“Okay? Nothing in sight? You never cease to amaze me.”
“Gus! Did you hear something?”
Oksa put her hand on her friend’s arm. On his guard again, Gus held his breath and listened, but couldn’t hear a thing.
“Perhaps the place is still haunted by an old ghost,” he remarked ironically.
Oksa was about to elbow him, but she suddenly froze, all her senses on the alert.
“It’s either the Volumiplus or I’m hearing things,” she whispered.
“The Volumiplus? That’s the power which allows you to hear tiny sounds, isn’t it?”
“Exactly,” confirmed Oksa, concentrating. “And it appears to be working overtime. Follow me! There’s something—”
Gus could think of a good many things he’d rather do than explore this chapel, but he let himself be dragged by his intrepid friend towards the crypt at the back.
“We’re not going down there, are we?” he muttered, trying to do an about-turn.
“Oh, Gus,” chided Oksa. “It’s just a crypt!”
“IT’S JUST A CRYPT? That really takes the biscuit! You know what you get in crypts? Graves. Martyrs’ relics. Dead people. Did you hear me? Dead people! Corpses! Skeletons! Stiffs!”
“Okay, okay,” she said with a frown. “You don’t need to list all the synonyms you know for ‘corpse’.”
“You don’t really think I’m going down there?”
“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” exclaimed Oksa, starting to have cold feet herself. “Okay, fine, come on, let’s go… AAARGHHH! What was that?”
The sound of singing rose clearly from the crypt. Oksa clutched Gus’s arm, while he stood frozen to the spot with terror, his legs turned to stone.
“C’mon, we’ve got to get out of here, we should never have come in, this is crazy,” he stuttered. “We’re totally not supposed to be here!”
“Don’t worry, I’m armed,” retorted Oksa briskly, showing him her Granok-Shooter and heading resolutely towards the crypt.
It wasn’t far off three o’clock that Tuesday afternoon when the students heard the loud, anarchic banging of a drum. In the classrooms the teachers initially tried to maintain order, although it was difficult because they were just as intrigued by the racket as their students. But when the din was accompanied by someone singing an opera aria loudly in the corridors—“Oh! I laugh to see myself so beautiful in this mirror!”—curiosity reached fever pitch. In no time, countless faces were pressed up against the windows overlooking the courtyard or the corridors in an attempt to locate the whereabouts of this strange performance. Some of the teachers thought Mr Bontempi had planned some kind of an event for the carnival, due to take place in a few days’ time. Others opened their classroom doors to try and pinpoint the source of the racket and one of them caught a glimpse of a flowing silhouette dressed in blue just turning a corridor. Oksa and Gus were peering out of the window of the English classroom when Merlin cried out:
“Hey, look over there! That looks like Miss Heartbreak near the fountain!”
His eyes met Oksa’s. She winked at him; he gave a knowing smile and winked back. A murmur of amazement spread through their class and all the classrooms overlooking the school courtyard. Not one student seemed to be concentrating on their work. Oksa and Gus craned their necks to try and see the courtyard from their window. The angle made it difficult, but they could clearly hear the rasping voice, which was now singing a children’s song: ‘At the Clear Fountain’. Gus grabbed Oksa’s arm and pulled her into the corridor.
Leaning their elbows on the first-floor balustrade, they now had an unobstructed view of the courtyard.
“She did it, Gus!” murmured Oksa. “Thank goodness!”
Miss Heartbreak—there was no doubt it was her—was singing her head off to celebrate her new-found freedom. When Gus and Oksa had glimpsed a shadowy figure in the gloom of the crypt, they’d almost passed out. Gus had nearly dropped dead from fear.
“Miss Heartbreak, is that you?” Oksa had spluttered hoarsely, her Granok-Shooter aimed in front of her.
“Heartbreak? What a pretty name! Pretty, pretty name… no, I don’t know any Heartbreak, but I know a heart that’s fancy-free,” came a sweet, melodious voice, rising from the depths of the crypt, before the two adventurous students had fled.
That was how, a few hours later, Miss Heartbreak came to be sitting on the edge of the central fountain. She had a saucepan fastened across her chest with a dirty rag and she was beating madly on this makeshift instrument, singing nursery rhymes badly at the top of her hoarse voice. With her tangled hair and her face black with grime, she afforded a surprising, and shocking, sight. Her blue suit was torn and her bare legs were covered in bruises and bloody scabs.
“My little sheep, it’s time to return to the fold!” she yelled from the fountain, looking up at the packed windows and balustrades. “The big bad wolf will catch you, come, come, my pretty sheep, come hither with your gentle shepherdess.”
And she started to whistle through her fingers, to the delight of most of the students, who responded with shouts of joy. Egged on by this reaction, Miss Heartbreak climbed onto the edge of the fountain, then jumped feet first into the icy water. She merrily splashed about in the water, which came up to her knees, singing “There was a shepherdess and ron, ron, ron, little patapon” in a demented voice.
Mr Bontempi, followed by a few of the teachers, ran over and grabbed hold of the poor woman, lifting her out of the water in his arms.
“Benedicta! Calm down, everything’s going to be okay!”
But Benedicta Heartbreak didn’t seem to agree. She took hold of her saucepan-drum and tried to batter her rescuer who, without Dr Bento’s intervention, would soon have been seeing stars. The small group disappeared from the courtyard to the rebellious cries of the drenched shepherdess and the cheers of the laughing students. A few minutes later, the siren of an ambulance echoed off the stone walls, casting a chill over the classrooms and silencing the laughter.
69
FROM BAD TO WORSE
“YOU’RE SAYING THAT MISS HEARTBREAK HAS reappeared? Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Oksa and Gus had dashed home as fast they could, escorted by Pierre Bellanger, who hadn’t been able to believe his ears when the youngsters had told him about the highlight of the day. At the Pollocks’ house the news was greeted with just as much astonishment.
“This is certainly a big surprise,” said Baba Pollock thoughtfully, with a distant look in her eyes.
“It gave us the fright of our lives,” explained her granddaughter. “You should have seen how fast we ran out of the chapel!”
“That woman is indebted to you,” remarked Dragomira. “Who knows what would have happened to her if you hadn’t found her? But I’m amazed, I was sure Orthon had killed her.”
“Luckily, he didn’t,” continued Oksa, deeply relieved. “But she’s gone mad.”
“You mean she’s a complete fruitcake now,” said Gus, “stark raving bonkers! But it’s hardly surprising, given the terrible state she was in. McGraw must have really gone to town on her. What do you think he used?” he added, turning to Dragomira.
“It might be something like a Muddler Granok, but much more harmful.”
Seeing Gus’s dubious expression, Oksa explained pedantically:
“The Muddler Granok confuses the brain for a very short period of time, no more than a few hours. The man or woman hit by it becomes muddle-headed and talks nonsense.”
“And it’s relatively harmless,” added Dragomira. “Given what you told us, I think this was something more… aggressive.”
“You don’t think McGraw could have used a Memory-Mash Granok, do you?”
“There’s every possibility that he’s combined the two, and I don’t think he stinted on the doses. He can’t afford for Miss Heartbreak to talk, she saw too much. I’m afraid her condition will be irreversible. Poor woman… where is she? Do you know?”
<
br /> “An ambulance came for her and I heard the teachers talking about her this afternoon,” replied Oksa. “She’s at the hospital; the police want to question her, but apparently she’s very agitated and the prognosis isn’t good.”
“No doubt,” commented Pavel, squeezing his wife’s hand. “We don’t exactly bring good luck to anyone we get to know.”
Everyone fell silent. Oksa and Gus thought back to how kind and considerate Miss Heartbreak had been and then remembered the last shocking images of her. Nearby, settled comfortably in the wheelchair she’d resigned herself to using, Marie gazed at them sadly, all the while thinking about the damage McGraw had done in such a short space of time. She was a long way from recovering all her faculties, but she was feeling much better. She could now use her hands and arms, and the terrible dizzy spells that had been such a trial had almost disappeared. Only walking continued to cause her concern as well as a great deal of pain. When she put one foot in front of the other, it felt to Marie as if molten metal was flowing through her legs—and the excruciating pain stopped her from attempting the smallest steps. Even when supported in her attempts by one of her family or friends, the pain was unbearable—as was her bitter disappointment. The rest of the time, it was as if her legs weren’t hooked up to her brain. She couldn’t stretch them out and they remained unresponsive, even when the doctors pushed needles under her skin to gauge her sensitivity. Marie didn’t let it show, but she despaired of ever being able to walk again. And, more than anything, she was afraid that she wouldn’t be able to look after Oksa in the years to come. She felt physically sick at such an awful thought. She couldn’t help thinking that it was only her deep love for her husband and family that prevented her from abandoning ship. But the Runaways were right: nothing could halt their destiny now. And even if she wasn’t technically a Runaway, her fate was now linked to theirs. She was one of them and her daughter was their Last Hope.
Pavel was also having a really bad time of it: his pain was very different but its causes were no less distressing. He was, naturally, desperately worried about his wife—whom he loved passionately and whom he dreaded seeing confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life—and about his daughter, who bore an enormous burden of responsibility on her shoulders. His young Oksa-san… she was only thirteen! He knew her intelligence and vivacity made her undeniably resilient. She was coping heroically with the many devastating blows she’d been dealt recently—on the surface. Their after-effects had just been removed by the Nascentia, but there was no denying that they had all recently suffered a serious setback. And the future didn’t look danger-free either; far from it. They were dealing with a raving madman. Orthon-McGraw wouldn’t give up just like that. He’d already gone too far and Oksa was in the firing line. Who would have thought, five months ago, that their lives would be turned upside down by the insane hope of returning to Edefia? And what if this ended in disaster for them all?
Pavel was worried sick. Over the past few days, he’d been overcome by an insidious feeling of uselessness, prompted by his inability to solve anything. His judgement wasn’t clouded by his tortured nature and he knew he could do nothing to stop the implacable hand of fate from making his daughter fulfil her destiny. He was well aware that there was no point fighting it. There was no way of turning back the clock or stopping everything. It was impossible. The only thing he could do was protect Oksa. That was what fathers were supposed to do. But what a disappointment he must be—Abakum and Dragomira were much more effective than he was. They always came up with a solution, no matter what. Without them, Oksa would certainly be in McGraw’s clutches by now. He, Pavel Pollock, had been absolutely no help. At any time. He’d never been particularly interested in Edefia. For him, it was in the past—ancient family history. Okay, so he did possess a few gifts. He could Vertifly, make a Fireballistico or perform the odd Knock-Bong from time to time. But since he couldn’t use them openly, what good were they if they only endangered his family?
That was what he’d thought until today, but the time for such embittered thoughts was past. He had to take urgent action and defend Marie and Oksa—the two people he loved best and who needed him the most. That evening, alone in the kitchen of his restaurant, he was lost in thought and plagued by worries. And these worried thoughts made him explode with anger at the man he didn’t want to be: a weak man who shirked his responsibilities and who fled from his origins and his destiny. He was the son of Runaways, he had the blood of the Graciouses running through his veins, his family came from Edefia, and Oksa bore the Mark which would allow them to go back—not to mention the Ageless Ones’ prediction about saving the world. He had to stop acting as if none of this were real. That was over. Now he had to face facts! An icy shiver ran through the Insider slumbering within him. With his eyes half-closed, he assumed a fighting position, one leg bent at right angles in front of him. Then he leapt onto a table fixed to the floor and, seizing two long knives, crossed them in front of him. The blades scraped against each other with a sinister screech. Stretching his legs wide, Pavel performed a flying kick, landed on the floor and then leapt again, his body carried forward by the momentum of his legs. He was literally flying over the tables, sinks and worktops with the agility and rapidity of the martial-arts master that he was. Standing opposite the metal door of the cold room, he gazed at his reflection, then gave a long, hoarse yell of frustration and anger. Taking a run-up, he flung himself at the wall and, gaining a foothold on its tiled surface, began running around the kitchen, fuelled by the resentment he’d been bottling up for weeks. Finally, out of breath, he held out his arms and focused all his rage on the enormous copper stewpot which, a few seconds later, found itself thrown through the air and flattened like a pancake against the opposite wall. He had begun his battle against his greatest enemy—an invisible, yet extremely powerful enemy: himself.
70
THE MEMORY-SWIPE
THE NEXT DAY, THE ANXIOUS POLLOCKS AND BELLANGERS were sitting silently in the kitchen of the house in Bigtoe Square, eating a sombre lunch, when there was an unexpected ring at the doorbell. Pavel stood up and came back accompanied by the two policemen who’d questioned Oksa a few days earlier. She swallowed noisily and felt sweat trickling down her back. What were they doing here? Here in her house? She recalled the last question they’d asked her. “We’d like to know—are you related to Leomido Fortensky, the conductor?” She’d answered in the affirmative, of course, intrigued by the question, but more relieved than anything else to be done with this potentially dangerous interrogation. Thinking about it a bit later, she’d told herself that the policemen just might be well-informed music lovers—all the while knowing deep down that their question had to be linked to the murders of Lucas Williams and Peter Carter, what with police logic and all. But she’d been so exhausted in the next few days that she hadn’t given another thought to this theory—which was the worst-case scenario. And now look! The police were here. And their presence meant that they were sure her family was mixed up in those terrible events. It was obvious that the noose was tightening.
“We’re sorry to disturb you in the middle of lunch,” began the policemen, sitting down on a sofa, after being shown into the living room by Pavel. “But we have a few questions we’d like to ask you.”
“Allow me to introduce my mother, Dragomira Pollock, my wife, Marie, and my daughter, Oksa,” said Pavel, trying to sound laid-back, although his voice was a little shriller than usual.
“Hello, Oksa,” said one of the two men, very politely. “We met before at St Proximus College, a few days ago,” he explained to everyone there. “May I ask who those people are?” he added, glancing towards the open kitchen door.
“Our friends, Jeanne and Pierre Bellanger, and their son Gus,” replied Pavel.
“Bellanger? Did you say Bellanger?” asked the policeman, looking at his colleague. “Our visit also concerns them. Would you ask them to join our little chat.”
His mind in a turmoil, Pavel went
to fetch the Bellangers from the kitchen. Gus glanced tensely at Oksa before sitting down opposite her.
“What would you like to know, gentlemen?” asked Dragomira cordially.
“Do you know, either well or remotely, a man called Lucas Williams?”
They looked at each other as casually as possible and shook their heads.
“Lucas Williams? No, that name doesn’t ring any bells,” replied Dragomira, looking convincingly candid.
“Wasn’t he a maths teacher at St Proximus?” said Oksa, causing a ripple of surprise among her nearest and dearest who, fortunately, didn’t let it show. “A student in our class told us he’d been murdered.”
The policemen looked at her attentively.
“That’s right, Oksa. You’re very well informed. Does the name Peter Carter mean anything to you?”
“He was murdered too!” replied Oksa impetuously, to the policemen’s great surprise and her family’s utter confusion.
Gus glanced again at his friend and gave a deep sigh. “What’s got into her? She is incorrigible!” he thought. “There’s no reasoning with her.” And he lost no time picturing himself handcuffed and thrown in prison for the rest of his days, while the Runaways—specifically his parents and Oksa—would be kept in isolation in high-tech laboratories where they would be dissected by unscrupulous service personnel. “Well done, Oksa… we’re screwed!”
As for Oksa, she looked perfectly relaxed. Contrary to what everyone thought, she knew exactly what she was doing, as Dragomira soon realized.
“The cause of death was identical in both cases,” continued the girl. “Their lungs had been dissolved, it was in all the newspapers.”
Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope Page 41