in my hand.
On it was the hugest spider I’d ever, ever seen. People, I tell you now, that thing was not of this world. After immense, the next thought that sprang to mind was hairy, and that was followed shortly by one nip from this thing and I’ll be in A&E, spasming in death throes of an awful and painful kind.
Frik! Frik! Frikking frik! We ran screaming into the safety of the sunshine outside.
‘Aaaaaaaaah!’
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!’
It’s a good thing our courtyard is invisible from the Setting Sun’s eagle-eye view over the town. If Mr Kadinski could have seen me leaping about topl
ess, albeit with sensible undies still firmly strapped in place, he might have suffered a fatal coronary. It was bad enough Dad emerging at that instant.
‘T, Pen, what?’ he croaked from the back doorway.
‘Dad, Dad, Dad,’ gibbered Pen, grabbing him by the hairs on his forearm. He tried to swat her off, but she got behind him and began pushing him towards the annexe.
‘What’s wrong with you two?’ Dad tried vainly to stagger back to the kitchen, but Pen elbowed him in the midriff and he kind of fell into the annexe doorway. It seems the spider had big ideas about leaving through the front door because Dad had only just stepped in there when he jumped straight back out with a sound like, ‘Yoowaargh!’ and did a little moonwalk in front of us. He slammed the door to the annexe shut. His face was white. ‘Don’t let it out!’ he wheezed. And threw up over Mum’s cacti collection near the back step.
At last his retching gave way to coughing and, shaking, he made his way back inside the house.
Looking over at Pen I put my hands on my hips and said, ‘Okay, mainbrain, now what?’
Chapter Ten
Wednesday, needing lunch
Pen and I stared at each other in silence till Boodle the Poodle wandered out to see what was going on. She slobbered hello on Pen’s leg and then Mum came home, looking hungry.
Followed shortly by Blue and Great-aunt Phoebe wielding the Guardian.
‘Let’s think about Supersize Spidey later,’ I suggested, and we all trooped inside.
As I got the food on the go, Aunt Phoebe spread out the newspaper on the kitchen table.
‘There,’ she said grimly, stabbing at a headline on page seven with her perfectly manicured forefinger.
SITE OF ANCIENT WORSHIP DESTROYED?
Historical librarian Dr Anne Bird of Hambledon University denies the significance of missing documents necessary to stop bulldozers moving in on one of Britain’s most ancient sites of mystic ritual. Coven’s Quarter is set for demolition if evidence cannot be provided in time for the planning appeal meeting scheduled for Monday 19 April. Dr Bird declined to comment further, but colleagues confirm speculation that she is distracted by the recent troubles of her husband, renowned songwriter and poet Spenser Bird.
Kisses for Lula Page 7