Stonebird

by Mike Revell

  Please be there.

  The thought pounds in my head.

  Please, please be there.

  Sweat runs into my eyes and I rub at them with my sleeve, stumbling on.

  But I don’t stop and don’t care as long as I’m moving.

  On and on and on and on until my legs buckle. Pain lances through my stomach, and I clench my side trying to get rid of the stitch, knowing that I need to keep moving. My legs are jelly. I can’t feel them anymore, but I will them to move.

  When I can’t run, I walk, dragging myself forward.

  Panting heavily, I force myself on until I get to the retirement home. My legs finally give out and I tumble down onto the rough concrete. The pavement rips at my palms. It stings where it takes the skin off. But I push myself up because I need to see . . .

  No.

  No.

  The roof’s empty.

  Stonebird has gone.

  44

  I just stand there, gulping air, my sweater damp and clinging to me.

  Blood pounds in my ears.

  Gone.

  He’s gone.

  And that means . . .

  I run up to the door and dial the number on the keypad. The receptionist doesn’t give me a second glance as I run past, but all the old people turn to watch me charge down the corridor and around the corner and up to Grandma’s door.

  Mom’s inside when I get there. I barge in, and she jumps out of the chair.

  “Liam? What are you doing here? I thought you were at school!”

  Her cheeks are red, and wet streaks run down them onto her chin. I look past her toward Grandma, but Mom grabs my shoulders and shakes her head. More tears run down, and I can see she’s trying to fight it, trying to hold it in, but once they start they just run and run and run.

  “Liam, dear . . . she’s not in good shape,” she says, eyes shining wet.

  I shrug her off. “I want to see her!”

  I fight my way past, but Grandma’s eyes are staring at the ceiling, seeing things that I can’t. Her mouth opens and closes, forming the shapes of words, but she’s not speaking.

  “Grandma? Grandma, it’s me. Liam.”

  She reaches out to touch my face, but Mom pulls me back.

  “It’s best not to get too close,” she says.

  My mouth hangs open and I try to close it, but it just drops uselessly again. Words form in my mind, but they’re distant, and when I try and grab them and use them they vanish. A shiver runs through me, and not because I’m cold.

  The demon. It’s back. It’s back worse than ever . . .

  But even as I think it, I know I’m wrong. Grandma’s eyes are empty. There’s not even that fire in there anymore. They’re windows onto nothing. She’s a husk. The demon hasn’t just come back. It’s been and eaten everything and gone already.

  And left us with this.

  Yesterday Grandma was laughing and smiling and winking and telling stories. Now she can barely move.

  It’s not fair.

  I don’t understand how this can happen, how people can have a heartbeat and a mind and be looking right at you but not really be there at all.

  But I guess that’s all we are, isn’t it? Memories. Just a load of memories rolled up into a person. And when they go, we’re left with nothing.

  45

  “Do you know,” says Mom, hours later, “your grandma kept saying the strangest things today.”

  We’re lying on the sofa, Mom, Jess, and me, lying and holding one another and listening to the quiet of the evening as the room gets darker around us and the fire burns low and orange, giving out its warmth.

  “She kept talking about a monster on the roof . . .”

  Jess frowns. “Weird,” she says.

  “I know. But she was convinced, she really was.”

  “You’re talking about her like she’s dead,” I say.

  “Oh, Liam, dear . . .” She pauses, and the pause feels like a hammer getting ready to slam. “I don’t think it’s going to be long.”

  We don’t talk much after that.

  I close my eyes and I keep hearing Mrs. Culpepper saying Happy memories are powerful things, so in my head I run through all the stories I’ve read in Grandma’s diary.

  She liked art and racing cars and flowers and walks in the sun and feeling the sand between her toes and having the same birthday as the Queen.

  She liked all of those things and so much more, and now no one will ever know, because she can’t remember.

  When I was at my old school and Rory Summers died in a fire one night, they called a special assembly in the morning and brought in the village vicar and he read from the Bible and told stories and said Rory will live on forever in our hearts. And I thought, What a load of garbage.

  You don’t remember things with your heart.

  You remember things with your head. And you can’t remember things forever. I know that to be one hundred percent true because I’ve seen the demon rip every last memory out of Grandma and now she remembers nothing. And if it happened to Grandma, it could happen to me too.

  You can’t remember things forever.

  But you can try.

  Rory will live on in my head, and Grandma will too. And even if the demon comes to visit me when I’m older, I’ll find a way to beat it. I’ll write in my notebook every day about all the things that Grandma liked.

  “I’ll remember her,” I say.

  Mom squeezes my shoulder to say, Thank you, and Jess holds my hand, and we sit like that until it gets dark, just the three of us, with Daisy snoring quietly at our feet.

  46

  Grandma dies two days later.

  One minute she’s breathing wheezily, her tiny body rising and falling—and then she stops. I’ve never seen a dead body before. So still. So sudden. My stomach drops, and I clench my jaw, force myself to stay strong.

  Mom’s there at her bedside, her face wrinkled up and crying quietly. Jess and I hug her from both sides. Mom wipes her cheeks with a tissue that’s starting to fall apart.

  “I think—” says Mom, drawing a raggedy breath—“I think it’s probably for the best.”

  Grandma’s face looks whiter than ever against the blue bed sheets.

  Her claw-like hand is still gripping Mom’s.

  I can’t take my eyes off Grandma’s fingers. All those diary entries, all those drawings. They’re never going to move again.

  Finally Mom lets go of Grandma’s hand. She rests it carefully on the blanket.

  And we just stand there in silence, none of us wanting to turn away.

  The funeral’s at the haunted church. It was a special request in Grandma’s will. And you’ll never guess who comes.

  Matt.

  He’s there with his dad. But get this. His mom’s there too. She’s dressed in a white top and gray skirt and black jacket. A twinge of jealousy flickers for a moment because how can she be standing here when Grandma’s getting lowered into the cold dirt, but I force it away because I can see how happy they are. I mean, they’re sad—everyone’s sad because it’s a funeral—but they’re leaning together and smiling at one another. When Matt sees me looking, he walks over to say hi, and even though he’s trying to look solemn, his eyes are shining with happiness.

  “I’m so sorry, friend,” he says. “I really mean it.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not okay, it’s not okay at all, because Grandma’s dead and it was all for nothing.

  No, not for nothing.

  Matt’s mom looks over and smiles, the sun bouncing off her golden hair.

  Not for nothing . . .

  “How—” I start to say, but Matt cuts me off.

  “No one knows. Doctors are calling it a miracle. And that’s what it is, isn’t it?” he says, nudging me again. “A miracle from that gargoyle of yours.”

  I picture Mrs. Culpepper telling her story.

  Her eyes, looking at me over the egg.

  So make use of it while yo
u can . . .

  “Where is it, anyway?” says Matt. “The gargoyle.”

  “Dunno.”

  “We’re missing you at school. Mrs. Culpepper’s still not back, but at least we got them to fire old Miss Farrow. Absolutely bonkers she was. She talked trash too. The head gave a talk in assembly about Mrs. Culpepper. It was her mom, just like she said. She had to go up to look after her.”

  “I hope she doesn’t have a demon in her,” I say.

  I hope she’s got Stonebird there to look after her.

  And thinking that, I know she does.

  After they lower Grandma’s body into the ground, the vicar asks if anyone would like to say anything. No one steps forward, so Mom wipes her eyes and raises her hand.

  “I will,” she says, walking up to the table that’s set out by the grave. There are flower petals for people to scatter on the coffin, and a pile of mud to dig into and sprinkle over it too.

  Mom grabs some petals and turns to face the crowd.

  She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her eyes are wide and brimming with tears, and she looks from face to face until the tears start flowing. Then she looks down at the petals in her hand and back up again, at Jess and me and the family members we haven’t seen for years.

  “I—,” says Mom.

  And she cries quietly into the wind and the rustle of the scratchy bare trees.

  “I’ll say something,” says a small voice.

  And then I realize the voice came from me.

  I blink and look around, and everyone’s staring and some people are smiling encouragingly, and one old woman with a big nose says, Oh, how sweet, but it sounds distant, a dream of a dream.

  My feet carry me over to Mom, and she wipes her eyes and hugs me and says, Thank you, in this quiet, quiet voice, then goes back to take her place in the crowd.

  The faces stare. The vicar clears his throat.

  The petals lift in the gentle breeze and dance along the table.

  A quick flicker of movement catches my eye. Over by the church. There’s something there, on the roof. It’s leaning forward, resting on its hand, watching.

  Stonebird.

  It’s got to be Stonebird.

  With a sudden surge of excitement, I turn back to Matt, and he’s grinning this big grin that lets me know he can see it too.

  When I first heard about Grandma’s dementia, I used to think that there was no point in living, because no matter what you did, you’d just forget about it.

  But I don’t think that’s true anymore. Grandma might have forgotten everything about herself, but that doesn’t mean we have. All it means is that it’s down to us to remember her. It doesn’t make her life pointless—it makes it even more important.

  I grab a handful of petals and stare down at them, thinking about Grandma.

  And I tell one more story. But it’s not about Stonebird this time.

  It’s about her.

  So everyone here will know her. Really know her.

  And remember.

  My Grandma liked art and racing cars and flowers and walks in the sun and feeling the sand between her toes and having the same birthday as the Queen . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book wouldn’t be the thing you are holding today without the help of some remarkable people. A huge, heartfelt thank-you to:

  Gemma Cooper, my agent, who saw Stonebird when it was no more than a one-sentence idea and was there every step of the way.

  Sarah Lambert, my editor, whose vision and passion I’m still in awe of, and the whole great team at Quercus.

  Talya Baker, who made me look cleverer than I am.

  And, lastly, I’d like to thank J. K. Rowling, for showing me the magic of reading when I was Liam’s age.