Maybe one day—if I find out the truth, if I can clear them of trying to hurt me—we’ll be friends again. I’d like that. But right now, the tables are turned. It’s me being wary of them.
I look over to see where Plum is, and notice that she and Susan aren’t sitting beside each other. They didn’t share a double seat in the coach coming here either; Plum very pointedly plopped herself down next to Nadia, and Susan equally carefully selected a place next to another Wakefield Hall girl. It’s the first day on our trip here that the two of them haven’t been joined at the hip, and I can guess why. Plum’s clearly told Susan that Taylor and I saw the two of them sharing a bed this morning, and they’ve embarked on a policy of total denial.
Well, I don’t care if Plum and Susan keep a distance of a hundred feet from each other at all times or sit in each other’s laps. What I do care about is that Nadia Farouk is sniggering to Plum about me seeing ghosts and being pathetic, her gold bracelets clinking as she pushes her hair back from her face. And Plum, beside her, is letting her do it.
I know perfectly well that Plum decides who she and Nadia bitch about. Well, it’s time to get Plum to shut Nadia’s nastiness toward me down for good.
“I might have been seeing things ’cause I’m a bit tired, Plum,” I say, sitting down on her other side. “I didn’t sleep that well. Is your bed comfortable? Mine really isn’t.”
I can feel her whole body stiffen.
“And the mattresses are so narrow, aren’t they?” I add, not raising my voice, because I don’t need to. “Barely room for one!”
“Overkill alert,” Taylor mutters.
Everyone’s sitting on the bench now, and the guide is shushing us. Plum turns her head to look at me. It’s too shadowy in here for me to read her expression, but I hear the one word she whispers at me:
“Please.”
I’ve never heard Plum like this. Vulnerable. Pleading. Desperate.
In my time at St. Tabby’s—particularly when I was getting my boobs, which caused her to taunt me on a daily basis—I’d have pictured myself jumping six feet in the air with triumph at having finally reduced Princess Plum to begging me for mercy. And it does feel good. I’m surprised, though, that I’m not quite as giddy with euphoria as I would have imagined.
The guide’s telling a story in his best creepy voice, clearly intent on scaring the living daylights out of as many of us as possible. But I’m not listening. The fleeting sight of that figure in the corridor has already managed to creep me out so thoroughly that I don’t even have room in my brain for a ghost story; I’m scared I’m being stalked by someone who’s flesh and blood, not a phantom. Occasional phrases—“disembodied head,” “severed arm,” “dreadful groan”—float past me, but don’t sink in, though I can hear girls around me emitting delighted squeaks of fear.
Plum, beside me, is still as rigid as a statue. I don’t think she’s taking in a word either. When the guide reaches what’s clearly a thrilling climax, and marshals us all up again to continue the tour, Plum’s the last to stand, her long legs wobbling in her knee-high boots. I’m almost out of the room when I feel something tug at my sleeve, and I have to repress a squeal of shock.
It’s not a phantom or a stalker. It’s Plum. But she’s white as a sheet, looking as scared as if she’d just seen a ghost.
“Please, Scarlett,” she whispers plaintively. “Please don’t tell anyone, or let Taylor tell. I’ll do anything.”
“Don’t talk to me,” I say, jerking my sleeve free from her grip. “Don’t talk to Taylor. Leave us both alone. And make sure everyone else does too.”
“I will! I promise! I will!”
She still looks utterly terrified. This, I suppose, is what I’ve wanted all along from Plum: to have her completely in my power, to be able to neutralize her evil tongue, at least when it’s directed at me and Taylor. Plum was an absolute cow to Taylor last term, intimidating Lizzie and Susan into helping her physically bully Taylor, who couldn’t stand up to her because Plum knew Taylor’s brother’s secret.
Well, Taylor won’t need to worry about that anymore, I reflect as I follow the rest of the group out into the close, leaving Plum behind. Turning my back on her as if she doesn’t matter to me. Because from this moment on, she doesn’t.
I’ll never be afraid of what Plum’s saying behind my back again.
And yet the triumph I should be feeling just isn’t there.
I hurry to catch up to Taylor, who’s waiting for me at the tail end of the crocodile of girls winding their way down the narrow passages. She raises her eyebrows as I reach her, two strong dark lines rising in a silent inquiry.
“Total surrender,” I whisper. “Anything we want. She begged me.”
“Eew,” Taylor says, frowning now, the lines drawing together.
“I know. It’s weird. It didn’t feel that wonderful.”
“I’m not surprised,” she says, as we turn a corner. “ ’Cause—whoo!”
The passage has suddenly widened into a close as wide as a street, dipping away from us sharply; I’ve lost any sense of which direction we’re going in this maze, but I imagine we must be standing on the ridge of the rock on which Edinburgh Castle is built, and this close falls away down one of the steeper hills. Girls farther down the stony slope are giggling and clinging to each other as the guide calls us to a halt.
“Now, I’m sure all you fine young lassies are very used to posing for a photo or two, aren’t you?” he asks rhetorically. “Pretty young things like you must have all the boys asking to take your picture!”
“He’s kind of like the too-friendly old uncle your mom tells you never to be left alone with,” Taylor comments as Jane hisses to Miss Carter:
“I am not comfortable with his gender assumptions, Clemency.”
The guide raises his cane to the high beam in the ceiling.
“Smile for the camera!” he says. “It’ll go off in five seconds—counting down—”
To be fair, he’s bang-on about most of the girls here. The St. Tabby’s posse is more than used to posing for the cameras, and the speed with which they all hit their marks is impressive: groups form lightning fast up and down the steep slope, hair tossed back from faces, bodies snapped into their most flattering angles, smiles blazing, pouts pursing out. Taylor jams her hands into her pockets and scowls; she hates having her photo taken. And I just stand there, staring up at the beam, as a white light opens up and vibrates for a long, eyeball-searing moment, leaving us temporarily blinded when it finally dissipates.
“That’ll be available to purchase in the gift shop when you finish the tour,” the guide says, “if you’re happy with the way you look—I know the leddies are always complaining about the way they look in photos, aren’t they?”
“I’m definitely going to lodge a complaint!” Jane fumes as we slip and slide down the slope.
“Did Plum catch us up?” I say suddenly, very aware of the state I left her in: white-faced and shaking. I didn’t see her in the photo groups, and it’s completely unlike Plum not to have been in the center of one of them.
I swivel round, worried now that she stayed back and might have got lost in the corridors. It’s actually a relief when I see her tall figure picking its way toward us, long giraffe legs in tight jeans and high heels, one hand out to the stone wall to help herself balance.
It’s what’s behind her that makes me freeze. The shadows are thick around the doorway at the top of the slope, but I see it quite clearly now: a dark figure, stocky and square-shouldered, as if the gloom has taken form, coalesced into the shape that is already horribly familiar to me from two nights ago in the night streets of Leith.
I grab Taylor’s arm. And this time, I know I’m not going mad: I know Taylor can see it too, because she turned when I did, and she’s looking in precisely the same place I am.
“Look!” I say, sounding almost frenzied. “There! Look! There is someone!” My other arm shoots out and I point at the doorway, my hand shaking
with emotion.
Plum spins round, alerted by my frantic voice, and stares into the doorway too as the shape slides back, into the dark, blending imperceptibly into the shadows behind it until it disappears completely.
“Come on, girls!” Aunt Gwen calls impatiently from farther down the slope. “There’s been enough dawdling!”
But I’m taking off in the opposite direction, in the direction of the shadow. Taylor grabs my arm, physically stopping me, pulling me back.
“Scarlett! We’ve got to go—your aunt’s calling—”
Impatiently, I jerk at my arm, but Taylor’s grip is like a vise.
“Let me go!” I say urgently. “I can catch whoever it is! They’ve been following me—I can catch them—”
“Scarlett—” Her face is right in front of mine, her brows dragged together in one straight line. “Scarlett, there’s nothing there, okay? I didn’t see anything! We have to get going!”
“Girls!” Aunt Gwen sounds furious. “Come on!”
The seconds are ticking away; whoever was standing there at the top of the slope, watching us, has had a chance now to slip into one of the many little rooms or closes in the maze up above. I’ll never catch them now. My shoulders slump in frustration and anger.
“There was someone there! The same shape that was following us in Leith!” I insist to Taylor as she pulls me down to join the rest of the group. “You must have seen him!”
“I didn’t, Scarlett,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m really sorry.”
I wrench my arm free.
“I don’t believe you,” I say, tears of rage pricking at my eyes. “I don’t believe you didn’t see it—it was right there!”
“I saw something,” Plum volunteers, skittering down the incline and nearly falling into it. “There was definitely someone in the doorway. I saw it too.”
“Oh please,” Taylor snaps. “You’re just lying to suck up to Scarlett.”
“I’m not!” Plum insists as we all reach the bottom of the gradient and turn in to a small room with open wooden struts that look as if they’re barely managing to hold up the ceiling. There’s hardly room for all of us. I shuffle in, pushing forward through the cluster of girls and teachers to get as far away from Taylor as I can—I’m furious with her for stopping me from chasing that shadow figure.
But as I reach the front of the group, I see a truly creepy sight.
Dolls. A wooden trunk full of dolls, set against the stone wall, more dolls spilling out of it, some arranged on a shelf above, their beady eyes staring sightlessly in front of them, glassy and dead, as if they’re gazing at ghosts only they can see. It’s like something from a horror film, and for some reason it affects me really strongly. I freeze, transfixed. There must be over a hundred of them, their beige plastic skin gleaming in the harsh glare of the single lightbulb hanging overhead, their cheap acrylic hair bright and fake.
Behind us, the guide is gleefully telling the story of the dolls. I catch snatches of it as I stare, hypnotized, at the trunk and its contents.
“And so, when the psychic came into this room—well, she didn’t even come in, poor leddy, she stopped there on the threshold and said she felt so cold she couldn’t move, like a presence was haunting it …”
Some of the dolls are bald, like babies with grossly oversized swollen heads, shiny in the light.
“… eventually she did a séance or some such and got in touch with the spirit of a puir wee dead lassie called Flora, who said she wanted her dolly …”
Lizzie, next to me, starts to sniff in sympathy with Flora.
“… and when she made the documentary, we found ourselves swamped with dollies for Flora. They come from all over—Australia, Canada, even China, people have sent dollies from round the globe. The leddy said Flora told her she died of the plague and her mummy left her here.…”
Lizzie starts to cry, which sets off Susan. Sighing, Aunt Gwen reaches in her bag for a packet of tissues and extracts a couple, handing them over to the girls. As Susan leans over to take them, sniffing and sobbing, her head grazes against the hanging lightbulb; Susan’s as tall as a model. It’s just a brush of her scalp against the white plastic protective cage round the bulb. Susan barely notices. But it sends the bulb, hanging from a thick white safety wire, swinging back and forth.
I know I shouldn’t look back at the dolls. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t help it; the impulse is stronger than common sense.
So I do.
It’s a huge mistake. My nerves are already wound tighter than elastic on a spool; I’m groggy and vulnerable from lack of sleep; and I’m totally freaked out, not just from seeing that shadow-shape again, but even more from the fact that Taylor once again denied seeing it when it was plainly in front of her.
Is it Taylor playing these awful tricks on me? Is she in league somehow with the person who’s following me? She must be—why else would she deny she saw something that was right there—something I saw with my own eyes!
The swinging lightbulb is sending pools of light and patches of shadow back and forth, back and forth across the trunkful of dolls. It makes their eyes glitter and their expressions ghastly. And as it moves, it catches the shape of one of the dolls propped up on top of the pile, magnifying its shadow hugely against the bare stone wall. For an awful moment, with its squat, bulky body and round head, it looks almost exactly like the shape I saw in the doorway just now. Only this one is reaching out toward me with one stubby, clawlike hand.
I’m completely overloaded, still in a flood of panic at seeing that menacing shape in the doorway at the top of the close. I’m deep in a maze of confusing passages, being followed by a dark, mysterious figure, with my best friend turning on me, doing her best to drive me crazy by telling me I can’t believe the evidence of my own eyes. Everything’s upside down: I can’t trust Taylor. Which makes me so insecure it feels as if my head’s going to explode.
I realize that I’m barely able to breathe. And the next thing I know, I’m swaying dangerously on my feet, and the room’s going black.
sixteen
SOMETHING’S VERY WRONG WITH ME
I should be mortified, totally and utterly mortified, at making such an awful scene over a trunk of kids’ dolls and a swinging lightbulb. And deep down, I am thoroughly embarrassed, but it’s a dull sensation buried under layers and layers of other emotions that are much sharper and more stabbing. Fear. Confusion. Panic.
Someone’s caught me and is holding me by the shoulders, keeping me on my feet. It’s Jane.
“Has anyone got a paper bag?” she’s asking urgently. “She’s having a panic attack—it helps to breathe into a paper bag—”
“It’s like that shadow on the wall! Like that shadow we saw up there!” Plum squeals. “I know why she’s screaming! She saw something at the top of the slope in the doorway—she said someone was following her—”
“Wee Flora’s just a story, lassie,” the guide says, sounding very worried. “There’s no documentation for it; we’ve just got the psychic’s word for it. She might have made it all up, y’know—”
“Throw some water on her!” Miss Carter recommends.
I really can’t breathe now. Dark spots are spinning before my eyes. My head’s tightening, as if my skull’s shrinking, and my body feels lighter and lighter, my legs as wobbly as jelly.
And then someone grabs my arm in a grip even tighter than Taylor’s and starts dragging me out of the room. I feel every single finger digging into me, separate and distinct, the thumb sinking into my tricep muscle, and the pain is sharp and clear and hugely welcome, because it’s an instant distraction from my panic. I gasp in shock and drag in a long, merciful breath as I’m pulled out into the corridor and up the incline, then shoved into a stone embrasure, an old window frame onto which I slump. It’s an improvised chair; the hand stays on my arm and the other hand comes down on the back of my head, shoving it between my knees.
“Blood to the head stops a faint,” Aunt Gwen’s v
oice snaps above me.
“Oh, well done, Gwen,” Miss Carter says, trotting up the slope in our wake. “Very well done. What on earth is going on with Scarlett? I know she had period issues on Arthur’s Seat, but I’m beginning to think we have a serious nerve disturbance here!”
“Her mother was very unstable,” Aunt Gwen says grimly. “A lot of these problems start at puberty, you know.”
“Oh dear …” Miss Carter clicks her tongue.
I try to speak, but my head’s still swimming. Aunt Gwen is a foul, evil witch who can’t resist an opportunity to bitch about my mother, and yet she’s the only person who had the wit to save me from fainting. I suppose I should be grateful to her. Which is incredibly annoying.
“I’ll take her back to Fetters and let her rest,” Aunt Gwen says. “It’s the best we can manage for now.”
“Absolutely,” Miss Carter agrees. “I really don’t think that silly little ghost story was remotely upsetting enough to cause something like this. Plum was saying Scarlett hallucinated some sort of shadow, isn’t that right? We’ll have to get her checked out by a doctor once we’re back at Wakefield.”
“One thing at a time,” Aunt Gwen says. “Scarlett, lift your head up now and take deep breaths from your diaphragm. You can control yourself, and you will.”
It’s amazing that Aunt Gwen’s rough treatment is actually working. But it is. She’s let go of my arm by now, but it’s still throbbing, and the pain’s a focus for me to concentrate on. Pain I can deal with. Panic’s much harder. By the time I raise my head as Aunt Gwen commands, the black spots in my vision have gone, and my head isn’t spinning anymore.
“Miss Carter, what’s happening?” Taylor sprints up the slope, sounding as frantic as I just felt. “Is Scarlett okay?”
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