The Devil's Poetry

Home > Other > The Devil's Poetry > Page 2
The Devil's Poetry Page 2

by Louise Cole


  “Dear God, please bless those in danger. Let your grace and wisdom guide the leaders of our peace talks, that sanity might prevail.”

  He sighed, wishing he was not so old and useless. But even if he had the strength to go out into the world again, he feared he would only make the same mistakes. He touched his rosary to his mouth, and, rising, genuflected and walked to the statue of Our Lady. As he did every morning, he lit one candle and closed his eyes for a second in remembrance of the young woman he had failed to save so many years ago.

  ***

  “Callie.” My father’s voice sounded rough with sleep. “Callie, wake up.”

  “Huh?” I sat up in bed, my shirt stuck to my back with sweat. “I’m sorry, Dad. Did I wake you?”

  “You were screaming. Shouting for your mother.” He looked at me keenly. “You haven’t done that in . . .”

  Years. Not since the car crash. I shook my head, scourging my mind of the images. “It wasn’t about Mum. Only . . . I don’t remember.”

  “The dream wasn’t about your mother?”

  “No.”

  He looked worried.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. OK? Just your standard run-of-the-mill nightmare.” His frown deepened. “Seriously, Dad, there’s enough going on to give anyone nightmares.” His scrutiny was embarrassing.

  “OK then. It’s almost seven. I’ll start breakfast.” He closed the door behind him.

  I put my head in my hands. I hadn’t exactly lied but I had a flavour of blue and gold pages in my head, a memory so strong I could taste it. A sense of my mother. A voice whispering. I didn’t know what else.

  I slid a hand under my pillow for the book. I dropped down beside the bed, pulled a small stack of books aside, and felt blindly for the loosened floorboard. It seesawed up obligingly, and I drew out the small tin I’d had since childhood. It didn’t hold much. A few pictures of my mother and her wedding ring which Dad had given me when she died. I picked up her ring and held it for a moment. Then I threw it back in the box. She was gone. No sentimental moment could change that.

  The book slid in with the other stuff, and I clipped the lid in place, returning the tin to its hidey-hole. I felt inexplicably better with the small volume out of sight.

  In the kitchen, the Today program burbled in the background, something about troop movements in the Sinai and further unrest in Egypt. I knew it was important, and I should listen, but the essence of the dream wouldn’t leave me. I watched Dad stirring scrambled eggs and buttering toast.

  “Why won’t you talk to me about her?”

  “Who?”

  “Mum.”

  He stiffened slightly, his back to me. “You remember her.”

  “Yeah. A six-year-old’s memories.” Shushing me, laughter in her eyes as we hunted fairies in Nearly Wood. Digging for treasure in the vegetable patch. Such warm arms circling me, I knew I was safe. . .

  It was an illusion. She died. My safety ended there.

  “You need to get dressed.” He sounded weary.

  I bridled. “I’m angry at her, too, you know.”

  He wheeled around and stared at me for the first time. “What?”

  His face folded and unfolded into different expressions, but I couldn’t read them. Confusion, dismay . . . hurt? Oh.

  “You’re not, are you?” I said softly. “I thought maybe you were angry with her for leaving us. Like I am. But you’re not. You’re angry you were left with me.”

  He took a step toward me. “Callie, you don’t know what you’re talking about . . .”

  I didn’t need an explanation. I escaped to my room and leaned my forehead against the cool plaster of the wall, telling myself over and over it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Not hers. Not his.

  Not mine.

  ***

  Later that morning, I sat in a corner of the IT lab like the class dunce. The rest of the students sat in rows behind me, working on the network which, last lesson, I had spectacularly managed to blow up. I’m not joking. I’d opened my file, typed about ten words, and bam: my computer exploded and everyone else’s screen shut down like there’d been a power outage. Wrecking technology was becoming a habit.

  This lesson Mr. Hill was taking no chances. “Shoes and socks off, Callie, and feet up on this board,” he said.

  I reluctantly peeled my feet bare. “What is this meant to do for me?”

  “Computers are electrical systems. People are electrical systems, too. Usually that’s not a problem but sometimes”—he slid a rubber mat under my keyboard—“people build up excess static and that discharges into the computer and bang. Ever run a magnet over a TV screen?”

  “No.”

  “Good, well, don’t. Screws up the whole thing. Static, electromagnetism—lots of things can stop computers and other devices from working, and one of them is doing exactly that whenever you touch my kit. So we’ve got you off the nylon carpet, lost the polyester sweater, and insulated the keyboard.” He stood back, satisfied. “One way or another, we will fix you, Ms. McKenna.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I picked up the mouse, logged into the school Intranet, and waited as the little circle spun. After a moment, the cursor blinked again.

  “And you’re in,” said Mr. Hill contentedly. “Any problems and—” he paused as the door swung open. Someone peeked in and whispered to him. “OK,” Mr. Hill said and turned back to the class. “Mrs. Chambers is off today, so those of you who have her for biology will make your way to the sports hall later where one of the TAs will keep you out of mischief.”

  Gavin leaned forward to rap Amber on the shoulder. “Hey, is it true there was a massive fight at Miasma last night? Were you there?” he asked, ignoring Mr. Hill’s attempts to start his lesson.

  “It was terrifying,” she said. “They think the drinks were spiked, because everyone went nuts.”

  “Or everyone got completely pissed, because we’re all being sent to a war zone,” said Gavin. No one responded.

  I turned away and pretended to be fishing in my bag for something. I hated this kind of gossip, the sudden fizz of excitement when someone got injured or heartbroken and everyone pawed over the details like dogs with a bone. Besides, my stomach still clenched with fear at the memory.

  “Callie,” Amber whispered.

  “If you’d all settle down, please. That includes you, Ms. Wentworth.”

  I opened my IT project—a dismal game for children—and tried to push away the thoughts of last night. I didn’t care about the fight itself so much—although I had rainbow bruises on the small of my back—but those white eyes were so vivid in my mind that I wanted to keep checking over my shoulder. I rubbed my left arm, feeling the tenderness where my rescuer had gripped it.

  “I heard six people ended up in hospital,” Gavin whispered, his head ducking around the side of his monitor.

  The bright light of the screen burned my eyes, but when I shut them, the pounding strobe light of the club beat on my eyelids, and I heard again the screams and the sickening crack as the guy who’d grabbed me threw the biker out of the way.

  Behind me, Amber said, “You know that thug in practical sciences? Pod someone? With the motorbike? Someone put his face into a wall. All the way into the wall. Callie, did you hear that?”

  I couldn’t hear anything else. I sank my head onto the keyboard, heart hammering and the white eyes filling my vision.

  There was a bang and all the lights went out.

  ***

  “I don’t think they’re going to let you back in there,” said Amber as we walked to the sports hall.

  “They have to. It’s discrimination to keep me out of the IT lab. That reminds me.” I rummaged in my bag and pulled out the melted wreck of my mobile. “I need you to go online and buy me a new phone.”

  “How is it discrimination? You break anything hi-tech.” She took the phone between her finger and thumb as though it was contaminated. “And you can’t do this yourself because . . .? Oh, right. You’d blow out the comput
er, and your dad would see the bill,” she answered herself, nodding. “How many phones is it this year?”

  “Only three. I don’t break stuff deliberately. I’m disabled. I haven’t been able to use Google or Facebook for months.”

  “You never used Facebook, Callie. You’ve never been that normal.” Amber was joking, but it still stung. “Anyway, I have a better idea. Use this.” She slipped her Nokia out of her back pocket.

  “I can’t use your phone. I’ll ruin it. Oh . . .” I said as realization dawned.

  “Yup. As long as that piece of junk can still make calls, my mother will never let me have a smartphone for my birthday. See the sweet symmetry of this plan?” She pushed open the double doors to the gym.

  “Well, if you’re sure. When did I become the place where technology goes to die?”

  “Hey, I love you anyway. You’re just a genetic throwback. I thought bookworms were extinct, though.”

  “No, they aren’t, but even in libraries they’d like them to be.”

  “Hey, it takes all sorts, right? Geeks are cool.”

  “You can’t be a geek if you can’t use the Internet without crashing the national grid.”

  I turned to her, covering my mouth as the realization hit me. “Oh God, I am officially the most useless person in the world.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” a guy’s voice said behind me.

  I turned and my eyes traveled up to the green eyes and dark hair of the guy from the club.

  He smiled apprehensively. “Callie. Hello. I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself last night. I’m Jace Portman. New teaching assistant.”

  “What?” I remembered him pressing the book into my hands: “Don’t read it. Just keep it safe.” He had rescued me. So why did I feel vulnerable?

  I tried to pin down all the feelings fluttering inside me. Definitely fear—a hot shock of panic went through me at the sight of him. And, at the same time . . . embarrassment. Because, where last night I had seen the stubbled jaw, the hesitant smile, the chest broad enough for billboard advertising, I hadn’t paid attention. Now, when I knew he was a member of staff and that hot little pulse inside my belly was way inappropriate, I was paying attention.

  Fear was a much safer option. Go fear.

  I curled my hands into fists, and, blushing, wheeled around into the girls’ changing room. I sank down by a locker.

  “Callie?”

  My heart thumped.

  “Are you there?” Mr. Portman wandered down the row of lockers until he was looking straight at me.

  “No,” I said more aggressively than I should. “I’m not here. And you shouldn’t be either. It’s a girls’ changing room.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I get that. I was worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is the book safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK, then. I better get back.” He turned.

  My palms were singing with pain, and I realized I’d been digging my nails into them. I had to be rational about this. There was no danger here. “Mr. Portman?” I called.

  He wheeled around. “Yes?”

  “About last night. The book. What you said. . .” I had so many questions I couldn’t find a place to start.

  “We will talk, Callie. But not here. Not now.” He pushed the door open with his foot. “Soon.” And he was gone.

  ***

  Amber, Gavin, and I worked in the library until six finishing homework. It was the price of going out on a school night. Normally schoolwork was second nature to me, particularly English. Some of my best friends were books. Today, though, my thoughts kept bouncing around, and, somehow, Henry James’s Washington Square had never seemed less relevant.

  Thoughts tumbled in my head like kids on a bouncy castle. God, national service. All the plans we’d made, all the assumptions about jobs and colleges—all were gone with a handful of speeches in Parliament. For a moment, the image of myself holding a gun in a desert dominated my vision but, with a ripple of fear, the image changed abruptly to something far scarier—white eyes seeking me. Suddenly national service seemed like tomorrow’s problem. I swallowed hard. As I shook it away, another image, this one of a tall, rough-chinned stranger, claimed me.

  This guy—Mr. Portman—was trouble, and we had enough of that already. Not many teachers would force a book on a student, say, “Don’t read it,” and throw a punch like a hammer blow.

  “We will talk, Callie. Soon.” I shivered. He had a great body. Like he worked it.

  There are more important things. I dragged my errant mind back to the conversation.

  “What I don’t understand,” said Amber as she forced her oversized history book into her bag, “is why they need more troops anyway. I thought modern wars were all smart bombs and hi-tech planes.”

  “We’re in too many countries abroad,” said Gavin as he zipped his backpack. “And there are too many terrorists here.” Gavin, my sweet dark-eyed friend was definitely president of the nerd club. Probably the national nerd club. He read foreign policy magazines and could tell you the main seasonal crops of Burkina Faso or other countries you’d never heard of and would never visit. He had a mind like a magpie, always collecting shiny new facts. As a geek myself, I liked that about him. We fit.

  I pushed the fire door open, and we began the endless trek across the fields toward home. We hadn’t taken this route for months, but springtime had worked its magic on the puddle-strewn tracks and made them more or less passable without a snorkel.

  “I thought we’d be safe here, living in the sticks,” said Amber.

  “Let’s get a move on. It’ll be dark soon.” I put my head down and strode forward.

  “What is it with you? You’ve been as jumpy as a cat all day.” Amber shook her head. “I can’t believe you ran out on that TA. It was mortifying.”

  Oh please. “What, mortifying because I embarrassed you, or because he came after me and you didn’t get him all to yourself?” I regretted it instantly. “Look, I’m sorry, all right? It’s been a really weird couple of days.”

  I cast around for something neutral to change the subject—something we could all agree on.

  “Alec’s still treating me like I have leprosy.” I sounded deliberately casual. I didn’t need to tell them how much he’d hurt me. They were my friends. They knew. Besides, I reminded myself, I should have seen it coming. No guy would pick me over blonde, busty Jessica Rabbit. “You’d think he’d get over himself eventually. I mean, isn’t growing up inevitable if you wait long enough?”

  “Not for men,” said Amber.

  “Oi,” protested Gavin. “Less with the gender stereotyping. Alec’s problem is not that he’s a man. It’s that he’s a dick.”

  We paused at the flashing red lights of the rail crossing. A train rumbled slowly past, laden with dozens of tanks. Muddy drips of camouflage paint ran down their sides, and the NATO blue flags hung from the gun turrets, to protect them from friendly air fire as they passed through allied territories. I wondered what it must feel like to know your own side could have you in their sights.

  “Forget him, Callie. I think that new TA could be a wonderful distraction from all the current crap. Have some fun for once.”

  I remembered the feel of Mr. Portman’s hand cutting into my arm, his effortless violence as he pushed us to the door. “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “For God’s sake. If I can be cheerful, you can,” she snapped.

  The train finally passed, and we hopped over the tracks. Gavin headed toward Kirklevin, giving us a mock salute over his shoulder. Amber and I struck out across the Marchbanks’ farm to Lifley, the trees lining the field heavy with bud.

  I quickened my pace. The sun sank fast, spreading like butter in a hot pan.

  “Why are you rushing? Is your dad going to be angry that you’re late or something?”

  “Oh, who knows? Some days I think I could leave home and my father would barely notice. Other days . . .” I caugh
t her expression and relented slightly. “I’m tired. I want to get inside.”

  “OK. Fine.” She tramped along beside me, but my fear must have been contagious, because I noticed her casting quick anxious glances over her shoulder as we walked. After a moment, she said, “He’s a good cook, though.”

  I sniggered. “Oh yeah. Where other men cook for applause, my Dad cooks for art.”

  “Beats beans on toast.”

  “Some days I crave beans on toast. The nearest we get is refritos with homemade guacamole.”

  We laughed a little. A twig snapped.

  “What was that?” asked Amber.

  “Nothing. I’m sure it was nothing.” There was nothing I could pinpoint, except for the deepening gloom and the quickening of my pulse in my neck. I hoisted my bag across my back. “Come on.”

  We started to run across the muddy field, some sixth sense overriding the other five. We’d gone about ten meters when we saw them, two indistinct figures looming from the hedgerow, dark against the sky. The air turned to ice, freezing our skin as they moved toward us.

  “What’s happening?” Amber’s frightened whisper was almost lost in the rapid smack of our boots into the soft earth.

  “Nothing good. Just run.”

  “The barn. Head for the barn.” Amber pulled slightly ahead. My legs felt weak, my head hollow.

  “Callie, come on. They’re closing on us.”

  I glanced back and saw the men twenty meters behind me. They were faster than us and so close I could see their albino eyes. Just like the ones in the club. Light glimmered as one unsheathed a long curving blade. My breath scratched like gravel in my throat.

  Ahead of me, almost in reach, were the wide wooden doors of a barn. Dread pressed down on me like hands on my shoulders, while blues and golds and greens exploded behind my eyes. The barn door seemed huge and dark, like a hole in the edge of the world. Cold clenched in my stomach. I didn’t want to go in.

  I caught something in my peripheral vision. “We’re being herded.”

  “What?”

 

‹ Prev