Neither Dead Nor Alive (3 page)

I'm on the phone to Fiona. I'm gibbering. “I'm not going out of the house.”

“Get real,” she says.

“This is for real. If that happens again I'm finished.”

“It won't happen again, at least not the way it did.”

“How d'you know? It just happens.”

“It doesn't JUST happen. I know HOW it happens.”

Yuck! I can see her smirk all the way down the telephone line.

“I've found another book. I'll bring it round. Dad'll drop me off. You'll be in, won't you?”

She's taking the mickey now.

And she's got another lousy old book. That's all I need.

I jump when the door bell rings. I haven't heard her dad's car, so I check at the window in case it's Gawawl.

It's Mark.

I'm even glad to see him, so I let him in.

He's convinced I'm a complete nutter since he found me crawling around on my hands and knees in a bramble patch.

“Still looking for gommies?” he laughs, showing off his latest brand of gum.

Before I can think of what to say the bell goes again. This time it's Fiona. Her dad's dropped her off and before I can get to the door he's reversing back down the drive. Doesn't he realise what could happen to her?

I let her in and it's clear she's all wound up. She's got this book in her hand – a different book this time – and a long parcel wrapped up in brown paper.

But she doesn't open it – the book or the parcel.

Instead she asks a stupid question: “Yesterday, before you met Finn and Aidan, did you eat anything?”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“What did you eat?”

“Nothing.”

“Pick any berries?”

“A few rasps. Maybe some blaeberries.”

She's twirling her ponytail like a windmill and she's almost dancing with excitement.

“Time before?”

“Can' t remember.”

“You might have picked some blaeberries?”

“Could've done.”

She sits down on the settee and opens the book on her knee. I can see she's taking her time – deliberately.

“An Account of a Journey Through the Countie of Argyll, by James McPhee Esq.” she reads. “He wrote this two hundred years ago.”

“Get on with it then.”

She turns to where she's put in a bit of paper to mark the place. “Superstitions abound among the inhabitants. Belief in the Firbog, a malevolent kind of gnome, which – being earthbound – cannot cross running water, is almost universal.

“In the districts of Appin and Benderloch it is widely believed that, for a few days after midsummer, the unwary traveller...“

She gets too excited to go on reading. She says, “It goes on and on, but what it really means is that people wander into the past – the Land of the Old – and sometimes they don't come back.”

Mark's stopped chewing. He's listening with his mouth open.

“How?” I ask.

“It says there's a blaeberry... hold on a sec...”

She finds her place in the book. “which is said to grow only in these parts and whose freshly picked fruit, in consequence of an ancient charm, is believed to confer the ability – or some say the necessity – to travel into the past.

****

“It may be supposed that the juice of these berries, when freshly picked, contains a property which may induce delusions in the minds of the superstitious.”

She adds, “You picked blaeberries, didn't you?”

“Maybe.” I give her my best ‘unimpressed' look.

“Both times?”

“Look, the book says ‘delusions'.”

Mark comes to life. “Like doing drugs.” He starts chewing again. For him the spell is broken. “Duracell's high on something. Bad trip, was it?”

I ignore him. I'm shouting at Fiona, “Gawawl and the rest are real. I had real scabs and scratches... and the bellowing bull; we both heard that.”

“I didn't,” says Mark.

Fiona ignores him too. “Mark's an incomer,” she tells me.

“So am I,” I remind her. “I'm a Paisley Buddy.”

“Are you really? I mean really, really?”

I change the subject. “What was that about a charm?”

“I don't know yet. I'll have to look through the Red Book again. But, you know, if The Morrigan prophesied that someone of the race of Finn would one day stop the whole terrible business, she must have made a way of getting him into the scene.”

“Then how did I get back to today?”

“I don't know that either. Maybe the effect just wears off.”

“So, if you're right, we know how I got into the past. That makes one thing sure.”

“What?”

“I won't be making the same mistake again.”

“You jerk.”

I go ballistic. “You've not seen that Gawawl thing – he's gross – or Fergus with the eye. All right for you. You just sit here nice and cosy and Daddy drives you around in his car... ”

“Shut up,” she interrupts. “Now listen to this.”

She opens the book at another place she's marked.

“Get a load of this. `In the midst of so many imagined dangers from the unseen world, the sturdy peasant takes courage from the fact that iron is held to be a charm against almost all evil.

`Reck you not the warlock, the kelpie or the troll

For iron – cold iron – is master of them all`.”

“So what's the big deal?”

“You said that Gawawl seemed afraid of you. You said he turned his face away. What were you doing at that moment?”

“I dunno. Put my arm up…“ I raise my left hand.

“What's that made of?” she points.

My steel watch bracelet is glinting on my wrist.

“What's the score then?” I ask. “It's only a watch.”

“Fergus and Finn and all the rest of them lived in the Bronze Age,” she explains. “Those swords and knives you saw were made of bronze. The only iron they knew came from the stars.”

“How the stars?”

“Meteors. Shooting stars. Sometimes a shooting star falls to the ground and people find iron. In the Bronze Age, before blacksmiths knew how to make iron in furnaces they thought it came from the gods. And it's a lot harder than bronze, so they were scared of it.”

“All of them. Even Gawawl?”

“All of them except maybe The Morrigan. Something else – I know about your mum.”

I've been waiting for this.

“Her name's Mrs. Hamilton. She used to live in Paisley,” I say, but I know it's hopeless.

“My dad knew her when they were kids. She lived over there in Appin. Her name was Morag McAlpine.” She stops as if there's no answer to that.

“So what?”

“McAlpine,” she repeats.

“So?”

“Didn't your mum ever tell you about the McAlpines?”

“I just heard the name.”

Fiona's staring straight ahead now, not looking at Mark or me. It's as if she's reading from a book we can't see.

“The McAlpines are descended from Kenneth, son of Alpine, the first king of all Scotland. He was the thirtieth successor of Fergus Mor, who drove the garrisons left by the Romans out of our country, and Fergus was the fortieth in direct line from Cormac, whose mother was the eldest daughter of Finn the Red. Now after Aidan died Cormac was the true heir so... ”

“OK, skip the history lesson,” I cut her short.

“You are a McAlpine. You are of the race of Finn.”

“You don't know that. You're just making it up.”

“My dad told me. My mum was a McAlpine too.”

I look at Mark. I'm hoping he'll say something really cheesy that will break the spell. But he's spooked by all this too. I'm wondering if he's swallowed his gum.

Fiona's talking again. “You've got to go back and stop Aidan from being torn to pieces again by the dogs. You saw Gawawl kill Finn yesterday. The Red Book says Aidan was killed three days later. That means you've got just two days left.”

She's tearing open her parcel. “Look.”

I don't believe this. She's giving me a blade a foot long with a staghorn handle.

“Take this dirk,” she says. “It's forged of iron. So long as you don't panic it will give you protection over everything in the Land of the Old – except The Morrigan herself.”

I don't move.

“Remember; Aidan saved your life yesterday. He has to die every midsummer for ever and ever.”

I take the blade.

I mumble something about not knowing where to go or what to do in the Land of the Old.

“Don't worry about that,” she says. “I'm coming with you.”

I'm lying awake in bed. Thinking. It's got to be today or tomorrow. Mum got home late last night. I was sleeping. Fiona's still got the dirk. I'm not chickening out. But I've no place to hide it and if she's coming too she might as well hold on to it.

I'm all psyched up. It's like I've got a secret weapon, like a laser gun. I mean. if my watch strap could sort out old Gawawl what'll a real Highland dirk do?

I'm thinking over in my head how I'll play it. Gawawl will come slavering at me. Fiona will be behind me. I'll say “Stand back, traitor.” Then he'll charge. I'll let him come on a bit. Then I'll draw the dirk. I'll say something like, “Thus far and no further” and he'll scuffle to a stop. Then I'll... well, I'll have to work that bit out later. Mum's just come into my room.

“Morning, Stevey,” she says.

I hate ‘Stevey'. Rather be called ‘Duracell.'

“Time to get up. We're going back to Paisley today.” My stomach drops down into my guts.

She goes on, “Isn't that great? You'll see all your pals again and Dad'll be there …“ She's bright and smiling like I haven't seen her for ages, but she soon tails off. Maybe she's guessed from my face I'm not exactly over the moon.

“Dad'll take you to see St Mirren again… and,” – I guess she's pretty desperate now – “the planes at the airport.”

My brain freezes.

I can't tell her.

“You can invite Mark down to stay with us during the holidays – or at weekends.”

I get out of bed, brush my teeth.

“Mum.”

“Yes, Stevey.”

“Could we leave it till tomorrow?”

“No way.” I hear a smile singing in her voice. “We're all back together again for always and always and always.” She rushes into the bathroom and hugs me.

I wonder… does Mark have to put up with this sort of thing? Somehow I don't think so.

I eat my breakfast. We've a taxi booked to take us to Benderloch; then the bus to Connel; then the train. We've not got much luggage. It's all been so quick. Mum and Dad are getting back together and it's got to be today. The luggage can come on later. Dad never got round to sending my bike up, anyway.

I'm thrilled about Dad and Mum. My dad's great. If he was coming up here I'd be over the moon. We could go swimming again and I reckon he'd fancy a go at the karting at the caravan site. But he's got his job in Paisley; so we've got to go there.

****

We're on the train now. There's a couple of hours before we get to Glasgow. Then we change stations for Paisley. So I've got time to think.

I've got to get back to the Bronze Age by tomorrow, before Aidan is killed again. So I've got to get back to Benderloch today.

I'm working out how to do that. This train goes to Queen Street station in Glasgow. Then we get a minibus that takes us to Central station. So I can give Mum the slip in Queen Street and get a train back here.

I've no dosh for a ticket, but you don't need one to get on and I can always hide in the toilet when the inspectors come round.

Right; that's what I'll do.

Then Mum drops her bombshell. “Dad's going to meet us at Queen Street.”

I'm pure stunned. I look out the window so she can't see my face. That's my plan shredded. If Dad meets us at the station I'm trapped. I could tell him everything, of course. Could tell Mum, just now, on the train. But who'd believe me? Suddenly I know I've gotta get off this train.

We're slowing down. I've been so busy trying to figure things out I hadn't noticed. We stop at a station; Loch Awe. One or two people get on and we're away again. Now I know what I've got to do. I'll get off at the next station and take a train back.

I ask Mum: “What's the next stop?”

“Dalmally,” she says. “Bout a quarter of an hour.”

****

Here I am at Dalmally. As soon as the train started slowing down I got up to go to the toilet. Nipped off when we stopped. I suppose I got a bit lucky cos Mum was sitting on the other side of the train, so she didn't see me.

But now there's another hitch. As soon's the train's away I ask this man: “When's the next train back to Connel?”

“Fourteen fifty-eight,” he says.

“Eh?” “Three o'clock; you've a long wait.”

I look at my watch. It's just a quarter past one. Can't hang around here for two hours. Sooner or later Mum's gonna miss me and then she'll raise the alarm.

I wander out of the station and down to the main road. There's a sign. It says ‘Oban' one way and ‘Crianlarich' the other. I go the Oban way. Connel's just before Oban, but it's too far to walk.

There might be a bus, but I've no money and it's starting to rain. Besides I've got to get out of here before the police start looking for me. I wonder about hitching a lift. I've not done that before, but I know you wave your thumb and cars and stuff stop and give you a ride.

I decide to give it a try but there's not much traffic on the road and nobody wants to stop. I keep going for about an hour and I'm just about ready to pack it in and settle for the long walk when this GTi screams past.

Suddenly there's a screech of brakes and it stops ahead of me. The driver's window's right down and some group's belting out on the stereo. I'm running now – just in case he revs away. But he doesn't. It's a well smart car; personalised number plates, alloy wheels, back spoiler; the lot.

The passenger door opens and a woman gets out. She's got a YSL T-shirt, Armani jeans – I can see the label – and Nike trainers.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Benderloch.”

“Darren,” she turns to the driver. “Benderloch. Ever heard of it?”

Darren's on his mobile. He switches it off and puts his head out the window. He's got an earring and he's wearing shades even though it's raining.

“Take him as far as Connel, Vicki. And that's it.”

“OK,” says Vicki. “Climb in the back.”

“And don't touch anything,” growls Darren.

“You'll have to squeeze in beside the gear,” says Vicki. “Darren's a DJ. We're doing a gig in Oban tonight.”

I'm stuck in the back of this hatchback. The seats are folded down and it's crammed with these decks and amps. And Darren's driving like he's in a rally.

“What's your game, wee man?” he asks.

Am I gonna tell him I've gotta get back to the Bronze Age? He answers for me,

“Frigged off with the old dears?”

“Yeah.”

“Been there.” He sounds a bit friendlier now. “Bought the T- shirt. So you think you're gonna hit the road?”

Vicki interrupts, “What's your name?”

“Steve.”

“Do you know anybody in Benderloch, Steve?” “My mum's there.” It's safe enough to say that cos she won't be at home.

“Thought you wanted away from her,” says Darren.

“It's my dad.”

“What's it with him?” asks Vicki.

“Don't want to go to stay with him.”

“Why not?”

Then I blurt it all out; well, some of it. About being put on the train to Glasgow to meet my dad and not wanting to go back to Paisley. I don't tell them my mum was on the train with me and they're getting back together. I make it like Mum's still at Benderloch and I'm trying to get back to her.

“Your mum put you on the Glasgow train on your own?” asks Vicki.

“She asked the guard to look after me.”

“What do you think, Darren?” she asks.

“Dump him at Connel. Let him find his own way back to Mummy.”

“We can't just do that.” She's thinking hard. “If we're going to take him to his mum, we'll take him all the way and make sure he gets there. Can't be all that far off our route. Tell you what – we'll phone her with the mobile.”

“She's not in,” I interrupt.

“How d'you know?” Darren sounds suspicious.

“Cos she works in Oban all day.”

“Do you know her works number?” asks Vicki.

“No.”

“Could you take us to where she works, then?”

“Never been there.”

“Darren, we'll have to take him to the police.”

“You off your trolley? With all that gear in the back?” She bites her lip.

“All right, then. We'll take him to his mum's house in Benderloch.”

“That'll be shining bright.”

“It's the least we can do.

“Were you born thick? Sooner or later that train guard's gonna report the kid missing. The Fuzz'll be all over the place from Dalmally to Benderloch and maybe even Oban. Look, we're nearly at Connel. We ditch him there and take the back road over the hill to Oban.”

Her face sort of wrinkles. I can see she's not sure.

“I suppose... ”

“Suppose nothing. We gotta get outa this before things start to go pear-shaped.”

We're into houses now and there's a sign marked `Connel`. Darren slews the car round the steep corner that leads to the road to Benderloch. Then he turns into a side road and stops.

“Out,” he snaps.

Vicki lets me out.

“That's your road, sunshine.” He jerks his thumb backwards.

“Hold on, Darren.” Vicki's rolled down her window and she's fumbling with her purse.
“
You
got any money, Steve? I'll just give him his bus fare to Benderloch.”

“Give him nothing.”

He crunches into gear and screeches away. His back wheels throw up a lot of wee stones into my face.