Shadow Breakers (13 page)

“And the first version of
Wuthering Heights
,” says Lyssa, shaking her head. “Very odd. You should see all the stuff she took out.”

“So,” says Miss Bellini, “the question is, what do we have here? What is this force? What's our
evidence
?”

“Extreme temperatures,” says Lyssa, her hand in the air as if she's at school. “Exchange of heat and cold. Toasty to frosty.”

“It likes energy,” I say, anxious to make a contribution. “Plus this thing's got a weird obsession with the ‘Ring Around the Rosie' rhyme from the time of the Plague.”

“It looks like . . .” Josh pauses, gnawing his fingernail, and everyone turns toward him. “Okay. We stood there and faced . . .
something
in the Abbey. And in the park. And yet . . .”

“And yet,” I say, picking up on what he's getting at, “
we can't picture exactly what it looks like
.”

I close my eyes.

I see a darkness, a shimmering column of blackness like something trying to tune itself into reality . . . I see a shape with many faces, with pale, smooth skin and with gnarled, yellow pustules, too . . . with frightened child-eyes but the brittle teeth of an ancient crone.

And I see the child with long, dark hair, running across the field, the trees burning in the distance . . .

“A master of disguise?” says Ollie.

“Or mistress,” Cal counters frostily.

“Miranda?” says Miss Bellini's voice, and it sounds deep and resonant, echoing both in my head and in some dreamlike cavern. “Can you see it now?”

Without even looking, I can sense the shadows gathering around me in the Pod. I can feel them. I close my eyes so tightly they hurt. I can feel my temples throbbing. I'm remembering the trick with the hemispheres and the ball, and how I thought, how I
felt
, my way to the right answer. It's all about not doing things the way you feel you should, not thinking in a straight line the way your mind screams at you to, but stopping thinking, letting your mind wander, feeling in tune with your body and allowing your instincts to flow. . . .

“Yes,” I say.

My eyes snap open.

“It's a shadow,” I say. “A dark, long shadow. Hooded, maybe, like a . . . like a monk. No, not a monk . . . it's female, definitely female. It's . . . a woman. A girl. Outlined in bright fire. Sometimes there's burning . . . a forest, on fire. The sound of horses. Maybe soldiers? And there's a strong smell, like . . . like . . . death.”

“My uncle did a barbecue like that once,” says Josh.

Miss Bellini holds up a hand, shakes her head at him with a frown. It's obvious that his flippancy is tolerated only up to a point.

And it haunts my dreams. Like it wants something.

I look into Miss Bellini's eyes. For a second, they scare me.

“A girl, then?” says Miss Bellini.

I nod. “A girl, a woman . . . all these images merging into one. Lots of different women. A young girl, a pale-looking woman, a wrinkled old granny, all at the same time.” I shudder. “And she . . . her skin . . . she looks like a Plague victim.”

“Do they all seem like the same face?” asks Lyssa curiously.

“That's just it. They are . . . and yet they're not. It's so hard to explain.”

For a few moments, there is silence in the Pod. They all look at each other, as if I have confirmed something.

“I'm sorry,” I say softly. “This . . . thing, it's been haunting my dreams. I didn't dare tell everyone the full truth. Sometimes I don't know if I am asleep or awake. I don't fully understand what's happening yet.”

Then Miss Bellini breathes out, leans back, and calmly turns the pages of the Constantinople Rubric.

“Very well,” she says. “A fiend in female guise, possibly able to change its appearance, wandering the earth, feeding on raw energy wherever it can find it, perhaps weakening. And yet never straying far from this immediate area . . .” She looks up sharply. “So why here? Why
now
? What's
changed
in Firecroft Bay over the last few weeks?”

“Maybe it likes fish-and-chips,” says Josh.

Cal gives him a languid smile.

Miss Bellini is leafing through the book, her eyes flicking back and forth. For a few seconds, there is no sound in the room except the rustle of the pages and our own breathing.

“A shape in the form of a young woman,” says Miss Bellini softly, “although appearing more often in the form of a barely distinguishable shadow. Gaining strength through the absorption of heat as it attempts to stabilize its physical form.” Her finger jabs down on the page.
“Animus,”
she says softly.

“Annie-what?” I say.

“Animus!” says Miss Bellini sternly. She goes over to the Whiteboard, and with a thick red marker she writes the word.

ANIMUS

We all stare at it.

“Linked to the Greek
anemos
,” she says, “meaning air, wind, or breath. According to the Rubric, a name given to a bodiless life force, a dark form of spiritual energy. It has no actual fixed physical form of its own . . . but it moves from host to host. Every few decades — or centuries, depending on how long it can keep the body alive — it takes a new form.”

“What happens each time the host dies?” Ollie asks.

Miss Bellini reads on. “When a host is lost, the Animus has a certain amount of time to renew itself . . . needing to absorb vast quantities of energy in order to do so. The problem is, the psychic link might not stabilize, in which case it will revert to its previous, dying body, leaving the new host in an emaciated state . . . and then it moves on to another, and another, and another. . . .” Miss Bellini clears her throat. “Like shedding a used carapace.”

“Do we think there's any kind of . . . rational explanation?” I ask. “One that isn't supernatural?”

“Ah, well, we tend not to work like that,” says Cal. “It saves time if you just assume from the start that anything is possible.”

I hate this turbulence inside me. All these contradictions and confusions. I feel as though I'm running away from my own shadows.

Miss Bellini continues. “So, listen, guys. Our Animus. For now, it's bodiless. It's like a malevolent spirit existing outside the physical realm. But as it gains power, it can mimic the human form and use it for its own ends.”

There's a silence in the Pod for a moment.

“A new form,” says Cal softly. “So it's looking to make a psychic connection and emerge into the physical world. It's attached itself to someone. It's
become
someone. Or it's
becoming
someone . . . or
they're
becoming it.” She shudders. I'm surprised. I'm so used to seeing her taking things in her stride.

“Mimicking the human form?” I say nervously. “You mean, like . . . disguised as a person?”

“A full, convincing representation of humanity,” says Miss Bellini. “But one that continually needs . . . replenishing. Topping-up, if you like, through intake of energy. Until it can stabilize . . . and finally
take over that form altogether
. The consequences of that would be disastrous. Incalculable.”

“What do you mean, Miss Bellini?” asks Lyssa timidly.

Behind her glasses, Miss Bellini closes her eyes. “At the moment,” she says, “this thing exists in a form that is not fully physical, not fully human. It's attempting to form a link, a bond, fixing on this place, this time, on a particular person it needs as a host. Why this place? I think we all know that. The Convergence is strong, and all the dark history of Firecroft Bay only enhances it.” Her eyes snap open, and she looks at each of us in turn as she speaks. “Miranda's visions have helped us enormously. Without her we would not have been able to put the pieces together. But we have. We can.”

I smile. “I'm . . . glad I could be useful,” I say carefully.

“Indeed,” says Miss Bellini, and she gives me a warm smile. “We must be very, very careful here. My inclination would have been, perhaps, to allow this thing access to the physical world and defeat it there . . . but . . .”

We all wait to hear what she has to say. The silence seems to crackle in the room.

“The Plague,” says Miss Bellini. “The Black Death. Do you know how many people it killed?”

“Around a hundred million,” says Josh quietly.

Everyone looks at him.

“I've been doing my research,” he says, shrugging.

Miss Bellini nods. “Josh is correct. Almost the same as the entire population of modern-day Mexico, if you want a comparison. And almost twice the current population of the United Kingdom. We have no way of knowing how something like that would have mutated . . . how it would resist modern-day medicine. We could be looking at a pandemic. And this thing, this . . . Animus . . . it doesn't care. Maybe it was human once, but now . . . all it wants is survival. It doesn't care about me, or you, or your mums and dads and brothers and sisters. It doesn't care what it would unleash on the human race.”

I think of Truffle, nuzzling against Mum's shoulder, and I go cold.

We look at one another now, and for the first time, I think, we all realize that we are dealing with something vitally important here.

Not just for Firecroft Bay, but possibly for the whole of this world.

Backward . . . and forward. Backward . . . and forward.

When we moved in and I saw the Old Vicarage had an old wooden swing, I never imagined I'd actually use it.

I used to play on swings a lot in London — we were always going to playgrounds when I was little. Dad would pull me up as high as he dared, and I'd be screaming in delight, giggling, ready to be launched into the air, and then I'd feel him let me go and I'd go zooming off, like flying into space, making a huge arc in the air, feeling the rush of the wind on my face as I kicked and pushed to keep it going higher and the seat almost disappeared from under me. . . .

I'm swinging quite gently today by comparison. Mum's having a work meeting in the house, and Tash is looking after Truffle.

Backward . . . and forward. Backward . . . and forward.

It's all going to happen, now.

It's all coming to an end.

We just need to make sure it is the end we need, and not a disaster. I shiver when I think of the responsibility.

I'm thinking about that conversation I had with Josh on the beach, after we had been in the café.

• • •

I remember standing there, the salty wind in my hair, and Josh's smile as he turned away and started to walk back across the pebbles to the steps leading up to the Esplanade. His long, dark coat flapping in the sea breeze, and his hair blowing across his face . . . mocking, twinkling eyes . . .

There's something really odd about all this, something that's been bothering me all for a while. Like our enemy knows us and is just playing with us, teasing us. Trying to see how far we will go and, each time, taking it a step further. As if it somehow knows in advance what we've been thinking. The bus, the computers, the Abbey, the park . . .

I dismiss the thought. I don't like it.

I jump off the swing and land on all fours, like a cat, on the muddy grass. For a moment I crouch there in the fading light and just listen. Saturday evening. It always feels like a time when something should happen. Like a time when the world breathes out after a hectic week and a busy weekend of soccer or shopping or homework.

That feeling again. Of being observed.

Only this time, I am.

Jade's leaning against the back garden gate, arms folded, shades on even though the sun is setting.

“All right?” she says.

I straighten up, a bit embarrassed at having been caught jumping off the swing like a little kid.

“I didn't know if you were . . . talking to me,” I say nervously.

She shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise.

“Look,” I go on, “I'm sorry about . . . about Thursday. On the pier. And thanks for helping me yesterday. You were right, I needed to get home. I felt like . . . like death warmed up.”

“I've just . . . been walking round,” she says softly. “I think I might . . .” She sighs. “I don't think I'm gonna fit in round here, Miranda.”

Mixed emotions rush through me. A sense of panic and loss, even though I haven't lost anything yet. “What do you mean? Is this about the pier?” The evening gloom seems to have become deeper and more threatening, and there is a chill in the air. “I didn't . . . Look, I'm still not quite sure what I'm . . . doing with all this.”

She holds both hands up. “I'm not gonna stop you being friends with the Weirdos, Miranda. Ain't up to me, is it? Nah, it's . . . There are things in this town I don't like. It feels a bit creepy sometimes. Shadows, and that.”

I try not to react. “All seaside towns are a bit weird,” I manage.

“Hey,” says Jade, “look . . . you remember when you first came? When we went round the arcades eating chips? We ought to . . . you know, do that again.”

“Yes. Yes, let's.” I nod and smile eagerly, but I can tell Jade doesn't mean now.

“I might be going away for a bit,” she says. “That's why I was standing on the pier. Thinking. Trying to size the place up. Decide if it's worth sticking round.”

I fix on the first thing she said. “Away? How? Have you got anywhere to go?”

“There's my grandma in Basildon. I don't really know her, but, well . . . she wouldn't mind me dropping in for a bit. I've got a sleeping bag.”

I'm worried about her now. “Okay, but . . . Jade, don't just vanish without telling anyone. People would worry. I'd worry. And that Mrs. Armitage, she seems . . . Well, she might be a bit fearsome, but it does seem like she cares.”

Jade shrugs, hands in pockets. “Yeah. Maybe.”

I'm getting the sense that she is holding something back. “You're not just going to take off, are you? I mean, look, I know you can handle yourself and all that, but people . . . you know . . . people get into trouble.”

She gives a half smile. “Like I said, I need to work out if it's worth sticking around.”

“What you need is to finish school or you'll never get a job.”

She laughs. “You sound like old Armitage.”

I feel myself blushing. “Sorry. But it's true.”

“Lots of things . . .
could
make it worth sticking around,” she says carefully, and she takes her sunglasses off now. Shocked, I can see that her eyes are red-rimmed, as if she's been crying. “Like . . . like if I knew I had a really good friend who'd be into the same stuff as me, and who'd stand by me whatever, and who wouldn't let nothing come between us.”

I'm still trying to shake this weird, fluey headache. I'm really hoping Jade isn't going to ask me to do anything tomorrow. That's awful, I know.

“Does this have anything to do with Ryan Crofts?” I ask hopefully.

She makes a face. “Who?”

“Ryan Crofts. You were telling me about him yesterday, before I went home. That he might want to go out with you.”

She shakes her head, looks away, leaning against the gate in that casual, worldly way of hers.

“There ain't no Ryan Crofts,” she says coldly.

“What?”

“There's no bloody Ryan Crofts, all right? I made him up!”

“Okay, okay! Keep your voice down.” I glance nervously toward the house. I don't want Mum coming out and getting involved with this. “You . . .
made up
a boy?”

“Yeah,” says Jade, and she gives her head a little shake, maybe at herself or at me. “I made him up to make myself feel better.”

“But why? There must be tons of guys who like you.”

“Oh, you
think
?” She sounds so furious I almost take a step back. “It was just . . . one more thing, Miranda. One more thing to try and make myself think I wasn't unhappy here, okay?”

I don't know how to feel now. I want to hug her. Two weeks ago, I would have, but now I feel too awkward. “I'm sorry. Please . . . don't go anywhere. You'll be in school on Monday, won't you?”

She smiles, shrugs again.

I look at my watch. “I've got to go in,” I say guiltily. “Look . . . come and say hi to my mum.”

“Nah, not tonight, babe.” She nods, puts her shades back on again. “Thanks for the chat. I feel a bit better. Ciao.”

And before I can even properly wave good-bye, she is through the gate, heading off down the road toward the shore, not looking back. I watch her getting smaller in the twilight, a slim, dark figure with a cloud of hair, framed against the pale beach and the red sunset clouds.

It feels odd, watching her go, as if it might be the last time I see Jade Verdicchio. I want to call out, run after her — but she has already disappeared into the distance.

Everybody seems to be having these conversations with me where they half say stuff, and expect me to fill in the gaps. They must all think I'm really good at it. I don't like to tell them that I'm struggling in the shadows.

I get an urgent call to come in on Sunday morning.

That's weird. Unexpected. I grab some aspirin, try to believe my flu, or whatever it is, has gone, and run past Mum and Truffle, barely giving an explanation of where I am going. I grab my skateboard, bomb it down the Esplanade to the Seaview Hotel. When I get there, they are all already clustered around the computers in the Datacore.

Ollie's hands flicker across the keyboard and the rest of us stand watching.

“Lyssa and I have been trying to trace energy surges in the area similar to those we are getting now,” he says. “We cross-checked some data with the records from those old disks.”

Lyssa holds up a sheaf of papers. “Most of them turned out not to be suspicious. Although we did find one account of a weird fire at Brooke Manor. No known cause, three people killed, police files left open.”

“And?” I say.

Lyssa shrugs. “Problem is, it was in 1881.”

“I don't get it,” I say. “How is that relevant?”

Miss Bellini, swiveling on her chair, holds a hand up. “Bear with us, Miranda. I think you'll find this . . . interesting.”

There is something about the way she says
interesting
that I find quite chilling, as if it isn't going to be a good kind of interesting.

“Okay,” I say uncertainly.

“Altogether, I found three examples,” says Ollie, “of clusters of unexplained energy drains or surges in the area.” He clicks the mouse, and the big workstation screen above him splits into three. “First — the fire at the Manor.”

He brings a picture up on the screen — it must be a very early photograph, showing the gutted interior of the manor house with charred beams poking out like bones at odd angles and blackened grass on the lawns.

“Then there was this, from 1924.”

Ollie clicks the mouse again, and a picture appears in the central screen that makes me catch my breath and lean forward. It's an old car, with those funny-looking raised headlights. But there's something odd about it. It looks pale, washed-out, and the windshields have cracked.

“That,” says Ollie proudly, “is a Citroën B2 from the early twenties. Top car. Or at least it was, before it was subjected to a temperature of around minus 100 degrees Celsius.” Ollie looks up at me, almost apologetic. “Got reported in the papers at the time. Caused a stir, and soon forgotten.”

“Like these things often are,” Lyssa points out. “They put it down to freak weather conditions.”

I look in amazement at Josh, Cal, and Miss Bellini. “Then that's . . . Did you
know
about this?”

Josh clears his throat, not able to look me in the eye. “Hear the rest of it, Miranda.”

How does he know all this? He was with me yesterday, chasing that thing across the estate and the park. They must have been having secret text updates.

“And finally this one,” says Ollie, and clicks a third time. Another picture zooms into place on the far-right screen, this time a large, square, white building with red lettering on the front. “I'll just magnify this,” says Ollie, and the picture zooms in on the name: “EMPIRE.”

“The Empire Ballroom,” says Josh. “My grandmother's always talking about that. It's where she and my granddad met.”

Ollie nods. “It was knocked down in 1972 to make way for the new Odeon cinema. But before that, one night in March 1969, the whole place was suddenly drained of electricity — heat and light disappeared from the ballroom as if someone had just sucked them out. Made the local news. Again, they found perfectly good explanations: faulty wiring, rapid power loss in the generator, and so on.” Ollie spins around in his chair, spreading his hands. “Three incidents, decades apart. And I bet these weren't the only ones.”

“That's it, then,” says Cal. “We're sure.”

Sure? Sure of what?

Miss Bellini looks at Josh, and raises her eyebrows as if to say “your call.” Josh looks at Cal, who shrugs.

There's definitely something going on here. They're all exchanging such
shifty
looks. Ollie's got his arms folded. Lyssa's looking down at the desk. For some reason none of them will meet my gaze.

“Show her the rest,” says Cal softly. She is sitting half in shadow, sipping coffee. Her voice sounds almost sad.

Ollie sighs, flexes his fingers. “Okay,” he says. “Josh checked the parish records and electoral rolls for these dates, just to see if anything odd turned up.”

Josh nods. “I'd been looking up the links with the Plague. History of the Crag Hollows and so on. So I already had it all to hand.”

“Then,” Ollie goes on, “I got some nifty software to cross-check with some photo sources. One that turned up again and again was school records.”

“School records?” I get a prickle on the back of my neck. For some reason, I don't like the way this is going.

A black-and-white picture of a group of Victorian children zooms into view on the left-hand side of the screen — girls in lace bonnets and boys in caps and waistcoats. “1881,” says Ollie, moving the cursor over each of them in turn. The next, also black-and-white, shows children in smart suits and lace collars, looking a little further on in time. “And 1924,” says Ollie. And then finally, on the right, a more modern, color one — a bunch of kids in cardigans and V-neck sweaters, the girls with styled-looking hair and the boys with bad pudding-bowl cuts. “And that's 1969. All archive photos of local primary schools from the library database.”