No True Echo (5 page)

I had never thought the bus seats too small before but, with Scarlett sitting next to me, I had no idea what to do with my arms. The whole set up felt ridiculously awkward. As a last resort, I gripped my elbows to avoid any unnecessary contact.

‘Are you cold?' asked Scarlett.

‘No. I'm fine.'

‘Only, you look like you're cold.'

I placed my hands on my knees instead and the bus went lurching forward like a hiccupping camel, making it impossible to avoid banging into Scarlett. I had considered a number of conversation topics but decided to stick with the one that I knew she was interested in.

‘You know you asked all that stuff about the car accident?' I said.

‘Yes.'

‘It's funny, because that's what Cornish had forgotten.'

‘He thought Melody was alive?'

‘Yes, which was odd because we talked about it only the other day.'

‘Why didn't he give you a lift home tonight?'

‘I think he had a meeting. He doesn't always give me a lift.'

‘Where's his house?'

‘Down in Lower Marsh, in this funny little row of houses they call No Town.'

‘No Town?'

‘Yeah. Apparently someone had an idea of building a town there once but they only got as far as that row before they ran out of money. Or the ground was too soft. Or something like that. Maybe it's not true.'

I was babbling and, from the distracted look on Scarlett's face, I had lost her interest. I needed to get it back.

‘That was weird in class, wasn't it?' I said.

‘You tell me. You know him better than I do. Is he normally like that?'

‘He often goes off on one, but no, all that stuff about fate and inheriting the world was a bit odd. Why do you want to know where he lives?'

‘It's probably better if I don't answer that,' she replied.

There was a sudden jolt as Bill sped over a pothole in the road.

‘I don't get it. You're happy asking questions about my dead mother but when I ask you even basic things about you, you won't answer.' I had hoped this would sound jokey, but it came out more upset and annoyed.

‘Yes, that must seem unfair,' she agreed.

‘I'll tell you what,' I said, ‘what about if I guess why you're so secretive and you tell me if I get it right?'

The smallest of smiles spread across Scarlett's lips. ‘All right, but it has to be completely right.'

I thought for a moment, then said, ‘Are you a kind of alien secret agent who thinks that Mr Cornish has been possessed by an extraterrestrial life form and you want to know where he lives so you can zap him with an anti-matter gun that will send the alien back home?'

I loved the sound of Scarlett's laughter.

‘Have you got any more like that?' she said.

‘Loads. You're an undercover cop and you think Mr Cornish has been hypnotised to kill the Prime Minister?'

‘Why would someone hypnotise an English teacher to kill the Prime Minister?'

‘Because they know about the big conference he's going to which the Prime Minister will also be at.'

‘Is there such a thing?' she asked.

‘You tell me.'

More laughter. ‘These are good but not close enough for me to tell you anything. To be honest, Eddie, I'd be in enough trouble if anyone knew you thought there was anything to know.'

‘In trouble with who?'

‘The fact you're asking that means you know too much.'

‘But I don't know anything.'

‘Exactly.'

‘I've got it,' I said.

‘Is this going to be Angus's monster theory again?'

‘No. In this one, you're the bad guy who has taken over Cornish's mind and you're using him to execute your evil plan.'

‘To kill the Prime Minister?'

‘No, to blow up the school.'

‘Wow, I'm so evil.'

‘Is that one right, then?'

‘No.' She paused and I realised how close our lips were. I wondered what my breath was like. I kept my mouth shut in case.

‘What I'm supposed to do now is feed you some plausible lie,' she said quietly, ‘but I don't want to do that. I'd rather tell you the truth.'

‘Sounds good to me.'

‘The truth is I can't tell you anything.'

‘I'll take a plausible lie,' I said.

I happily bagged another of Scarlett's smiles. This one was my favourite so far because it included her eyes. ‘All right, then,' she said. ‘I'm going around tomorrow to ask him some questions about
Frankenstein
.'

‘Really?'

Scarlett sighed. ‘Eddie, the world is very complicated and you're very young.'

‘We're the same age,' I protested.

‘It's not worth getting interested in me. I'm not going to be here very long,' she said.

‘Maybe you'll like it here and stay,' I said hopefully.

‘It's not up to me.' Her final smile was the saddest so far and contained traces of pity and other things I didn't understand. The bus suddenly lurched to the right and Scarlett's face swung even closer to mine.

‘All right, Miss White. We're home. Good night,' yelled Bill.

‘See you around, Eddie Dane,' she said.

The unlocked front door, the strong smell of paint and the sound of scratchy jazz records meant Ruby was having an up day. Ruby's paintings were as messy and chaotic as the music that inspired her and it was rarely just the canvases that got splattered.

As I stepped into the front room, I saw flecks of red, blue, yellow and green across the wall, the carpet and the sofa, even reaching as far as the grandfather clock and the television. In the middle of all this stood Ruby.

‘What do you think?' she asked.

‘It's great,' I lied. ‘What is it?'

‘Regret,' she replied.

I had learned not to question this kind of thing. Instead I said, ‘Have you been to the shops?'

‘No, but I think there are couple of ready meals in the freezer.'

‘I thought we weren't eating ready meals any more. I thought they were symbolic of something.'

‘The soul-crushing instant gratification of the modern world,' said Ruby. ‘Yes, they are. But I've been working on this all day and haven't managed to make it out. It's just so hard to  … ' Apparently it was too hard to find the right word for what it was too hard to do. Ruby turned back to the canvas and I went into the kitchen. I noticed I had a smudge of green paint on my shirt. I took the shirt off and threw it into the washing machine.

‘Striptease, is it?' said Ruby, following me in.

I showed her the paint.

‘I'm sorry, love. Have you a clean one for tomorrow?'

‘It's Saturday tomorrow,' I replied, ‘and then half term.'

‘Is it? Is it? Any big plans?'

‘Angus has a tree-climbing project.'

‘Sounds fascinating.' Ruby opened the freezer and pulled out two boxes covered in ice. ‘What do you fancy? Tagliatelle or a roast meal? Actually, do you mind if I have the tagliatelle? I always think those roast meals taste a bit like the kind of thing you get given in an old folks' home, and I might be old but I'm not ready for that quite yet.'

‘Is it about Melody?' I asked.

‘The ready meal?'

‘The painting. The regret. Is it about her?'

‘Your mother is in there, of course.'

‘So what's the regret?'

‘It's complicated. It's not one thing. Your mother and I were very different people. I wish we had learned to accept our differences and worked harder on the things we had in common.'

‘What did you have in common?'

‘We had you in common.'

‘Is the painting finished?' I asked.

‘It's a picture of regret,' said Ruby. ‘It can't be finished.'

That night, I tried to get further through
Frankenstein
but, whether I was too distracted by Ruby's records or by the thought of Scarlett, I struggled to take in the words.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, the book was open on the pillow next to me. I picked it up and read the sentence at the top of the page.

I liked that expression,
A fervent longing
. My whole life, the only thing I had ever longed for was to have something to long for. There were no secrets I wanted to penetrate. I didn't have any obsessions. Angus had his trees, Ruby had painting and Cornish had all that stuff about books, politics and the environment. I envied them all their passions. I had never cared about anything until Scarlett got on that bus.

The house was freezing cold and the bathroom mirror steamed up in seconds when I turned on the shower. I drew a face like the one Angus had drawn on the bus window but the drips came down in a different part of the mouth and it looked more like an uneven rabbit than a vampire.

It was still raining when I headed out, so I put on my most waterproof coat.

I was supposed to be going to see Angus but since Cornish's house was on my way there was no harm in keeping an eye out for Scarlett. ‘
Hey, Scarlett
,'
I would say. ‘
What a coincidence. I was just cycling past. How are you?
'
Something like that. It was best not to rehearse it too much.

It was a steady downhill slope to Lower Marsh so I stopped peddling and freewheeled down. I kept my hand on the brake to keep my speed down. There were twelve houses in No Town and I had soon reached the end with no sign of Scarlett. I turned the bike in a figure of eight, looking around, then pedalled back past the houses, slower still. I considered cycling up to where she got on the bus to look for her house, but that felt too much like stalking her. This was more a case of cycling up and down a road, trying to catch a glimpse of her. Completely different.

After the third pass, I parked my bike in an alleyway between two of the houses and went around the back where there was a big patch of wasteland, with long grass and marshy ground. That was where I finally saw Scarlett. She was crouching behind a hedge around the back of Cornish's house. She was wearing her yellow coat with the hood pulled up. I walked over as casually as the swampy ground would allow.

‘Hey, Scarlett,' I said. ‘What a coincidence. I was just  … '

She silenced me with a look. ‘Eddie, you shouldn't be here. This isn't anything you can know about.'

‘What isn't?'

‘I can't tell you. Stay out of sight.'

I ducked down next to her. ‘What are we doing?' I whispered.

‘
We
aren't doing anything. I am watching Patrick Cornish's house.'

I peeked through the hedge at his back garden.

‘Why?'

‘Just so you know, the best you'll get as an answer to that question is a plausible lie,' she said.

‘How do you know he's in?' I asked.

‘The light is on and Patrick Cornish isn't the sort of person to waste electricity, is he?'

‘True. He's always going on about all that environmental stuff. Only the other day —'

Scarlett placed her finger against my lips to shut me up. She had cold hands but I didn't care. Her finger lingered there and I felt unsure about whether to move my face away or leave it there. Would it be weird to kiss her finger? Yes, I decided. It would be a bit weird. I looked at her, but she was staring through the hedge. Cornish had stepped into his back garden. In one hand he held a transparent bag with a red exercise book inside. He took three carefully measured steps into the garden, and dropped the bag.

Scarlett moved her finger away, but threw me a glance warning me not to speak. Cornish thrust his spade into the grass and began to dig a hole. When he stopped, he picked up the book in the bag, chucked it in, and quickly shovelled the soil back over.

Once he had patted it down, he took another step back in the direction of the house and dug a second hole. Having reached a similar depth, he dropped his spade and knelt down, only to pull out of this hole what looked like the same book in the same bag. Mr Cornish carried it back inside.

‘What was that? What happened?' I asked.

‘He buried a book, then dug it up,' replied Scarlett simply.

‘Why?'

‘Perhaps he wanted to grow a book tree.'

‘But  …  but it moved,' I said.

‘Yes,' agreed Scarlett.

‘How is that possible?'

‘It will make it easier if you don't ask questions that I'm not going to answer,' stated Scarlett.

‘How do I know if it's a question you won't answer?'

‘Perhaps avoid all of them just in case.'

‘Maybe Mr Cornish is some kind of magician,' I said, careful not to phrase it as a question.

‘Maybe,' replied Scarlett.

‘Is he?'

‘No, and that's still a question.'

‘So you understand what's going on but you won't tell me. Is that it?'

‘I understand some of what is going on, and I will tell you this: burying books is pretty old hat where I'm from and the fact he thought your mother was alive is interesting. But what I really need to know is what he wrote in that book.'

When the kitchen light went off, Scarlett stood up and hurried across the marsh. She didn't wait for me but nor was she surprised when I followed her.

This was far too interesting to give up.

Growing up in Wellcome Valley, you got used to inventing things to occupy your time, but Scarlett's project felt different to Angus's. She wasn't climbing trees to kill time. I could tell she had a job to do. We stood out of sight, watching Cornish drive away, then she took out a small notepad and pen from an inside pocket and scribbled something in it.

‘What are you writing?' I asked.

Scarlett didn't even bother responding this time. She flipped the book shut and returned it to her pocket.

‘I've got it,' I said. ‘You wrote down his registration plate.'

‘Why would I do that when the book is in the house?' she responded.

‘I give up, then.'

‘I wish you would. Look, in a minute I'm going to do something inexplicable, then I'm going to break the law.'

‘Cool.'

‘No, not cool, Eddie,' she said, her temper surfacing in her eyes and her nostrils flaring. ‘I'm running out of ways to tell you to go away.'

‘Admit it, I'm growing on you,' I said.

Her smile was short-lived. ‘I've got to get into that house to look at the book,' she said.

‘You're going to break into his house?'

‘I wasn't planning on breaking anything.'

‘You remember that talk on Thursday? We do have police here.'

‘How do you know I don't work for the police?'

‘Because you're too young.'

Scarlett bit her lip and looked down. ‘Eddie, do you know what the word protocol means?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Of course. Protocol. I know what it means. Protocol. Er, protocol.'

‘You don't know, do you?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘A protocol is like a rule. And there are protocols about what I can and can't tell you.'

‘Who made these rules?'

‘I can't tell you. That's one of the protocols.'

‘So, just to get this straight, you can't tell me who's told you not to tell me all the things you can't tell me? Is that right?'

‘Correct.'

‘How will you get into the house then? Will you open the door with a credit card or something?'

‘I don't know how to do that,' said Scarlett, ‘and you watch too much TV. You need a key to get into a house.' Scarlett checked the time on her watch. ‘Ah, here we go. Remember, no questions.'

That far down in the valley, the roar of the approaching motorbike echoed off the hills and made it sound as though it was all around, coming from every direction at once. When it appeared around the corner, I saw its rider dressed in black leather with the helmet visor down. He stopped directly in front of us and pulled something from his pocket, which he handed to Scarlett. I looked up at his face, but all I saw was my own reflection.

‘Thank you,' said Scarlett.

The biker didn't speak but I felt as though he was looking at me.

‘I've got it under control,' said Scarlett firmly. ‘You can go now.'

The motorcyclist nodded, twisted his wrist and accelerated away. He was gone as suddenly and noisily as he had arrived and soon the sound of the engine blended into the hiss of the constant rainfall. When Scarlett held up the object that had been dropped into her hand, I saw that it was a key. She winked at me and made her way down the path.

‘Is that a magic notepad, then? Anything you write down gets delivered?'

‘If it helps you to think that, yes.'

‘So, if you wrote down
pizza,
that guy would come back with a pizza.'

‘It would be easier to order a pizza from the pizza place but yes, in theory. Now, try to act naturally.'

‘What could be more natural than a mysterious man on a motorbike delivering a key to someone's house, then us using it go inside?' I followed her down the path and inside Mr Cornish's house.

‘I always wondered how my life of crime would start,' I said.

‘You're talking a lot because you're nervous,' said Scarlett. ‘It's perfectly normal but try not to.'

‘Why? Are you worried someone might hear?' I whispered.

‘No. It's just a bit annoying,' she replied.

‘So what now? Should we split up and search?'

‘No need. The book's on the coffee table. He clearly doesn't expect anyone to be following him. That should make this easier.'

She picked up the red notebook. I edged nearer to look. Inside, Mr Cornish had written in his usual scrawl:

Below this, another pen had written:

‘Do you know what that means?' I asked.

‘Yes. It means I have to go.'

‘Go where?'

‘To the museum.'

‘What museum?' I asked. ‘There's no museum around here.'

‘Not yet, there isn't.'