It’s another clear, starry night, ideal for camping. The night air is alive with the sounds of owls and crickets, along with the crackle of the campfire and the swishing of the wind teasing the tall grass.
“Take it,” Jamal says, thrusting the guitar in my direction. “Play.”
I grimace. “But I suck.”
“You know that’s not true. My cousin Adam has been playing for three years, and you’re already better than he is. Admittedly, that’s not difficult, but still…”
I grin, righting the guitar on my lap. “You’re mean.”
“Only when it’s deserved.”
I pick out a couple of fingerpicking pieces he taught me last year. I’m a little out of practise, but I don’t sound too bad.
When I was growing up, I always wanted to learn the guitar, but my mother made me take violin lessons instead. I was pretty bad at it, but I suppose that was mainly down to my lack of motivation. Mum seemed to think that if I took guitar lessons I’d end up in some kind of drug-fuelled metal band. God knows where she got that idea from. Anyway, I eventually got out of violin lessons by practising in the study next to my parents’ room. Mum soon relented.
“Hey, what’s that?” Jamal says.
“What?” I have no idea what he’s on about.
“What you were just playing.”
“I wasn’t playing anything in particular, just random chords.”
“They were nice chords. Play them again, and fingerpick them like you were doing just now.”
Reluctantly, I oblige.
“I think you just wrote a song,” Jamal says.
I grin. “No I did not. It doesn’t even have any words.”
“How do you think songs start out? They don’t just appear fully formed in a flash of inspiration. Not often, anyway.”
“You’ll have to write the lyrics,” I say, poking my tongue out at him. “I can’t do it.”
“Which of us is the English student again?”
“I read things and write essays on them. It’s not the same as creative writing.”
“Stop making excuses. Hey, the lyrics could be about a thief who returns his loot, one bit at a time.”
I laugh. “That’s not a bad idea, actually. It could be a metaphor for something.”
I give him back his guitar and glance around the circle. Mike attempts to put an arm around Annemarie – she bats it away. Josh and Mark (I’m still not sure which is which) are tossing around drunken banter, Clemency forgotten for the moment. I’m glad she at least made an effort to socialise, though. I rest my chin on my knees.
Clemency sits almost directly across from me. She stares intensely into the heart of the campfire with a strange look on her face. Something tells me she’s doing more than just watching the flames. Her eyes keep flickering from side to side as if she’s scrutinising something that moves within them. She’s a funny one, that girl.
The flames are captivating, I must admit. I find myself staring into their depths, watching the colours shift and change. I wonder what Clemency sees there – people perhaps, or places? Or maybe she’s listening out for stories.
Something flutters amongst the tongues of fire. I blink, startled. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw a fiery hummingbird dart over the burning logs. I look again, but it’s gone.
Clemency sees my expression and smiles knowingly. You have the right kind of mind for it, she once told me. Is that what she’s thinking now? Who knows? For a while, I almost fell for her pretence of normality, but now the illusion is shattered.
*
Tonight, I don’t have to wonder what the rustling is. I lie still for a few minutes, and then, on the spur of the moment, I get to my feet and slip out of the tent.
I expect her to be long gone, but a human shape sits in the centre of the camp, barely-discernible by the glowing embers of the campfire.
Quietly, I step across the grass and sit beside her. She smiles a ghostly smile, her face deathly pale in the starlight.
“What are you doing?” I ask. My voice comes out in a whisper. “Did you come out here last night, too?”
“Yes,” she says, ignoring my first question.
“For how long?”
“Until sunrise.”
I stare at her. “Why? You need to sleep!”
“I have insomnia,” she says. “I couldn’t have slept if I’d wanted to.”
“Oh.” I pause. “But…why would you come out here? It’s freezing.” I shiver, as if on cue.
“I don’t feel the cold,” she says. I notice that her bare arms are entirely free of goosebumps, whilst I’m shivering violently in spite of the coat I slipped on over the t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms I sleep in.
“Go back to the tent,” Clemency says.
“Why? If you want to be alone, all you have to do is say…”
“It’s not that. You shouldn’t be out here. It’s…”
“Dangerous?” I suggest, half-laughing at the idea that a field in Somerset could pose us any kind of threat.
“Something like that,” she says. Her expression tells me that she isn’t joking.
Whatever it is, I’m not scared. But I get the feeling she isn’t going to budge.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I can look after myself,” she says assertively. “Of course, I could look after you too, but I’d rather not have to. So if you don’t mind…”
“Okay, okay,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’m going. Don’t freeze. And don’t let the monsters get you.”
“They’ll have to catch me first,” she says.
I glance back at her silhouette as I lift the tent flap. She’s clearly doing more than whiling away the hours until dawn.
She almost looks as if she’s keeping watch.
*
Jamal puts down a cup of tea on the table in front of me. “There you are, you lazy sod.”
I frown. “You were making one anyway. Besides, I make you tea all the time.”
“But you suck at making tea,” he points out. “It always tastes like dishwater, or one of those plant tea things Clemency’s always drinking. Speaking of which, she was really freaky over the weekend – in the nicest way possible, of course.”
“I know,” I say. “The frustrating thing is, she probably knows why all this weird stuff has been happening lately – you know, the stolen things and the ribbon and everything – but she refuses to explain any of it. It’s infuriating.”
Jamal sips his tea. “Did you ever consider,” he muses, “that she may be responsible for it all? It’s terribly coincidental that she turned up straight after we were burgled. I wouldn’t put it past her to mess with our heads like that.” His tone is playful, but a part of me worries that there may be a grain of truth in his words.
“It has crossed my mind,” I concede. “But to be honest, I don’t think it’s her style. She’d do it so sneakily we wouldn’t suspect a thing.”
“Hm,” he says thoughtfully. “You’re probably right.”
I’m disturbed by the idea that we’re being manipulated by Clemency. It preys on my mind more than I like to admit.
When I walk into the library the next day, she ambushes me.
“You’re wrong,” she says.
“What?”
“You think I know everything. You think I’m keeping things from you. That’s not true. I don’t really know any more than you do. I just happen to be more aware of…certain circumstances. And I certainly did not steal anything from your flat.”
There are advantages and disadvantages to having a psychic friend. This is one of the disadvantages. I’d forgotten that she instantly picks up on anything that’s bothering me.
“When you say ‘certain circumstances’,” I say, “what exactly do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?” she says, arching her eyebrows.
I start to feel a bit silly. “How should I know? I wouldn’t be asking if I did.”
“You have a certain word i
n mind,” she says.
Since she already knows what I’m thinking, I might as well say it.
“The paranormal,” I say. “There. Happy now?”
“Not really,” she says. “I don’t like that expression. Words like ‘paranormal’ and ‘supernatural’ are very misleading, you know. They suggest that certain events are outside the norm, or unnatural, which isn’t true at all.”
“Well, they’re not the kind of things you hear about every day,” I say.
“That’s because people block them out, pretend they aren’t real. They aren’t abnormal, just ignored.”
Maybe I’m too gullible, but when she puts it like that, I quickly come around to her point of view. It kind of makes sense. Besides, I’ve experienced these things first-hand, and I’m not about to doubt the evidence of my own senses.
Chapter Eight
When I empty the kitchen bin on Tuesday morning, I find a discarded cigarette packet inside. That’s not unusual, but the cigarettes spilling out of it are a different matter.
I turn to Annemarie, who’s fiddling with her newly-acquired laptop at the table.
“Annemarie, why are Jamal’s cigarettes in the bin?”
She frowns, distracted. “How should I know? Maybe he decided lung cancer didn’t sound like much fun.”
“Thanks a bunch, Little Miss Sunshine,” says Jamal, strolling into the kitchen.
“Well, it’s true,” Annemarie shrugs, getting to her feet and tucking her laptop under her arm. “You probably will get cancer if you carry on that way. Just don’t expect us to come to your funeral.”
She stalks out of the kitchen. Jamal winces.
“What got into her?”
I shrug. “PMS?”
He screws up his face. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
“What are your cigarettes doing in the bin?” I ask.
“Not much, I shouldn’t think.”
I punch his arm. “You know what I mean.”
“Well,” he says. “A certain person doesn’t like that I smoke, so I thought maybe she’d appreciate it if I quit.”
I stare at him. “Are you serious?”
“As serious as I ever am,” he says with a rueful smile.
“Oh,” I say. I’m stunned. He’s quitting for me? That’s so…I don’t even know.
“Anyway,” Jamal says casually. He collapses into a chair, resting his elbows on the table. “Before Annemarie had a hissy fit and stormed out, I was going to propose a night out, but it looks like she might not be interested.”
“She’ll come around,” I say. “But seriously, Jamal? It’s Tuesday.”
“But we,” he says loftily, “are anarchists. We’re fighting against convention.”
“There’s a good reason why it’s not convention to go out on a Tuesday night.”
“Oh, come on…”
“Maybe.”
“That means yes.”
“No, it means maybe.”
“We’re not going clubbing or anything. There’s this little indie place Pete took me to...you’ll like it, I know you will. I just want to get out for a bit. We don’t even have to drink if you’re worried about being incapacitated tomorrow morning.”
I laugh. He’s won me over. “Fine, I’ll come. There’s an essay I need to finish, but if I get it done this afternoon then I’ll be free tonight.”
“I knew you meant yes.”
“Shut up.”
*
Despite her bad mood and her contempt for indie music, Annemarie deigns to accompany us after all. It’s nice to go out as a group, but at the same time, I almost want to be alone with Jamal. When did that happen?
The music’s good, if not amazing. A few people are dancing, but I’m far too sober to join in, although Annemarie keeps looking longingly over at them. It’s okay for her – she’s quite a good dancer. I’m pretty bad, as is Jamal. We’ve only ever danced on a few nights out, when we – and everyone else – were so inebriated it didn’t matter.
For a long time, we do nothing more than chat and drink in the music. It’s nice to have a quiet evening out, without the interruption of dancing ribbons or disappearing clocks. Speaking of which, my clock is still missing; it doesn’t look as if I’ll be getting it back anytime soon. I’ve been using the alarm on my phone, and as a technophobe, I don’t really trust it.
A couple of hours in, Annemarie begins to get drowsy. She’s one of those people who needs at least eight hours of sleep to function.
“I have a lecture tomorrow morning,” she grumbles, rubbing her eyes.
“Then go home,” Jamal says. “We’re not making you stay.”
“I think I will,” she says, yawning. “See you guys later.”
She picks up her handbag and makes her way to the door. We watch her perfectly co-ordinated dress and shoes move through the crowd.
“Now maybe we can have some fun,” Jamal says through gritted teeth.
“What do you mean? She wasn’t that bad.”
“Are you kidding me? ‘Oh, I’m so tired.’ ‘I have a lecture tomorrow, why did you make me go out?’ ‘I didn’t realise we’d be staying this late’.” He imitates Annemarie’s disgruntled tone perfectly. I have to laugh.
“You may have a point,” I concede.
“Would it be really bad if I had a beer?” Jamal asks.
“I’m sure one wouldn’t hurt,” I say. “Even if it is Tuesday.”
“You’ve got to have one too. It’s no fun drinking on my own.”
“I don’t think I should...”
“Oh, come on.”
I sigh. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“That means yes,” he says, stalking off towards the bar. I wish he wouldn’t keep saying that.
It’s a mistake to let him buy me a drink. Predictably, one beer turns into two, and two turn into three, until I don’t even know what I’ve drunk anymore. All of a sudden, the band are the best thing I’ve ever heard, and Jamal’s crappy jokes are all hilarious.
“Hey,” he says, gesturing towards the patch of laminate flooring that masquerades as a dance floor. “Dance with me.”
I giggle manically. “I can’t dance, silly.”
“Dance with me,” he repeats, dragging me across the room by my sleeve. He grabs me by the hands and twirls me around like some kind of deranged ballet dancer. I kick off my shoes and slide around on the slippery floor. At one point, I nearly fall over. Jamal catches me just in time, before almost falling in my wake. I laugh raucously at his plight.
“I have to pee,” says Jamal.
“Me too.”
We stagger towards the toilets. I see my reflection in the mirror; my eyes look bright and slightly insane. For some reason, this really amuses me.
Jamal is already out when I totter back into the corridor. He grabs my arm to steady me, which works fine until we re-enter the bar, whereupon I somehow trip over a barstool. We start to laugh. People are beginning to stare, so I try to right the stool, but instead fall over.
“That’s it,” yells the guy behind the bar. “Out.”
“Hey,” I protest. “That’s not fair.”
“Come on, Eddie,” Jamal says, taking my hand. “We know where we’re not wanted.”
Together, we lurch out onto the pavement. It’s freezing, but mercifully, the temperature has something of a sobering effect.
“We just got kicked out,” I say incredulously.
“I told you we were anarchists,” Jamal sniggers.
“What now?”
“There’s a bench over there. Let’s go sit down.”
Precariously, we cross the road – luckily, there are no cars around. We collapse onto the bench.
“That tree is really pretty,” Jamal says, nodding at one of those scrawny, caged pavement-trees.
There’s nothing special about that particular tree, but with starlight filtering through the leaves, sketching out shadows on the pavement, it’s transformed into something else, something othe
r. We regard it for a moment, almost transfixed.
“It’s pretty,” Jamal repeats, “but not as pretty as you.”
Before I know it, his lips are on mine, warm in the icy night air. By the time it occurs to me to protest, it’s already too late. My arms go around his neck, and his around my waist. I’m not quite sure how either of those things happens.
Suddenly that bench is a clifftop, or a mountain summit, or the edge of a ravine – dangerous and thrilling and sublime.
Then we break apart, and slowly but surely, the magic fades away. Neither of us quite knows what to say.
That doesn’t matter, though. Nothing matters, except for this evening and this feeling and this moment.
That’s when I realise that this is what it’s all about. Lectures and essays and dissertations are all very well, but this is what it means to be young.
Jamal laughs.
“What?” I say.
“I was just thinking,” he says, “that it would’ve been funny if Clemency had popped up just then. She always seems to turn up at the most inconvenient times.”
I picture Clemency appearing from behind the caged tree, and giggle.
“That’s mean,” I say.
“But true.”
He grabs my hand. Swaying slightly, we start walking home.
*
I slump onto my bed, filled with quiet contentment. I’m still fully dressed, except for my shoes, which I shrug off. They clatter to the floor; the sound is uncomfortably loud. I can sleep now, I think with relief.
My bedside table vibrates, and I groan. How silly of me to think I’d be allowed to sleep this off in peace.
I retrieve my brick-phone, almost knocking it to the floor in the process. 1 new message, the display informs me. I open it – it’s from Clemency. For some reason, that fills me with dread.
Things are changing, the message reads. We need to find out what’s going on. Meet me in the library tomorrow at four o’clock.
Unsurprisingly, Clemency doesn’t do text speak.
I sigh heavily, feeling drained. My phone slips from between my fingertips, joining my shoes on the floor. The cover comes off and the battery flies out, landing under the bed. I really can’t be bothered to retrieve it – it can stay there. I just hope the screen hasn’t cracked.
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