by R. H. Dixon
In the red and white room Thurston was where they’d left him. The bed hadn’t eaten him. But there was a sour smell that Callie hadn’t noticed before. Too much blood and fevered sweat.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Thurston asked.
Callie sat on the bed next to him, close enough to feel his heat. She felt a strong urge to touch his face, to test his fever with the back of her fingers, but refrained. ‘In the tower.’
His blue eyes flashed with vexation and he pushed himself up. The red duvet fell to his waist, but the t-shirt serving as a bandage clung to his chest, tarry with blood. ‘You said you’d let me know.’
‘Yeah well, we ran into a spot of bother,’ Callie said. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t hear. But that’s by the by, it really doesn’t matter.’ And she meant it. The ravens’ attack was far less important than the journal; the book in her hands that felt so warm with the promise of knowledge it might burst into flames.
Noticing it, Thurston said, ‘What’s that?’
‘We found it in the tower. Inside a chest.’ Callie looked down at his chest and the corner of her mouth twitched up, but her eyes lacked any humour. ‘Ironic, huh?’
‘Hilarious.’
‘Hmmm.’ Callie showed him the book’s cover and, in case he hadn’t figured it out, said, ‘It’s a diary.’
‘Whose?’
‘Pollyanna’s cousin’s.’
‘Sarah Jane Miller?’ Thurston pushed himself further up so his back was resting against the wall, overt curiosity seeming to counteract his pain and his eyes losing their glazed look of malaise. ‘Have you read any of it?’ he wanted to know.
‘Not yet.’ Callie opened the cover and flipped to the first page of writing. ‘But I’m dying to. Shall we?’
Smiler was still in the doorway, his intrigue offset by the apprehension in his eyes. He folded his arms over his chest and nodded.
26
Sunday 4th October 2009
Dear Dorian,
I’ve decided to write down all of my thoughts and feelings. Everything has changed and you’re the only one I can trust. From now on I’ll tell you EVERYTHING.
First, let’s see though. I need to get this right in my head, so I know who I’m talking to. I expect you have dark hair, almost black but not quite, and very, very pale skin. I like that combination a lot. It’s very ethreal ethereal. So I think that’s how you must look. And your eyes must be blue, because that’s my favourite colour for eyes to be. I imagine you look like an angel, but without wings. Because wings are too fussy. And angel wings are white. Like swans’ wings. And I don’t like swans. At all.
I suppose you could have black wings and that would be ok. But I don’t think you have any at all, do you? Of course not. That would be silly. And besides, your feathers would get everywhere if you did. I could always stuff my pillows with bits of you and make writing quills. But no, you definitely, definitely don’t have wings.
Maybe you have horns though? Just little ones beneath your hair, so no one can see.
Maybe.
I’ll think about that some more and then you can tell me for sure later whether you do or not. But for now, now that that’s us sort of acquainted, I need to tell you something. Something really big. Something massively exciting. Something truly AWFUL…
I’m in love!
At least that’s what I think it is. It’s horrible and awesome all at the same time. My skin feels tingly and lately my name sounds different whenever anybody says it. Like I’m somebody new and I’m discovering myself for the first time ever. The old Sarah Jane Miller is nothing more than a discarded chrysalis shell blown to the gutter and the new Sarah Jane Miller is a cinnabar moth, ready for the darkness she’s bound to dwell in because of this love.
Ah Dorian don’t get me wrong, it’s not all bad living and breathing varying shades of darkness. In fact, it’s like I want to live forever feeling this way, like I’m dancing in the sky with moon halos burning pearlescent colour into my eyes. Yet in the same breath I also don’t want to live a moment longer. It’s too painful. I ache. I yearn. And I’ve run out of space in my head for much else to fit in except Dean.
Because that is his name. Dean.
Uncle Dean.
Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean.
I feel sick when I think about him. Not because I don’t want to be in love or because I’m scared, but because I know he can’t be mine. He’s too old and I’m too young. And besides, I think he’s in love with my mother.
It’s like some Shakespearian tragedy, isn’t it Dorian? And that’s maybe what I’m in love with. I love tragedy.
I don’t know when I’ll see him again. It all depends on Roxanne, I suppose, and whether she’ll take me along with her. Next time she might leave me with Dad!
But if I threaten to spill the beans, she’ll have to take me. Won’t she?
She WILL NOT keep me away from him!!!
I’ve already decided not to tell anyone at school about Uncle Dean, not even Lucas Adams who sits next to me in English Lit. On Friday he told me he’d snogged some girl from the fifth year behind the science block, like I should be impressed. Well so what?! I saw Uncle Dean with no clothes on!!! But no one else deserves to know that. He’s MY secret. And as long as he’s in my head and nobody else can see him then he’ll stay there and there’ll always be a part of him that won’t be able to get out. So that means I own a tiny piece of him and I won’t ever give it back. Not even if he asked very nicely.
I’m going to google Whispering Woods today to see if I can find out where Uncle Dean’s cabin is. Then I’m going to pack my bags and run away. I expect to hitch rides for most of the way, because it was an epicly epically long journey. I bet long distance lorry drivers will be glad of the company, but I won’t mind walking either. No matter how long it takes.
Then when I get there I’m going to climb up the side of the cabin and into the tower. And that’s where I’m going to live. Forever. And I’m going to take you with me, Dorian. I can’t wait.
Monday 5th October 2009
Demonic Dorian,
I’ve decided I’d like it if you do have horns. But whether you do or not, today was shit.
Jade Tucker and Kyra Richmond tripped me up in the assembly hall this morning. Everyone saw. Including Kieran Stock. He laughed his head off, although I didn’t really care as much as I once would have – he’s nothing but a stupid little boy! In fact, everyone at school is stupid. Mostly Jade Tucker and Kyra Richmond though. I hate them. And they’ll be sorry they tripped me.
For the rest of the day I imagined I had the ravens from Uncle Dean’s ash tree with me. They surrounded me like a big force field of building black thunderhead and nobody did anything else to me, so I think they’ll protect me from now on. I’m sure Uncle Dean won’t mind that I’ve borrowed them. I’ll take them back when I go to his cabin.
Speaking of which, I’ve been planning on what to take with me. So far my list is as follows:
Money from money box (and whatever I can pilfer from Roxanne’s purse)
Snacks from kitchen cupboard (mainly chocolate to keep my energy levels up)
Dad’s big flask (which I intend to fill with coffee to keep me awake)
Plasters (in case I get blisters on my heels from all the walking)
Toothbrush
Change of underwear
Cigarettes from Dad’s secret stash
That’s all I’ve thought of for now. Oh and you, of course.
xxx
Shitting hell, Dorian, there’s been a delay with my plan. After tea I googled Whispering Woods but couldn’t find anything that matched where Uncle Dean’s cabin might be. Nothing at all! I wonder if it’s a secret place? Like maybe nobody talks about it or refers to it by its proper name since those murders happened. A bit like High Hopes, the house in Amityville. It was renamed and painted a different colour so that people who are obsessed with murders and
ghosts and other peoples’ tragedies wouldn’t keep nosing about. Maybe Whispering Woods is now known as something completely different and only its truest residents, like Uncle Dean, know the truth.
So there’s nothing more I can do for the moment. I’ll just have to wait and ask Uncle Dean next time I see him. I don’t want to quiz Roxanne about where the cabin is because she might twig on that I’m planning to run away and be angry that I thought of it first. She might set off before me, in her car, and beat me to it.
I hate her.
And I’m annoyed with myself for not taking notice of road signs along the way. I’m so stupid!!!
Wednesday 7th October 2009
‘Dorable Dorian,
Last night Roxanne asked if I’d like a cream cake for after school today. She never does this usually, so I know she’s trying to keep me sweet. Ha! Trying to make sure I don’t grass her up to Dad. I told her I’d like a strawberry tart, even though sugar doughnuts and iced buns are way better and I hate strawberries. Strawberry tarts are more expensive though and she has to realise that my silence comes at a price. She gave me a funny look, like she knew. Good!
After a raven-filled day at school followed by a plateful of Roxanne’s beef stew, I licked all the cream off my strawberry tart and then left the rest untouched. Roxanne looked really annoyed, but she didn’t say or do anything about it.
I’m totally enpow empowered!
I excused myself from the table (Dad, the hapless idiot, is completely ignorant to what’s going on around him) and stole Roxanne’s phone from the sideboard. I wanted to find Uncle Dean’s number so I could call him, but by the time I’d figured the stupid passcode to unlock the phone I heard Roxanne coming upstairs.
She was coming to see me so I summoned Uncle Dean’s ravens to stop her from entering, but they didn’t seem to work on her. She came straight into my room without knocking!!
I thought she was going to tell me off for wasting the strawberry tart, but she didn’t. I think it’s eating her up, not knowing if I’ll tell Dad about Uncle Dean. She was being nice to me again, which is very unlike her. She asked how school is and then started asking about Pollyanna. Like how I’m coping with things. I told her I didn’t want to talk about Pollyanna but she tried to push the issue. So I went in a sulk and wouldn’t look away from the wall until she left.
I don’t want to talk about Pollyanna ever again though, Dorian. She makes me angry. Too angry.
I know I have a darkness inside of me and I know some of it escaped a little bit at the cabin. But sometimes I can’t control it. I can feel it crawling around inside my head all of the time. It’s a spider and it tickles behind my eyes. Pollyanna used to annoy me so much that I’d want to scratch my eyes out.
Roxanne says I’m too angry for my own good. Sometimes she looks at me like she’s scared of me. Like I’m a monster. She gives me this certain look sometimes too, where her eyes zone out and I don’t know whether she might get angry or cry, and I get the feeling she’s thinking she’d be better off if I didn’t exist. I think if she could go back in time she wouldn’t have had me. Then she wouldn’t be with Dad, because neither of them would be scared about which one would have to keep me.
They made me see a doctor earlier this year, I think they wanted me to be taken away from them so that I was no longer their responsibility. But the doctor said there was nothing wrong with me. I didn’t let the spider out of its box for a long while then. I knew we were playing a game, and I’ve always been better at playing games than anyone.
Besides, EVERYONE has a spider inside of them. Sometimes it’s so small like a money spider and it can’t be felt most of the time. Mine is a black widow. Her name is Lucy.
I think Uncle Dean must have a tarantula or a Brazilian wandering spider living inside of him. I’m sure he’s done many things that he knows he shouldn’t have, but isn’t sorry for all the same. And I’m not sorry for what I’ve done either. For hacking into Dad’s Facebook account and ‘friending’ lots of dirty women and putting Roxanne’s diamond bracelet down the drain outside and feeding Gran’s dog chocolate. I’m not even sorry for tampering with the trampoline that broke Pollyanna’s back. I was only sorry that it wasn’t her neck. But that doesn’t matter at all anymore because now she’s DEAD.
Ha ha ha!
27
‘Pollyanna is dead?’ Callie looked up to gauge whether anyone else looked as disturbed as she felt.
Thurston shifted his weight and licked his lips with a cool-eyed grimace. ‘The girl isn’t a full shilling, is she? She didn’t mean Pollyanna’s dead in a literal sense. Obviously.’
‘Didn’t she?’ Callie wondered at that.
‘Seriously?’ Thurston’s eyebrows peaked and he huffed with such a considerable amount of impatience it lent his face some colour. ‘After everything you’ve read you actually question that last sentence like it’s got some grounds for truth? Like everything she said before was actually plausible.’ He smiled unkindly. ‘I suppose you think there might be a spider living inside you? And that Sarah Jane Miller really did employ ravens to protect her from schoolyard bullies?’
‘Fuck off, Thurston.’ Callie angled her body away from him. ‘Of course I don’t.’
‘So why would you consider that Pollyanna is dead?’ he said, with his palms upturned. His hands were rust-red, the dried blood more burgundy in the creases of his wrists. ‘You know she isn’t. She’s downstairs for God’s sake.’
Needing to inject some harsh reality into the situation by reminding them all that this was very much happening and that Whispering Woods was still outside, Smiler strode boldly into the red and white room from his post by the door and tore the thick curtains open. A gauzy glow from heavily filtered daylight seeped in and painted the bedding cautionary-red. Somehow the room looked infinitely worse during the day. Fog had closed in further still, making it look as though nothing existed beyond the first row of trees. But of course this wasn’t true. Whispering Woods was always there, even when you weren’t looking. And sooner or later they would need to go outside and confront it, Smiler knew, because inside the cabin the level of paranoia was intensifying. They were becoming overly tetchy as their desperation stretched on. Theirs was a collective jumble of frayed nerves, like damaged threads that would never knit together again, not neatly in any case, because it felt like too much damage had been imposed already.
‘Don’t you guys see what’s wrong?’ Smiler said, turning to face Callie and Thurston. The fog was a phantasmal miasma at his back, which threatened to roll closer and seep through the glass to smother him and steal him away into the woods. Callie and Thurston looked at each other, both equally vague about what the answer to Smiler’s question might be because by their reckoning there was an awful lot that was wrong. When they hazarded no guesses, Smiler told them, ‘The diary was written in 2009. Seven years ago.’
No less clueless, Callie shrugged. ‘So?’
‘So Pollyanna can’t have been here for seven years.’
‘Who says she has? Maybe she came back with Sarah Jane more recently.’
‘That would contradict Pollyanna’s story. She said she came here the day they met Uncle Dean and never left again.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Callie lifted her legs onto the bed, bending them so her feet rested snugly against her backside. At the same time, she swivelled her body round to face Smiler. Behind him a row of spiky-limbed wraith-like giants reached up to the sky, perhaps in an effort to pull it down on top of their heads with skeletal fingers that were made of bark and knots and knuckles. ‘That you think Pollyanna was left here in 2009 and that nobody ever bothered to come back for her?’
‘I don’t know.’ Smiler seemed to be shrinking within the ghostly aura that looked as though it emanated from his upper body but was definitely outside. Callie wished he would come away from the window.
‘I’m sure Roxanne Miller would have noticed she’d forgotten to take her niec
e home,’ she said, casting her eyes at Thurston to see if he shared her scepticism.
‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ Smiler complained, his voice becoming more forceful. ‘Pollyanna is fourteen. That would mean seven years ago when this diary was written she was only seven.’
‘Well, I’m pleased you worked that out for us,’ Callie said with a dryness intended to ground his skittishness.
But Smiler simply clutched his head with both hands, as if the puzzle he’d presented was too much for his skull to contain and he hadn’t heard her. ‘Pollyanna and Sarah Jane are the same age. Sarah Jane Miller was most definitely not seven when she wrote those diary entries.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Callie said. ‘That you think Pollyanna was fourteen seven years ago, which makes her what? Dead?’