by Kate Blair
I closed the curtain around us and pulled the visitor’s chair closer to Ollie’s bed with an awkward screech. “I have a confession.”
“You went into my game,” Ollie said.
“It was a book for me. But yeah.”
He stared at the white tiles of the ceiling. “It’d be stupid to be mad at you. I’ve been going into other people’s lives all week. Mind you, I didn’t know they were real people until you told me.” He tried to keep his face composed but gave it away with a sniff. “Did you get lots of juicy dirt on me?”
“No, Ollie,” I took his hand and squeezed it. “I was going to apologize.”
“What?”
“I’ve been a useless sister. I should have been there for you. I should have realized.”
“Realized what?”
“That you’ve been struggling. Finding things so hard. Even before the arcade.”
His breath came in an odd kind of gasp as he tried not to cry. He looked down at the white sheets covering his thin body.
My eyes watered too. “You don’t have to keep it together, not with me.”
His face crumpled. I hugged him as he sobbed. After a while he pulled away.
“It’s just life though, right?”
“No. I don’t think it is. I think you have depression. How long have you felt like this?”
“Feels like always. But it got tough when we moved to Bedford. I totally bottled it when I was trying to get on the footie team, and …” He paused and blinked fast. “I lost it on the pitch. Like, full-on cried. Like a baby.”
“That’s why you haven’t been playing football.”
He ran a hand over his sheets, smoothing them down. “They laughed at me.”
“I wish you’d told me.”
“I should be able to deal with not being on the team. It’s no big deal. There’s no reason not to be fine. That’s why it’s so stupid.”
“It’s not stupid. You need help. And not just from me.”
“You mean like a … psychologist?”
“Probably. You should certainly tell Mum.”
Ollie bit the inside of his cheek. “But even if I am depressed, doctors can’t help with the arcade stuff, can they? It’s like … like my batteries are low. And that’s for life?”
I tried to think of something to make it better but couldn’t.
“I didn’t think of it as a trap,” Ollie said. “Not really.”
“What did you think it was?”
He ran a hand through his messy hair. “At first I thought it was like heaven. But after a few trips, I realized it was a deal.”
“A deal?”
Ollie stared at the curtain. “A piece of me, for a little escape. I needed a break. I started thinking it wouldn’t be so bad, just letting it all go.”
“You wanted to …” I couldn’t finish.
Ollie shook his head. “Not really. I mean, I wasn’t trying to die. I just felt like everything had to change. My life had to change. Anything was better than staying the same.”
I felt sick. “Ollie, how … how many games did you play?”
“Six, I think. Yeah, that’s right. Two today.”
“You can’t go back in. Not even once. Promise me.”
He shrugged. “Okay. I mean, we’re leaving right? I won’t be able to.”
My heart pounded. I took his hand, squeezed it. “We … we’re staying for a little bit. Grandpa is sick again. I’m sorry. Promise me you won’t go back in.”
“Ow.”
My nails had cut into his skin. “Sorry.” I let go.
Ollie rubbed at the red half-moons I’d left on the back of his hand.
“I’m going to find a way to fix it. To replace what the magpie took. I can’t lose you, Ollie. Please, promise.”
Mum pulled the curtains open with a gentle clatter. “Janet says Grandpa’s sleeping. She sends her love.”
The man in the next bed started coughing. A breathless, desperate cough. Ollie lay back on his pillows, looking pale and weak. There had to be a way to reverse this, to save him.
Or sooner or later, he’d go back through his door, and I’d lose him, forever.
THE NEXT MORNING, Mum seemed to sleepwalk through the kitchen: staring at the toaster, jumping when it popped. We practically carried Grandpa downstairs, but he only took two bites of his Marmite crumpet before pushing it away.
“What happened to the kettle?” he nodded at the charred mess on the range.
“Just an accident.” Mum fixed me with a searching glare. “I have to go to the hospital to see Ollie. You’ll stay here until I’m back, right?”
“Yes,” I said, quietly. I wasn’t going to mess things up again.
Gin stalked into the kitchen, but when she saw me, she hissed and ran out.
Animals really could tell when someone wasn’t right.
AFTER MUM LEFT, I helped Grandpa into the front room, where he sank onto the couch. If there was one thing I’d learned from the library, it was that everyone had a story; everyone had a world within them, a struggle hidden from the eyes of others.
I didn’t have to read Grandpa’s book to know his story. He’d told me, but I’d been too self-absorbed to listen. Grandpa had been fighting for a long time. Fighting back pain, even before the dementia. He knew he’d lose. The only decision he had left was how to end his fight.
I’d tried to take that away from him.
“Sorry, Grandpa,” I said.
“Hmm?” His brows rose.
“For the pills. The tea. You know.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” He patted my hand. He clearly didn’t remember any of it. He glanced at the window and frowned. “One for sorrow.”
I followed his gaze, and my blood ran cold.
The magpie sat on the windowsill. It raised its foot and scratched at the glass. The screech of its claws put my teeth on edge.
“They’re bad luck, aren’t they?” Grandpa sniffed. “I kept seeing one after Margaret died, and again after we lost your grandmother.”
“Did … did you ever follow it?”
“No. I can’t stand magpies.” He shook his head. “They bring back bad memories.”
I walked over and banged on the glass. The magpie jumped back, wings flapping, but quickly regained its balance on the windowsill. I yanked the curtains closed, plunging the front room into semi-darkness.
“That won’t get rid of it,” Grandpa said.
I slumped down on the sofa next to him. “I know.”
AFTER A WHILE, Grandpa fell asleep. My thoughts kept swinging back to the library. I had two stories left. There must be a way to help Ollie, to do something to his book to free him. I needed to know more about the magpie’s trap, and there was only one person I could ask.
I called Chloe and she let herself in with her own key.
“I need a coffee.” She slumped into one of the kitchen chairs.
I filled a mug but paused before I got to the microwave, distracted by the blank white of the fridge door. “Did you take the photos from here?”
“No. Why would I?”
There were usually several pictures there, including one of Mum, holding me when I was a baby. I shook my head. I had more important things to worry about than missing photos. I put the mug in the microwave. “Ollie’s only got one visit left. I’m scared he might go back.”
“He probably will.”
I clenched my fists. “Could you … not go to the worst possible thought, just for once?”
“Sorry.”
“Look, I found Cordelia Webster’s story in the magpie’s library. But all the pages had been torn out.”
Chloe nodded. “Good.”
“How did you do that?”
She scratched at a mark on the table with a black fingernail. �
�I changed her story.”
“You saved her life?”
Chloe looked at me like I was an idiot. “This isn’t time travel. I freed her soul.”
I swallowed down my disappointment. “How do you free a soul?”
“I made her put down the magic chess pieces and stopped her going into another life.”
“You took over her body?”
Chloe nodded. The microwave beeped, but I ignored it.
I remembered forcing Margaret’s arms to move, remembered the feeling, like pulling things out of alignment. “But … couldn’t you feel that was wrong?”
“Yup.” A smile twitched at her lips. She nodded at the microwave. “Milk, no sugar.”
“Sorry,” I ran to get her mug and shoveled the coffee powder into it.
Chloe pushed her black-and-white hair off her forehead. “I was mad at the magpie and I wanted to help the girl.”
I paused, milk carton over the mug. “What makes you think you did help?”
“I felt … a release. A surge of gratitude. Cordelia thanked me. She knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That she wasn’t alone. That someone else was there.”
“She could feel you?”
“Not at first. But I kept holding on, which kind of stopped the story. Then she felt me. That was what she wanted, more than anything: to know she wasn’t alone. Then she could make a different decision.”
I put the mug in front of her. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“What for?”
“I can pull Ollie out.”
Her face reverted to stone. “You can’t. He hasn’t made the final decision. I changed the end of the girl’s story. Ollie isn’t at the end of his story yet.”
“You’re saying I can’t save Ollie’s soul until he’s already dead? What use is that?”
Chloe took a sip of her coffee. “It’s no use. I keep telling you, we’re stuck like this.”
“No. I can’t accept that.” I slid into my seat and leaned my head in my hands.
“Is he okay?” Chloe said, after a while.
“Who?”
Chloe nodded toward the hallway. Grandpa stood in the hall, his face red.
I jumped to my feet. “Grandpa, how are you? Can I get you a cuppa?”
“I … I think I need to have a lie down.” He leaned against the banister.
“Here, let me help you up the stairs.”
“Thank you, um …”
“Silva,” my voice was small when I said it.
“I know. I know. I was just getting to it.”
I slid his arm over my shoulder, and he leaned his weight against me, more than I expected, almost pulling me over. His skin was too warm. His breath came fast.
“Chloe!” I tried to keep my voice light. “Can you give us a little hand?”
Between the two of us, we got Grandpa upstairs. We dropped him onto his bed, and he rolled onto his front, eyes closing almost immediately.
“I’ll message Mum.”
Grandpa seems worse. He’s napping now. Should I call the doctor?
The dots appeared almost right away. Mum’s reply buzzed through.
Wait for me. They’re discharging Ollie. We’ll be home within the hour.
“Ollie’s coming home.”
Chloe sucked in air through her teeth. “You’re going to have to keep a close eye on him.”
Dread prickled up my back. Chloe was right. Ollie was safe in the hospital. But here, he could sneak off to the arcade. And what about when we were back in Bedford, or Manchester? I couldn’t watch him all the time.
Maybe we’d be okay. Mum’s job kept us moving. Maybe we’d stay ahead of the door. I wandered to the window, to close the curtains. The day had grown gloomy. Dark clouds spread overhead, like ink through water.
The magpie sat on the lawn, waiting for Ollie to return.
Chapter Seventeen
MUM AND OLLIE got back in the afternoon, and she called Dr. Hussein, who came over an hour later. Ollie watched telly in the front room. The canned laughter of sitcoms filtered into the kitchen as I stared at the burned kettle, waiting for news.
The front door opened and closed. Mum wandered into the kitchen and collapsed into the chair opposite me.
“What did the doctor say?”
Mum put her head in her hands. “He thinks it’s a lung infection, and septicaemia.”
“What’s septicaemia?”
“It’s a serious infection of the blood.”
“How … how serious?”
“It’s often fatal without treatment.”
I tried to breathe, feeling as if I’d been punched in the stomach. “Is he having treatment?”
“No. Only … only painkillers.”
I dragged my chair over and put an arm around her. She turned to me like a child and buried her head in my shoulder. She clutched at me, and I felt as if I were drowning, so far out to sea that I’d lost all sight of shore.
Mum couldn’t fix this. She couldn’t even keep it together, and she didn’t know how bad things really were. I held her for a long time. It was only when she stopped sobbing and the kitchen was silent that I realized what I wasn’t hearing. What I hadn’t heard in a while.
The telly.
The panic crackled through me. “Back in a minute.” I let go of her. She barely seemed to notice, a lost look in her eyes.
The front room was empty. I didn’t bother with my coat, just rushed outside, ready to sprint all the way to the funfair, if I had to. But Ollie sat on the lawn at the edge of the driveway. Relief came in a warm rush.
He didn’t look up as I walked over and lowered myself onto the wet ground next to him.
“You’re still here.” My throat was tight.
“The magpie was on the lawn. I chased it away. It flew off toward the beach. It wanted me to come.” He took a trembling breath. “Grandpa’s going to die, isn’t he? Soon.”
I wanted to tell him it would all be fine, but I remembered how angry my “Little Miss Cheerful” act made him. I exhaled. Leaned back on my hands on the sodden lawn.
“Yes. I think he is.”
Ollie nodded.
“Things really suck,” I said. “Like, they suck more than I ever thought things could suck.”
Ollie’s eyebrows rose, and he looked at me properly. “Yeah, they really do.”
“We’ve been doing the same thing,” I said.
“What?”
“Trying to keep things together. Trying to hide how we really feel.”
He gave a dry laugh. “Yeah.”
“So let’s be honest with each other.” I offered my hand. “Deal?”
“Deal.” We shook on it, and then sat in silence.
“Aren’t you cold?” Ollie asked, after a while.
“Freezing. And I feel like hell.”
Ollie smiled properly at that. “Me too. We should go inside.” But he shuffled a little closer, instead. “The magpie’s going to keep coming, isn’t it? Until I follow.”
“I’m going to stop it.”
“How?”
“I have no idea. But I’m not giving up.”
I stared at the sky, at the bruise-colored gaps between the clouds as the evening slipped in. Ollie leaned against me, and I realized how strong he’d been. On the day I’d found him behind the basketball machine, he’d known how much it would hurt to leave the magpie’s arcade. But he’d still left and tried to come back to us, instead of choosing one more game.
It was like he’d been holding on as a riptide dragged him out to sea. I thought he’d shut down, but he was just floating until the drag released him, and he could strike out for shore. All I could do was help him keep his head above water until he was able to swim home himself.
; And just like that, an idea appeared in my mind, as clear and as fully-formed as if someone had whispered it in my ear. I didn’t have to enter a story. It wouldn’t cost me anything. It had to be worth a try.
Tomorrow, as soon as Ollie was watching Grandpa, I’d make an excuse and head out.
THE NEXT MORNING the gusts switched directions as I hurried up Elm Grove. They pushed and pulled, tangling my hair. Seagulls twisted overhead, screaming warnings snatched away by the wind. I felt too fragile, as if the wet breeze could rip me into pieces and blow me away like a newspaper in the gutter.
In the library, I scurried between the shelves. There it was: the ancient door, waiting. A chill ran through me. I shouldn’t be going in. But I didn’t need to read anything, and if I didn’t try, I’d lose Ollie.
I pushed the door gently, and it swung open.
It was good to step back into myself. The pain, the ache of separation vanished. The magpie’s library still looked as if it was full of wonder, but now I saw that it was the branches and books that were beautiful. The stone walls were dark and cold, like a prison. It wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a monster’s lair, decorated with stolen souls.
The door shut behind me, sealing me in the trap, the nest feathered with lost lives.
The magpie sat on the chair. It nodded, as if it had always known I’d come back, sooner or later. I smiled. I didn’t want the bird to guess what I was really here for.
“Show me Ollie’s story,” I said, trying to keep the tremble from my voice.
There was a rustle from a high shelf. The spine tipped toward me, then the book shuffled to the edge, like a baby bird, and spread its pages. It flapped down to my hands.
My idea was simple. So simple I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it right away. In Cordelia Webster’s book, the pages had been torn from the spine. Without them there was no text, no story, no soul trapped in the library; nothing to be dragged into.
Ollie’s book held Ollie’s soul, sealed in the pages. So, I’d rip them out, leave only the stumps. I’d take the pages, the words that made up his story, out of the library, out of the trap.