For a minute, Claire just looked at her. Then she sighed loudly. “I’ll be around. Shout if you want me.” But she wouldn’t. Not for ages. Not until she was hungry.
So Claire went out and stood in the hall, wondering what on earth she could do. The whole summer stretching ahead, hot and empty. Whatever had happened between her mum and dad, it looked as if she and Mum and Micky would be living in Grandma’s house from now on. In a whole different, unfamiliar part of London. She didn’t know a single person here, except Micky and her mum.
If she was back at home, her real home, she’d be out all the time, hanging around with friends. Now she was stuck in and having to look after Micky, because her mum was out all the time instead. Oh God. She could feel the terrible dead weight of boredom pressing down on her already and the holidays had only just started. A whole six weeks stuck in this house, with nowhere to go and no one to see. And no holiday either this year, unless they went with Dad to Cornwall, to see his sister Annie and her children. Jessica who was Micky’s age and little Jo who was still a baby. What was she going to do? How would she get through it? How would she get through the next few hours?
* * *
At first it was exciting going from room to room, peering into drawers and cupboards. Riffling through everything Grandma had kept so neat and ordered. Thinking, She’d have gone mental if she’d caught me doing this. Especially poking around in her study. She looked idly around at the shelves of books; mostly about epidemics and disease, but some about the history of the circus, jugglers, tightrope walkers… another of Grandma’s obsessions. Mmm. In one of those tall bendy clip things on the desk, there were two tickets… she peered closer… for La Cirque du Sekhmet, in the Jubilee Gardens on the Embankment. The tickets were for a Wednesday, two days before her birthday. A birthday present? No. Grandma knew she hated circuses. Tucked underneath the tickets was a flyer advertising a stunt by the circus wire-walkers. A high-wire crossing of the Thames finishing in Jubilee Gardens on the Embankment. The date of the stunt, a week after her birthday, circled in Grandma’s black felt-tip pen. Then she’d glanced at the papers on the desk. Notes for a lecture Grandma had been asked to give in Austria later that summer – ‘The Great Plague of Vienna, 1679–1680’. In the margin and written in red ink, a word that made Claire stop for a moment and read on.
ABRACADABRA. Often used as a magic charm, sometimes written on a triangle of paper and worn tied about the neck on a red linen braid. It was said to guard against evil and sickness…
She shivered, even though the room was hot and stuffy. The ring was making her finger throb. It was so tight she couldn’t even twist it round.
I wish I’d never put it on, she thought, then, suddenly, she felt quite sure that Grandma had meant her to; was still trying to influence what she did, even after death.
Well, Claire wasn’t having any of that. So she ran up to the bathroom. Soaped furiously around the ring and her finger again. But however hard she twisted, it still wouldn’t come off.
Oil. Bath oil. That might do it… but it didn’t and now there was a dark stain all down the front of her sweatshirt. She could feel hysteria rising up inside her. She picked her mum’s nail file off the windowledge and stupidly thought she could saw the ring off. The file slipped in the oil and made a gouge in her finger and now it was bleeding. She got blood on her sweatshirt too.
Then she just pulled and pulled and pulled, until it seemed like all the colour had drained out of everything and she felt cold and clammy. She sat down quickly on the toilet seat. Called out, “Micky!” But the back-room door was shut and she couldn’t or wouldn’t hear. “MICKY!”
Now she had the same weird feeling that she’d had in Grandma’s bedroom, of pressure, panic and fear. There was that smell again, musty and sweet. The same compelling feeling someone was calling her name. Pressing in close behind her and whispering in her ear. She needed to get out. Go downstairs to Micky. But she was afraid if she stood up she would faint. So she crawled on hands and knees out of the bathroom and along the landing. Shuffled on her bottom, bump, bump, bump, down the stairs. Had just reached the last step when the back-room door opened.
“Micky!”
Micky came out, trailing a buzz of noise, singing tunelessly, but loudly, along with music only she could properly hear, and went into the kitchen.
Claire took a deep breath and stood up. Her legs felt wobbly, but her head felt clearer. She followed Micky, who was standing over an open dresser drawer, pulling things out, sifting around, looking for something. Claire clutched at her shoulder, making her jump. She looked startled and then pulled out the earpiece, spilling music as she did. “What?”
Claire had been going to say she’d felt really ill and needed Micky to help her, but…
“Nothing. What are you doing?”
“Looking for my Star Mix. I had a whole bag and now it’s gone. Mum’s always tidying things away. I thought she might have put them in here.”
“They’re in the next drawer along. I saw her do it.”
“Oh thanks!” said Micky and in a flash she had the sweets and was gone again. Leaving the first drawer open and empty.
Claire sighed. She started to put all the rubbish heaped on the table back in the drawer. And there, right at the bottom of the pile, was Grandma’s envelope. She reached in and pulled out the sheaf of yellowing, brittle papers, tied with a red linen braid that still had the remains of a wax seal stuck to it.
She pulled out a chair and sat down. Slipped off the red braid. Held the two pieces of the seal together. Saw that the imprint in the wax matched the carving on her ring exactly. Another piece in the puzzle. Then she counted the pages out. Tried to read the first one. But the writing was cramped and spiky-looking and the writer had made use of every spare centimetre. Lines criss-crossed from left to right and from top to bottom. And there were splatters of black ink, making it almost illegible. But on the first page there was a name, Mary, Martha… no… Margrat? A surname beginning with a J? And on the second page, a date. The 27th day of February 1665.
She knew that date. The year the Great Plague had swept across London killing thousands. She shivered. Let the page fall from her hand. Plague. Black Death. Sickness. Fever. Imagine if those scratchy-looking words were written by someone just about to die of it.
Trying not to breath in, she shuffled the papers hurriedly together and, putting them back in the envelope, she leaned across and dropped it into the dresser drawer. She slammed the drawer shut, not noticing that her arm had swept the braid onto the floor. Then she hurriedly got up and went across to the sink, where she scrubbed and scrubbed her hands with soap. She turned on the hot tap and held her hands under the water until they turned pink with the heat.
“What are you doing?” Micky had come back into the kitchen and was standing right behind her.
“What does it look like, you idiot? And don’t creep up on me like that again. You frightened me to death.” She felt really odd. Panicky. Like she was in the middle of a bad dream; knew she was, but still couldn’t wake up.
“If I HAD frightened you to death” – Micky had that smug look she always got when she thought she was being clever – “you’d be dead and lying on the floor and…”
“Shut up and get out of my way.”
She flicked water in Micky’s face. She pushed her hard and Micky pushed her back. Then as she tried to get past her, Micky put out a foot to trip her up.
“Nice try,” Claire said, jumping over it and reaching back to make a grab for Micky and pull her down.
“Ginger nut. Ginger nut.” Micky ducked out of the way and pushed past her out into the hall.
Claire had just caught up with her, was holding onto her right arm while Micky was squirming and thrashing about, when the doorbell went.
They stopped fighting and looked at one another for a moment. Then Micky pulled away and ran off. Bang! The back-room door slammed.
Shouting, “I’ll get you later, you little stink
er… just you wait.” Claire went to the front door and, slipping on the safety chain, opened the door just wide enough to peek out.
There was a man on the step, turned away from her, looking back down the street. He was tall and had thick dark hair just curling onto the shoulders of his black jacket. And he was leaning on a black lacquered walking stick.
“Yes?”
He turned and Claire looked up into eyes that weren’t like any she had ever seen before. Such a deep, dark brown, they were almost black.
She stood, not moving a muscle, quite mesmerised by him. She had the feeling that, though she had never met him before in her life, she somehow knew him and he knew her.
She tensed herself, ready to slam the door if he tried to step closer. Felt the ring, hot and tight on her finger.
But he stood quite still, his eyes unblinking, focused on hers.
“Yes?” She was starting to feel anxious now and impatient. Who was he and what did he want? Was he trying to sell something? Claire didn’t think so. He looked too expensively dressed. He was wearing a very finely woven linen shirt under a long black jacket. He had beautifully cut, narrow-legged black trousers and dark, blood red, soft leather shoes fastened with a buckle. He had a black leather bag slung across his shoulder.
But he looked tired. There were lines and deep shadows around his eyes. Hungry eyes. “I…” He was staring at her with such an intensity that she was starting to feel spooked. “I was hoping to speak to Jill Cottrell. Are you…?”
His voice was deep but soft. She had to lean in towards him to catch what he was saying. And there was something odd about the way he spoke. What was it? Was he foreign? Maybe. She wasn’t sure.
“Jill? No that’s my mum.” And she was about to say that her mum was out, but stopped herself in time. Better not to tell him there were no adults in the house. “She’s in the shower. She’ll be ages yet.”
“Ah. I see. Perhaps you could give her this?”
He held out a card. Small and white, with a gold edge.
As she took it, something scratched her hand. It was then that she noticed not only the perfectly manicured nails, but the ring he wore. A diamond set in sharp claws of gold. On the third finger of his right hand. And there was something else. She couldn’t quite work it out, but he smelled of something familiar. What was it? Her eyes widened in shock and she shut the door on him quickly, feeling her heart miss a beat.
Oh yes, she recognised it now. The same smell as in Grandma’s bedroom. So sweet and seductive. As if there was an apple-and-cinnamon pie baking in a kitchen full of scented summer flowers.
She could see him through the glass, still standing there. Then, thank God, he turned and walked away.
She looked at the card.
Robert Benoit
Dealer in Antiquities
Darke House
Ivybridge Lane
The Strand
London
Then a phone number.
Benoit. A foreign name? That would explain the way he talked and dressed.
She put the card down on the hall table, next to the phone and a magazine open at the small ads and one circled in red pen.
Then she forgot about it because, not long after, her mum came in and couldn’t wait to tell her the good news.
“She did leave everything to me. Everything! That is such a relief. Now we can stay here. And I know that I ought to wait for everything to be sorted legally, but I’m going to start having a clear-out right now!”
Claire didn’t think it was a relief at all. She didn’t like the house and all of Grandma’s things that filled it up. It was dark and gloomy, and made her feel dark and gloomy too. Pictures covered every square inch of wall; mostly old maps of London. And there were shelves and shelves of books. But even so, it seemed heartless when Grandma had only been dead for a few weeks.
“You can’t do that,” she said. “Sell off Grandma’s whole life just like that.”
“I’m not going to sell it off. Well not until I’ve got everything checked first. There might be some valuable things. Like that Egyptian green box thingy in Grandma’s bedroom. That might be worth something.”
She was trying to sound as if the thought had just popped into her head. Claire wasn’t fooled. She guessed that her mum had had her eye on it for ages. Maybe even before Grandma had died. Well she wasn’t going to have it.
“That’s mine.” Claire sounded determined. She was.
“And what makes you think that?” Claire’s mum’s voice sounded clipped and controlled. A red flush was spreading up her neck. Always a bad sign. It meant she was getting angry.
Because, Claire thought, the ring is somehow the key to unlocking the box.
But if she said that, she’d have to show that it was. And she couldn’t. Because it isn’t time yet. A voice, whispering inside her head, but coming from somewhere else. Claire looked around, startled.
“Claire! Are you listening to me?” Her mum was getting impatient, tapping a finger irritably on the edge of the table. Her eyes had narrowed.
“Yes!”
“Mmm. Well, I’ve already contacted someone about it. A specialist. I’ve asked him to come and take a look at it and whatever else there is in the house. If there’s anything valuable, I’m selling.”
Claire thought now about the man who had come to the door. About the card he had given her and the magazine on the hall table, with the ad circled in red pen. “What does he look like, this specialist?”
“What? How should I know? I just left a message on his answerphone. Now I’m going to make a start clearing out. Want to help?”
But Claire didn’t. The minute her mum was out of the way, she went back and looked at the ad.
Collector seeks early Egyptian artefacts, similar to the one in the illustration below.
She looked at the coloured illustration. She could see why her mum had called the number. It showed a box that looked remarkably like Claire’s emerald-green casket.
Then she picked up the card, re-read and quickly pocketed it. Maybe he wouldn’t call again, she thought, knowing deep down that he would.
* * *
Teatime and they were all squeezed around the little kitchen table. Eating sausage, mash and baked beans.
They had to eat together now. Claire’s mum insisted on it. No more slouching in front of the television. No more taking food up to their bedrooms. No more doing things the way they had in their old life. There was going to be a fresh start. Everything was going to be better from now on.
“Isn’t this nice?”
Claire looked at her mum. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes weren’t. And she couldn’t really be happy, could she? Because how could moving out of your old house and leaving your husband make you happy?
“The mash is a bit lumpy,” said Micky. She was pushing it around her plate with her fork. “But it’s Okay.”
“I’m not hungry.” Claire looked down at her plate. At the sausages glistening with fat. At the sticky, grainy, grey pile of potato. The scratch on her hand was starting to hurt really badly. It looked angry and red. And the ring was so tight on her finger now it was making it throb.
Micky looked up. “Wow! You’ve gone a funny colour. You’ve gone green. I’ve never seen anyone go green before. Mum, Claire’s green!”
Claire’s head was filling up with noise, like a great roaring wind. She felt as if she was burning. Now she was floating; drifting up and away like ash from a fire. Someone was shouting, but from a long way away. What were they saying? She struggled to make out the words.
“Put your head down between your knees. Now!” Claire could feel her mum’s hand pressing down on the back of her head. “Micky, get a bucket.”
But it was too late. Claire’s jeans were covered in vomit and she started to cry.
* * *
Now she was lying in Grandma’s bed, curled up on her side, afraid to move in case she was sick again, but wishing she was in her own room. Because, eve
n with her eyes closed and turned away from it, she could sense that the box was there, on the chair by the bed. And the smell. That curious sweet smell. It was still there, faint but insistent.
“You’ll be okay for a minute, won’t you?” her mum was saying. “You don’t mind being in Grandma’s bed do you? Only you can’t share with Micky. Not if you’re being sick.”
Her mum didn’t wait for her to answer. She just snatched up Claire’s clothes, dropped in a heap by the bed, and left.
Now Claire was alone, fear flooded in and washed over her. She felt really poorly and she just couldn’t think straight.
I wish Dad was here, she thought. He’d be happy just to sit by the bed and he would understand why she was feeling really scared. Couldn’t stop thinking about the yellowing sheaf of papers and panicking stupidly.
“Look,” he’d say, “of course you haven’t got the plague. You couldn’t catch it after all this time. Not from just touching paper!”
But you could, Claire thought. She was sure that she’d read that you could.
“No,” Dad would say, “It’s just a virus. You’ll get better. Everything will go back to normal, you’ll see.”
But he wasn’t there and she missed him so much. And she didn’t feel better. She felt much worse. Any tiny movement and giant waves of nausea broke over her. She clung to the side of the bed now, like a drowning man desperate to stay afloat. With her eyes closed, pictures flickered across the inside of her eyelids, like a rolling film. Faces she didn’t recognise peered in at her; voices blurred and distorted, as if the words were spoken underwater. Images of a boy, in costume, dancing fast and furious high up on a wire. He was beckoning to her. Then he swung down and ran towards her. She could see his face. His eyes glittering. His lips moving, but no sound coming out. There was only a background roar and rattle. Like a train hurtling at breakneck speed through a long, dark tunnel. On and on until everything was dazzlingly bright and silent… except for the sound of her mum and dad bickering. Backwards and forwards. Backwards and forwards, just as if she wasn’t there and couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Wickedness Page 3