by Rhian Ivory
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1: NOAH
CHAPTER 2: BLAZE 1865
CHAPTER 3: NOAH
CHAPTER 4: BLAZE
CHAPTER 5: NOAH
CHAPTER 6: BLAZE
CHAPTER 7: NOAH
CHAPTER 8: BLAZE
CHAPTER 9: NOAH
CHAPTER 10: BLAZE
CHAPTER 11: NOAH
CHAPTER 12: BLAZE
CHAPTER 13: NOAH
CHAPTER 14: BLAZE
CHAPTER 15:NOAH
CHAPTER 16: BLAZE
CHAPTER 17: NOAH
CHAPTER 18: BLAZE
CHAPTER 19: NOAH
CHAPTER 20: BLAZE
CHAPTER 21: NOAH
CHAPTER 22: BLAZE
CHAPTER 23: NOAH
CHAPTER 24: BLAZE
CHAPTER 25: NOAH
CHAPTER 26:BLAZE
CHAPTER 27: NOAH
CHAPTER 28: BLAZE
CHAPTER 29: NOAH
CHAPTER 30: BLAZE
CHAPTER 31: NOAH
CHAPTER 32: BLAZE
CHAPTER 33: NOAH
CHAPTER 34: BLAZE
CHAPTER 35: NOAH
CHAPTER 36: BLAZE
CHAPTER 37: NOAH
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39: NOAH
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Copyright
THE BOY WHO DREW THE FUTURE
RHIAN IVORY
This book is for my children Joseph, Evie and Noah.
And also for the bravest boy I know, Matthew Richards.
‘Ask no questions, and you’ll be told no lies.’
Charles Dickens, Great Expectations.
PROLOGUE
A twitching thing, it moves as if it were still alive.
But it can’t be. The hand isn’t attached to anything.
Sinews, veins and skin are dried up, discoloured, dead on the page. Yet it moves as if no one has told it. As if no one dares to say the word:
Drowned.
The boy draws it with his pen, line after line, unravelling the story that pulls him under, down into the dark water.
A hand forces itself up to the surface in his drawing, beckoning him or warning him, he can’t quite tell yet. And no matter how hard he tries not to, he keeps drawing it.
The boy traces the watery lines of the past, the present and the future. With his pen shaking in his hand, he sleeps and draws, trapped between dreams and nightmares.
Twitching and twisting, he draws, as the tide waits patiently, ready to turn.
CHAPTER 1
NOAH
The barber doesn’t try to engage me in awkward conversation as he cuts off my hair. I’m relieved he’s a whistler not a talker as I try to make a different face look back at me in the mirror. He brushes the hair off the back of my neck and I attempt a scowl, narrowing my brown eyes, but it looks wonky. As I get up, I look down at the floor covered in light brown and blond hair. A haircut feels a good place to start.
Being the new boy again means I get to reinvent myself, I decide, as Mum buys me a new uniform at Fords department store. I try on more black trousers as she picks up a three-pack of white shirts, laughing with the saleswoman about my growth spurt. They talk as if I am not there. Mum keeps touching the back of my now naked neck as if she hasn’t seen it in years. She tries to make the short hairs on my crown lay down flat, but then gives up and hands me a red and grey striped tie and two grey V-neck jumpers. They are itchy, not that I’ll be wearing them in this heat. I wonder why she’s buying them – it is so hot.
We moved to Sible Hedingham three days ago. Unpacking all our stuff into the plain, empty, rented house only took a day or two, and now I’ve ticked the last two items off my list I’m out of things to do. I leave Mum paying for my clothes and go outside. I walk around looking for something to fill the weekend quiet with. Anything. I mentally list all the things this new place has as I pass them: a butcher’s, baker’s, a DIY shop, a grocer’s and a library next to a large primary school. It’s a new place but still has the same ‘please drive carefully through our village’ signs. Large pots of pastel summer flowers are scattered around boasting ‘Britain in Bloom’ as I head up towards St Peter’s Church. On a corkboard outside the Church are signs for the summer fete and a music festival, merging with peeling parish council notices about evensong.
Another wildnerness of normality, but this village has a feel about it. A prickling tingles in my fingers as I enter Broaks Woods. Something wants to be uncovered – I can smell it coming up off the river. There is something lurking here, whistling under the cover of the shady ash trees, hidden for now.
I sigh and shake it off. I don’t want there to be any room or time for these feelings. I start walking faster, building up my pace, stretching my long legs out as I break into a run, heading down towards the river.
When we drive into the grey school car park on Monday morning, I wish I’d insisted on turning up on my own. I watch all the other students dragging themselves into school and realise that it’s going to take more than a new haircut. They all look like they fit, like they know where they are going even if they don’t really want to be here. I, on the other hand, have no idea, despite the déjà vu of Mum’s monologue:
‘I’ve explained about Dad’s work and said that’s why we’ve moved again. There’s no need to go into details about why you left your last school, OK? This is another chance for you, Noah, a fresh start for all of us. Just try this time, sweetheart, please?’ She switches the engine off, unclips her seatbelt and reaches across to squeeze my arm. Her bangles clang and clank in the silence. I have nothing to say so she carries on in a bright singsong voice, filling the hot car up with her hope.
‘Now there’s only the summer term left, so not long to go. You’ve got your exams next year … so no more moving, right? We’re staying put this time, aren’t we?’ She tries to make it sound like a statement or an order, but it comes out more like a question, her voice raising at the end as she looks at me. I nod and she sighs.
She tries to smile as she applies more lipstick, checking her reflection again in the mirror. I wish it were a real smile. I want to do more than just nod. She needs me to make her a promise, but I can’t tell her a lie. I’ve tried before but I’ve never been very good at it.
I hold the door to the school open for her as the receptionist buzzes us in. I wink at Mum as we wait in the entrance hall for someone to come and meet us. She tucks her short hair behind her ears and fiddles with her long dangly earrings and I whisper ‘relax’ at her. She rolls her eyes at me. I want her to think it will be OK, that I’ll be OK. The doors swing open and it begins. Again.
‘Noah, here is your timetable, planner, some letters for Mum and a booklet on our codes of conduct.’ They pile my arms high with things I don’t care about or need, handing me lists of pointless rules I won’t be able to follow. I imagine opening my arms wide and throwing all their stupid paperwork into the air, watching it fall like snow.
‘Thank you,’ I say, smiling widely at Mum as I give her a small wave goodbye. She walks away steadily, car keys in hand, and then I’m on my own. More people in sharp suits wearing photo ID tags around their necks introduce themselves. I smile again as their names and titles pour from my mind, spilling onto the hallway floor. I am guided to a classroom with a strong hand on my shoulder. A door opens and I am interred.
‘This is Noah Saunders, he’s joining us today. Make him feel welcome.’ The heavy hand pushes me firmly into the room.
‘Welcome, Noah. Right, back to work the rest of you. Find a free seat please.’ The teacher returns to reading aloud fro
m a book.
I can’t hide from the staring faces in the silent room I’ve interrupted. I hear a low wolf whistle and giggling from somewhere at the back and I know my skin will have flushed up blood red.
‘Eva Hendries, please keep your catcalling and wolf whistling to yourself and try … try … try to act like a lady for once. Can you imagine Estella ever acting in this way? Miss Haversham would turn in her grave! Now, where were we…?’ the teacher snaps at a girl with the long blonde hair and all the make-up and then picks up the story again. The class tunes back into the teacher’s loud voice. I keep my head up, pretending to look like I know what I’m doing, and walk casually to the back of the room, having spotted one empty seat. I slide into it gratefully, but my knees crash into the table and I wince. I fold my legs under more carefully, trying hard to fit. Next to me sits a girl who is hiding under a lot of long messy dark hair. I peer at her through the curtain.
‘Hi. I’m Beth,’ she whispers, keeping one eye on the teacher. She reaches under her hair and flips it off her face so I can see her. She is small and dark-skinned with light brown eyes and her hair smells of lemons. She has tiny ears poking out of all her long black hair. The one nearest me is filled with silver earrings, nearly all the way up and round. Her lips are shiny, as if she’s just coated them in lipgloss, and I can smell minty toothpaste on her breath. There are tiny white traces of it around her mouth. My hand moves upwards, as if to touch her lips with my fingertips. Instead I pull back, adjusting the pencil balanced on the top of my ear, as if I’m worried it might fall off. Adrenalin ricochets around my body. I nearly touched her! I’m supposed to be fitting in, blending into the background like a wallflower, not almost touching strangers who smell of lemons. I move my hands under the table and tuck them under my legs.
‘I’m Noah.’ I want to say something more interesting but am at a loss for words.
‘Yeah, I know, Mrs Ashwell just said but, Hi, Noah.’ She laughs softly at me and I can’t help laughing back, a little. She’s got one of those laughs that are contagious, like when someone yawns. I don’t really know what we’re laughing at but it feels good, better, more normal. Safer.
I watch her return to her work and get a pen out of my rucksack. I look up at the whiteboard, hoping for something straightforward and simple. A worksheet falls onto my desk and a battered copy of Great Expectations. I mumble my thanks. The teacher points at her wristwatch before stalking off again, her black heels clipping across the wooden floor like a metronome. I’ve forgotten her name already. I pick up the novel in relief. I’ve read it before; this should be easy.
‘You’d better get on with it, or she’ll keep you in over break, new boy or not.’ Beth warns me, speaking behind her hand which has pen all over it. I can remember her name. The teacher is now staring at me from the front of the classroom, arms folded across her buoyant chest. I set my mind to finishing the worksheet before the bell. I don’t want to be stuck in here with her over break.
When I get home from school, Mum is there, ready and waiting. I can smell baking. Clearly she hasn’t got much work done.
‘Come on, the suspense is too much. How was your first day? I thought you might text me at lunchtime? I haven’t been able to do any work all day, not that I was worried, just … you know … wondering how you were getting on.’ Mum flaps a hand in front of her face, as if to play down her concerns. She hands me a chunky slice of banana loaf and waits. I throw my rucksack to the floor and sit at the table. At least my legs fit under this one.
‘It was alright. The English teacher is more than a bit out there but I liked History. I didn’t get a chance to text you at lunch, sorry, it was all a bit full on.’ I can’t remember much more. I’m not withholding information, it’s just there’s not a lot more to tell, or at least not a lot more that I’m willing to tell, yet. I fill my mouth with the cake so I don’t have to talk for a minute.
‘Did you make any friends?’ she says with such lightness that I can tell it’s really important to her. I nod, swallowing the cake down. ‘Yes. At least I think so. The girl who I sat next to in the first lesson, in English is OK. She’s called Beth.’
I take a swig of the water. It’s so cold it makes my teeth tingle. I need to get out of here. I don’t want to talk about school any more, I don’t want to play twenty questions or over-analyse every little thing I said or did. I get to my feet.
She and I speak at the same time.
‘—Don’t go up…’
‘—I’m going up to get ready for my run…’
We laugh, not quite having steered around the awkward unsaid.
‘Your dad’s not here though. He’s working on the Island. So make sure you take your mobile with you. I know, I know, but it makes me feel better.’ She sips her tea. ‘It’s just I don’t know your route or anything yet. In fact, why don’t you skip your run and we could get a takeaway? I think I saw a Chinese on the high street. We could even watch one of your films, as long as its not that weird Beetle one again!’ She grimaces, sticking her tongue out.
‘Beetlejuice is a classic, Mum! OK, OK, we’ll pick something when I get back? Maybe something vintage like Edward Scissorhands?’ I offer, knowing she likes it almost as much as I do. ‘What time’s Dad getting back?’ I move towards safer ground.
Her shoulders sag as she replies.
‘Oh, late. It’s going to be like this for a week or two, just while the project starts up. It’ll calm down after that, hopefully.’ She gathers up the plates, scattered with cake crumbs, and loads them into the dishwasher. As she rises I stoop down and kiss her on her cheek.
‘Oh, if we’re having a takeaway can you get me chicken balls, vegetable noodles, some egg fried rice and … um … definitely a bag of prawn crackers.’ My stomach grumbles.
‘Is that all?’ she teases as I fill my water bottle from the tap.
‘Ha Ha! See you in a bit.’
She carries on chatting, but I’m not really listening anymore. My hands have started shaking as I try to close the lid of the water bottle. When her voice begins fading away, I leave the kitchen quickly, stamping out the pins and needles in my feet.
It’s starting, I can feel it.
I have to move. I need to get going.
I charge up the stairs to get changed into my kit and all I can think about is running away, running down to that river.
CHAPTER 2
BLAZE 1865
Dog always sensed someone arriving long before I did, giving me time to put away anything I didn’t want prying eyes to see. There were enough of them in this village.
His black head lifted off his hairy paws and tipped slightly to one side as he sniffed the air. He lay back down across the doorway, in his usual position. Dog would bark long before anyone passed through the little gate or climbed over the fence if it got stuck in the heat. Most of them came that way to see me; hardly anyone came through the wild gardens, past the old Manor House. The house had been empty since the old man died leaving it to his three nephews, the men who turned Maman and me out.
They pushed us onto the street. Maman said they’d called her a sorcière, a witch, told her they’d heard the rumours in the village. The fat one pointed at the road to Halstead. ‘Look for a tall building with gates and ask to see the Guardians, maybe they’ll believe you when you write ‘widow’! Or maybe they’ll put you in a yellow jacket along with all the other sinners,’ he shouted at us, laughing. They said more things about my father that I didn’t understand, harsh-sounding words Maman wouldn’t let me ask about. She waved my questions away, muttering curses under her breath as we stood outside wondering where to go.
Dog was snoring so I didn’t think I had anything to worry about; all the same I packed my materials away into the box Emilia had given me.
Two summers ago, Emilia had found me down by the river the night Maman died. I’d run back, the whole long road from Halstead, stopping only when I got to the river behind the Manor House. She saw me as she came out from T
he Swan and she helped me up from the riverbank. She forced open the gate into the Manor gardens with a few kicks from her boots and then led me to this place, to my home.
‘No one will think to find you in here. It’s empty now up in the Manor. Must be a bit like coming home for you?’ She helped me into the hut. She came back the next day with food and some clothes and asked me too many quick questions about Maman. She panicked when I told her it was just me and that Maman had passed.
‘But who’s going to help me now? That’s why I helped you; I thought your mother would follow. Oh God, what will I do now? Will you help me? You could do it, couldn’t you, lovey? You were always there when I came to see her, helping her, watching her. I’m sure you know as much as she ever did.’ She talked on, convincing me to make her medicine, to take over from my mother.
I could see Emilia had deteriorated in the time we’d been gone. The rash was back on her left cheek like a red target mark and the swollen joints of her fingers looked sore. I knew there were plenty of dandelion roots and hawthorn hedges in the gardens that would help her and milk thistle and red clover were common enough anywhere. The disease was snaking its way across the left side of her face, which twitched as she spoke.
‘You need looking after and, as you can see, so do I. I can’t be seen like this. Your mother’s cure was the only thing that helped. I need you, lovey. I need your help now.’ She paused to look at me, waiting for me to say something.
‘We can be friends, can’t we, friends who help one another? I can keep your secret up here and you can keep mine under this hat. Please?’ She pleaded with me as her thick red hands passed me a worn brown hat, a loaf of bread and a woollen blanket from her basket.
I wanted to help her; I could see she was in pain. So I said, ‘Yes, I’ll help you.’
I put the hat on my head. It fitted perfectly. I broke off chunks of the bread and ate and ate and ate.
Dog grumbled half-heartedly at the knock at the door. I got up slowly, allowing the uninvited guest time to turn tail and run if they wanted to, as they often did. I opened the door and was met with another hopeful face, another smiling girl from the village who wanted to ask me the same question they all did.