But she runs. Because she wants to. Because she can. Because of what it gives her. Because it is her.
Funny though – shortly after the canal incident, her parents had started to suggest she cut back on her training. They said maybe she was doing too much, that she should keep her options open, work hard at her schoolwork, treat the athletics as a hobby, not expect too much. “Happiness is the most important thing, Catty. You have to do what you want.”
If they’d said it weeks before, she’d have jumped at the chance. But something changed the night she ran for her life. She won’t forget the woman, her sadness and her lost dreams. But Cat will not let her life be damaged by that woman’s shattered hopes.
She will have her own dreams and hold them for as long as she can. Not because she ought to but because she wants to. Not because it’s right or wrong but because it just is her. Not because of her grandfather, but with her grandfather, because there is a bit of him in her even though most of her is herself. And although her friendships will change as she does, they will always be friendships.
She swims a bit less now but runs more, will focus on that and not the biathlon. There is more freedom in it. Not to mention the long lean muscles rather than the big shoulders that always loomed at her from the mirror.
She’s read her grandfather’s diary now, touched and absorbed the yellowed newspaper cuttings, seen more photos of him, talked to her grandmother. She knows more of him now, and it’s interesting, fun, tugs warmly at her heart. But it doesn’t matter. Because the truth is that he was an Olympic medallist and that she never knew him. And he never knew her. Maybe some of what he felt she feels too, but she will never really know that. It is comforting and human to touch the past, but it is not everything. Or enough.
She is on her own, running for herself. But more completely so.
Along the wooded path Cat runs, seeking the shade, the thick ancient branches crowding over her, protecting, a canopy of cool.
Breathing easy, strong, smooth. Floating in absolute control. Her thoughts in another space.
She comes to a fork in the path. Now she must go up the hill or down to the lake on the right. She goes to the right. When she comes to the lake, she will swing round and go up the hill from the other side. It’s a longer route. She passes a family walking in the opposite direction, the two small children arguing about being carried.
Cat doesn’t like small children. They irritate her. She has no patience with them. They whinge and are spoilt. They expect everything done for them. The brat has its arms outstretched to its mother, its face screwed up.
She hopes that there will be no one by the lake. She will stop to watch the swans, do a few stretches, measure her recovery time. She can hear the buzzing of flies, the hot chitter of birds.
At first, it seems as though no one is there. As she gets closer, she sees that someone is sitting on the bench, by the water. An old man, judging from his clothes. Her heart sinks. She will have to go further round, find some space. She’s not going to do stretches with anyone looking.
Closer to the man now, she thinks he’s asleep. His head is slumped forward. At an odd angle. His chest curled round, his shoulders sagging, his arms hanging by his sides.
She slows down. Something is not right. In her heart she knows what it is. Yet she walks towards him, pulled there, though wishing she could run away.
The man is dead. She stretches out her hand as if to touch his shoulder, but she doesn’t want to. She draws her hand back towards herself.
And then a smell. A memory. The smell of him. She knows his smell. And with that memory comes guilt and horror, all in one moment. He is the man who brought hissing cockroaches into their classroom. There is his jacket pocket, his musty smell, his tweed, his patches, his wispy hair. She will not look at his eyes, but they will be his eyes – she does not need to look.
Words rise in her throat. She turns, screams, sees a man and woman in the distance, waves, screams again. “Help! Please! This way!”
And as they hurry towards her she sees something remarkable. A thin blue insect floats through the air and hovers in front of her face. It is a dragonfly, she thinks, though of course she does not know what sort it is. Danny would know. The blue is artificial in its powdery blueness. It floats there, its buzzing almost silent. Then it settles on the man’s shoulder, its wings shivering. Two pairs of wings it has, iridescent, veins of amazing thinness. It is beautiful. The most beautiful thing she has ever seen.
Cat holds out her hand towards it, her palm upwards. And the blue dragonfly lifts into the air and comes to settle on her skin.
She barely breathes. Suddenly nothing is as important as that tiny thing of beauty.
The man and woman have arrived now and they have discovered what Cat knows, that here is a dead person. The man is making an urgent call on his mobile phone: police, ambulance, hurry. The woman is looking at her strangely.
“Are you all right?”
Cat looks at her and smiles through watery eyes. Words don’t come, at first. She looks at the dead man’s face and she thinks how peaceful he looks now, just as though he were asleep. His mouth is set in the slightest, softest smile. Cat gently blows the dragonfly from her hand and towards the lake, where it lands on the water a little way away.
“He wouldn’t have wanted it to be hurt,” she says. The woman doesn’t look reassured. “He liked insects,” Cat continues. “He came to our school once.”
“I think you should sit down,” says the woman. “You don’t look very well. You’ve had a shock.”
Later that evening, when the police have taken a statement – she’s good at those now – and her parents have worried about her unnecessarily, Cat goes round to Danny’s house. There is something she wants to know. She describes the insect and he finds pictures in his books.
“Two pairs of wings or one? Horizontal or vertical?”
“Two. Um, horizontal, like a tiny plane.”
“Sounds like proper dragonfly then, not a damselfly. Like this?”
“A bit like that but more like this one.”
“What about this one?”
“Wrong colour. Mine was more sort of a pale powdery blue. And no black bit on the tail.”
And then she sees it. Points to it. “That’s it! I know it is!”
Danny reads out the name. “Odonata Anisoptera Orthetrum coerulescens.”
“Odonata Anisoptera Orthetrum coerulescens,” she repeats slowly, for the words are soothing, secret, ancient. Strong.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, though it is not a question but a statement.
She touches the picture, softly, as though stroking it.
It is beautiful. She nods. No longer does she hate or fear these small things. She does not wish to spend her life with them, but she can understand a little of why someone would. Dreams, desires and obsessions come from within and are like gifts, uninvited. But she has different gifts. And different dreams.
NICOLA MORGAN knew when she left university that she wanted to be a writer. While working to achieve that ambition, she was also an English teacher, and became an expert in literacy and dyslexia. Now, after writing numerous bestselling books for young children, Nicola is the author of many critically acclaimed titles for older children and young adults. Her novels Fleshmarket and Sleepwalking both won Scottish Art Council prizes, the latter winning the Scottish Children’s Book of the Year, and her non-fiction title Blame My Brain was shortlisted for the prestigious Aventis Prize.
Nicola lives in Edinburgh but travels widely, visiting schools, conferences and festivals, enjoying any chance to inspire young people about fiction or the workings of their brains.
You can find out more about Nicola and her books at:
www.nicolamorgan.co.uk
Or for Nicola’s tips on becoming a writer, visit:
www.helpineedapublisher.blogspot.com
The Highwayman’s Footsteps
When high-born William de Lacey saves a hig
hwayman’s life, he cannot guess how his own life will change. He may have escaped his father’s sneering contempt, but has his easy childhood prepared him for the terrifying dangers that he must face now? The stark, ghostly moors are as hostile as the pursuing redcoats, and Will must make some difficult decisions if he is to escape with his life.
The Highwayman’s Curse
On the run from the redcoats, the two young highway robbers, Will and Bess, find themselves in Galloway, Scotland, blamed for a murder they did not commit. Captured by smugglers, they become embroiled in a story of hatred and revenge that goes back for generations, to the days of the Killing Times. As Will and Bess become entangled in the dangerous lives of this embittered family, both have choices to make which will test to the limit their courage and resolve. They may try to break the cycle of religious hatred that curses the land, but will their friendship survive?
PRAISE FOR DEATHWATCH
“Edinburgh-based Nicola Morgan uses the capital as a backdrop for her slick and twisted thriller. Plotted like a crime novel with plenty of cliff-hangers and red-herrings, this feels like a story aimed at teenage girls who want more grit, who find Twilight and its ilk too wimpy.”
The Scotsman
“As the story hurtles towards its surprising and truly terrifying climax, Morgan cleverly interweaves several themes with her customary attention to detail… But ultimately this is a book about the importance of holding on to your dreams and the corrosive power of despair… Morgan excels at getting inside the teenage brain.”
The Herald
“A finely crafted intelligent thriller… Sinister, tense, thought-provoking and entertaining, this is a fine teen read.”
Write Away
“An outstanding book… The feeling of menace and suspense is established from the beginning and builds steadily until the climax.”
Vanessa Robertson, bookseller
“Totally gripping and impossible to put down. This book is one of Nicola’s best and I’m sure you’ll love it. It’s a real page-turner!”
Zoe, teen reviewer
SOMEONE IS WATCHING CAT McPHERSON.
Is it a young schizophrenic, a retired scientist, or Cat’s ex-boyfriend? Or it could be someone else entirely. An obsession with insects seems to link them all. And Cat hates insects. She’s easy prey, especially as she has given away so much about herself on an internet site which her parents have forbidden her to use. But does she even realize that she’s being stalked? A talented athlete, Cat’s too busy with the pressures of training and deciding whether she really wants to run for a living. The trouble is, soon she will have to run for her life…
A chilling and skilful psychological thriller, from the award-winning author of Fleshmarket and The Highwayman’s Footsteps.
WITH SPECIAL THANKS …
… to the wonderful Deathwatch Girls, my volunteer consultants from The Mary Erskine School in Edinburgh, who helped keep me on the right track with advice, opinions and enthusiasm from beginning to end. They were Astrid Batts, Gemma Bleakney, Jane Bryden, Caitlin Davidson, Emily Don, Mhairi Dunn, Rebecca Hughes, Ailsa Innes, Priya Khindria, Alison Lim, Abbie Logan, Kirsty Peters, Zoe Pritchard, Amrit Rattray and Bethan Riddell. Thanks and admiration also go to Diana Esland, the English teacher who gave up so much time and energy, and to Neil Dawson and the whole school for support in many ways. This was a really special project and it began not with me or any adults but with the girls’ own enthusiasm when I first told them I was starting a book about a stalker.
Several members of the Patrick family, as well as Wilma Irvine and Sheila Fisken, helped with technical details of schizophrenia, swimming and athletics competitions, and how entomologists kill insects humanely. (No living creatures died or suffered because of the writing of this book.)
Oh, and to my niece, Lucy: next time you get a Madagascan hissing cockroach, warn your mother before you let it loose in the house…
Books by the same author
Chicken Friend
Fleshmarket
The Highwayman’s Footsteps
The Highwayman’s Curse
Mondays Are Red
The Passionflower Massacre
Sleepwalking
Blame My Brain
Know Your Brain
The Leaving Home Survival Guide
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.
First published 2009 by Walker Books Ltd
87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ
Text © 2009 Nicola Morgan
Cover photograph © 2009 Brand X Pictures/Photolibrary Group
The right of Nicola Morgan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data:
a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-4063-4261-1 (ePub)
www.walker.co.uk
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