House of Bells

by Chaz Brenchley

  She saw those hands, their fingers hooking, snatching.

  She saw them catch at the skirt and nothing else. If the dancing girl was lucky, she was lucky then: that they missed the legs beneath the skirt, that they couldn’t catch her flesh.

  Nothing to grip, then, to drag her into the flames. Only that sudden flaring fabric, burning through; and the girl could scream and stumble back and the hands had nothing to cling to, only cloth that turned to ash as they did the same, as they fell apart in disillusion.

  And maybe it was only an illusion to begin with, but the girl was really burning, all her skirt aflame and the ends of her hair catching now, fire running up those braids; and Grace was on her feet already, the only one moving, running into the light and the vicious reaching heat of it.

  SIX

  Bare feet, bare legs. It didn’t matter.

  No hands came clutching out of the flames for her. Of course they didn’t. She hadn’t even thought.

  She didn’t need to think. There was a girl on fire, screaming and helpless, batting her hands at the fury of her skirt and doing nothing but spread the flame to her cheesecloth sleeves, making everything worse in a moment.

  Girl on fire, and a lakeful of water just three paces off. What was there to think about?

  She had no idea how deep the water was. That didn’t matter either. If there was only one thing Grace did well, with a natural confidence and the virtue she was named for, swimming would be that thing. Water became her.

  She didn’t need to think.

  She hurtled into the burning girl, full on, face to face. Flame to – well, lucky she was only wearing a sleeveless minidress, there wasn’t so much to catch fire. Nylon all through it, though, which would melt to a sticky horror on her skin – except that she wouldn’t let it; it wouldn’t have the time.

  Someone had told her once she had a rugby player’s shoulders. It wasn’t true – they were trying deliberately to be unkind, and not making a very good job of it – and she did watch her weight with care, but she wasn’t ever one of those wispy girls who need a man to open an envelope for them.

  She slammed into the screaming, skipping, burning girl, scooped both arms around her and just kept going. Feeling heat and not worrying, keeping going. Momentum and determination and the thrust of her legs – thunder thighs, that same unfriend had called her, loudly at a party – carried both of them over the grass and over the stone rim of the lake and into the air and down, into the water.

  She’d grabbed air on the way because that was what she did, it didn’t need thinking about; and if it was hot, the air, if there was a mouthful of flame in there it wasn’t burning her.

  She was ready, when they hit. Ready for the impact, ready for the plunge. Ready for the water closing over her head, and for her unready companion’s struggles. She’d done lifesaver training at the pool in Billericay, her sixteenth summer, when there’d been a man to train her. She could handle this.

  She wasn’t ready for the cold of it or the depth of it, the falling-away beneath her, falling and falling; that sudden crushing squeeze that made her air feel ridiculous and shook her confidence to the marrow.

  It couldn’t be that deep, this deep.

  Could it?

  And the girl couldn’t still be burning, she only thought she was. And was flailing, frantic, still trying to beat out flames with burned palms, didn’t seem to notice that they were underwater now and sinking still.

  Until she tried to catch her breath for screaming, and—

  Well. That was a hard time. From trying to burn, the girl was trying suddenly to drown: doing her very best, doing everything wrong, fighting Grace and fighting to breathe and dreadful in her panic, dreadfully dangerous.

  In all the watery stories Grace had ever read, a rugby-playing man would administer a swift clip to the jaw and thrust the fainting female to the surface before she could drown of her own wilfulness.

  Still lacking the shoulders, she did what she could: kicked like mad and hung on grimly, tried to keep below and push the girl upward, not to let her cling like weed and drag them both down beyond saving.

  No swimming, mind. Not in that water, Mary had said. It must have meant something. Maybe it meant this: the depth and the shocking chill of it, an icy clutch at her confidence. Not even you, it whispered deep in the bone of her. You’re out of your depth here . . .

  Well, but she always had been. Out of her depth all her life, and fighting all the way: grabbing for air, for a handhold, for a helping hand, for anything. Learning to swim the hard way, by learning to stay alive.

  She held her breath in the sour murky water, kicked against the bitter sucking grip of it below, pushed hard at the flailing girl above.

  Brought them both abruptly to the surface, gasping and choking, to find too many people crowded at the lake’s margin, trying to be helpful: too many hands reaching down to them, too many voices calling, all those bodies shutting out the firelight and only making it harder.

  Still. She heaved the girl into those willing hands and felt her drawn away on to solid ground. The same hands clutched for her, but she kicked off from the stone-faced bank and backed water a little way, out of their reach. The cold was vicious but not killing, not yet; if all she had to do was float, she could manage that. And there was a comfort in it, this brief space between her and them like the walls they disapproved of, an absolute line. No one was jumping in to join her. Not in that water.

  She could understand that. She could relish it, almost. She’d be glad enough to get out herself, but not until they cleared away from the bank. She didn’t want all their hands hauling at her, touching her, dragging her away. She didn’t want to be one of them, this suddenly easily; she didn’t want to be their hero of the hour. I’m a spy, not a sister.

  A good spy would take any advantage, she supposed, whatever they might offer her: congratulations, gratitude, towels.

  Perhaps she didn’t want to be a good spy either. Even to please Tony.

  She raised an arm to wave them away, all those hopeful helpful people – but that was her left arm, her bad hand, and it was aching fiercely now that the cold had got into it. Not in that water, not with that hand. Maybe she was due a scolding, rather than congratulations. It didn’t matter, but in this darkness a wave might look like an appeal for help, a drowning girl going under again. She let her arm drop and snatched a breath to yell at them instead. Clear back out of the way, let me get myself out – the last thing she wanted was anyone pulling on that bad hand, ripping open the stitches again. Mother Mary would understand, she’d corral their eagerness, it only needed a yell . . .

  But the air was thin and foul out here over the water; it didn’t seem to be enough. She gasped and gasped again and couldn’t raise her voice. For a moment she thought something dark and sinuous and massive moved in the water beside her.

  Oh, that was nonsense. There weren’t monsters in the water. Nor hands in the fire, nor—

  Nor a bell, no, tolling deep beneath her, deep deep down. Great thudding strokes that seized hold of her, that crushed her, flesh and bone together; that doubled her up in the water there, no swimmer now. Just a mortal suffering body, breathless and racked with pain and sinking, slipping down into the dark and the cruel cold, and . . .

  And something brushed against her body as she fell, and she hadn’t ever been the screaming sort but honestly then she might have screamed if there had been air in her lungs, if she had been in air and not this gripping suffocating water.

  The touch startled her eyes open, when she hadn’t really realized she’d closed them. Not that eyes were any use in this dark, this double-dark, dense clouded lake-water in the night; but she’d rather go down fighting. Even if she couldn’t see what it was she fought against, even not believing in monsters even as they swallowed her.

  A touch again, fumbling first to find her and then seizing hold. She did try to fight, but that grip had pinned one arm against her side so she only had the other one to f
ight with, and of course that was her bad arm, which felt almost too heavy to lift now as it burned with cold, as it ached deep in the bone. And she had no air, and there was no strength left in her, and no hope; and she might as well just hang here, seized and helpless, and let whatever had her drag her down . . .

  Except that she was rising, all unexpectedly; and that wasn’t a monster after all. Of course it wasn’t; she didn’t believe in monsters. Just a man, she could feel the familiar shape of his body against hers as he kicked powerfully, kicked them both up to the surface.

  And she was still in the grip of the tolling bell, still helpless, and that didn’t matter any more. He was strong enough for both of them. All she had to do was breathe, finally, at last: great sodden shuddering breaths as he towed her to the side, as she floated slackly in his arms, as far too many hands grabbed hold and hauled her out.

  Then she could lie on the grass and cough and shudder uncontrollably, heedless of all those people all around her; until at last here was Mother Mary pushing through, taking charge, what they had needed all along.

  ‘Stop crowding them, stop standing there like goons, how do you think you’re helping? Someone run up to the house, put a kettle on, fetch towels and dry clothes for them both. Yes, all of you go if you want to, you’re no use to me here. What they need is the fire’s heat, and you lot are just in the way and I don’t have time for you. Go on, vamoose . . .’

  Of course, not everyone went. There’s always someone who thinks general instructions don’t apply to them. And perhaps they were right this time; she was glad enough now to have help to bring her closer to the blaze, where she could sit and shiver and wish that she could dive right through into the fire’s heart. If there were hands in the fire, where were they now? Not reaching out for her, no, to embrace her and draw her in where it was warm. She thought she would have gone. No fighting now, no fight left in her. This numbing cold had frozen out her heart and her will together, every stubborn grain of spirit that she had. She thought she might be crying, perhaps.

  ‘Hey.’

  She turned her head slowly, effortfully to find him. He was sitting cross-legged in the fire’s bask, which was more than she could manage. He was long and lean and angular, his limbs jutting in all directions, and the way he sat, slumped forward – and no blame to him for that! – his long dripping draggled hair hung down over his face, and for that little moment she wasn’t sure.

  Then he lifted a hand, tucked most of his hair back behind his ear, and she saw a shaven chin and a predatory gleam, almost a possessiveness, as he gazed at her, as though he had saved her life and so could claim it now.

  Not Tom, no. She hadn’t been able to tell in the water, and she had wondered – but no, of course it was Webb. Strong and dominant, taking charge, seizing control. Seizing her, while he had the chance.

  He would think so, at least. The water had first claim on her, though, and a tighter grip. She was still coughing, still wheezing through a constricted throat, as though all the passages of her body had clenched up. The fire’s heat wasn’t coming close. Her clothes were starting to steam, and even so: she still felt bitter, shaking cold, inside and out.

  He could see that, she thought. He hitched himself over and put an arm around her shoulders, drew her in close against him. She had no resistance. She felt once again close to tears, unsure that they weren’t actually already leaking down her ice-wet cheeks.

  At least that was easy to hide. She turned her face into his shoulder, which was wet enough already. For a minute, she let him cradle her; she thought he was probably enjoying it, despite everything.

  He didn’t get it for free, though. Not for long. After that little minute, she made an effort and peeled herself away, face and body both; and scowled up at him and said, ‘It isn’t fair.’

  ‘What’s that, love?’

  ‘Why aren’t you shivering?’ He didn’t even feel cold, on the inside. Under that skin of wet clothes, she could sense the heat of him, pulsing through. ‘Look at me, I can’t stop . . .’

  Even her teeth were chattering. She’d always thought that was a myth, but she tried to talk and they clattered together like dentures coming loose.

  ‘So come back here and borrow a bit of what I’ve got.’ He was imperturbable, pleased with himself, irresistible apparently. When he tugged, she went. ‘You were in longer than I was; I expect that’s it. You saved my poor Kathie twice over: once from the fire, and then again from the water. It’s no wonder if you’re feeling a bit spent.’

  ‘It’s more than that, you idiot. Sit her up and let me look at that arm again.’ Mary, of course, back from wherever she’d been: tending Kathie, presumably, seeing how bad her burns were. At least they’d had the cold water to suck all the heat out of them.

  ‘Yes, of course. Here, Georgie, you just lean back on me, that’s the way, and let Mary get at you . . . What’s she done to herself, Mother, anyway?’

  ‘Never you mind.’ Of course he’d want to know; information is power. He’d want to know everything. And of course Mary wouldn’t tell him, even the sum of her guesses. ‘She’s in a bad way, that’s all. Hold this arm still, if you want to make yourself useful. I don’t think you can do it yourself, can you, Georgie pet? Where are those towels, anyway? How long does it take to run to the linen cupboard and back? I can’t be expected to do everything . . . Oh, at last. Thank you, Tom. That’s right, just put it round her shoulders, and you go at her hair with another one. Webb can look after himself – or more likely Kathie – but not for a minute, please. Keep holding Georgie, just as you are; you won’t die of pneumonia, any of you, for one more minute . . . Yes. That’s what I was afraid of: all the stitches gone again, and no telling how much blood she’s lost, but I don’t like the look of her at all. Honestly, Georgie. What did I tell you . . .?’

  Not in that water, and not with that hand. But it wasn’t really a question, and she certainly didn’t expect an answer: which was just as well, because she certainly wasn’t actually going to get one. Not from Georgie, who was hardly even there; and Grace was lost in the tolling of a bell, impossibly deep and impossibly cold, the sound of it felt rather than heard. She thought it was still sounding, thrumming through the ground she sat on. Unpicking her mind as easily as it unpicked stitches, slicing the threads of her thoughts apart, opening her up to bleed and bleed.

  She was glad enough just to lean shiveringly into Webb’s lean strength, sorry when someone – was that Tom, of all people? – bullied her into leaning forward so that he could get at her hair, violently, with a towel. It’d dry all wild, but oddly even Grace didn’t seem to care. She couldn’t manage it, somehow. Even her arm wasn’t hurting now; it was just numb. If Mary wanted to sew it up again, she wouldn’t need to bother with any novocaine.

  Oh. Apparently, she was sewing it up already. Grace hadn’t noticed, and neither had Georgie – well, no reason why she should: it was Grace’s arm, wasn’t it? Grace had done the cutting first, before those damn bells started – but she heard, ‘Pass me my scissors. Or no, better, just cut. Cut there, and wait. I’m putting another one in. I’m putting in a whole lot more, actually. I’m going to hem these cuts, to stop her tearing them open again. I’d do them cross-stitch if I could. Lord knows what she found down there in the water, to cut them through so cleanly. Something that had rusted to an edge, I suppose . . .’

  But the light had changed, and they weren’t huddled by the fire any more. When had that happened? She blinked around, and here they were: herself, and Mary, and Tom. No Webb. Tom was holding her with one arm, helping Mary with the other; and they were back in the familiar bathroom again, bright lights and clean water and Mary’s medical bag opened up on the marble side there.

  She didn’t quite understand what had happened, but she was glad enough to have the lake water washed out of her. And she wasn’t shuddering now, and she couldn’t hear the bell, and all of that was good. And Mary said, ‘She’ll do now. I’ve put in double the number of stitches
this time round. You get her to bed. Up with Kathie, please. They’ll be company for each other and I won’t have to disturb anyone else when I check on them. Oh, I’m sure half the house will be sitting up all night anyway, but not on that corridor. You and Webb can take turn and turn about, if you insist . . .’

  And then she must have drifted off again, by herself or perhaps with help if Mary gave her something: because now she was in bed, in a bedroom, or at least in a room set aside for sleeping. The bed was only a pallet on the floor, but she was a little surprised to find that she didn’t mind that. For Georgie it would probably be like camping with the Guides, a girlhood pleasure rediscovered, nights of whispering in the dark with friends when they should have been sleeping. Grace was more practical. She was warm and cosy and weary to the bone, and she never wanted to move again and had no reason to. Half the aristocratic beds she’d slept in had been more lumpy and less comfortable than this.

  There was another pallet in the room, the other side of the little window where a night light burned. That was just enough to show her a muffled shape asleep, and that must be Kathie the burned drowned girl, not burning now, not drowning. That was good, that must be good enough.

  Between the two of them sat a third figure on the bare board floor. A shadow, long straight hair lit by the window’s candle. A sharp red glow as he inhaled; a slow breathing-out, and the smell of acrid leaves.

  She murmured a soft, ‘Webb?’

  ‘Tom,’ he said, half apologetic. ‘Webb’s sleeping the sleep of the justly famous. So are you supposed to be. I said I’d keep watch over your snoring forms.’

  ‘I don’t snore!’

  ‘Yeah, you do. Little feminine snorts, it’s quite cute. Maybe it’s just because you’re full of lake. Or drugged up.’

  ‘You can talk.’ He could, but his voice was slurred a little, slow and dreamy; that was surely not his first joint of the night.

  ‘Hey. Got to do something to pass the time. You wouldn’t like it if I made a noise.’