by Clare Carson
‘Use some bloody hand signals,’ Jim said.
‘Yes sir,’ Anna said. She saluted and Jim smiled and Sam wished she could acquire some of her easy charm.
‘Where are you going?’ Jim asked.
‘Blackstone,’ Sam replied.
‘That’s too far. The clouds are building.’ His tone returning to his usual brusqueness now he was talking to Sam. ‘You don’t want to get caught in a thunderstorm.’
She didn’t care for Jim’s peremptory orders and, anyway, she didn’t think it would rain.
‘Have you got your torch and penknife?’
Her cheeks reddened. Jim always insisted she took a penknife and torch with her, a command she was happy to obey, but hearing him utter his orders in front of Anna was embarrassing; made her feel that there was something odd about Jim and his insistence that she should always be prepared for disaster, even if she was doing nothing more adventurous than cycling past the golf course. The Coyle family, survivalists in the suburban jungle.
*
THE SKY WAS grey for the first time in weeks, the air heavy. She was determined not to let the bike wobble as her sweaty hands slipped on the handle grips and she forced her legs to move. She didn’t want to be the first one to admit defeat.
‘Can we walk the last bit?’ Anna shouted from some distance behind.
‘Yes, if it’s too steep for you.’
She dismounted, caught her breath while she waited for Anna. She arrived panting and pink, curls sticking to her forehead, still managing to look pretty in her tomboyish way. What was that word? Gamine. They pushed their bikes up the last stretch, blackbirds trilling alarms from the wilting oaks.
The car park was empty apart from a couple snogging in the back seat of a battered Austin. A crow strutted around the rubbish bin, undisturbed by their arrival. They padlocked their bikes together and found the path that cut through the woods to the valley. A black bra dangled bat-like from a holly bush; there were always pieces of women’s clothing littering these woods, lying torn and abandoned. Not far out enough to be rid of all the nutters, too far out for anybody to hear the screams. Sam was glad to have Anna’s company. The sultry air was humming with midges and flies, dead leaves and dropped branches crunching underfoot. An emerald woodpecker hammered the scabby trunk of a silver birch, a streak of green among the drabness of the parched plants. The wood darkened as the clouds above them thickened.
‘Do you think it is going to rain?’ Anna asked.
Sam sniffed; she couldn’t smell the rain coming, no tang of oily roots in dry soil.
‘No. I can’t smell the plants.’
Anna looked at her curiously. ‘You’re weird.’
Sam said nothing, tried to contain the clouds in her mind, hold back the precipitation. They reached the bottom of the hill, a line of willows and ash cutting across the valley floor.
‘There’s a river down there,’ Sam said. ‘It runs past the villa.’
‘Come on then, let’s follow it.’
They scrambled through the yellow grass, the curly nettles and toppled trees, reached the steep bank. ‘Oh, it’s gone.’
The river had been reduced to a sluggish stream, water sucked away by the heat of the sun. Sam jumped down into the bed, exposed banks and tree roots above her head. The smell of stagnant water was overpowering but there was still enough cooling green in the roof of limp branches to give the river a magical air, a hidden grotto. She squatted by a shallow pool, water boatmen skimming its thick surface. The evaporating brook had left a mat of decaying vegetation and floundering insects.
‘Come here.’
Anna slithered down the bank.
‘Dragonfly nymph.’ She pointed to an ugly brown larva clinging to a drooping reed. ‘I hope it hasn’t dehydrated in the heat.’
Anna sat beside Sam, wrapped her arms around her lean legs. The smooth flesh of her thighs caught Sam’s eye. She turned away, scooped a handful of water boatmen stranded in the dwindling pool, dropped them into the silted trickle. ‘They’ll have more of a chance there.’
‘How come you know so much about insects?’
She considered her response. She enjoyed flipping stones and watching the uncovered insects scurrying away. She collected beetles and kept her prize specimens in labelled matchboxes in a shoe box under her bed. Best not to say anything about it to Anna; other girls always thought it was odd.
‘I know about nature,’ she said, ‘because I’m a Druid.’
‘You really are a weirdo.’
Sam scooped another handful of water boatmen out of their death trap, set them free. She could tell Anna was assessing her.
‘Your dad said you were a bit odd.’
‘No he didn’t.’
‘Yes he did.’
She had a surge of anger that took her by surprise, an overpowering desire to thump Anna in the mush. She twisted around to face her and saw she was grinning.
‘Actually he said you liked reading books.’
She knew Anna had been lying; Jim wouldn’t say she was odd, she was sure.
‘And collecting beetles.’
‘He told you I collected beetles?’ She scraped at the drying mud with her fingers. She felt betrayed.
‘He said you were like Charles Darwin because he collected insects too, and he thought that one day you might be a great scientist.’ That made her feel better; Jim had been boasting, not mocking his daughter’s interests; he didn’t think her beetle collection was odd. He had compared her to Charles Darwin. There was a hint of admiration in Anna’s voice, which chuffed her. ‘What are you doing anyway?’
‘I’m digging a channel between this pool and the main stream. Or what’s left of it. An escape chute for the stranded water boatmen.’
Anna joined in. They kept digging but the water from the pool trickled into the new hollow then disappeared in the cracked clay.
Sam sat back on the heels of her plimsolls. ‘It’s not going to work.’
‘Never mind. Who were the Druids anyway?’
‘They were Celts; they knew about nature and magic. You know like Getafix in Asterix.’
She liked Asterix because he was a Gaul and the Gauls were Celts and sometimes she thought of Jim as a character in an Asterix story – Getagrip. That was what he was always telling her. Get a grip, you’ve got to get a grip. Getagrip, in her mind, was an axe-wielding fearless Celtic warrior.
‘Asterix. I like those cartoons. Weren’t all the Druids men?’
‘No. Women were allowed to be Druids, they were called the bandrui.’
She had read about them in a book of Celtic myths.
‘Can I be a Druid too?’
‘If you like.’ She said it in an offhand way because she couldn’t tell whether Anna was taking the piss. ‘But you have to swear to respect the insects and the birds and trees and plants, because they all have spirits and they are sacred.’
‘Fine. I swear. Wasn’t Boadicea a Celt?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want to be Boadicea then, and you can be my trusted Druid adviser.’
Sam grinned. ‘OK. We are the Iceni. Although they lived in Essex, but that doesn’t matter.’
‘Iceni?’
‘That was the name of Boadicea’s tribe. Oh my god, look at that.’
The buzzing of flies had caught her attention and through the wilting reeds she had spotted a body in the next bend of the river bed; a vacant eye staring, brown and green scales peeling back to reveal rotting flesh and bone. She scrabbled around the silt and reeds, crouched to examine the corpse. She had an urge to prod the serpentine body, but even in death its needle-sharp teeth were a deterrent.
‘Pike.’
Anna ambled over. ‘Yuk.’
Sam’s finger hovered above the head. ‘The Druids wrapped themselves in dead animal skins when they wanted to contact the spirit world.’
‘That’s disgusting.’
‘It’s not disgusting... it’s... it was because they were close to
nature. They got their magic powers from the earth and the creatures and elements.’
‘Why did they have to use dead animals?’
‘They needed a bridge, a way of connecting with the other side, so they could prophesy, understand what the spirits were saying.’
She could tell Anna was pulling faces behind her back, but she didn’t care. She held her palm flat, skimmed her hand above the length of the scaly body, the lateral fins, the gills – heat rising from the decomposing flesh – reached the head, the fearsome jawbone, the needle teeth, the grey, grey staring eye and she saw the trunks of oak trees, dense woodland, a hut in a clearing, thatched roof, a woman with hands on her hips, shouting, warning her about playing in the river, the water spirits.
Anna poked her in the ribs, made her jump. ‘What does the dead pike tell you?’
‘The pike tells me...’
‘What?’
‘That this is a sacred place, the home of the water nymphs.’
Anna leaned over her. ‘And?’
Sam closed her eyes, held her palm above the pike’s eye. Nothing. She’d have to make something up. ‘The Romans have stolen the ancient treasures of the Fisher King.’
‘Who’s the Fisher King?’
‘The Fisher King is...’ She didn’t want to say she thought that Pierce might be the Fisher King, because she was afraid Anna would laugh. ‘The Fisher King is a Celtic king.’ She was going to have to do a Jim, improvise a bit to make the story fit in with the villa. ‘He was wounded and when the Romans attacked their settlement,’ she waved her hand at the woods behind, ‘he couldn’t protect the sacred treasures he was guarding, and the Romans ran off with them and hid them in Blackstone villa.’
‘Blackstone villa? The villa here? Is that true?’
‘Yes.’ She was almost starting to believe her own story. ‘When the sacred objects were stolen his land was cursed, there was a terrible drought and all he could do was sit in this piddly stream and fish.’
‘Where is the villa anyway?’
She pointed along the cutting.
‘You and me,’ Anna said, ‘we are sisters of the Iceni. We have to retrieve the sacred treasures of our tribe.’
Sam was enjoying this. She hadn’t expected Anna to play her games; not many of her friends did these days, they were all more interested in shoplifting mascara from the makeup counter at Miss Selfridge.
‘What kind of treasure is it?’
‘A chalice.’ Sam rubbed the back of her neck; a chalice wasn’t going to work. They’d never find a chalice. She glanced down at the dried-up river bed and spotted the glistening surface of a broken flint. ‘No, it’s not a chalice. It’s some precious stones.’
‘Magical stones.’
‘Yes. Magical. They protect the person who keeps them.’
Anna’s blue eyes stretched wide. ‘We have to retrieve the stolen treasures. We are blood sisters of the Iceni.’
‘Blood sisters,’ Sam repeated.
‘We need something to prick our skin.’
Sam stuck her hand in the back pocket of her shorts, produced her small red Swiss Army knife, flicked open a blade. ‘I’m not sure I can do it.’
‘You’re such a weed. Give it to me.’
Sam handed over the penknife. Anna nicked her thumb without flinching, squeezed the skin until a ruby bead appeared.
‘Give me your hand.’
Sam obeyed. Anna jabbed the point of the knife into her skin, yanked. Blood bubbled along the slit.
‘Now what do we do?’
Anna pressed their thumbs together, lifted her thumb and drew it across Sam’s lips.
‘You do the same to me.’
Sam wiped Anna’s mouth gently, left a trail of red.
‘Now lick.’
Sam ran her tongue around her mouth, tasted iron, watched the pink tip of Anna’s tongue following the lines of her fleshy lips.
‘We can never betray one another, even under pain of torture or death. We are blood sisters.’
The intensity of Anna’s voice scared Sam, but it reassured her as well to have such a fierce bond with a fellow traveller in the scary world of spies and secrets which they both inhabited. The oath was a bind, but it also felt like a lifeline. They were in it together, come what may. She could do with a friend, somebody she could talk to.
‘We are blood sisters.’ A rumble of thunder made her wonder whether she had been wrong about the rain. ‘Do you think we should go back to the car park and cycle home?’
‘No. Come on. I want to go to the villa.’
They paddled through the dribble of the river, reached the wooden building with a flat felted roof, a solitary Hillman parked in the gravel courtyard.
Sam pointed. ‘That’s it. Or at least, that’s the building that covers its remains.’
‘Do you think we can go inside?’
‘I don’t know whether it’s open.’
‘Let’s go and have a look anyway. We’ve got to try and find the treasure.’
Sam read the sign taped to the door. ‘Closed until further notice due to emergency repairs’. The door was ajar.
‘Let’s go and look inside.’
‘I’m not sure we’re allowed.’
‘We can just look.’
Anna was like Boadicea, a fearless warrior queen. Sam wanted Anna to think she was fearless too. She followed her through the door.
Inside, wire-trailing hanging bare bulbs illuminated the excavation trenches and walls of the Roman settlement. A bearded man was staring at them from the middle of the site.
‘Weirdy-beardy,’ Sam whispered. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
He shouted, ‘We’re closed. Can’t you read? There’s a sign on the door.’
Anna clasped her hands in front of her, tilted her head to one side. ‘We’re so sorry. We saw the notice but the door was open, and I wanted to look at the villa. My friend told me there was a beautiful mosaic here.’
She was really hamming it up. He fell for it, though, smiled. Or perhaps he leered; it was hard to tell what was going on under the beard. His reactions made Sam uncomfortable. Anna wasn’t bothered. Maybe she was used to eliciting that sort of response. He shambled over, hands in pockets of brown cords. He reminded Sam of Roger, the head of Liz’s English department. He didn’t suffer fools gladly, Liz had told them, and Helen had said, well, how come he’s so bloody fond of himself then? The site curator couldn’t take his eyes off Anna. Sam stood behind, invisible.
‘We’ve had to close the site to do some checks. The drought has caused some cracking and collapse of the earth banks.’ His voice was gravelly; too many fags and mugs of Nescafé. ‘We need to strengthen them to make sure they are safe and no long-term damage has been done. I’m waiting for the local authority to call back and let me know if they have any emergency funds.’ Anna looked up at him through her fringe of black curls. He cleared his throat. ‘But if you want a quick look at the mosaic, it’s this way.’
He smiled again, nicotine-stained teeth visible through his beard. Why did anybody grow a beard? Jim grew a beard as a disguise, which made her wary of hirsute men. Beards were a sign of something to hide.
‘We’d love to have a look at the mosaic,’ Anna said. ‘Thank you.’
They followed him across to the far side of the site. Sam had seen the mosaic before. It was impressive, but she wasn’t sure whether she liked the image: a naked woman riding a bull through the sea, flanked by two cherubs. It gave her a funny feeling. The colours were still vibrant, despite its age; the figure of the woman picked out in red against the white of the bull, the sea a deep blue.
Anna surveyed the mosaic. ‘It’s amazing.’
Sam couldn’t work out whether she meant it, or was just enjoying twisting her creepy admirer around her finger.
‘What are the tiles made from?’ Anna asked.
‘You mean the tesserae?’
The tesserae. Plonker.
‘Is that the proper name? Tesserae?’
‘A Celtic temple?’
He displayed his ratty teeth again. ‘You are a very intelligent young lady.’
Sam poked Anna’s thigh with her finger. Anna ignored her.
‘And what’s the mosaic about?’ Anna asked. ‘The naked woman doesn’t look very happy. Where’s the bull taking her?’
‘It’s a depiction of...’ His sentence was interrupted by a distant ringing. ‘Was that the phone?’
‘Yes, I think I can hear something,’ Sam said.
He looked at her as if he was surprised to find that she could speak.
‘I’d better go, it might be the council returning my call. I’ll be back in a minute.’ He headed towards a door near the exit, opened it, disappeared. Anna grabbed Sam’s arm, her eyes glinting. ‘Now’s our chance,’ she said.
‘What are you going on about?’
‘The revenge of the Iceni. We are the blood sisters. You walk over there towards the exit. Cough very loudly if you hear him returning and make something up, delay him.’
‘Anna...’
‘I’m Boadicea.’
‘You what?’
‘Tell him I went to look for a toilet. Go.’
Anna skittered along the pathway around the mosaic, head down as if she were searching for something. Sam watched her, open-mouthed, wondering what on earth she was up to, nervous in case the curator reappeared.
‘I said go.’
Anna jumped down from the walkway, disappeared from view. Jesus. Sam didn’t have any choice. She had to follow Anna’s instructions and intercept him as he was coming out of his office. She made her way over to the exit, eye on the door, hoping Anna would finish whatever she was doing before the phone call finished. She could hear him talking crossly on the phone. I don’t think you quite understand the... She glanced over her shoulder, but Anna still hadn’t reappeared. The phone clicked; the curator had replaced the receiver. She coughed. The door cracked open and she started hacking as loudly as she could. He emerged, frowned. She cleared her throat, returned his stare, tried to hold his gaze. She managed to lock him in for about five seconds and then he turned his head. She did too. Anna had materialized and was tripping towards them. She panted, ‘I was just looking for a toilet.’