A Strange Fire (Florence Vaine) (23 page)

 I’m not surprised about that, seeing as there is definitely something
not wholly normal about them. Both Alex and Frank have admitted to that, the
only problem is, they haven’t told me what they are yet. I skirt around
Caroline’s questions, not wanting to even think about Frank’s kiss, never mind
actually tell somebody about it. If I go down that road there’ll be no coming
back, I’ll be obsessing over it all night and I won’t sleep a wink. I’ve been
on the phone for at least an hour by the time Caroline and I say our goodbyes.
I trudge my way up the stairs after that and quickly check my cuts before
crawling into bed.

 Sunday comes and goes. Diana doesn’t drop by to do Gran’s housework.
Perhaps she came on Saturday when I was out. My heart lifts when I get
downstairs first thing in the morning and Gran is by the cooker making porridge
for breakfast, humming happily to herself. Her colours are also back to their
vibrant state, so I know for now that whatever was wrong with her last night
has passed.

 For a while I try reading the book I bought from Hayley the other week,
the one about auras. But nothing in it seems to coincide with what I can do, so
I end up putting it back on the shelf. The weather is dull so I stay indoors
and do some homework and when I’m finished I watch a
Buffy the Vampire
Slayer
marathon on the Sci-Fi channel, which I find myself staying up to
watch into the early hours of the morning. Which is also the reason why I
oversleep and wake up at a quarter to nine the next morning. I barely have time
to dress and brush my teeth before running out the door.

 I’m only a couple minutes late to Miss O’Brien’s class, and she’s got on
that same green hippy dress she’d been wearing on my first day. It gives me a
strange sense of
déjà vu
and also reminds me of just how much has passed
since that painfully awkward initiation into life at Chesterport Secondary.
Frank’s face lights up when I enter the room, and he watches my every step as I
make my way over to sit in between him and Caroline. I feel sort of unworthy of
the fact that they’ve left the seat empty especially for me. Having friends who
actually care whether I show up to school or not is a strange sensation. But a
very, very good one.

 I run my fingers through my hair, I didn’t have time to even tie it up
this morning. Frank grins at my how frazzled I am.

 “I slept in.” I whisper to him by way of explanation. He doesn’t say
anything in response but it takes me by surprise he when places a hand on my
leg for a moment underneath the table, gives it a soft squeeze, and then lets
go.

 I smile at Frank and sense a hostile observer, but I don’t want to look
up. I know who it is anyway. I know who sits in the exact spot from which I am
feeling the anger flow. Josh. I look up and am greeted by a scowl to rival all
scowls.

 Josh obviously dislikes the target of his bullying to be happy and
cheerful about anything. I check to make sure the teacher isn’t looking and
then give him the finger. I feel a certain sense of satisfaction at the look of
shock and annoyance on his face, and also at the fact that nobody else saw me
flip him off. He ignores me after that, but seems extra determined to be an
irritation to Miss O’Brien as she tries to give her lecture.

 The day flies by smoothly, with no snide remarks from Josh or from
Ingrid, and I almost forget about my appointment with Sam last class. I’m on my
way to Business Studies when I remember just in time to turn around swiftly and
head in the opposite direction to Sam’s office. He’s on the phone when I get there,
he waves me in and I sit down as he continues his conversation.

 “Yes, yes, I’ll look into it John and get back to you,” he says as he
hangs up the phone. John? Had he been talking to John Danson? Frank did mention
they were friends. Sam shoves a bundle of messy papers into a drawer, then
asks, “So, how are you today Flo?”

 “Good.” I reply.

 “I hear you had a little accident on Saturday.”

 “You – how do you know a-about that?” I ask, though I presume it must
have been John Danson on the phone after all.

 “John is a good friend of mine,” is all he says.

 “So, that was who you were talking to just then.”

 Sam narrows his eyes a fraction as he swivels in his chair to gaze out
the window a moment. “Yes, he had a few questions for me,” he replies, with
some sort of solemnity in his voice.

 “Right.” I say, and let out a sigh, the only noise to fill a silence
that is becoming increasingly awkward. Sam continues looking out the window,
though I don’t know what he could be finding so interesting, all there is to look
at is grass surrounded by tall metal fencing. I shift in my seat, scratch my
leg, rub my tired eyes a little, and pick at my nails.

 Sam still doesn’t say anything, and another minute passes before he
asks, “I hate to sound blunt Flo, but may I ask why exactly it was that you
moved to Chesterport?” his golden blond eyebrows furrow, seemingly in
confusion.

 “What h-has that got to do with anything?” I demand. I don’t see how he
has any right to question my reasons for moving here. Sam just raises his eyebrows
and makes a hand gesture for me to take my time if I’d like, but that he won’t
be moving on until I answer. I contemplate telling him to go fuck himself and
storming out of his office. I’m sure there’s a rule against asking such a
personal and unnecessary question of a new student.

 Frustrated, I decide to give him the lie I gave everyone else. “Dad got
a job in Australia, I d-didn’t want to go, so he left me with Gran.” I mumble,
both bored and annoyed with the stupid spiel I have to tell people.

 “And why didn’t you want to go?” asks Sam, turning around in his chair
to face me properly now.

 I grit my teeth. “I think you know why.” This man is so strange, I’m at
once both in awe of his aura of light and angry at his out of line questioning.

 “So, let me get this straight,” he begins. “Your dad was moving to
Australia, and you refused to go because he’s abusive towards you, and he just
let you stay? I can’t see a man like that giving you that kind of freedom Flo,
don’t you think it’s slightly odd yourself?” Sam folds his arms and looks me
directly in the eye, trying to see if I’m going to lie or tell the truth I
presume.

 “Yes,” I admit. “I thought it was out of character, but that’s what
h-happened. I don’t know what goes on inside of my father’s head, perhaps he
had some sort of epiphany, who knows. I mean, why are you asking me this, what
have my reasons for moving here got to do with anything?”

 “It’s more important than you can imagine,” he tells me, “and we both
know you aren’t the average student who passes through my door.”

 I catch my breath, hesitate, then say, “Um, n-no I don’t know that at
all. I’m as average as they come.”

 Sam laughs. “Are you? Are you really, Florence?” his tone sounds almost
mocking, as though I’m an idiot to even try denying that I’m different. Well,
okay, let’s see. If what Alex said is true, that he and the rest of his
brothers could sense my difference the second they set eyes on me, then maybe I
am being foolish to think that Sam can’t sense it also. There is something so
completely other about him. That’s obvious from his unchanging aura, no
colours, just a constant stream of light.

 I decide to test him. “Well, if I’m not the a-average student, then what
am I?”

 “Something very special and rare indeed,” says Sam, suddenly serious.

 “And that would be...” I prompt.

 “A human Empath,” he finishes for me.

 “Is that what it’s called?” I ask in comprehension, Frank had mentioned
the word before. I’ve thought of it myself too, but I was never sure. In my
mind it was more likely to be your run of the mill mental illness than anything
unknown.

 “Yes that is what it is called,” Sam smiles. “When a person has empathy
for another, it means they understand the emotion that person is feeling. You
are an Empath because you can always see what others are feeling.”

 “I hate it sometimes,” I admit wearily.

 “All gifts can be a curse,” says Sam.

 “So, now that that’s all out in the open, can I ask you a couple
q-questions?” I say, a little excited at the idea of getting some answers for
once.

 “Fire away,” he replies, leaning back in his chair.

 “Okay, so, if you know what I am, then that means that you’re something
too, I don’t know, like not a normal human. And don’t try to deny it because I
can’t read you at all. I may be able to see what people are feeling but I
definitely can’t see what you’re feeling. So what are you? And how are you
blocking your emotions from me?”

 “I’m not blocking them, you can’t see them because of the nature of what
I am.”

 “And that would be?”

 “Telling, I’m afraid. I can’t answer that just yet. Sorry.”

 “This is extremely frustrating. First Frank won’t tell me what he is,
and now you. What’s the worst that could happen if you told me, I’m hardly
going to go screaming it from the rooftops.”

 “Wait a second, what do you mean about Frank, what has he said to you?”
asks Sam, his body gone still as a statue.

 I let out a sigh. “Basically the same as you. He knows I’m different,
he’s different too, but he can’t tell me w-what he is.”

 “I will have to speak with the boy.”

 “Huh? I haven’t gotten him into trouble, have I?” I ask with worry.

 Sam is quiet a moment, then answers, “No. No you have not.” But I have a
feeling he’s lying. Me and my big stupid mouth.

 “So, about you asking me why I moved to Chesterport, is that just a
general counselling typed question, or has it got to do with, well – other
things.”

 “Clever aren’t we,” says Sam with some warmth, though not too much to
break through his shell of withdrawn clinical calm. “No, it’s something I need
to know for other reasons. John Danson has informed me of a problem you asked
Frank to help you with. You told him that you feel as though you are being
followed, but that you cannot see the person following you. You also said that
this has never occurred until you moved to this town, and I have a feeling that
you moving here is not as easily explained as even you believe it to be. I
think there are other factors at play.”

 A chill seizes me. “Other factors? C-care to elaborate?”

 Sam folds his arms across his chest, typical blocking body language.
Nonetheless, he does venture to answer.

 “I have lived in this town for several years now, as I was assigned to.”
He must see me about to ask what he means by “assigned” when he continues, “Do
not ask questions you know I can’t answer at this moment Flo. Anyway, for the
time I have lived here there have been few unusual occurrences. By this I am
referring to occurrences of the hidden world,
our
world Flo, you simply
have not been fully acquainted with it yet. But, about two years ago there was
a murder which beheld all the signs of being connected to the hidden world. The
death of a young girl I have reason to believe was a clairvoyant.”

 His words tumble about in my brain, “murder” and “young girl”, those are
things that don’t happen often in a small town. It only takes a moment for me
to realise he must be talking about Caroline’s cousin Lauren. The girl I never
knew, but whose story I can’t help but to feel connected to on a strangely deep
level. Was she more like me than I imagined? Did she have unexplainable
abilities just like me? Is that why her family thought she had mental health
problems?

 “Lauren.” I say, the name escapes my lips before I have given it much
thought.

 Sam’s eyes widen a fraction. “How do you know her name?”

 “She was my friend Caroline’s cousin. She told me about how she was
k-killed. It’s not something I’d be inclined to forget, the details were
horrendous.”

 “That’s true,” Sam replies, “and the murderer was never found. They say
the average killer makes at least ten mistakes, no matter how conscientious.
The fact that not one single clue was found as to the identity of the murderer
leads me to believe this was not your run of the mill human killing.”

 “The fact that all they found of her were her bones would lead me to
believe the killing wasn’t normal.” I interject, heavy on the sarcasm.

 Sam doesn’t seem to pick up on it, or perhaps he’s past caring about my
bad attitude. “It’s the only suspiciously supernatural occurrence that’s
happened in this town since I’ve lived here, and because what you have been
experiencing is the second suspicious incident, I am beginning to think that
whatever happened to this poor child Lauren is connected to what’s been
happening to you,” says Sam.

 I think back to Caroline’s story of Lauren on Saturday at the hospital,
the details of what she told me.

 “It’s true,” I say suddenly. “Lauren could see the future, Lia said she
was always claiming she was going to die, that someone had been following her
and that she could see evil women coming for her. She saw her own death.”

 “Evil women?” says Sam. “Are you certain?”

 “Yes, that’s what she told me. Have you any idea what that m-means?” I
ask with urgency.

 Admittedly, I’m frightened of the possibility that whatever had happened
to Lauren is now happening to me. That whoever is invisibly following me is the
person who killed the girl. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

 “Not specifically, but I will look into it,” Sam replies, and then he
goes silent.

 This gives me time to think too, which is a good thing because something
important begins to rise to the surface of my brain. Something vital. But it’s
hazy, almost too hazy to remember, however, the words I need push through my
barrier of forgetfulness. The strange ever-changing woman from my dream, her
distorted words ring in my ears,
the last girl knew when I
had
been
there, but you know when I
am
there, that is not good.