The Midnight Gate

by Helen Stringer

  “There!” said Mrs. Proctor when everything was finally done. “Now let’s go and have a sit, eh? I think there’s some kind of talent show on. That’ll be fun, won’t it?”

  Belladonna trailed after Mrs. Proctor and sat on the couch as Mr. Proctor turned the television on and his wife settled down with some knitting. An hour of painful caterwauling followed, interrupted by Mr. and Mrs. Proctor as they exchanged opinions about the relative merits of each of the performers and discussed how modern songs just didn’t seem to have any proper structure and who on earth chose the clothes that the contestants were wearing? Then Mrs. Proctor asked Belladonna if she could sew and if she would like to be a costume designer, and Mr. Proctor interrupted, saying that of course she didn’t want to be a costume designer, she wanted to be a singer because that’s what all young people wanted to be and wasn’t he right?

  Belladonna smiled and tried to look interested while sneaking looks at the clock on the wall and longing for it to be bedtime. But the clock seemed frozen and the minutes crept by like so many exhausted snails. Then, when it was over, Mr. Proctor insisted that she stay and watch the news because it was very important for children to be aware of the world around them. Belladonna smiled again, but every fiber of her being wanted to jump up and yell and tell them to stop it, she knew they weren’t real people, so just stop!

  But she didn’t, and eventually Mrs. Proctor went into the kitchen to make Belladonna’s hot chocolate. Belladonna said good night as politely as she could and climbed the stairs to bed.

  Once she was alone she allowed her thoughts to return to her grandmother and the building that wasn’t a building. The building where she was living, that she was in right now, this minute, that was nothing but a shadow, a ghost building.

  As she got ready for bed a feeling of dread began to creep over her. Could this be something to do with what Edmund de Braes had been talking about? Was this … all of it … something to do with the parchment and the Dark Times? The Proctors had gone to enormous lengths to get her, even kidnapping her grandmother. But why? What were they planning here, in this ghost of an apartment block? It hadn’t even been here in the last Dark Times!

  She finished the hot chocolate and lay down, pulling the covers up until only her dark eyes were visible. As scary as everything was, in a way she felt better than she had since Tuesday. At least she knew her grandmother wasn’t dead and she knew for certain that the Proctors were up to something—all of which was better than not knowing. On Monday she’d go to see Mrs. Lazenby and ask to be placed with different foster parents.

  She just had to take control of her own life.

  11

  Mrs. Lazenby

  SUNDAY CREPT by even more slowly than Saturday, and Belladonna spent the day trying to avoid the Proctors. When she was with them she kept catching herself staring, looking for some clue as to who (or what) they really were. Or were they just innocent bystanders, living in the ghost building yet completely unaware? But how could that be?

  She tried returning to the center of the garden and calling for the building to reveal itself again, but nothing happened. It was as if she had inadvertently made it stronger, or perhaps because it had already revealed itself, the Words no longer meant the same thing.

  After that she concentrated her energies on the boarded-up apartment where her grandmother was imprisoned, but she couldn’t force the boards, and her attempts at communicating by knocking or whispering through the sturdy wood went unanswered.

  She returned to the swing set and spent hours trying to decide whether the Proctors were unwitting pawns in someone else’s plan or willing harbingers of something dreadful. When the rain got so heavy she couldn’t ignore it, she drifted back inside and up to her room, where she pored over the rhymes she’d copied from the parchment.

  Thrice times three the cromlechs be

  And thrice times three the charm,

  Thrice the knight who failed the fight

  And thrice be mercy’s balm.

  But twain is all the angels keep

  Though none do they mistrust,

  For the last is lost in the land of sleep

  In the murksome house of dust.

  Nine things … there were nine things. But what were they?

  Thy beating heart is not the best

  For this the darkling perilous quest.

  Find one with a heart whose time is through

  Yet constant holds with brightness true.

  A “heart whose time is through” obviously referred to someone who was dead, so whatever the things were, it looked like they could only be found by a ghost. But “constant holds.” What did that mean? And what on earth were “cromlechs”? She got up and wandered over to the bookcase at the far end of the room. There were picture books, comics, a few classics of the kind that people who didn’t have children thought they’d like to read, but no dictionary.

  At seven o’clock Mrs. Proctor called her down to dinner. Belladonna tried to smile and be polite as she nibbled on fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. And that was a clue right there—if the Proctors were really supposed to be such experienced foster parents, would they really have given her broccoli? Only creatures from some other dimension could possibly think that she’d like it.

  After dinner, the Proctors insisted that she stay downstairs and watch television with them, so Belladonna found herself watching some murder mystery set in London in the 1920s. It wasn’t much good, though—there weren’t nearly enough murders. There was only one right at the beginning and then an hour and a half of people talking and driving around in old-fashioned cars. She was relieved when Mrs. Proctor got up to make the hot chocolate. Bedtime at last!

  Belladonna said her good nights and went upstairs. She felt optimistic—with any luck, this would be the last night she spent here.

  * * *

  The next morning was overcast and gloomy and, while not actually raining, clearly had every intention of doing so as soon as it got up to speed. Belladonna dragged herself out of bed, feeling as if she hadn’t slept at all. She had a pounding headache and the night’s dreams were still marching through her head like a slowly retreating army.

  There had been stone circles, Shadow People, dark holes, piercing lights, and chanting … endless hours of chanting. She couldn’t remember what the chanting had been about, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that if she could concentrate for a few moments, it would all make sense. Dreams don’t work like that, however, and the more she tried to recall the details, the more they slipped away.

  When she got to the bathroom, she discovered that the restless night was writ large across her face. A face that, Belladonna had to admit, was never at its finest first thing in the morning, but on this particular morning the contrast between her straight dark hair, dark eyes, and pale skin was accentuated even more by the addition of two dark circles beneath her eyes.

  “Great,” she muttered, “I look like a refugee from a zombie film.”

  She dressed quickly and shoved her homework into her backpack. She wanted to take her clothes as well but knew that the empty drawers would set off alarm bells for the Proctors and she thought it was best to keep them in the dark until the whole thing was done. Mrs. Lazenby could pick up the clothes and bring them to the new foster parents, whoever they turned out to be.

  The anticipation of leaving for good put a spring into her step and by the time she arrived downstairs for breakfast, she was feeling a lot more cheerful. She even managed to chat with Mr. Proctor about the weather and agreed with Mrs. Proctor that lamb chops for dinner would be nice.

  Mrs. Proctor stood at the door and waved as she set off for school. Belladonna waved back and walked down Nether Street until it curved to the right and Shady Gardens was out of sight, then instead of taking the next left, which would have led to Dullworth’s, she kept going into town. She wasn’t entirely sure where Mrs. Lazenby’s office was—she’d been far too upset at the time to notice—but she wa
s fairly sure it was on the far side of town, down a back street. It was a single-story building, she recalled, with a large unkempt parking lot.

  Anyway, she thought, there’s bound to be a sign.

  As she hurried up Umbra Avenue, past the launderette that had been Dr. Ashe’s apothecary shop, and past the arcade where she and Steve had found the Draconite Amulet, she was struck by how strange it all seemed in the early morning. The High Street was even stranger. She was so used to seeing it bustling with shoppers, traffic, and noise that the silence was really striking. The shops weren’t open yet and almost no one was about. It almost looked like the High Street in the Land of the Dead, except that it was a lot grubbier and there was no tree.

  She hurried past Gimball’s department store and up past Evans Electronics, strangely silent with heavy metal shutters pulled down over the windows. She dodged down a few side streets, but none of them seemed even remotely familiar and she was beginning to wish she’d looked up the address before she’d left. She’d thought about it, of course, but she was worried about attracting attention and being asked difficult questions.

  All she wanted was to get out of that house and away from the Proctors.

  Then, just as she was about to give up, she turned down the last street before the war memorial and there it was: low-slung and sprawling, the aged pebble-dashing dropping off in chunks and the door and window frames painted dark blue. There was a big sign near the entrance to the car park and a piece of paper attached to one of the double doors at the entrance with Use Other Door scrawled on it in black felt-tip.

  Belladonna pushed on the other door and was relieved when it swung open. She had been afraid that the office wouldn’t open until nine o’clock and she’d be stuck waiting in the car park.

  Inside there was a strong smell of coffee that she hadn’t noticed the last time, and an air of hushed exhaustion. There was also a small square opening with a sliding window and a sign that said RECEPTION and another that said ALL VISITORS MUST CHECK IN. Belladonna went to the window and peered into the small room beyond. It boasted little in the way of comfort, just an old office chair, a telephone system, and rows of timetables painstakingly drawn by hand and taped to the wall. There was nobody there, but she noticed a small bell just inside the window with yet another sign taped above it: RING FOR ASSISTANCE. Belladonna slid the window open and tapped the bell. It hardly made a noise, so she tried again with more force. This time it made a clang like Big Ben, and Belladonna shrank back, sliding the window closed again.

  “Ha!” said a voice behind her. “Everyone does that.”

  She spun around, half expecting Mrs. Lazenby, but it was just the ghost boy that she’d met before.

  “Oh, it’s you!” he said, smiling.

  “Yes,” said Belladonna, not quite knowing what to say.

  “My sister hasn’t come,” said the boy.

  “No.”

  “No. I’m beginning to think that she might never come.”

  Belladonna opened her mouth to say something encouraging when the glass window behind her slid open with a bang.

  “Well, you’re up with the lark!” said a friendly voice.

  Belladonna turned around to see a round-faced girl wearing an official identity badge and clutching a mug of coffee.

  “Yes, well…” she began.

  “Do you have an appointment?” asked the girl, sitting down and pulling out a large black appointment book.

  “No, but I was hoping to see Mrs. Lazenby.”

  “She’s not in yet, pet,” said the girl. “But you can wait if you like.”

  Belladonna nodded.

  The girl picked up the phone. “Cheryl, there’s a girl here to see Donna.… I know she isn’t.… Yes, she’d like to wait.”

  She hung up the phone and smiled at Belladonna.

  “She’s nice, isn’t she?” said the boy. “The last one was really mean. I think they moved her to the probation office or something.”

  Belladonna pretended she couldn’t hear him and smiled at the receptionist instead. Then the door to the right of the sliding window buzzed and a woman stepped out, holding the door open. It was Miss Kitson, the woman who had helped Mrs. Lazenby the last time Belladonna was here. She was younger and prettier than Belladonna remembered.

  “Hello, Belladonna,” she said. “Come on back. Mrs. Lazenby should be here soon.”

  Belladonna followed her back through the labyrinth of desks and cubicles, past the break room with the television, and on to the row of chairs outside Mrs. Lazenby’s office.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you,” said Belladonna, sitting down.

  “Juice?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Miss Kitson nodded. “Well, just wait here, she usually arrives about this time.”

  And with that she was gone and Belladonna was alone with her thoughts.

  Not for long, though.

  “Why have you come back?” The boy was sitting in the seat next to her, swinging his legs back and forth.

  “Because,” said Belladonna, who really wasn’t in the mood to talk to ghosts. “Isn’t there anything on the telly?”

  “No,” said the boy. “I mean there is, but it’s just people sitting and talking.”

  “You mean the news?”

  “I suppose. I don’t like the sitting and talking programs, even if they are in color.”

  “No, me neither.” Belladonna smiled at him and he grinned back.

  “I like exciting programs, or things where people die. Do you ever watch the one called Staunchly Springs?”

  “Um … yes,” said Belladonna.

  “There’s a lady in that who killed her husband and shoved him in a big box—”

  “A deep freeze.”

  “Yes. Only it turns out that he’s not dead and he’s got away but she thinks he’s still in there. It’s really good.”

  Belladonna smiled. Her mother had predicted that the husband wasn’t dead. She wondered how her parents were managing. She knew that they could turn the television on and off—ghosts were good at that sort of thing—but would they even bother? They certainly hadn’t been there when she’d gone around the other day.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked the boy.

  “My Mum and Dad. Staunchly Springs is my Mum’s favorite show.”

  The boy stopped swinging his legs and stared at her, puzzled. “Your Mum and Dad? Why are you here if … Oh. Are they dead?”

  Belladonna nodded and was instantly glad she hadn’t spoken her reply because at that moment Mrs. Lazenby marched around the corner. She was carrying a stack of files and a briefcase and was trying to balance a cup of coffee. Even though it was only the beginning of her work day, she already had a frazzled air.

  “Belladonna Johnson!” she said, almost dropping the coffee. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Belladonna opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Mrs. Lazenby dropped some files and her keys.

  “Oh, marvelous! Would you get those, dear, and open the door for me, there’s a pet.”

  Belladonna gathered up the files and picked up the massive set of keys.

  “It’s the one with the yellow plastic thingy … yes, that’s it.”

  The door swung open and Mrs. Lazenby staggered in, deposited her belongings, hung her coat up on a hook in the corner, and sat down with a sigh of relief. Belladonna hung back by the door, not quite sure what to do.

  “Right,” said Mrs. Lazenby, taking a quick slurp of coffee. “Sit down, Belladonna, and tell me why you’re here.”

  Belladonna slid into the chair and … hesitated. She hadn’t really thought things through past this moment. She couldn’t tell Mrs. Lazenby the truth, but how exactly could she make a strong enough case to ensure that she wouldn’t have to go back? She knew that what she probably ought to do is make up some dreadful story about the Proctors, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do that, so she fou
nd herself rambling on instead about being really unhappy there and it being too far away from school and her friends (she was banking on Mrs. Lazenby not knowing that she didn’t actually have any friends except for Steve). By the time she finished, she had genuine tears in her eyes, but as she looked up at Mrs. Lazenby and let one of them trickle slowly down her cheek, she had a sinking feeling that none of it had worked.

  “Belladonna,” said Mrs. Lazenby, staring at her sternly, “do you have any idea how many hundreds of children we have to take care of every day?”

  Belladonna shook her head.

  “No, I didn’t think so.”

  Belladonna racked her brain for something to say that might tip things in her favor.

  “Listen,” said Mrs. Lazenby, “I know it’s difficult. I understand, I really do. But there are lots of children in a much worse situation than you and they need my attention too. The Proctors are lovely people; they’ve been fostering children for years. I really don’t think you’d like things any better anywhere else, I really don’t.”

  Belladonna bit her lip and stared at Mrs. Lazenby through the hair that she’d allowed to fall in front of her face.

  “Who?” she said finally. “Who else have they fostered?”

  “Why—” Mrs. Lazenby seemed about to say something, then stopped, confused. “Well, actually … I can’t think…”

  Belladonna’s heart leapt: Was Mrs. Lazenby going to realize that the Proctors weren’t real?

  “Anyway.” Mrs. Lazenby shook her head. “Anyway … it’s all confidential, so that’s a question I can’t answer. You’ll just have to believe me when I tell you that I’ve known them for years and they are wonderful people.”