He steers clear of the graveyard.
19
Granddad is not happy. ‘I’ve been looking for you all afternoon! You know fine well how important it is to be on time!’ They’re going from North Six where he found her towards Daisy Hill. He’s stomping, she’s dragging her heels, getting further and further behind. He turns on her, all bristles. ‘Do you think maybe now’s the time for you to hurry up, Misha?’ She skips a few steps to catch up, but she’s soon lagging again. She can’t help it. His strides are huge, and unlike Misha he’s filled with urgency. ‘Don’t think we’re skipping the theory just because you’re late. We’ll do it after the practical, so I hope you’re ready for some hard concentration.’ She wonders if he’s seen the graffiti that she failed to get back to and remove. It would explain why that scowl carves his brow so severely. Then again, the fact that she hid from him for a full afternoon is plenty provocation to turn Granddad sour like week-old milk.
She’s got something she’d like to say to him. It’s about how much she doesn’t care. It’s about how all his efforts to teach her are pointless. She can’t take it all in, so why try. Everything is a waste of time. Everything. Time itself is a waste. It’s just a measurement, a distance between miseries, and who really wants any of it?
She can’t say anything like that to Granddad, though. It’s too personal. Too real.
‘Please keep up, Misha! Everyone’s due at any minute!’
This has the undesired effect of stopping her in her tracks. ‘Everyone? What do you mean?’
Granddad takes another four huge strides before realising the girl has halted. Exasperated hands wave frantically for her to come. ‘Misha, you are trying my patience! Can you please move?’
Her only movement is a tilt of the head. ‘Who is everyone? I thought you said we’re doing practical.’
‘We are. You’re taking part in today’s convocation.’
It seems to Misha that this day’s sole purpose is to find out what makes her suffer most. ‘I can’t. I’m not ready.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
‘You’ve got to be joking. I don’t even know anything! You tell me all the time not to mess around with stuff I don’t understand…’
‘I meant on your own. Don’t mess around on your own, without supervision. We won’t be messing around today. This is the real thing.’
Granddad doesn’t do jokes, so this must really be happening. But it can’t be, it can’t. ‘Granddad, no. Please. All that will happen is I’ll look stupid and I’ll do something horrible…’
‘You won’t be in any danger.’ He’s trying to be nice and gently encouraging, but his foot’s tapping wildly in a puddle. ‘You’ll be with people who know what they’re doing, who’ve done this dozens of times…’
‘And I’ve never done it at all!’ Her voice is reaching a shout and she can’t help it. ‘I haven’t got it. You know that, I know that.’
‘Nobody “has” it, Misha. Nobody is born with it. It’s a skill to be learned, and we all learn differently. We’ve been on the wrong track with you, that’s all. If we bring you in on the real thing, I think it will all come together for you.’
Why did she come out of her stupid tree? ‘Crosswell is there, isn’t he? He hates me.’
‘What on earth…’
‘I overheard him telling you I’m a waste of time. I heard him! And he doesn’t even keep it secret that he hates me. He looks at me like I just got scraped off a shoe. And there’s that woman who laughs at everything he says, even when it isn’t funny…’
Granddad goes back to collect her, pulling her along by the wrist. Not rough, but firm. ‘Being involved in the process will teach you more than you think. The more you do, the better you get. And I don’t know why you worry about Crosswell. He’s a stern man, but that’s only because he knows how serious a situation this is. Listen to him, learn from him, instead of treating him like an enemy. We’re all on the same side. Now please, let’s get a move on, they’ll finish digging before we even get there…’
20
He’s half into his coat and hopping into his other trainer as he tumbles out of the front door. Father’s pulling up in the driveway, frowning at him, like he’s sure the boy is fleeing from some crime. It occurs to Caleb that Father will be proven right: the dishes aren’t done, and he’ll catch hell for it when he gets home. He’s running now, though, and can only spare a brief moment for regret, because they’re up there again. Those people.
They’re burying another one. Already.
He has to see.
21
It’s that look.
She’s told Granddad over and again about it. She wasn’t making it up. She wasn’t. There it is right there on that big ugly face. How can Granddad not see it? Crosswell is scowling at her. Scowling.
The rest of them are no better. All looking at her like she’s crashed the party and ruined the fun. Misha wants to yell at them. ‘I didn’t ask to come here!’ she’d shout. ‘I’ve been dragged here, I want nothing to do with any of you, so you’ve got no right to look at me like that!’ The shout sits as an iron ball in her chest, too heavy to move.
Other voices are rising. Granddad took Crosswell to one side for a quiet chat. They’re not quiet now. ‘This is not the time,’ says Crosswell in a deep vibrating monotone. ‘You want to play games with the child, do it later. Right now we have—’
Granddad is red and flustered and in no mood to wait for sentences to end. ‘You said yourself that the training isn’t working, so we’ll try it this way instead.’ He’ll deny it, but Crosswell is upsetting him. Crosswell is always upsetting him.
‘We’ll try? Try? We don’t get another go at this. If anyone messes this up, we can’t reset and try again like it’s a computer game. The damage that could be done…’
‘What damage? You make it sound like we’re a bunch of kids who’ll let something Other come through. Why do you have to be so dramatic? Every one of us…’ Granddad halts, realising how loud he’s become. When he speaks again it is in low tones, but they still reach Misha’s ears, like they want to be heard. ‘Every one of us knows what we’re doing. Unless you consider yourself to be an unskilled novice, Crosswell?’ The bigger man doesn’t like that, not one bit. And he’s a good deal bigger than Granddad. Six inches taller, broader shoulders, thicker neck. Crosswell might not be a young man, but he’s certainly younger than Granddad, perhaps by twenty years. If he wanted a fight, he would have it and win.
His big shoulders bunch up as if he really is about to let loose with his fists. If he dares, then Misha will jump on him. She’s not scared. ‘Clearly you’ve forgotten the importance of what we’re doing. This isn’t some little side-project. It’s not some lesser task. What we’re doing—’
‘I know exactly what we’re doing! There are no side-projects! There are no lesser tasks! This is it; this is all. If Misha is to learn, this is where and how.’
They stare at each other, immoveable forces.
If Misha’s nerves were bad before, they are now out of control.
The woman, Morgan, the one who laughs at all of Crosswell’s jokes, breaks the silence. ‘Can we get on with this please, gents? The day marches on and a bottle of vino awaits my return.’ Her voice is stagey, like she expects everyone to be watching her performance. She smiles and rolls her eyes whenever she says something she thinks is particularly interesting.
Misha hates that.
Crosswell laughs even though nothing at all funny is happening, at least as far as Misha can tell. ‘You’ve got no idea what you’re doing, old man. You’re spending all your time playing at schools, silly games for silly girls. I don’t think you’re capable of—’
‘Of what?’ Misha has never heard Granddad’s voice like this before, not even when she’s at her worst. The words are shards of slate, cold and brittle. ‘What am I not capable of, Crosswell? Leading? Being in charge? Shall I step down and hand it to you? Shall I hand you all of this?’ He swe
eps his twisty hands around to encompass the whole graveyard, and suddenly it feels as if the inside of Misha’s chest is infinite and filled with rushing space. Such an urge within her! She’ll give up every wish to have this one fulfilled: take it, Crosswell. Take it!
He’s laughing again. Softer this time, like the whole thing was a joke all along. Like everyone’s having fun together. ‘Nobody wants to take your place. Nobody could, could they? I’m just expressing concerns the whole group has, that’s all.’
‘Hug it out, boys,’ calls Morgan. ‘We’ve got to show this girl how to turn the bones.’ The phrase gives Misha the shivers. It sounds a lot like something that no one should do.
Granddad clearly wants to say a lot more to Crosswell, but he’s very aware of everyone looking at him, especially his granddaughter. Now is not the time. He gives her that anaemic smile, the worst of all his masks. ‘Yes, we should really get started. The revenant won’t wait.’
‘I thoroughly agree,’ says Crosswell. He never can resist getting one last shot in. It’s ignored by Granddad. It’s stored away by Misha. Stored with all the rest.
‘Everyone into positions,’ Granddad says in a brisk officer voice. ‘Misha, you’re at sextus.’ She looks at him blankly. ‘Between Morgan and Grayson. There. Right there.’ She shuffles over as slow as she can. Impatience pulsates from him, but he tries to hold his smile. ‘Come on, Misha, no need to be shy, we’re all friends here.’
An outrageous lie.
Morgan reaches out and strokes her arm. An ice cube against the skin would be less chilly. ‘Us gals together, huh?’ Misha nods as speaking seems pointless. ‘You listen to me, hun, I’ll keep you right.’ With that ever-present smirk and cold plastic eyes, there’s little right about Morgan. Misha’s had bad dreams about this woman. Eight’s had grimy things to say about this woman. The unwanted touch is lingering. She steps back, almost falls into the pile of dugout dirt.
Granddad thinks she’s messing around and snaps. ‘Misha! Take this seriously! Do you know what’s at stake here?’
‘Yes. You’ve only told me about a million times.’
‘Damn right I have.’ A deep breath. Composure recovered. ‘This is where we prove ourselves, understand? Here and now.’ He jumps down into the open grave, lands with a thump on the coffin.
Misha doesn’t want to prove herself. She wants to leave the graveyard and this miserable rainy town and all these horrible people. So many awful people.
22
Sneaking is hard when the very ground under your feet is against you. He can’t stick to the paths and the roads, as they will see him. If it is a simple burial, and they see him, they will wonder what business he has crashing the gathering, and word will race back to Father and that would be unbearable. If they are up to no good and see him, he will be chased away, or worse, and worse is working some terrible tricks on his mind. As he slips and slides across an unplanted flowerbed, worse tells him that those dark-suited people near the top of the hill will teach nosey boys hard lessons. As he weaves around the rough trunks of trees, worse tells him of open graves and how easy they are to fill.
Would Father still be worried about the dishes?
Halfway up the hill his heel skids through a mud puddle, shooting too far forward. He flails, snatching out for a branch to catch hold of. But there is no branch, so Caleb slides into the splits, and he’s no good at the splits, so he lands on his backside with a loud splatty splash. Very loud. Dive-bombing into a swimming pool would be quieter.
Surely they heard that.
They’ll be coming for him. A pack of them, running pell-mell down the hill, accelerating. Spades and shovels and worse will be in their hands.
He should run away. Get back home where there’s no suited strangers and no open graves. Watching from behind glass and distance, anyone can be choked and stoked with bravery. Out here, there could be very real danger. Irreversible danger.
He’s a boy who’s only ever played videogames. But he’s also the only person who knows something bad is going on up here. He has to find out more.
Wet and mud-clagged, he peers around a tree, convinced a hideous face will glare at him from the other side. Nobody’s coming. They’re all still graveside. Six…no, seven people, a mound of mud behind them. One of them jumps into the grave.
He needs to get moving. Quietly.
23
Gramps stands at his living room window, folding his ironing. He blames himself. His talks with the boy have done nothing. Clearly he’s been too subtle. He’ll have to be a lot more direct.
He hopes it’s not too late.
Once he’s done with these clothes, he’ll go over his trains. They’re long overdue a clean.
24
Misha’s guts roll like ocean waves as Granddad prises open the coffin. Talking about these convocations, seeing them from far off, it’s all so different to being right here on the precipice, here at the mouth of the grave, here in this moment when the dance is about to begin.
Grayson, he who never speaks, is first to start humming, holding a single steady note, like he’s testing it. He holds it a long time, draining the air from his lungs. It seems impossible to Misha that he can carry on so long. She feels as if she can’t catch enough breath for herself. Then he drops down through the octave, hitting each note hard and low, holding each for a few moments. There’s the tiniest pause for breath, then back to the top of the octave, then he starts back down. Two notes down, the man standing beside Grayson joins in, but from the top note. Harris keeps rhythm with Grayson. He looks nervous. Misha wishes she hadn’t seen that worry in his flitting eyes. The buzzing under her skin refuses to subside.
At the foot of the grave stands Esme, her face crinkled with folds, her eyes always behind sunglasses. She adds her rasping voice to the round, again two notes into Harris’s scale. Misha has heard the Scales before, but from outside the group. It’s a lot different, a lot scarier, being within the circle as the Scales approach her position. There are moments of discord as the trio go through the octave, staying in perfect time, each person two notes adrift from the last.
There’s a dreadful creak from down in the hole, and Misha has always thought herself brave, but whatever’s happening in the grave is something she never wants to see.
So she takes a quick glimpse, the most fleeting of glances. Granddad, feet braced against muddy walls, heaving open the coffin to look inside. The leather of his skin, the wire of his neck muscles; a vampire desperate to return to its slumber.
Morgan’s humming now, hands flourishing along the Scale, and she taps Misha hard on the shoulder to get her attention, as it will be the girl’s turn in mere seconds, and Misha can’t do this, it’s a mess of noise, she can’t even do the Scales for more than ten seconds when it’s just her and Granddad, and she’ll mess it up and break the chain and leave an opening
and
Morgan points
and
she’s humming, and she’s going to cry because she will get this wrong even though she’s concentrating so hard. There are five voices – six now – that are all hitting different notes in each moment, and her ears keep training in on each voice in turn, and she wants to sing the same note as them, not something out of tune. It’s an unending, always fluctuating buzzing vibration. She’s convinced she’s not hitting the notes right. She can’t. Her throat hurts already.
The lurkers at the edge of the circle, the ones that Granddad says are real, really real, they’ll be on the group in a heartbeat if the Scales fall. Something, reaching for her, for all of them. Pushing. Pressing.
She must stick to her Scale.
The others are humming strong and loud. And, Misha realises, so is she. It thrums in her chest. It feels good, and powerful. It comes easy. It wants to be, it wants to exist. Round and round go the Scales, and the pressure at her back fades. Their voices have woven into one, become a force. She’s no longer scared of upsetting the Scales. She’s scared that it will simply stop.
25
It’s her. That Misha girl, with all these suits. Whatever’s going on, she’s a part of it. She actually spoke to him this morning, and yet she’s up there. With them.
He stands absolutely still, and every muscle in his body is aching to move.
Why is she there? And what is that noise about?
Caleb thinks of things he’s heard in school. About people in things called cults. None of them are good. A lot of them involve devils, and blood. He’s heard stuff about Misha too, but nothing like this. He wants to be still, but he can’t stop trembling.
26
They’re here. The revenants.
It’s not imagination. It isn’t a case of the creeps. The disturbance has stirred them, drawn them in as bloody meat will pull in sharks. They come because they smell the chance to feed.
Granddad has never said where they come from, and she’s never wanted to ask. But now she wishes she’d asked more and listened more.
Because they’re here.
Misha doesn’t know when she shut her eyes. Perhaps when she sensed them coming. Perhaps when she couldn’t bear to see anything more of Granddad in the open grave with the dried-up old corpse.
That thought sends her skin crawling up her back.
Concentrate! The Scales!
The noise of their humming is a hypnotic sound-wall. It brings the revenants up short. It holds them, confuses them. She senses them prickling, struggling to understand, to find a way through. Misha’s guts tell her that they must never, ever get through. It’s exactly what Granddad’s told her dozens of times, yes, but her guts are far more convincing.
A Graveyard Visible Page 4