The Midnight Gate (11 page)

“Is it round?” asked Steve.

“Like a big arena, yes.” Belladonna had noticed the change in Steve's expression. “What is it?”

“You can't be staying there,” he said grimly.

“Why not? I mean, it's a bit run-down, but the Proctors keep their house nice and clean and—”

“No,” said Steve, “you don't understand. It was demolished three years ago. My Dad took me to see them blow it up. Shady Gardens doesn't exist anymore.”

 

9

Walking

BELLADONNA DRIFTED
along Nether Street. Demolished? He had to be mistaken. It must have been another building. Maybe they'd built two. Then the building itself came into view as she rounded a bend in the road and she realized that he
had
to be wrong. Shady Gardens was huge and solid and most definitely there.

She stopped for a moment and stared. Her headache had gone and suddenly she didn't feel like going back just yet. She turned and walked away with every intention of just having a bit of an aimless wander, but before she really knew where she was going she found herself in front of her house. Her real home. She looked around to make sure no one was watching, then opened the gate and slowly walked up to the door.

Out of habit, she reached for her key in the side pocket of her backpack, forgetting for a split second that she'd given it to Mrs. Lazenby. She sighed and pushed open the letter box, peering into the empty hall. It seemed dark and cold and above all empty.

She let the letter box flap shut with a quiet creak and walked over to the living room window, but the curtains were closed. They were closed around the back too and so were the kitchen blinds. Mrs. Lazenby must have done that when she picked up her clothes.

She returned to the front of the house and opened the flap again.

“Hello?”

She was surprised by how small her voice sounded.

“Hello?” she said again, more loudly. But there was no reply. Just silence and the distant tick-tick of the kitchen clock.

Of course, there was no reason why they should be there. They only haunted the house so they could take care of her, and if she wasn't there, they probably just stayed in the Land of the Dead. Still, she'd have thought they might have heard her. But perhaps not. Perhaps she needed to be inside the actual house. She sighed and wished she'd asked them how the whole “haunting” thing worked when she'd had the chance.

She let the flap close and walked away, closing the gate after her. How could this have happened? And after all the trouble they'd had rescuing them in the Land of the Dead! She began trying to think of suitable ways of revenging herself upon Sophie Warren but wasn't having much success. The only things she could think of would probably end up with her getting in even more trouble and Sophie just carrying on as usual. She was starting to wonder what the point was of being the Spellbinder if you couldn't get own's back against irritants in your life, when she realized she was on Yarrow Street. She scurried along to her grandmother's house. That, too, was shut solid, curtains and blinds drawn.

“Belladonna, is that you?”

For a moment her heart leapt, but when she turned around, it was just Mrs. Proctor. She was standing at the gate, holding two heavy shopping bags full of groceries and smiling.

“Oh, hello” was all Belladonna could muster.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“It's my Gran's house,” explained Belladonna. “I just thought I'd … you know … see if she was back.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Proctor, “I see. I'm sorry.”

“It's alright.” She closed the gate and joined Mrs. Proctor.

“Shall we get home and have some tea?”

Belladonna nodded.

“That's the girl! Why don't you take one of these bags? There you go! We'll be back in no time.”

“Have you talked to Mrs. Lazenby today?” asked Belladonna.

“Of course I have!” said Mrs. Proctor in a resolutely cheery voice. “No news, I'm afraid.”

“Have they reported my Gran missing? To the police, I mean?”

“I think so.”

Belladonna sighed and trudged on beside Mrs. Proctor, who prattled on cheerily about her day and what she did in town and what the latest news was about the restoration of Shady Gardens. Belladonna smiled and tried to pretend to be interested, but all she could think about was finding her grandmother and getting away from the Proctors and Mrs. Lazenby. She knew they all meant well, but they weren't family and they didn't know her.

The one thing that had made seeing ghosts and then being the Spellbinder bearable was the fact that her family knew. So while she had to pretend that she couldn't see the dead at school or out in town, at home she could relax and be herself and talk about it. Without those conversations, that understanding and release, she felt as if she was somehow locked in her own head, peering out at the world and always on guard.

They walked down Yarrow Street, turned the corner up Jeremiah Place, and made their way past the end of Umbra Street. There were ghosts everywhere and it took all of Belladonna's concentration to pretend not to see them. The spirit of old Mrs. Renshaw, who had spent the last twenty years of her life housebound with crippling arthritis, sped by on a ghostly skateboard, her hair flying in the wind.

“Hello, Belladonna!”

Belladonna smiled a greeting but could do no more than that.

Then the Phillips sisters, all four of them, came running toward her. They'd all died in a diphtheria epidemic back in the 1870s and had a beautiful gravestone in the churchyard near her house, complete with a weeping angel and a sad-looking marble puppy.

“Have you seen Mary?” gasped Irene, the eldest.

“She's on one of those boards—the ones with little wheels,” said Rose. “She said we can have a go if we can catch her.”

Belladonna glanced back over her shoulder. For a moment the girls seemed puzzled, then Irene got the message.

“Oh, right,” she whispered, as if that made any difference. “Sorry. Come on, you lot, she went this way!”

And they were off. Belladonna was almost relieved when they reached Shady Gardens and there were no ghosts for her to pretend not to see. Just the silent Shadow People lurking in doorways and clustered in the arches.

“I think I'll play on the swing. Just until tea is ready.” She tried to sound cheerful.

“That's fine,” said Mrs. Proctor, smiling. “I'll call you when it's ready. Would you like me to take your bag in for you?”

“No, that's alright.” Belladonna smiled brightly and wandered off to the swings. The bag contained everything that was most precious to her now—Dr. Ashe's book, the hunting horn, the bell for calling the Dead, and her rapidly dwindling supply of Parma Violets.

She dumped the bag near the swing, sat down, and slowly wound it around and around. As it spun she could see the shadows clearly, standing in small groups around the building. She did it again … and again. There seemed to be more of them. Maybe they were ghosts after all. Then the third time she spun, she saw something else. There seemed to be someone moving around in one of the ground-floor apartments.

She jammed her foot into the hard dirt beneath the swing and stared. It wasn't possible—the apartment was boarded up. She got up and walked over to it. She pushed on the boards to see if they were loose, but they were all new and firm. It was really weird. She went back to the swing and spun again and while the Shadow People appeared in their ones, twos, and threes, the apartment remained boarded up and blank.

“Tea's ready!”

Mrs. Proctor was leaning over the balcony and waving down at her. Belladonna smiled and waved back, then ran up the stairs for tea.
Tomorrow,
she thought.
I'll have a proper look at that apartment tomorrow.

*   *   *

But she didn't. The next morning she felt so tired she could hardly get out of bed. Mrs. Proctor said that it was probably just delayed stress and she'd feel better in a day or two. Mr. Proctor gave her a ride to school and picked her up at the end of the day, and even though she still (against her better nature) slightly resented them, Belladonna had to admit that they were being really nice.

The next day was Saturday and she was up early and although her reflection in the bathroom mirror still looked tired, she certainly felt a lot better. She told Mrs. Proctor that she was going out for a walk and headed into town, breathing in the fresh, cold February air and feeling that perhaps everything was going to change and it would all be alright after all.

She stopped by the graveyard at St. Abelard's where the dead leaves and grass crackled under her feet as she walked to her favorite table tomb and sat down. She gazed across the grassy expanse, the graves slightly crystalline with frost, and for a moment it felt as it always had.

“Aren't you cold sitting on that?”

Belladonna looked down. Aya, the charnel sprite, was standing in what remained of the tall grass, her head to one side and the curls of her purplish hair bobbing slightly in the breeze.

“A little,” said Belladonna, “but I think it's to be expected in February.”

Aya smiled and jumped up beside her.

“I know,” she said. “We've been really busy. Lots of people pop off in February.”

Belladonna nodded, then suddenly had a thought.

“Has…” She hesitated for a moment; there was something dreadful about saying it out loud, but she had to know. “Has anyone from my family been through?”

“Died, you mean?”

Belladonna nodded. Conducting the Dead to the Other Side was just a job for Aya, but Belladonna couldn't share her matter-of-fact attitude. Even though she knew it was alright and that the Land of the Dead was quite a nice place (when it wasn't being turned into slime by evil ex-alchemists), there was still something slightly unsettling about it.

“No, I don't think so,” said Aya. “Was it someone in particular?”

“My Gran is missing. I thought … you know … maybe…”

“When did she go missing?”

“I'm not sure. Tuesday, I think.”

“No,” said Aya, after thinking about it for a bit. “Funnily enough, we haven't had any old ladies this week.”

Belladonna felt relieved and a little disappointed. She didn't want her Gran to be dead, but she hated not knowing and couldn't get rid of the knot in her stomach that told her that something really bad had happened.

“Don't worry.” Aya was gazing into her face and seemed genuinely concerned. “I'm sure she's alright.”

“It's just not like her,” whispered Belladonna.

“Look,” said Aya, her tiny hand grasping Belladonna's, “I'll ask around. She could have come through when I wasn't there. When I was on break or something.”

Belladonna smiled. Most people would have assured Belladonna that her Gran wasn't dead, but in Aya's world it was roughly equivalent to having retired and bought a villa in Spain.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” grinned Aya, jumping down. “I'd better get back. I'm supposed to be making the tea.”

“Charnel sprites drink tea?”

“Of course! There's nothing like a good cuppa to keep you going. Bye! I'll ask about your grandmother!”

And she was gone. Belladonna waited for a while to see if she'd return, but all was silent except for the faint whine of a distant jet. She got down from the tomb and strolled through the graveyard to the far gate, wondering if charnel sprites had electric kettles or if they boiled the water over an open fire.

She was still pondering the eating habits of charnel sprites and trying to picture them with tiny cups and saucers when she found herself in front of Evans Electronics. The blaring cacophony of competing stereos, TVs, and radios drowned out all quiet thought and banged around inside her aching head like marbles in a jar.

Mr. Evans was with a customer, so she waited until he was finished.

“Looking for Steve?” he said, his voice a perpetual half shout.

“Yes,” nodded Belladonna.

“He's in the back. Reading comics,” grinned Mr. Evans. “He thinks I don't know, y'know.”

Belladonna smiled and made her way past the teetering towers of noise to the small door at the back of the shop and the relative calm of the old theatre. She stood for a moment in the cool darkness, looking over the labyrinth of boxes and cartons.

“Steve?”

“Over here!” His head bobbed up like a meerkat and was gone again.

She picked her way through the maze in what she thought was the right direction but soon found herself at a dead end.

“Where are you?”

“Here!”

The voice seemed further away than when she started.

“Well, stand up so I can see you!”

“I don't want my Dad to see me,” said Steve, standing up. “He thinks I'm checking the inventory.”

“No, he doesn't,” said Belladonna. “He thinks you're back here reading a comic.”

She made her way through and finally arrived at a small space among the towering boxes that Steve had cleared for the scroll. It was spread out on the floor, the corners held down by two MP3s, a camera, and a discarded caster from some kind of rolling cabinet.

“Any progress?”

“No,” said Steve gloomily. “I made this.…” He held up a piece of cardboard tube covered in foil. “But I can't stop the foil from wrinkling, so it's not really working.”

“Let me have a go.” Belladonna dropped her bag and took the tube. She tested it on the moon drawn on the parchment and it seemed to be the right size. “Have you got any more foil?”

“Yes,” said Steve, handing her the box, “but it's getting a little low. I've been trying for ages.”

Belladonna carefully removed a piece of foil, laid it on the floor, and slowly rolled it around the tube. She thought she'd been really careful, but when she looked at her handiwork, it was almost as wrinkled as Steve's effort and reflected nothing except the most abstract shapes and colors.