Shadow Breakers (8 page)

“Surprised?” says Miss Bellini as she hides the ball under a cup again.

I nod instinctively, then straightaway I wonder if I should be surprised at all. After everything that's happened, I should almost have expected it.

“Well, it's quite natural in a girl of your age and ability.
Over there!
” snaps Miss Bellini suddenly, pointing — and I look, startled, out of the glass wall of the Pod. I can't see anything unusual. “Now tell me,” she says, gesturing to the table. “Tell me which one. Tell me now!”

“Ummm . . .” I know I've lost the sense. I point to the one on the right anyway.

Miss Bellini sighs and lifts it up. It's empty.

“Always be alert to distractions,” she says, lifting the middle hemisphere. It's also empty. And now she lifts the one on the left — to show that there is no ball under there either.

I gawk.

“Expect the unexpected,” says Miss Bellini with a smile.

“It can't have just gone. Where did it go?”

“You may well ask.” Miss Bellini smiles, and taps her nose. “Come back when you have an answer, Miranda. A
scientific
answer, if you please.”

I climb back down the ladder. When I reach the bottom I look up to the Pod. Miss Bellini is standing at the window. She has her hands on the glass and her head down, as if she is deep in thought. Either that, or terribly sad about something.

I still can't sleep. But at least it means I'm not dreaming. It's really warm for the time of year and I'm lying there with just a sheet on, turning things over in my mind.

Miss Bellini has told me to expect the unexpected. That's usually one of those things adults say when they're not really sure themselves what they mean. But Miss Bellini means it, and she knows what she means, too.

I can hear Truffle snuffling and gurgling in his room down the landing. He's going to wake up any minute now, I know it. When I went to bed there was still a light under Mum's office door. I know not to disturb her when she's working late.

Who am I? Where am I going? Before all this, I'd have thought: Is this it, then? Do I just have to plod on through school, exams, university? Get a boyfriend, get married, get a job, get a house, go to work until I
die
?

But now there's something new.

Something exciting. Something different.

But I'm still lying here, afraid to sleep again. Afraid that the dream and the Shape may come again . . .

Truffle's snuffles have turned to wails. I can hear someone whistling in the street outside. A drunk coming back from the pub, I expect. I think I vaguely know the tune, but I can't place it.

Truffle has started to do that desperate hiccuppy crying now. I wonder what does
his
head in? I feel pretty envious of him. I mean, what a life. Eat, poo, sleep. I've seen pictures and videos of me as a baby, and I can't believe I used to be like that, too.

But I like to watch the videos, because my dad is on them.

Some days, I almost forget what his voice used to sound like, even though I remember the words he spoke.
Hey, Panda. Give us a hug.
How warm his eyes were. How he —

Hang on. That whistler outside in the street.

My entire body goes prickly and rigid as the random notes begin to form a tune.

Ring. Around. The Rosie.

It's colder now. I sit up, pull the covers toward me in a sudden, protective movement, as if I have sensed it, felt it before I actually see it.

Like I knew about the truck on the Esplanade.

A Pocket. Full. Of Posies.

And then I see it.

Just a dark flash, reflected in the mirror of my wardrobe. A long, shimmering stripe of darkness, a hint of a face. The whistling is louder. It's not outside.

It's in my head.

It's in my room.

The Shape is in here with me.

For a moment, I'm unable to move, weak and shaking. The room swims in front of me and turns dark. There is a swirl of sounds and images around and inside my head: screeching seagulls, sea fog, clanging bells, fire crackling, forests burning, the swishing of an endless bleak sea. The drumming of horses' hooves. The ravaged face of the girl.

I feel a chill, as if the sea fog has reached into the house and taken hold of me, stealing into my nose and mouth. I try to open my mouth and scream, but I can't.

I scrabble about for something that's real. My bedside table, my watch — no, not that. My alarm clock. I pick up the clock and hurl it at the intruder. The clock arcs across the room and smashes against the wardrobe mirror.

I'm back. Gasping for breath.

My door thumps open. Light floods the room. Mum's there, looking frantic, her hair a mess and her glasses pushed up onto her forehead.

I can see myself in the mirror. I'm shuddering, sitting right in the corner of my room with the duvet pulled up tight. Across the landing, Truffle is screaming now, even louder than I did. I blink against the light and feel myself go cold with sweat.

“Miranda,” Mum says, “whatever is the matter?”

There's only me and her in the room. I can see that now.

“Nightmare, Mum,” I croak. “Just a bad dream.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She's there beside me, stroking my hair and kissing my cheek. “It's not real. Just put it out of your mind.”

I'm trembling, and even though I can feel Mum's comforting arms around me, they don't keep out this terrifying new world.

She pulls back, looking at me, taking my face in her hands. “You look so tired. Are you working too hard at school?”

I shake my head. “No. Really, I'm not. Just . . . I think I've got a bit of a cold.”

“Honey and hot lemon,” says Mum calmly. “These spring colds can sneak up on you. I'll go and make you some.”

After school, I make a decision. I'm going to do something to make me forget about dreams and shapes. Something normal. And I need to do it, anyway.

I walk along the road by the park and easily find the big redbrick house again. I knock at the door, and a red-faced woman answers, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hello, love,” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“Um, I've come to see Jade,” I say nervously.

“Oh, have you, now?” She folds her arms and looks me up and down. “Well, you seem like a nice girl. Maybe you'll help her settle down a bit.” She ushers me in. “I'm Mrs. Armitage. Probably told you all sorts about me, hasn't she?”

I smile nervously, not wanting to say that Jade and I actually haven't talked about this place at all, because I don't officially know that she lives here.

“Settle down?” I repeat as I step into the hall.

Mrs. Armitage taps her nose. “Bit of a wild child, our Jade.”

I grin. “Yeah, I know.”

“She's in the back somewhere, I think.”

“Thanks,” I say.

I'm being normal today. Denim jacket, black jeans, sneakers. I'm just Miranda the Mundane, come to see my friend. Wow, but I have a headache coming on, though. Too little sleep again. And I thought I was feeling a bit better when I woke up.

I go through the hallway, past a room where three boys are playing pool. One of them recognizes me from school and nods in a sort of half-polite, too-cool-for-you sort of way.

“I'm, ah, looking for Jade?” I say, hands in my pockets, trying to be nonchalant.

The boy nods again. “Out back,” he says, pointing toward the yard.

“Thanks.”

The trees are what give the Copper Beeches its name. There are at least ten of them, tall and purple-leafed, rising above the jungle of the garden. It's a sunny, breezy day and the wind is rustling the leaves. There's nobody else in sight. Frowning, I lean back against a tree that is gnarlier than the beeches. Not sure what it is, but it has low, spreading branches.

“Oi!”

I look around, startled. I can't see anyone behind me. Who spoke?

“Here, you idiot!”

I look up. Jade is sitting on a sort of wooden platform — a bit too rickety to be called a tree house — in the lower branches.

“How did you get up there?” I ask, and instantly realize what a stupid question that is.

“I flew, babe,” says Jade sarcastically. “What do you think?” She narrows her eyes. “So, you found me, then.”

“Um . . . yes. Sorry.”

“Can't keep a secret round here, can we? Oh, unless you're Miss Miranda May, of course.
She's
full of them.”

“Why didn't you tell me the truth about where you live?”

She gives a hollow laugh. “Oh, yeah. Like I'm gonna do that straightaway.”

“I'm not judging you. How shallow do you think I am?”

“Sorry. It's just . . .” She clears her throat. “My parents . . . well, they split up. Me dad went back to Italy and nobody can find him. And Mum . . . she drinks.”

“Drinks?” I say, confused. “Presumably she eats as well?”

Jade gives me the narrow-eyed treatment again. “Drinks alcohol, you idiot. As in, has a problem with it. As in, ain't fit to look after her own kid. Okay?” She sighs. “Come up, so we can talk.”

I look for handholds on the trunk, and find one or two knobbly bits that I think I can hold on to. “Right. Hang on.”

I haul myself up surprisingly easily and sit beside her.

“Sorry.” I feel myself going red. “I'm —”

“A bit dim sometimes. I know.”

“You told me your mum and dad worked from home. Running their own business, you said.”

“Yeah, well, I lied, babe.” Jade looks shifty. “My mum couldn't run a bath, let alone a business. I don't . . . like to tell too many people, y'know?”

“Okay. Yeah.”

“I like it in this tree,” says Jade. “I can spend hours up here and nobody ever finds me. Good, innit?”

I smile. “Everybody needs their own space.” I pause. “So what's it like living here?”

She shrugs. “Not bad. Old Armitage is a bit of a dragon, but she's basically fair. What about you?”

“I'm okay.” I smile weakly.

She prods me. “You eating all right? You look like you could do with some pies in you. You're not doing that stupid size-zero thing, are you?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Don't be daft. I just haven't been well.”

She nods, looking away. I can't read her eyes.

We sit for a few minutes in silence. It feels comfortable not talking. It's almost like summer. We can hear gentle birdsong, and the faint sounds of the boys playing pool inside the house — the
click
of the balls, the occasional raised voice.

“Your dad died, didn't he?” she says softly.

I've not told her this yet. I was waiting for the right moment. I would ask her how she knows, but Jade's no fool. She keeps her ear to the ground, and it's not that hard to find out. As she said, you can't keep a secret around here.

“Yeah. He died last year.”

“I used to quite like his show,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“I suppose you've got loads of them on DVD? So you can watch him over and over?”

“No . . . no, I wouldn't do that.” It's funny how many people ask me this. “I mean, that was his work. He had a TV personality, you know? He put it on for work. Three-piece suit, and all the fake jokes. He wasn't like that at all. Not at home. He was . . . quiet, and kind, and gentle. And he loved my mum. Really loved her.”

Now there's a silence that seems awkward.

“I've been in six schools before I came here,” says Jade at last. She grins at me. “Kicked out of four, one closed, one burned down. And that weren't nothing to do with me,” she adds hastily. “Nobody really seems to know what they wanna do with me, know what I mean?”

“Well, you're a handful.”

“So they tell me.”

“I expect they were glad to see the back of you,” I say.

“Yeah, thanks for that.” We smile at each other; she knows I'm only teasing. “It's . . . kind of hard to make friends,” she says. “When you keep getting moved on.”

“I can imagine.”

“People don't easily trust me,” she admits.

“Hey, I trust you.”

“Do you?” She looks almost surprised.

“'Course I do.”

But not enough to tell her what we're really doing, running after shadows, and not enough to tell her about my disturbing experience last night.

Jade jumps up and slithers down the trunk to the ground. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

Inside, she takes me back through the games room and we wander into the back room where there are a couple of computers. Jade clicks the mouse, and a second later the Image-Ination software logo comes on the screen.

My eyes widen. “How did you get this?”

“Nicked it off school.”

“Jade!” I look around, shocked, hoping nobody heard her.

“Chill out! It's not like anybody cares about some lame computer program, babe. Now . . . how about this?”

Jade clicks on to our school website, finds the smiling picture of the principal, Mr. Roseby, standing proudly in front of the school. She opens the Image-Ination window, imports the picture, and plays around with the settings for a minute or two.

“What shall we do?” she says. “I know.”

She flips the picture back in. Instead of Mr. Roseby, there's now a picture of Jed Rock, lead singer of the JumpJets, standing in front of our school with his arms folded and a big grin on his face. All the shadows and the photo texture and everything are perfect — like he's really there.

I can't help laughing. “That is so cool!”

“Mr. Rock,” she says. “Our new headmaster.”

“If only. Can you imagine?”

Jade grins. “I reckon Miss Bellini would get on with him.”

“Yeah.” I look away, clear my throat, thinking that maybe I shouldn't talk about Miss Bellini in front of Jade. I might give stuff away.

She doesn't seem to notice. “Come on,” she says. “Let's deface some more websites.”

A cold wind batters the Esplanade as I skateboard along. The surface is good, not too many bumps or cracks, so I'm getting a smooth roll. Opposite the Seaview Hotel, I stop, kick the board up, and swing it from my fingers as I cross the road.