I’ve just reached the edge of the trees when the side gate opens. I throw myself to the ground in the shadow of the berberis, heart jolting against my ribs.
Footsteps on the paving stones. Two sets of footsteps on the paving stones. The dull scrape of chairs being pulled out from under the garden table. The jangle of keys, the click-putt of the lock and the faint squeak of the back door opening. Then footsteps again and the zisht-phut-scurr of a bottle opening. And another. A clink of glass against glass.
‘To success against the odds!’ Uncle Ben crows.
‘And the triumph of hope over experience,’ Paul adds ruefully, though the pride in his voice renders the words exultant. ‘The police will be able to use the photos, won’t they? You’re positive there won’t be any trouble with it, right?’
‘You’re really going to start worrying about that now?’
‘I just don’t want to get all excited over nothing and then . . .’
‘You, my friend, have been married to my sister for far, far too long. It is obvious that whatever she has is catching. I can only hope that Evie takes after me in terms of resistance to this fantastical ability to worry over every possible thing under the sun.’
‘So you still don’t think we should tell Amy, even now it’s over?’
Uncle Ben groans.
‘No, be serious a minute, Ben,’ Paul snaps. ‘What if a police officer calls up about it?’
‘That’s why we’re going to give them my number. Look, Paul, I know you’ve got this whole adrenalin-rush thing going on,’ Uncle Ben says without a trace of deprecation, ‘but please just sit there quietly drinking your beer and enjoying this.’
‘It just doesn’t feel right to keep it from Amy. She’s got as much right . . .’
‘Of course she does. That’s not the point, Paul. The point is that you don’t honestly believe any good could come of telling my sister that the graveyard where Adam is buried, where our parents and my Minnie are buried, is a target for vandalism. That it has actually been vandalised. If you want your wife camping out every night over the graves to guard them, you be my guest, but you can’t expect me to like it since she’s my sister too and I’d rather she didn’t get pneumonia, or have any more things to obsess over.’
Paul sighs. I lift my head just enough to see him drink deeply from his bottle. ‘You know I agreed with you while we didn’t have any certain way of stopping it, but now that we have the photos and the police can identify those . . . those delinquents . . . Now, it just feels like something I’m keeping from her.’
‘For good reason. For God’s sake, Paul. I was married too, you know: I get it. But keeping the odd secret from Minnie – especially about stuff that was only going to upset her – well, it didn’t seem like anything more than what a sensible person should do to protect someone he loves. Secrets aren’t bad in themselves, Paul. People don’t need to know everything.’
‘But it’s our son, Ben. Ours. Not just mine.’
‘See, this is exactly why I said you should talk to Evie. You have to know she’d tell you exactly the same thing. You just might believe it from her. And you know she can keep secrets. Evie can keep secrets better than both of us put together.’ His voice trails off into a sigh. ‘You need to be able to talk to someone about Adam, Paul. And if Amy’s still not ready, then maybe you should consider the fact that Evie might like to know a bit about her brother.’
Paul makes a funny noise then: something I can’t identify.
‘Maybe she really would see him that way if you let her, Paul. If you told her about him, made him alive to her: let her help keep him alive for you.’
‘Don’t, Ben,’ Paul says then, so softly I can barely make the words out. ‘Don’t.’
Uncle Ben reaches out to grasp Paul’s shoulder. ‘Amy’s not the only one who lost him. And, yes, she needs to do what she needs to do. But you need to think about what you need too. Evie’s a smart girl, Paul. Smart and brave and strong.’
‘Evie has enough grief of her own . . .’
‘Telling her about yours doesn’t necessarily mean saddling her with it, Paul. Maybe it would do Evie good to see that you recognise how strong she is. Stop trying to protect her from everything.’
‘I know exactly how strong she is, Ben,’ Paul says and I’ve never heard him so angry. ‘And don’t you dare tell me that Evie shouldn’t be protected.’
‘Not from life, Paul,’ Uncle Ben says quietly.
Paul sighs. ‘We don’t cosset her. Not really. I know Amy seems like she does, but she tries, Ben, she really does try to give Evie her space and the right amount of freedom. We’re careful about that.’
Now it’s Uncle Ben’s turn to sigh. ‘I know, Paul. I know how well you both look after Evie. I’m just saying that maybe she’d like to do just a little bit of looking after in return. Maybe you shouldn’t deny her that opportunity.’ Paul draws in an audible breath, but Uncle Ben speaks over whatever it was he was going to say. ‘But I’ve said enough about it. Let’s just enjoy our beer and our success. And then perhaps we’ll even think about enjoying a bit of sleep!’
Paul gives an awkward laugh but it’s enough for them to lapse into relatively comfortable silence, though they linger over their absurd celebration only long enough to tip back the last of their beers. Soon Uncle Ben is closing the gate behind him and Paul is relocking the back door. When the light goes out in the kitchen, I scramble to my feet and race up the garden, on to the table, on to the wall. Then I lean down and wipe my sleeve across the surface to remove the muddy footprints. Finally, I climb back up to my room, pausing halfway through the window. My hair is wet and slimy against my cheek, dripping mud down the side of my neck. My whole front is wet through to the skin.
The Dragon leaps from my shoulder to the dresser, flicking its tail so that a little glob of mud spatters against the mirror. I sit down on the window sill and take off my shoes one at a time, cleaning them on the rag in my pocket before tossing them into the corner. Then I pull off my socks and lob them towards the clothes hamper. Next, I wriggle out of my jeans, giving myself a moment of heart-stopping fear as I nearly overbalance and topple backwards out of the window. I roll the jeans into a ball and set them down next to me, then ease off my coat, turning it inside out before I drop it on to the floor. My jumper and T-shirt follow. Shivering, I fetch the bottle of water from my cupboard, stick my head out of the window and start trickling it over my filthy hair, running my fingers through the strands to coax the mud out.
By the time I have towelled my hair off with my discarded T-shirt and pushed the bundle of wet, muddy clothing into my hamper, I am shaking almost convulsively, my teeth chattering so hard my jaw aches. The Dragon watches me silently as I wriggle into my nightie and dressing gown, then pull the duvet up around myself. I huddle against the headboard, arms locked across my chest and hand splayed across my ribs as if I can push the pain down deep enough for it to dull.
‘So now we know,’ I whisper into the darkness.
There is a funny sensation, like someone drawing a circle on my kneecap. When I look down, the Dragon is prowling in a tight circle, just like cats do before they settle. Finally the Dragon stops and sinks its claws down through the duvet to brush my skin.
Sometimes what you want is not what you need, the Dragon says.
‘Very original,’ I sniff.
Sometimes, the Dragon continues, unruffled, what you think you want is not what you truly want at all.
‘What I want is for you not to speak in riddles the whole time. We’ve passed the point when it seemed clever and reached the bit where it’s just tedious,’ I retort. I feel my mouth start to quiver.
I try not to think of Paul and Uncle Ben clinking their beer bottles together, celebrating their bravery in the face of danger.
This was neither what you wanted nor needed, the Dragon says. It was merely an easy thing to hope for. What would it really have solved?
‘Everything!’ I hiss. ‘Everything.’
The Dragon stares at me impassively. You already know you are loved. You know that your family would move heaven and earth to protect you from any present danger. No, you are not truly sorry about what we have learnt tonight.
The Dragon is right, of course. I didn’t want Paul and Uncle Ben to do something awful. It would have ruined them inside . . . But if they had, they would have understood so very many things . . . Only then they would have been like me. Like me and Fiona and Fiona’s parents. Not entirely, of course. But a bit. And I could never want that.
Only sometimes I do. Sometimes it feels like Amy and Paul and Uncle Ben and Ms Winters and Phee and Lynne are so different I must be one of those changeling creatures from a fairy tale. And I’m glad, glad, glad that my life with Fiona’s parents hasn’t reached out to touch Paul and Uncle Ben and paint them with darkness, but still . . .
‘What do you know?’ I ask the Dragon, thinking my voice will be rough with anger. Instead, the words come out all bloated around a sob of jealousy so strong it is fury because I want to be disdainful over Paul and Uncle Ben’s pitiful triumph: their self-important schemes, their ‘courage’ in photographing a couple of drunken yobs. But I can’t. I can’t, I can’t. I want to fill my head with mocking words, but instead there is seething, wild rage and envy so strong I almost hate them, hate them, hate them for thinking that’s danger.
How dare they think that! I want to scream. How dare they not know! And it’s grief, grief and fury wild as a snowstorm because it’s not fair, not fair, not fair that this is what they think, still, at their age and I can’t even remember what it is not to know: I can’t remember what that sort of innocence feels like. And right now I can barely remember that I love them because I hate them for not knowing when I’ve never had a time when I didn’t and I want that, oh how I want that . . .
‘What do you know?’ I say again, choking the words out in a whisper that wants to be a scream.
The Dragon stands tall, head raised proudly, dark eyes reflecting the moonlight. Everything, the Dragon says.
‘But I’m so tired,’ I whisper, a thin quiver of sound. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m tired of it all being so hard. Of everything being so hard. I’m tired of being strong and gritting my teeth and getting on with it and bearing it and . . . I’ve had enough now.’
No, commands the Dragon, and spreads its wings. Not in a sudden flap, like someone shaking out an umbrella, but a slow unfolding, like a flower unfurling new petals. In the moonlight, the Dragon glows a strange blue-white, the tracery of its veins and folds a faint lilac, blushing purple. Out and out its wings stretch, rippling slightly as if responding to the faintest hint of a draught in the stillness of the room.
Together we are strong enough to move the stars. But you must make the right wish. You must wish for what you truly need. That is why I am here. That is the fulfilment of the wish that called me.
Slowly, slowly the Dragon lowers its wings, folding them back tight against its body and settling on to its haunches.
But tonight is another matter. Tonight is for weakness before we gather strength once more. Sometimes it is no great shame to give in, even to despair, provided that it is just for a little while. Sometimes a little surrender is good for the soul.
I gather the Dragon to me, cupped in my palms. Then I press the globe of my hands to the pain in my chest, double over so that my forehead is against my knees and cry until the room is white with exhaustion. When I fall sideways on to the bed, the burning skin of my face throbbing against the cool of the sheets, I slip away into sleep almost before I can think.
‘Evie darling?’ Amy says, sinking into the chair next to mine.
‘Mm?’ I mumble, mind on my homework.
‘Can I talk to you for a second?’
Something in her tone makes me look up. ‘Do you need a hand with dinner?’ I ask, though I know that’s not it.
‘Evie darling,’ she says, ignoring my question as she reaches out to put her hand over mine, ‘I know I promised not to pry . . . And I know Paul will say I’m being nosy,’ her eyes flick to the garden window where we can just see Paul watering his way up the flower-bed by the house, ‘but I need to know that you know that you don’t have to keep anything secret from us. If there’s anything bothering you, anything you need . . . You know you can tell us, don’t you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say quickly, looking away from the worry in her face.
‘It’s just that when I came to help you change your sheets earlier, I thought I heard a strange noise, like a machine or something beeping. And I know we checked everything just the other day but . . . Well, you’ve been so secretive this last month. And then when I knocked, you were obviously hiding something before you let me into your room.’
I heave a sigh, picking at a loose thread on my cuff.
‘I just need to know that you’re OK. That this secret isn’t anything bad,’ Amy says, reaching over to break the thread off for me. ‘Because first it was all that stuff up on the stepladder, poking about at the top of the cupboard, and now it sounds like you’re doing something with electronics and . . .’ She catches herself then, realising that her voice has been getting louder and louder, the words coming faster and faster. I feel her take and release a breath that warms my cheek.
‘I just need to know if I can help. Because if there’s anything else . . . anything . . . anything like the ribs,’ she finally gets out, ‘if there is, Evie, I’ll fix it, darling. I swear I will.’ There’s something like desperation in her voice.
My stomach turns over.
‘It won’t be like the court case,’ Amy is saying. ‘I promise it won’t. Whatever it is, whatever you need, darling . . .’ Her hand squeezes mine too tightly and now I can hear guilt and apology under the desperation.
‘Is it about the court case?’
I jump at the sound of Paul’s voice.
He’s standing by the kitchen door. The hosepipe, lax in his hand, splashes water across his slippers. ‘I know it’s been disappointing and we’ve let it all go quiet. But we don’t have to, Evie. We can find a new lawyer, or we can hire a detective. No, really, Evie,’ he says, though I haven’t rolled my eyes or, as far as I know, made any sign that I think this is a silly idea. ‘We can do that. We just don’t want you to be even more disappointed if it still . . .’ He stops and takes a deep breath. ‘The one thing we can’t do is promise it’ll work. But we can keep trying, Evie. For as long as you want us to.’
Amy presses my hand. ‘Is that what you were doing in the cupboard, Evie? Reading the file? You know we didn’t put it away because we wanted to give up, don’t you? We just wanted to . . . to give you time to recover before we did anything else. But we don’t have to wait, darling. You just have to say the word.’
I open my mouth, not sure what I’m going to say because my mind is blank, blank, blank, but I have to say something because I can’t leave them thinking I don’t understand that they’re doing everything possible. I know they’d spend every penny they had if I asked, even though they know and I know that it’s not going to make any difference. They’ve always done everything decent, law-abiding people can do. And it would be so, so wrong of me to let them think it’s not enough.
I open my mouth and ‘I was looking at the photos of Adam’ is what comes out. I feel sick as soon as the words cross my lips.
They both stare at me.
‘When we go to visit him, on the anniversary, you’re always telling him what we’ve been doing,’ I say, tripping over the words and my own wretchedness. ‘But I don’t know anything about him.’ The millstone of guilt in my stomach pushes down so hard I feel as if I’m pinned to the chair, as if I’ll never be able to get up under the weight of it again. ‘I wanted . . . I just wanted . . .’ I gasp, my throat going so tight it feels like I’ve swallowed liquid metal. The pain burns up into my ears.
Then Paul blinks. ‘Evie sweetheart, why don’t you make us all a nice cup of tea?’ he says gently, in his usual
soft, kind voice. ‘I’m going to go and turn off the hose, and after that we’re going to get all the photo albums down and we’re going to have a nice look at them in the living room.’ He’s still talking to me, but now his eyes are on Amy. She is staring at the dishwasher.
The air feels heavy and dark. My head swirls with desperation and the beat of my blood, louder and louder until the chair beneath me, the floor under my feet, grows unsteady. There are not-sounds echoing in my ears. And things that aren’t really there are stirring at the corners of my vision.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
Amy starts and looks up at me. She blinks a bit and her eyes go teary, but then she smiles. It’s a wan little smile, but a smile all the same. ‘Adam’s not meant to be a secret, Evie. Especially not from you.’ She coughs and blinks some more. ‘Those albums shouldn’t be shut away up in the cupboard where we never look at them.’
‘I . . .’
Amy leans over then and puts her soft, warm hands on my cheeks. ‘What on earth would we do without you to sort us out, Evie?’ She kisses my forehead and my heart suddenly lifts and the air goes light again, like I’m coming up out of water. ‘I’m really proud of you. That you’ve been . . . visiting Adam’s photos. I should never have put them away like that, where they’d be . . . lonely.’ She stutters over the word but I hear it clearly, despite the catch in her voice, because there’s beautiful, blissful, ringing silence in my head and only whiteness at the corners of my vision.
‘Now,’ she says, sniffing, though her eyes are dry. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on while I see whether we’ve got something extra-specially nice in the biscuit department.’
When Paul comes back in, Amy turns from the fridge with a smile. ‘Can you get the photos down while we finish in here?’
He stops to kiss her as he passes. I can tell he means to kiss her hair, but she turns her face up to his and presses their lips together. They both smile.
The Bone Dragon Page 19