The Bone Dragon

by Alexia Casale

  ‘At school, you mean?’ I venture.

  Ms Winters shrugs. ‘At school, at home . . . Do you . . . want to get picked for a sports team? Or get a part in the school play? Or get invited to a particular party?’

  I squirm around so that I can tuck my feet up underneath me. ‘I want to catch up with everything that I’ve missed,’ I say.

  ‘Well, I think we’re pretty much there on the schoolwork side. How about everything else?’

  I tug a strand of hair loose from my ponytail and start twisting it around my finger, round and around. I’m trying to get out of the habit of chewing the ends when I’m thinking, but this alternative just isn’t as effective.

  ‘It’s OK, I guess. Sometimes they still talk about things I’ve missed, but not so much now. And I’m not really missing anything important any more. Jenny is having her birthday party at the pool, but I should be able to go in the water by then so . . . And there’s the D of E thing, but it’s not such a big deal any more. I think Lynne’s going to give it up soon anyway.’

  ‘And how about the things you’re looking forward to after Jenny’s party?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I have to admit, somewhat surprised at the realisation. ‘I don’t really know now that my ribs don’t hurt and I can sleep without it being awful. I guess I’m just getting used to it all being different.’

  ‘Well, it’s not unreasonable that you need some time to adjust, Evie. Those were pretty big challenges – pretty all-consuming – and now those things are resolved, it’s natural for you to feel a little unsettled: a little unsure what to focus on next. But we all need goals: things to aim for and work on. Maybe it’s time to start figuring out what those might be.’

  A wisp of thought crosses my mind but by the time I try to grasp it, it dances out of reach. It feels important and I know I am frowning as I try to catch hold of it. It’s something to do with the Dragon. And lightness: a feeling of lightness. Of expansiveness. As if there were something made up of broken glass somewhere inside me that’s been taken away with the broken bit of my rib.

  I give up twisting the strand of hair and bite down on the ends instead.

  ‘You don’t have to figure it out right away, Evie,’ Ms Winters says when I remain silent. ‘But perhaps that would be good homework for the next few weeks: to have a think about what good things you want to accomplish now that so much bad stuff is out of the way. It doesn’t have to have anything to do with studying, though it can if you like. But even if it’s just saving up for a pair of jeans you really like, I want you to tell me about one new goal by the end of the month: about a goal and what exactly you’re going to do to try to accomplish that goal.’

  ‘So a goal and a plan,’ I say thoughtfully, not fully paying attention. I am still trying to work out what exactly it is that got taken away, apart from the rib, and whether that bad thing got turned into a good thing when the rib turned into the Dragon, or whether it was the Dragon that took the bad thing away in the first place. I spit my hair out and brush the wet strand away from my cheek. ‘I can do that.’

  I have one leg over the window sill when I hear the winch-squeak of the back gate.

  ‘Shhhhhh!’ someone hisses.

  I practically fall back into my room. Biting my lip over the pain exploding in my ribs, I wrench the window all but closed. My hands shake as I coax the curtain rings along the rod. Along, along . . . Somehow, with all that’s happened, I forgot what day it is: every Friday now, Paul and Uncle Ben go off together, late at night.

  I crouch below the window, splinting my hand across my ribs as I listen to the scrape of the garden chairs on the flagstones.

  ‘Look at all this mud,’ Paul says. ‘Next door’s blasted cat’s been on the table again.’

  ‘Big feet for a cat,’ Uncle Ben says and I freeze.

  My shoes may be clean when I climb down on to the table every night, but they’re not when I’m climbing back up to my room after an adventure with the Dragon.

  ‘Disgusting beast,’ Paul says dismissively. ‘Has this huge, bushy tail matted with filth.’

  Tomorrow, I tell myself, I will find an old dishcloth from the shed and keep it in my pocket whenever I go out so I can clean away enough mud that there won’t be any more footprints on the table.

  ‘Maybe this whole thing’s been a waste of time, Ben,’ Paul says, drawing my attention back to their conversation. ‘Amy’s going to be none too happy to find I’ve dipped my trouser cuffs an inch deep in mud again, and where’s it getting us?’

  ‘The opportunity will present itself eventually,’ Uncle Ben says in a surprisingly bullish tone. ‘But it only needs one of us: no need for you to keep coming along.’

  Paul sighs. ‘Not what I’m saying, Ben,’ he replies softly. ‘Just . . . Friday night’s clearly not the night. So what is?’

  They’re quiet for a while. ‘Things like this . . . People go for darkness, right?’

  ‘And it’s not been dark at eleven o’clock at night every blessed time so far?’ Paul says irritably. Then he sighs again. ‘Cloudy nights?’ he suggests.

  ‘Nights where it doesn’t matter. New moon nights.’

  ‘Well, they do say the full moon brings out the crazies. Maybe it’s similar with the new moon,’ Paul says and I can hear he’s trying to make peace.

  My heart clenches at the thought of another dark moon stolen. It’s mine! I want to shout. It’s my dark moon, not yours.

  Uncle Ben forces out a huff of laughter. ‘Sounds about right for the two of us.’

  ‘And it about fits what we’ve got in mind.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Uncle Ben says, though his tone is friendly enough. ‘Justice not trouble, we agreed.’

  ‘I know what we agreed, Ben. I just don’t like the thought of all the things that could go wrong.’

  They’re both silent for so long I start to wonder if I should just give up and go back to bed, but then Uncle Ben says, ‘I still think you should talk to Evie.’

  ‘And I keep telling you she doesn’t need any other burdens,’ Paul replies but, though the words are angry, his tone is merely weary.

  Part of me wants to stand up, open the window and say Tell me! While another part whispers, No. No, don’t. Please don’t. You’ll ruin everything.

  ‘I really don’t think she’d see it that way, Paul,’ Uncle Ben says softly.

  A sigh. ‘Maybe,’ Paul says. ‘Maybe.’

  Uncle Ben leaves soon after and I creep back to bed. Shedding clothes as I go, I toss my trainers to the back of the open wardrobe and then crawl into bed, pulling my dressing gown around me since my ribs are too sore to contemplate raising my arms to put on the big, floppy T-shirt I usually wear as a nightdress. Sinking into the softness of the bed, I curl on to my good side and set the Dragon down in the curve of my body.

  ‘I guess they deserve to have one dark moon to themselves,’ I whisper. Then sigh.

  There are plenty of other nights to fit our purposes, the Dragon says. And when the time comes, we will not waste it. It is only this next dark moon we must approach with caution. And perhaps it is as well.

  ‘What do you think they’re up to? What do you think Uncle Ben thinks Paul should tell me?’ I ask despite myself, because I think maybe I know . . . only I’m not sure that I want to.

  The Dragon is silent.

  I sigh and turn on to my back, staring up at the ceiling. ‘Do you think . . .’ But I don’t dare put my suspicions into words, partly because then I would barely be able to breathe for worry and guilt over Uncle Ben and Paul if I’m right. But there’s something else too: a strange feeling almost like anger.

  I sigh again. Despite my best efforts, my thoughts keep going back to that night, listening through the banisters, the wound over my ribs still fresh and the Dragon only half carved in my hand. Memories of Paul and Uncle Ben talking tonight merge with memories of their voices, their words from before: Paul saying, ‘I don’t want to have to tell Evie that there isn’t any fair
for her.’ And Uncle Ben’s reply, ‘If only I were a braver man . . .’

  Phee, Lynne and I sit on the edge of the pool, kicking our feet in the water and watching Jenny shrieking with laughter as Fred chases her towards the deep end.

  ‘Do you really think she likes him?’ Phee asks, wonder warring with disgust in her tone. ‘She looks like she likes him.’

  ‘He looks like he likes her. Like actually likes her,’ Lynne says as Jenny slows to let Fred catch her and push her under the water. ‘Who’d’ve thought he could manage to not be a total jerk for ten whole minutes at a time?’

  ‘Yeah, well let’s see how that goes when Sonny Rawlins turns up,’ I say.

  Lynne sighs dramatically.

  ‘People get hit by cars all the time,’ Phee says thoughtfully. ‘Maybe Sonny’s been hit by a car . . .’

  ‘Squished flat!’ Lynne crows. ‘Oooo, I like it.’

  ‘No such luck,’ I sigh, as Sonny Rawlins comes strutting out of the changing rooms. We turn as one to glare at him.

  ‘You finally growing some tits then?’ he says, smirking as he fixes his gaze on my chest when he sees us watching.

  ‘At least she’s not stuffing her swimming costume like you’re stuffing your trunks,’ Phee sneers, her hand finding mine as I flinch instinctively away from his words, feeling my skin prickle with goosebumps.

  ‘You afraid the lifeguard’ll tell you you have to go to the kiddies’ pool if you don’t?’ I snap, leaning into Phee’s warmth and pushing the words out all mocking and hard so that my voice doesn’t waver.

  ‘Better watch that sock doesn’t fall out. No cannonballs for you,’ Lynne adds, putting her arm about my shoulders.

  I take a deep breath, tilting my chin up defiantly as Sonny Rawlins’s lips thin and his eyes go flat and nasty. ‘Better hurry into the water before anyone notices what you haven’t got,’ I say, then turn purposefully away, refusing to hear what he calls me in reply.

  Lynne laughs contemptuously at him. After a moment, I feel his shadow pass over us as he walks on to the shallow end.

  ‘Maybe he and Fred will accidentally drown each other,’ Lynne says loudly.

  ‘There’s always hope,’ I agree, though it comes out rather weaker than I’d intended.

  ‘Well,’ Phee says purposefully, pushing herself to her feet. ‘Are you guys coming, or are we just going to sit here all day?’ She grins and offers me a hand. ‘Come on, Evie.’

  I grin back and let her pull me carefully to my feet. We look down at Lynne, who quirks an eyebrow. ‘Voluntary exercise? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ll just recline here, looking gorgeous, and watch, thanks.’

  ‘Well, it’s always nice to have an admiring audience,’ I say. Phee snorts, leading the way towards the shallow end. I turn to follow, take two steps . . .

  Suddenly the floor rears up and the ceiling dives to roll under me.

  Suddenly I am weightless and the world is white: so white my eyes burn as if a camera flash has been frozen in time.

  Pressure and weight and force pummel me as I hit the surface of the water.

  My neck snaps back. My mouth opens reflexively but my chest is so compressed with pain that I cannot scream.

  Water floods into my open mouth.

  My eyes open – when did they shut? – and the world around me is blue and distorted, curved and twisted. Sound echoes dully.

  I am sinking down under the water, down, down . . . Tendrils of my own hair frame my vision. I see my hand, fingers lax, floating above me.

  Then the pressure is gone. My chest expands without thought. Water floods down my throat.

  The world twists and writhes as I curl over the pain, the wrongness of the water in my lungs. My hair whips red-gold around me, wild and furious.

  Another breath of water. And pain. Wrongness and pain, and desperation and wild fury.

  The water around me boils as I thrash. Then something is thrashing with me, forcing its way under my arm and across my chest. Another slow flash of purest white dissolves my vision. The world is torn away into darkness.

  Hurts.

  Hurts, hurts, hurts.

  It hurts in my chest.

  My throat is liquid with fire. I feel the flesh bubble with pain.

  Wet. My hair is wet, tangled over my face, clinging to my neck.

  My ribs hurt, hurt, hurt and a dog is barking above me. Harsh, wet, snarling barks. His voice breaks. He whines. Then barks again. Barks and barks.

  And someone is sobbing, and people are shouting, angry and scared.

  I’m on my left side and it hurts, hurts, hurts. My ribs hurt. I can’t lie on this side. I twist, but something stops me from turning.

  The dog growls. Barks and growls. I jerk but cannot turn.

  The dog’s bark breaks again and he whines.

  ‘Evie,’ someone says. A man. ‘Evie, can you hear me? Evie, squeeze my hand if you can hear me.’ The calm, low, cautious tone makes no impact on the dog’s barking.

  ‘Evie, squeeze my hand. Come on, squeeze my hand.’

  There’s something warm around my fingers. Something warm holding my hand. But my ribs hurt, hurt, hurt and there’s something stopping me from turning.

  Have to turn. Hurts. Have to turn. I start pushing, flailing, thrashing against the thing stopping me from turning. The dog is whining, high and shrill, whining and then barking, whining then barking.

  The thing that won’t let me turn presses me down. I kick and scratch at it, twisting on the cold, wet ground. Suddenly there is give and I throw myself at it, wrench round on to my back and then curl on to my right side.

  Relief. Oh, relief.

  I shudder as the dirty, bloodstain pain vibrates through my bones, through the ribs still holding my chest together.

  Something warm encompasses my fingers once again.

  ‘Evie. Evie, if you can hear me, I really need you to squeeze my hand.’

  I curl my fingers towards my palm.

  ‘That’s great, Evie. That’s really good. Now squeeze my hand again, just like that. Good girl. That’s really good.’

  Something soft is draped over me. A hand strokes my hair off my face, then rests gently on the back of my head before moving to squeeze my shoulder.

  ‘Evie, can you tell me if your head hurts?’

  The pain in my ribs is fading, fading. I’m cold. I’m really cold. The dog is barking more quietly now. A little burst, then silence. Then another. A shiver drifts through me.

  ‘Evie, did you hit your head when you fell? Can you nod your head yes or no for me?’

  Did I hit my head?

  The question echoes through my brain. When did I fall?

  The world whirls around me as if I am weightless once more. The air and the floor wrench at me from every direction . . .

  And then it’s gone: everything is still and clear and normal.

  And I am lying on my side in a thin layer of water over tile.

  I’m lying by the edge of the pool. Somehow I fell in the pool. Somehow I fell in the pool and someone fished me out. They fished me out and put me on my bad side. They put me on my bad side and . . . I was coughing. Of course there wasn’t a dog. It was just me, coughing. I breathed in the water . . .

  ‘Evie? Evie, can you squeeze my hand if your head hurts?’

  I roll my head so I can look up at the person bending over me. My vision wavers as my eyes water with the pain in my throat, in my chest.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. It comes out with a little hiccup-cough in the middle.

  ‘Hey there, Evie,’ the man says, smiling down at me. ‘How’s your head?’

  Did I hit my head? I don’t know. I don’t remember. It hurts, but whether it hurts from choking up half the pool, from passing out with the pain, or from hitting the edge when I fell, I can’t tell – and don’t care. Next to the pain in my ribs . . .

  ‘Evie?’ the man – a lifeguard, I realise – prompts.

  ‘’S OK,’ I get out, blinking away fresh tears at the pa
in in my throat as I hold down the need to cough. Mustn’t cough again. Mustn’t. Mustn’t ever cough like that again. ‘Co-old,’ I say.

  The lifeguard grins and pulls the towel tighter around me, rubbing my shoulder. ‘You’ve been wriggling around quite a bit, so I think we can rule out spinal injury or anything like that. How do you feel about sitting up a bit so we can try to get you wrapped up a bit better?’

  ‘Let-me-do-it!’ I rush out. ‘Don’t touch.’

  The lifeguard frowns.

  ‘Had an . . . operation. Know how to move so . . . so it doesn’t hurt,’ I warn him around more of those nasty, barking hiccup-coughs.

  The lifeguard’s smile returns. He sits back on his heels, raising his hands, though he watches me closely.

  I keep my breathing light and shallow, panting to lessen the pain as I press my hand across my ribs to brace the gap between the bones. I lever myself up on to my elbow, wriggling so I can twist my legs to the side and use their strength to help me push upwards. Then I draw my knees up to take the pressure off my chest, reducing the ache of the scar and the pull of the bone-ends against the skin. Dr Barstow said that they filed the ends of the bones down on either side of the broken bit so it’s not exactly sharp, but there’s just not meant to be an end there, blunt or not. Even rounded, it still pokes the skin awkwardly when I bend to the left.

  I hunch over my knees, tucking my left arm to my side. The pain is stretched taut across my ribs, up over my shoulder, into my neck and down my arm. As if someone has poured acid on to my shoulder and let it trickle down my arm, under my elbow and along the side of my forearm, fizzing on to the side of my palm and the two smallest fingers. I wish I could double over the pain but I can’t curl any further without the bone-ends in my ribcage stretching the healing skin around the scar.

  The pain is different now: sharp and immediate, clean. But the dull, dirty pain of the damaged bones is there underneath, grinding: as if the broken ends are still grating against each other inside. The pain ebbs and flows from my ribs through my arm into my fingers. The muscles in my back and neck are locked tight, trying to contain the pain but only making it worse, adding the rope-burn sting of tired muscles. One type of pain layers over another. And my fingers burn with acid. I raise my hand to check that they’re not dissolving with the pain.