Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Beatrice Beecham checked her Smartphone and the vibrant screen told her two things. First, the timer was three minutes and ten seconds away from setting off the alarm to let her know the lamb roast would need to come out and rest before carving. Secondly, it told her there was a text message from Lucas Walker, the boy she had been dating for the past year, asking her if dinner was ready.

Beatrice turned around. “Will you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?” Lucas said. His grin made it clear that he knew exactly “what” she meant.

“Sending me texts when you’re three feet away,” she said.

“What can I say?” He flashed her a disarming smile. “The art of conversation died with the birth of the emoji.”

She fought back a chuckle, helped by the alarm on her Smartphone bleeping urgently.

Beatrice went for a pair of Masterchef oven gloves on the grey, marbled work surface. “Lucas Walker, you’ll never understand just how stressful it is having someone standing over you when you’re trying to do something.”

“Maybe I could, you know, help?” The offer lacked conviction.

“Shall I remind you of the last time you helped?” Beatrice replied. “It took three coats of paint to hide the smoke damage in here.”

She opened the oven door and retrieved the roast. The air crackled with the sound of sizzling meat juices as she carefully manoeuvred the big, black baking tray onto the kitchen’s work surface.

“You’re really not going to let that go, are you?” he said with a faux-aggrieved tone. “I’ll have you know that the incident made it to Dorsal Finn’s Fire Department’s YouTube Channel. Over two thousand hits, too.”

“One day you may be able to explain how that could ever be thought of as a positive.” She watched the hissing meat juice calm enough to cover the lamb joint with a clean tea towel.

Lucas smiled. “Well, we all have our talents.”

He watched as Beatrice busied herself with the meal, the smile on his face betraying the pleasure he felt when in her company. And in the time they had been dating they had been in each other’s company a lot.

This was not to say they were estranged before their relationship began in earnest. As members of the gang of inquisitive kids, known collectively as The Newshounds, Beatrice had known Lucas since she’d first moved to the town. The Beecham family had moved there when George Beecham, her jolly, rotund father, had lost his job. Along with Maureen, her mother, and Thomas, her irritant of a brother, the Beecham’s had migrated to help out “Aunt” Maud Postlethwaite to run the store where The Newshounds delivered copies of The Dorsal Finn Herald every morning and evening.

Their newspaper delivery days may have been over, but Lucas, Elmo, and Patience Userkaf remained like siblings to Beatrice. Their strength lay in the close bond their adventures had brought them.

“Your talent is detection and puzzle-solving, remember?” Beatrice said as their conversation continued. “Though being a pain in the arse does come in at a close second.”

He flinched as though her words had cut him, before grinning at her once more.

“It’s been kind of quiet around here lately,” he said without any attempt to polish his disappointment. “I feel kind of redundant.”

Beatrice was thoughtful. “I can do quiet for a little while longer.”

A silence settled over them as they absorbed the comment.

Dorsal Finn was anything but quiet. Yes, on the surface, the town was the epitome of peace and serenity, a place of quaint tradition and quiet custom. The townsfolk were welcoming of outsiders, as Beatrice and her family had experienced first-hand on their arrival several years ago.

Yet Dorsal Finn’s tranquil ambience was a persona— some would say a facade—that hid a darker tone to its balmy nature. Most knew of it, but it was never discussed, the way a family never discusses a relative who has brought shame to the front door. Details and events were only implied, a nod of the head or a knowing frown, a wink of an eye. These nuances spoke more than words because there was, by and large, a collective understanding.

Dorsal Finn had a Dark Heart. Things always happened, some that could be explained, but most could not. Well, not by natural means, of course. That was where The Newshounds thrived, in the shaded spaces between the normal, mysterious and the fantastic.

“I do feel bad that it makes you feel useless,” Beatrice continued. “I thought that was my job.” She chuckled at her own joke as she prepped to cream the potatoes.

“You’re a better chef than you are a comedian, Beecham,” Lucas said.

“And I can’t think of anyone else who needs to keep their distance when I have sharp, pointy things in my hand, Walker.” She laughed.

Almost on cue, her brother’s voice came from the doorway. “Mum wants to know when dinner’s ready?”

Beatrice sighed. “Note to self: when you think things can’t get any worse, remember you have a younger brother.”

Thomas Beecham entered the kitchen. He had a camouflage bandana wrapped around his head. A black vest top hung from his scarecrow frame, the combat fatigues he wore were two sizes too big, the material ballooning as though filled with water.

Lucas watched as Thomas entered the kitchen. “Why are you crawling on the floor there, chief?” he said as the younger boy inched forwards across the shining tiles on his stomach.

“In order to survive in the wilderness, you have to become the wilderness,” Tom said.

“That means something, right?” Lucas said, wearing a puzzled frown.

“It’s another one of his ridiculous fads,” she said. “Endless episodes of Claire Drill: Behind Enemy Lines.”

“You mean the survival show?” Lucas said brightening suddenly. “I can see the appeal of that.”

Claire Drill had exploded onto Prime Time TV earlier that year. An exponent of extreme and urban survival skills, the feisty presenter had captured the imagination of a generation of kids—and adult males, if the truth be told—who were mesmerised by her adventures. The “Drill” brand was steadily growing alongside her fan base, and she was currently purveyor of several books, outdoor-store endorsements and even had a signature “Urban Combat Chic” clothing range.

Beatrice turned to Lucas with pursed lips. “What you can ‘see’ is a woman in tight vest tops crawling through mud.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever noticed that,” he said, looking up at the ceiling.

Beatrice shook her head and replied with a sour tone. “You’re a terrible liar, Walker. Well, if you’re into women who eat road kill and drink their own urine then don’t let me hold you back.”

“That would have been a selfless proposition had it not been for the drinking urine part,” Lucas said, wrinkling his nose.

“She doesn’t drink her own urine,” Thomas protested from the floor.

“You mean she drinks someone else’s?” Beatrice said in disgust.

Thomas looked at his sister as though she was stupid. “No, Bea. She doesn’t drink urine at all. Anyone with any survival knowledge knows that drinking urine dehydrates the body because it’s full of salt! She soaks her bandana in urine as a cooling agent in high temperatures.”

“Nice,” said Lucas with a queasy look on his face. “Let’s hope she never gets her own brand of perfume.”

Tom climbed to his feet. His trousers were dangerously close to falling down. “Claire teaches you how to make sure you can survive any given scenario. Covering every eventuality.”

“Think a belt might be better, chief,” Lucas said, observing Thomas’ oversized fatigues as gravity took hold and they dropped to his ankles. The younger boy was now displaying a bright blue pair of Star Wars boxer shorts.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Thomas!” Beatrice turned away quickly. “Will you go somewhere that’s not here?”

The ringtone from Lucas’ mobile phone interrupted her diatribe. Thomas used the reprieve to yank up his trousers and hurry from the kitchen.

Lucas smiled as he watched Thomas’ enthusiastic exit, then pulled the phone from the work surface and answered it. An excited fizz came from the speaker.

“Hold on, Patience, I’ll put you on speaker,” Lucas said.

Beatrice turned when Lucas mentioned the name of her best friend. Then Patience’s bright, urgent voice joined them, making Beatrice smile.

“Now listen up,” Patience said. “We need to meet later today because I have some news. And I mean news of the pretty damn cool sort, if you get me? Tonight—my house—7:00 pm. Gotta go!”

“Patience, wait,” Beatrice said, but the speaker went dead.

Lucas looked down at the phone in his hand. “Now there’s a girl who doesn’t live up to her name.”

***

The loft hatch fell open, and a thin layer of dust took to the air. The motes turned to fireflies as they passed in front of the small, circular window.

The hatch stopped as its bracket locked into place, and extended ladders dropped to the landing below. After a few seconds, Tamsin Walker rose through a rectangular gap and delivered a small, delicate sneeze to the room.

“Bless me,” she whispered before ducking down and retrieving a shoe box from the top of the steps. She carefully placed this onto the attic floor, pushing it away so as to create space for her to enter.

Her bright, purple hair was kept off her face by a red, lopsided bandana that almost covered her right eye. Standing upright, she adjusted the swatch after chuckling to herself.

She stood, her hands placed on her slight waist. Bright blue eyes scanned the space about her, a place of neat clutter, a past hoarded in corners or stacked against walls, most of it hidden beneath tartan blankets or pallid linen dust sheets.

“This is the only place I know where time stands still,” she said as she stooped and picked up the shoebox.

Tamsin looked down at the beige, cardboard carton. There was the logo of a famous sports brand stamped across its surface. For as long as Lucas—her son of sixteen years—had been able to wear training shoes, he’d always worn the same brand. Once he’d bawled his eyes out in the middle of the shop because she’d suggested changing to a different trademark. Lucas was nothing if not loyal, a trait she adored in him.

She smiled at the thought of her son, her hands squeezing the carton too tightly, taking the cardboard walls slightly out of alignment. The action popped the lid and it became askew. In a startled panic, her token attempts to maintain her grip served only to tilt the carton so that several items fell onto the exposed floorboards before she could gain purchase.

Tamsin knelt down in order to retrieve the objects that had escaped, a whispered swear word somehow making her feel good and bad at the same time. She quickly collected the items, eager to put the carton back in its special place, the only way she could keep the past at bay, a past that almost had the same contrasting effect as her recent swear word.

But unlike her expletive, the predominant emotion was not so clear cut as feeling simply good and bad. Instead it was an overwhelming sense of love, and loss. It was from this she was forever trying to protect herself.

And Lucas.

She could cope with the love, it was in her nature to reciprocate such affection, but the loss of something—someone—so dear to her, was simply too much to bear for long periods.

Instead, Tamsin shared moments, and inside the box those moments became objects and those objects memories of a time where emotional harm held no sway. So this was how she protected herself, and above all, Lucas from the great burden that is loss.

Tamsin moved through the attic, the disturbed dust a lazy mist about her. She went over to a far corner that was kept in shadow by a large dressing table, its wooden surface warped with age and heat.

The wall beyond was made of dark, worn brick, and, as she knelt down, she placed the box on the floor, allowing her fingers to probe the edges of one of the bricks until it loosened. Rattling the block until she created a lip, Tamsin probed with her fingers and found purchase, pulling the brick free. She repeated this with the brick below, creating a dark recess, designed with but one purpose: keeping secrets.

Though she meant well, and despite a solid rationale based on protecting her son, Tamsin still felt a sharp pang of guilt as she pushed the carton to the gap in the wall. She consoled herself with the thought that she was keeping not only secrets, but maintaining the stability upon which life as a single parent depended so much. And, in her eyes, this outweighed everything else.

She replaced the bricks, sealing the shoebox inside its sanctuary where, in her mind, it would be safe until her need to revisit it again.

By the time she stood and made her way back to the hatch, her mind was on what she was going to prepare for dinner.

It was while she pondered on whether Lucas liked carrots or not that the face appeared in the air.

Tamsin took a step backwards, her hands going up to her mouth to stifle a scream. The face was one dimensional, a mask made up of dust motes and sunlight. The features were indistinguishable other than eyes and a mouth that moved as though manipulated by the shifting air about it. The lips parted, revealing only the room beyond the face, and when it spoke Tamsin found fear slipping away. The words were lilting, as though in song, telling her things that made perfect sense, unveiling things that she had often sought out, yearned for, and when she heard them she was both happy and sad.

Then the face dissolved and she felt woozy, as though she’d had one glass of wine too many, and she adjusted her stance in order to stay on her feet. She closed her eyes to help remain upright. When she opened them again the face was gone.

As was her memory of it ever having been there.

***

Emily Hannigan slapped her hands together, the material of her goalkeeper gloves producing a dull thud that she could feel but not hear.

Contrary to what hearing people might have thought, Emily did not see being deaf as a disability at all. It was merely part of who she was. She felt at home straddling both worlds—that of the deaf and the hearing—and her life felt enriched rather than alienated by the synthesis.

Nothing could have exemplified this synergy more than being out on the football field of Dorsal Finn High School. As the first team goal keeper, Emily’s prowess had made sure DFHS FC was, at that moment, top of the school league table by ten clear points. With her hearing teammates, Emily was on track to take the school team to their first league title in its history.

She wasn’t alone of course. Elmo was standing on the side-lines, waving her on, giving her a thumbs up, or signing encouragement whenever she looked over to him. She loved being part of The Newshounds, always enjoyed the camaraderie and support membership offered to them all.

Yet it was in Elmo’s company that she found the greatest solace, his gentle demeanour was a great comfort, and his determination to learn sign language to a level beyond being merely proficient was a testament to his friendship. If she was honest, Emily hoped that they could become more than friends, but she was unsure if this was possible. He’d never shown any outward signs of seeing her more than part of The Newshounds, and when she thought about such things too much, it made her sad. So, she often cloaked her feelings, content with just being in his company.

She watched as the midfielders of Ashby-on-Sea High School FC—looking like giant, agitated wasps in their black and yellow kit—pushed forward from the halfway line. Their centre-forward, a tough girl with wild, raven-black hair, managed to send a through-ball to the left winger, who caught a DFH FC player off guard. The winger surged up the pitch until she was intercepted by a defender, but not before delivering an early, well-timed cross. The ball landed at the feet of the AOS FC striker, Millie Weatheroak, a stocky powerhouse of a girl who more than matched up to her surname.

So far Millie had scored in every game that season and Emily was determined to end this record. As Millie powered forward, the ball skilfully kept at her feet, Emily studied the play.

She watched Millie’s body position, the angle of her hips, the tilt of her head—all precursors to taking the shot. Emily danced on her toes and bent her knees, ready to leap as she prepared to gauge how much spin the formidable striker intended to put on the ball.

Millie’s face wore the stern mask of concentration. Her cheeks were twin sunsets and she had a sweaty sheen on her brow. Emily got ready, her eyes blinking prior to locking onto the image.

And it was during those moments when Emily blinked that Millie’s face changed.

At first, it became smudged, like a picture that was slightly out of focus. Emily pawed at her eyes to remove the blur. This appeared to only make matters worse because then Millie’s face appeared as a black smoke that wavered, framed by dark tendrils of mist. And not only did Millie’s face become smoke, so did everyone who was facing up-field.

Emily took a step backwards, the muscles in her legs twitching with fear. When a series of bright green eyes opened in every smoke-face she saw, her legs seemed to liquefy and gave way.

Green mouths opened now, hyper-extended oval shapes as though in a silent, everlasting scream. In the bruised sky, a rusted disc hovered, its edges wavering as if seen through a great heat. Like she had been speared and tethered to the circle, Emily felt a fierce tug in her chest, and an awful yearning to reach out and become part of the object overcame her. Then great, black clouds swallowed it, and Emily gasped as its pull on her was relinquished.

The thing that had replaced Millie began speaking, its voice inside her head, thin and uncomfortable, like nails down a chalk-board.

“The object you desire is lost to you,” the thing hissed. “That is the way it must be, Oracle. Only then will the forsaken lose hope.”

Emily felt something whiz past her head, the breeze of its passing whipping her golden hair, causing her to turn to see the ball hitting the back of the net, and fear gave way to confusion. She faced the field, expecting the smoke-faces to be there, moving in to claim her.

Instead she saw the players of AOS FC celebrating, the team mobbing Millie, patting her on the back or giving hugs, each and every face was happy and smiling.

And back to normal.