Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Copyright
For Mum and Beth,
the heroines of my story.
RHCP DIGITAL
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
RHCP Digital is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
www.penguin.co.uk
www.puffin.co.uk
www.ladybird.co.uk
First published 2016
This ebook published 2016
Text copyright © Jennifer Bell, 2016
Cover art and illustrations copyright © Karl James Mountford, 2016
The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978–1–448–19499–5
All correspondence to:
RHCP Digital
Penguin Random House Children’s
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL
Ivy rocked forward as the ambulance turned a corner. Everything inside rattled.
‘OK then,’ the paramedic said, looking up from his clipboard. He was a bald man with faded tattoos all the way up his forearms. ‘What’s your full name?’
‘Ivy Elizabeth Sparrow,’ she fired off, tapping her yellow wellingtons on the floor. It was so stuffy; she needed fresh air. She looked over the paramedic’s shoulder and wondered if she could ask him to open one of those blacked-out windows. She could see her frizzy brown curls bobbing in the glass, even more out of control than usual.
The paramedic made a note with his biro and turned towards the rear of the vehicle. ‘What about you?’
At the other end of the bench, leaning forward, legs apart, sat a boy in a grey hoodie bearing the band logo of The Ripz. His wiry blond hair had fallen in front of his eyes but Ivy knew he was glaring at her.
‘It’s Seb,’ the boy replied drily. ‘I’m her brother.’
The paramedic smiled as he jotted down the name. Ivy tried to push Seb out of her mind. This was all his fault.
She leaned over to the stretcher and took Granma Sylvie’s hand. It felt softer than usual. There were Velcro straps across her granma’s chest, a brace supporting her neck and a misted oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth. Ivy had never seen her look so fragile before.
‘And how old are you both?’ the paramedic continued.
‘Eleven,’ Ivy replied, shuffling ever so slightly closer to Granma Sylvie.
‘I’m sixteen,’ Seb said in a deep voice.
Ivy frowned and glanced sideways at him. He had only turned fourteen last month.
‘OK, good.’ The paramedic’s face softened. ‘Now, I understand that you’re both very concerned at the moment – but trust me, the best thing you can do to help your gran is to stay calm. When we get to the hospital, we’ll take her into casualty so the doctor can have a good look at her, and then she may need an operation, so she’ll be in for a while.’
Ivy grimaced. She knew of only one other occasion when Granma Sylvie had stayed overnight in hospital – everyone knew about that – but it had happened before Ivy’s parents were even born. ‘Do you know what’s wrong?’ she asked.
The paramedic frowned. ‘I think she may have broken her hip, and possibly her wrist as well, but we won’t know till we see an X-ray.’
While he scribbled down some notes, Ivy stroked Granma Sylvie’s hand and wondered if she’d suffered broken bones that time as well. Probably. She’d had a car crash during a freak snowstorm and had been unconscious for days; when she woke up, she couldn’t remember what had happened during the accident, or anything before it. The police only knew her name because she was wearing a necklace with SYLVIE engraved on it. Retrograde amnesia, Ivy’s mum called it. Ivy knew the exact date of the crash because the family discussed it so often: 5 January 1969. Twelfth Night.
‘Before we get to the hospital,’ the paramedic said, ‘I need to confirm what happened.’ He checked his watch. ‘I make it eight thirty a.m., so the fall must have happened at about seven forty-five? And you said that your gran slipped in the kitchen while you were both in the other room . . . ?’
Ivy imagined Granma Sylvie losing her balance and tumbling onto her back, legs in the air like an upturned beetle. If only she’d been there to help.
Seb swallowed. ‘She was baking mince pies. We heard her shouting.’
Over our shouting, Ivy remembered. She shot her brother a look of regret. They had been arguing about the stupid new Ripz poster he’d got for Christmas – Ivy had accidentally knocked her orange juice over it; if he hadn’t been ranting at her, they might have got to Granma Sylvie sooner.
The paramedic flipped his paper round. ‘OK, that’ll do. Are you able to get hold of your mum and dad?’
Ivy sighed. If only. More than anything, she wished her parents were there now.
‘I’ve texted them but there’s been no reply,’ Seb said. ‘I’ll try calling when we get to the hospital. Mum’s working, but we might catch her before she starts her shift.’
Ivy had said goodbye to her mum yesterday morning. If she was there now, she would have clapped her hands together and taken charge of this whole mess in an instant. Ivy and Seb had done nothing except ring the ambulance.
‘Our dad’s in Paris,’ Ivy added in a quiet voice. ‘He’s working too.’
Their dad was a consultant for the famous Victoria & Albert Museum in London, which meant that he was an expert in everything old, and people from around the world were always asking for his advice.
The paramedic raised his eyebrows. ‘So that’s why you’re staying with your gran?’
‘Mum and Dad were with us over Christmas,’ Ivy explained, feeling the need to defend them. ‘They just had to go back to work early.’
It had never really bothered her – them staying in London and leaving her and Seb six hours away in Bletchy Scrubb with their granma – but then this kind of emergency had never happened at the same time before.
The paramedic put down his clipboard and turned to Granma Sylvie, who, despite the neck brace, made an effort to smile. Ivy doubted she could even hear what was being said with that thing on; she hadn’t corrected the paramedic about Seb’s age.
‘OK then, Mrs Sparrow, I’m just going to check how you’re doing.’ He untucked Granma Sylvie’s blanket and rolled it away until her arm was exposed. There was a thin cotton sling around it, secured behind her neck. Delicately he loosened the knot and slid the material out from underneath. Granma Sylvie winced.
As the sling was taken away, Ivy caught her breath. Her granma’s entire arm was purple and bloated like a giant aubergine.
The paramedic took the damaged wrist carefully between his fingers. ‘Hmm, looks like that swelling is getting worse. It must be sore.’ He studied it from every angle. Ivy caught a flash of gold on her granma’s skin. ‘I don’t see any clasp on your bracelet. I think we might need to cut it off to make you feel more comfortable, Mrs Sparrow. Is that OK?’
Ivy’s chest tightened; she imagined Granma Sylvie’s was probably doing the same. That solid gold bangle was one of the few items that remained of her granma’s life before her amnesia. She had been wearing it at the time of the accident and Ivy couldn’t remember her ever taking it off. The bracelet was special to her, everyone knew that.
Granma Sylvie squeezed her eyes closed. Ivy heard a rasping, ‘Do it.’
The paramedic found a pair of small silver pliers. Ivy shivered as two soft snickts pierced the air and the two halves of the bangle fell away.
‘Ivy, my bag . . .’ Granma Sylvie lifted her other hand, pointing shakily.
Ivy reached down for the handbag and held it open. Very carefully, the paramedic placed both pieces of the bangle inside.
‘Will you look after it for me?’ Granma Sylvie asked.
Ivy nodded, forcing a smile, and opened the bag to check that the bracelet was safely in the inside pocket.
‘Be careful,’ the paramedic warned, ‘the ends are sharp.’
Ivy made sure not to touch it as she zipped up the pocket.
‘Here,’ Seb grunted, picking something up off the floor. ‘You just dropped this.’ He handed Ivy a black-and-white photo, the size of a postcard. Ivy had seen it many times before because Granma Sylvie always kept it in her handbag. It was the only photo of her from before. The police had found it in the glove box of her car after the crash. ‘Weird,’ Seb said, raising his eyebrows. ‘I haven’t seen that since I was little.’
We used to look at it all the time, Ivy thought. But she didn’t say anything.
‘Granma still doesn’t know who the other woman is, does she?’
Ivy shook her head. The photo showed a woman standing beside Granma Sylvie. She was slight, with sharp dark eyes and unruly hair poking out from under a round black hat. She wore a thick tartan dress and studded cowboy boots. Granma Sylvie was dressed in washed denim dungarees with what looked like satin ballet shoes on her feet.
‘What were they wearing?’ Seb asked. ‘It’s like really bad fancy dress.’
Ivy shrugged. ‘Who’s to say it wasn’t the fashion?’ She didn’t really think it could have been; she just didn’t want to agree with her brother.
‘Keep that safe,’ croaked a voice. Ivy turned. Granma Sylvie was waving her good arm in their direction.
‘Sorry.’ Ivy hastily tucked the photo back into the handbag and fastened it up.
Seb slid away from her before she had to push him.
‘Dad?’ Ivy squinted. The split-screen image on Seb’s phone was distorted and moved in slow motion. She nudged Seb in the ribs. ‘I told you video call was a stupid idea. Why didn’t we just ring them?’
Seb grumbled something about reception and repositioned the phone higher on his knee. ‘If you owned a phone, like most people, you’d know it’s easier to three-way call using video chat. But you don’t. Because you’re weird.’
Ivy rolled her eyes. Whatever.
‘Mum? Dad? Can you see us now?’ The video flickered. Ivy shifted in her seat. Around her, the A&E department of Bletchy Scrubb Hospital was teeming with people: doctors in white coats with stethoscopes draped round their necks; solemn-faced relatives; nurses carrying clipboards; and hobbling patients clutching swollen limbs. Ivy ran her eyes over the linoleum floor and glossy white walls. There wasn’t a trace of tinsel or glitter anywhere. Three days after Boxing Day, and Christmas had been forgotten about, just like that. Granma Sylvie would hate it.
‘Ivy? Are you there?’
‘Dad!’ Finally. The image sharpened and Ivy grimaced. Her dad was far too close to the camera, his pale freckled face taking over most of the left of the screen. On the right, Ivy’s mum could be seen sitting at a table in her staff canteen. She was wearing a pale blue nurse’s tunic with a silver fob-watch hanging from the top pocket.
Her mum tucked a stray wisp of brown hair behind her ears and leaned closer, frowning. ‘You’re back now, but you keep going all fuzzy.’
‘I’m on the train to Paris,’ Ivy’s dad called. ‘My reception’s bad. Can everyone see me?’
‘We can see both of you now,’ Ivy said. ‘Did you understand what I just explained about Granma?’
Her dad frowned. ‘Yes, just about. I can’t believe it. Is she all right? Are you two all right?’
Ivy shrugged. ‘We’re OK.’
‘Seb,’ their mum said sternly, ‘are you looking after your sister?’
Seb was slouched in the hospital chair beside Ivy, his scuffed white trainers resting on a plastic coffee table with the phone wedged between his knees. His headphones snaked into his lap.
‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t worry.’
Ivy thought for a moment. ‘Seb lied about his age; he told them he was sixteen.’
Seb’s eyes turned to slits as he looked at her. ‘If you’re sixteen, you can be on your own. It’s the law.’
Ivy pulled a face at him.
‘It doesn’t matter about that now,’ their dad said. ‘As long as you stay together. How’s Granma?’
Ivy gazed over at the blue cotton curtain fluttering a few metres behind Seb’s shoulder. It concealed a small room where Granma Sylvie was lying on her stretcher. Ivy paused before answering, trying not to get upset again. ‘She’s asleep right now. We’re in A and E but the doctor said she’s going for an X-ray later. What do you think we should do?’
Her dad hesitated. Ivy could hear the rattle of the train in the background.
‘There’s only one option, really,’ their mum said, pursing her lips. ‘You both return to Granma’s house and sit tight till we get there. Even if I leave now, it’ll be a good few hours before I get to Bletchy Scrubb.’
Their dad started nodding. ‘Agreed. Seb, you can pay for the bus back to Granma’s house out of that money I gave you yesterday.’
Ivy’s heart lifted. ‘So you’re coming back? Both of you?’
Her mum swept a hand across her forehead. ‘Of course we are. You’ve done a great job so far, but don’t worry. We’ll sort everything out when we get there.’
‘I might not arrive till late this evening, but I’ll be there,’ Ivy’s dad told her. ‘You’ll be OK, won’t you? Make sure you have something to eat – look after each other.’ He paused and lowered his voice. ‘Or at least try to.’
Ivy glanced at Seb, who was flicking through the track-list on his iPod, only half concentrating on the screen. ‘I’ll try.’
After their dad had waved goodbye, their mum blew a kiss and hung up. Seb put his phone away and his headphones in his ears without saying another word. Ivy sank back in her chair, her thick blue duffel coat creasing up around her. She wished her mum and dad were with her now; this place was horrible.
She crossed her arms and stared out aimlessly across the waiting room. A man in a grey trench coat was coming through the main doors. He was wearing pointed black shoes and a wide-brimmed hat that hid his face. Ivy watched as he slipped between the staff and patients around the reception desk and then flitted past a pair of security guards. He was heading towards them; towards the cubicles where people were taken from the ambulances.
The longer Ivy watched the man, the more certain she felt that he didn’t want anyone else to notice him. He kept looking from side to side, timing his movements to coincide with those of everyone around him. As he drew closer, Ivy spied two gnarled yellow appendages poking out of his coat sleeves. She recoiled as she realized what they were.
His hands!
The skin across both palms was covered in pustules and shrivelled, so that his fingers looked like diseased, rotting twigs.
Ivy lowered her face as he went past. She wondered what had happened to him. Maybe he had been in some terrible chemical accident. Certainly it was nothing normal – she’d never seen anything like it, not even in movies. When she raised her eyes, he was standing at the end of a long line of cubicles – the row that Granma Sylvie was in. He peeked behind the nearest curtain, waited a moment, then turned and tried the next one. Ivy watched him repeat the process again and again. He seemed to be looking for something.
Or someone, Ivy thought. She froze as she realized that he was heading in Granma Sylvie’s direction.
Seb was nodding his head to a beat, air drumming in his lap.
Ivy sprang out of her seat, thumping him on the shoulder. ‘Seb!’
He shrugged her off and pulled one headphone away from his ear. ‘Ivy, what’s—?’
‘There’s this man . . .’ She turned. He was three curtains away. ‘Quick!’
She hurdled over Seb’s legs and dashed along the row of chairs, her wellies squeaking on the lino.
Seb sauntered after her, fixing her with a stare. ‘What is wrong with you?’
Her heartbeat quickening, Ivy ripped open the curtain to Granma Sylvie’s cubicle. ‘Granma, are you . . . ? Oh.’
Her granma looked peaceful, her eyes closed and her hands placed delicately across her stomach – exactly as she had been when Ivy saw her last.
Ivy looked back along the corridor, searching for the man in grey. It was empty; but the man couldn’t possibly have had time to disappear. She’d looked away for barely a second.
Seb tramped up to her shoulder. ‘This better be good.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she whispered. ‘There was this strange man here. I thought he was going to do something to Granma.’
‘What?’ Seb’s jaw tightened. ‘Why can’t you be normal? Like, for once . . . ?’
It was just starting to rain when they reached Granma Sylvie’s house, almost an hour’s bus ride later. Droplets drummed against Ivy’s hood and tumbled through the frizzy hair that stuck out beneath it. She looked up at the familiar higgledy-piggledy outline of the house, with its clay chimney and crumbling plaster walls. It used to be a farmhouse, or so Ivy’s dad had told her, which explained why it was in the middle of nowhere.
‘You’re paranoid,’ Seb said, striding past her. ‘You know that, right? All the books you read have, like, twisted your mind or something.’
Ivy marched after him. ‘I’m not making this up,’ she insisted. ‘There was a man in there with gross hands, and as we were leaving A and E, I heard a nurse say that Granma’s notes had gone missing. What if it was the man who took them?’
Seb sighed. ‘Ivy, that guy – whoever he was – was obviously just a patient or something. Like, a burns victim. Maybe he was crazy like you. Whatever, anyway – I just want to get inside and eat.’
Ivy yanked angrily on the strap of Granma Sylvie’s handbag as she swept past Seb towards the front door. If books had ‘twisted her mind’, then playing the drums had made her brother deaf to reason. He never listened to her. Ever.
‘Ivy . . .’ All of a sudden Seb’s voice sounded odd.
‘What?’ she snapped, turning back to him. He was holding a shaky finger out towards the house. Ivy followed it and almost tripped over. She didn’t understand how she could have missed it . . .
The front door was ajar. The frame was splintered, and there were deep scratch marks around the lock.
Seb lowered his finger to his side as if he wasn’t sure whether to stay or run. Finally he whispered, ‘Police.’ He got out his phone and tapped the screen. Ivy could see it from where she was standing. The words No Service flashed as he tried to make the call. Perfect.
‘What do we do?’ she asked.
Seb tiptoed over the gravel towards the house and peered in through the front windows. ‘The curtains are drawn,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll have to go in and use the landline.’
Ivy nodded. Right. Good idea. ‘What about me?’
Seb looked back at the door. ‘We’ll go in together; you stay behind me.’
As Ivy set foot over the threshold, her skin prickled. There was a slow scratching noise coming from inside, like thick wallpaper being ripped off a wall.
Her eyes flitted into the shadows of the hallway. She just about recognized Granma Sylvie’s antique writing desk – the one with the curling legs and tea-stained top – toppled over on the floor. The drawers were all missing and a pile of thick cream writing paper had been strewn across the carpet.
Seb removed a walking stick from an upturned umbrella stand and raised it above his head. As Ivy followed him, her mind raced. That scratching noise was definitely getting louder the further they went into the house. She wondered what could be making it. She waited as Seb paused to open the kitchen door.
‘Ready?’ He reached for the doorknob with a trembling hand.
Ivy nodded. As the door opened and the air from the kitchen slipped out, she caught a strong whiff of damp dog. Strange. The kitchen never smelled of anything other than baking.
The lights were already on, even though Ivy was certain she’d turned them off before they got into the ambulance. Her heart raced as she inched forward. To her left, the kitchen cupboards were minus their doors. Fragments of wood, exploded food cans and torn packets lay scattered across the worktops, and smashed crockery filled the sink. A dirty patch on the wall was the only evidence of where the fridge used to stand. It now lay belly-up on the kitchen tiles, its contents pooling out like vomit.
Ivy took a few steps forward, crunching over spilled breakfast cereal and vegetables. Her gaze fell upon a set of muddy animal tracks trailing across the kitchen floor.
Seb’s voice was faint. ‘Over there . . .’
Ivy drew her eyes away from the prints and followed his hovering finger . . . Right across the opposite wall three words had appeared:
WE CAN SEE
Each of the letters was the size of a dinner plate and appeared to have been scratched into the pastel wallpaper, which now revealed the blood-red of the previous decor.
The implement inflicting this damage, she saw, was a feather – large, glossy and black.
As it continued to write, it hovered in the air like a wasp; then, after scoring two further words into the wall, it disappeared with an indignant puff. In its place, a tiny silver coin materialized, dropping to the floor with a ping.
With a gasp, Ivy read the words in all their bloody glory:
WE CAN SEE YOU NOW
Seb paced up and down the kitchen floor, carving a path through the smashed glass and food tins with his trainers. He was holding what remained of Granma Sylvie’s only telephone. The receiver was broken and the cord had been ripped out of the base.
Ivy steadied herself against the back of a chair. Her skin was prickling with shock. ‘You saw it flying too – right? What was it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Seb’s face was stony. He rubbed his hands down the back of his jeans. Ivy could see sweat forming on his brow. ‘What does We can see you now even mean?’ He gestured around the room. ‘And the break-in doesn’t make any sense. I’ve checked the other rooms downstairs but it doesn’t look like anything’s been stolen. Whoever was here, they’ve just trashed the place.’
Ivy scanned the room again, picking out what remained of her granma’s unique furniture, old books and favourite photos. Her throat swelled. Most of what Granma Sylvie had collected over the years was irreplaceable. Ivy couldn’t understand what someone would gain from destroying it. It didn’t make sense.
As Seb put the phone down on the kitchen table, she studied the animal tracks again. She splayed out her fingers. The prints were at least four times the size of her hand. Whatever animal had been here, it was much bigger than a domestic pet.
‘There’s no way to call the police from here now,’ Seb said. ‘We’ll have to cycle towards Bletchy Scrubb till we get mobile signal and then try Mum and Dad.’
Ivy nodded in agreement as the wall behind her crackled. She rotated slowly till she was facing it again. ‘Are you seeing that?’ she asked.
Seb swallowed.
The We can see you now was disappearing shred by shred, as if the wallpaper was repairing itself like living skin.
Seb dragged his hands down his face, pulling his cheeks as if trying to wake himself up. ‘Why is this getting worse?’
Ivy clenched her fists. The only way to stop herself from freaking out was to try to understand what was going on. There must be some logic to it. She re-ran the last ten minutes from the beginning. Granma Sylvie’s front door . . . the scratching . . . the fridge . . . the animal tracks . . . the feather . . . the coin.
The coin.
Ivy searched the kitchen tiles and spotted it in a puddle of tomato soup.
‘Careful,’ Seb warned as she bent to retrieve it.
Ivy’s fingers floated above the coin for a moment before she picked it up and wiped it off. It was about the size of a one pence piece, except silver and bent slightly in the middle, so that it hugged the curve of her palm. After a split-second she discovered something else. The coin was warm; like it had been left out in the sun.
‘Anything?’ Seb asked, stepping closer.
Ivy tossed the coin into her opposite hand to discover that the temperature wasn’t the only odd thing about it. It was as if the coin was tickling her, leaving behind a strange – but not unpleasant – tingle on her skin. Squinting, she held it up to the light. The metal was worn in places but she could still make out words written around the outside. ‘It says: Blackclaw, Ragwort, Wolfsbane and Dirge.’ She looked up. ‘What do you think they mean?’
Seb jerked his head back. ‘How do I know? Maybe it’s one of Granma’s old antiques. She sold coins in her shop, didn’t she?’
Ivy thought back to the little leaded windows of Granma Sylvie’s antique shop in Bletchy Scrubb – she’d run it with Granpa Ernest right up until his death. ‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘But they weren’t like this.’
Seb’s shoulders stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’
The coin was still warm, which was weird enough, but now Ivy felt another sensation, something she couldn’t quite identify. It was like the difference between holding a stuffed toy cat and a real cat. It was the feeling of holding . . . life.
‘I mean . . .’
Something brushed at the edge of her hearing – a voice? She hesitated. No, she must be imagining it.
‘What I mean,’ she said again, ‘is that Granma’s coins didn’t exactly appear out of thin air. And this one did.’
Just then a clatter sounded from somewhere at the front of the house.
Seb’s head shot round. ‘What was that?’
Before Ivy could answer, the noise came again, followed by the rumble of voices.
They were not alone.
Ivy’s skin turned to ice. ‘What if that’s them – the people who did this?’
Seb hurried towards the back door. ‘Let’s not wait to find out.’ He leaped over the remains of a china vase and shot through the patio doors into the garden. Ivy pushed the silver coin into her coat pocket and scrambled after him.
The rain sounded like a snare drum as it hit the flagstones. Ivy tried to keep her balance as she followed Seb round the corner and into the alley between the house and a neighbouring field. She wiped her eyes clumsily, completely forgetting that she had a hood.
‘Ivy, watch it!’ Seb called.
She ground to a stop, arms flailing. Beside the toe of her wellington boot was a large brown hessian sack, the soil spilling out of it. Granma Sylvie’s potatoes. Ivy winced. She’d grown them in that sack for ever. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.
Carefully she hopped over it and inched towards Seb, who was crouching down next to the garage at the front of the house. The rain chimed off its corrugated-iron roof, masking the sound of her footsteps. She tucked herself behind a section of dense yew hedge and angled her head till she could see. Her jaw dropped.
What the—?
In Granma Sylvie’s drive stood a funeral coach, complete with four black horses. It was long and rectangular, with glass sides and a strip of ornate carving along the top. Every inch had been lacquered with ebony gloss which matched the head-feathers of the horses. Ivy had seen something like it only once before, on the way to school. Her mum had slowed to let it pass. That coach had been carrying a coffin. This one was empty.
No . . . wait.
Ivy squinted. It wasn’t empty. Inside she could see a boy. His image was made fuzzy by the rain, but he had dark hair and cinnamon-brown skin. He was sitting with his knees up and his hands clasped around them, his head bent so Ivy couldn’t see his face.
‘Seb!’ she hissed, but his gaze was fixed elsewhere: on Granma Sylvie’s doorstep. Ivy turned to see what was going on.
Standing beneath the porch were two men in matching black uniforms: a balding, red-faced fellow with a huge belly and, beside him, a tall lean figure with slicked-back hair, chalky skin and dark glasses. Both men wore ankle-length cloaks, gloves with gleaming silver studs across the knuckles and hats shaped like a pirate’s tricorne.
‘Shall I use this now, sir?’ the red-faced man asked. ‘Try to flush out anyone who might still be here?’ In his hand was a large conch shell – one of the spiky, salt-encrusted ones you found on rocky beaches. When the other man didn’t reply, he said, ‘Officer Smokehart, sir?’
The tall man turned towards him slowly, his chin raised. ‘Lower the shell,’ he said. His voice sent chills shooting down the back of Ivy’s neck. It sounded like a knife – vicious and cold. ‘If there’s anyone inside, we don’t want to give them time to escape. They might reveal something useful under questioning.’
Ivy shivered. There was something about Officer Smokehart that wasn’t quite natural. Maybe it was the way he was standing: straight-backed and still, like a robot.
‘Just imagine, Constable,’ he breathed, steepling his thin fingers, ‘what answers might lie behind this door; what dark revelations we might find festering in the shadows. For over forty years we’ve lived without knowing the truth of what happened that night.’
‘Twelfth Night,’ the constable said, a little uncertainly, setting the conch down on the ground.
Smokehart gritted his teeth. ‘Yes, of course Twelfth Night. It is the greatest unexplained mystery of the modern era. The entire Wrench family – a mother, father, daughter and three brothers – disappear on one fateful night. We don’t know why they vanished, or how. We don’t even know what role they played during the Great Battle . . . until now.’ His thin lips curled into a smile. ‘The quartermasters will have no choice but to promote me for this, mark my words.’
The constable gulped and stood to attention. He looked at the broken lock. ‘Looks like we’re not the first ones here, though, sir.’
Officer Smokehart peered down through his dark glasses. Ivy wondered why he was wearing them – it wasn’t as if it was sunny.
‘She has many enemies,’ he said, considering. ‘It’s possible that one of them has got to her before us. Arm yourself.’
The constable nodded quickly, swept back his cloak and pulled out . . .
Ivy squinted. Surely she was seeing this wrong. The rain was distorting her vision; it must be. White plastic. Long handle. Rounded head of bristles.
No, it was a toilet brush. As Smokehart drew an identical one from the loop on his belt, Ivy noticed something else. The bristles were moving slightly. If she concentrated hard enough through the drumming of the rain, she could hear them crackling. And what was that jumping from the end . . . sparks?
Ivy’s legs started to tremble.
From his crouched position, Seb waved at her furiously, his nostrils flaring. He signalled towards the far gate, where their bikes were leaning against the fence.
Ivy nodded down the road towards Bletchy Scrubb. That’s where they needed to go.
‘Don’t think we should spend long here, sir,’ the constable commented, pushing open the front door. ‘We’ve got that young tea-leaf in the carriage – needs to be taken back to Lundinor for processing.’
Smokehart raised pencil-thin eyebrows above his dark glasses. ‘Not long? Constable, if this really is where Sylvie Wrench has been hiding for forty years, then we will stay as long as is necessary to uncover whatever evidence may be inside.’ Holding his toilet brush aloft, he marched over the threshold into the hallway beyond. The constable followed.
The name Sylvie Wrench was ringing in Ivy’s ears as she saw Seb getting to his feet. Sylvie . . .
She walked slowly, as if in a dream.
Granma . . .
‘Ivy,’ Seb mouthed. ‘Bikes.’
She snapped back to reality and followed Seb across the gravel to collect her bike. Her wet hands trembled as she tugged her hood back and fumbled with the strap of her helmet. Sylvie Wrench . . . Twelfth Night . . . Her head was spinning. She got onto her bike and put her foot on the pedal.
And then a voice like thunder filled the air: ‘This is Officer Smokehart of the First Cohort of Lundinor Underguard! You are breaking GUT law. Remain where you are, by command of the Four Quartermasters of Lundinor!’
Ivy shrieked, ‘Seb, go!’ She slung Granma Sylvie’s bag across her back before kicking away from the ground. Up ahead, Seb’s wheels squealed as he shot onto the tarmac and skidded round a corner.
Ivy flashed a look over her shoulder, pedalling frantically. Officer Smokehart was in Granma Sylvie’s porch, holding the conch shell to his lips. The constable had already climbed aboard the black coach.
Rising up off the saddle, Ivy pushed down on the pedals as hard as she could. What sounded like a hailstorm started up behind her, drawing closer.
The horses . . . !
The coach was on the road.
‘Stay close to me,’ Seb shouted. ‘This way!’ He turned off the road, darting through a small gap in the hedgerow and heading into a field. ‘They’re too big to come after us,’ he yelled. ‘They’ll have to go the long way round.’
Ivy could see what he was planning. Ahead of them, the road curved round the edge of the field. Seb was cycling straight across the grass towards an open gate on the opposite side. If they were lucky, they’d get there before the coach.
Ivy hurtled after him. Her bike squeaked and groaned over the bumpy ground. Glancing back, she could see the top of the coach above the hedgerow – it was gaining on them now. The constable was craning forward, flicking a whip through the air, while the horses’ head-feathers tossed around madly.
‘They’re catching up!’ Ivy warned. She didn’t know how much longer she and Seb could stay in front.
‘Go faster,’ he yelled at her, his cheeks bright red, his legs a blur. ‘We have to make it!’
Ivy surged forward into the battering rain. Seb was only metres away from the gate.
‘Ivy!’ he shouted, crossing the road.
She looked back at the coach, which was nearly upon them. She caught a glimpse of the dark-haired boy inside, pushing against the glass, steadying himself against the jolts.
Smokehart’s voice filled the air again. ‘STOP WHERE YOU ARE!’
Ivy faltered as she reached the road. The horses were metres away. She stared helplessly at Seb. His eyes were wide. She screamed his name, and then . . .
The carriage was between them.
A splintering, creaking noise split the air. The constable howled. Ivy was thrown head first off her bike; her helmet took the worst of the impact as she thudded into the hard earth beside the road. Granma Sylvie’s bag crunched painfully against her ribs and cold mud splashed onto her cheeks.
When she opened her eyes, she saw a face: angled cheekbones, dark-chocolate eyes, skin like polished teak.
It was the boy from the coach.
‘You all right?’ he asked. The rain had soaked his long, straggly hair and was running down onto his shoulders.
‘Uh . . .’ Ivy murmured. Her brain felt like it was made of marshmallow. She struggled with the strap of her helmet and eventually tugged it off. ‘What happened?’
‘Underguards,’ the boy grunted. ‘Must have been too interested in chasing you to notice the ice on the road.’
Ivy raised a shaky hand to her temple. Underguards . . . ?
‘They’ve overturned in the next field,’ the boy continued. ‘Looks like your friend saw it just in time.’
Friend? The fog in Ivy’s head started to clear. Her neck prickled as she remembered: Seb. Carefully she lifted herself up. Her bike was lying some five metres away, the wheels trilling as they spun. A familiar figure was staggering across the grass.
‘Ivy!’ Seb called breathlessly. ‘Are you OK?’
She tried to get to her feet. The boy helped her up. His skinny figure, slim-fitting jeans, black leather jacket and red high-top basketball shoes reminded her of the lead singer in The Ripz. ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘You’re gonna feel like you’ve just had a sack of flour dumped on your head, but just try to breathe. Everything moving?’
Slowly, systematically, she wiggled her fingers and toes and tilted her head from side to side. She suspected there were probably a few cuts and grazes hiding beneath her coat but she wouldn’t need an ambulance. ‘I think so. Seb?’ She focused on him as he approached. His gaze was fixed on the stranger in front of him.
‘Who are you?’ Seb asked. Now that they were next to each other, Ivy could see they were probably of a similar age. ‘Are you one of them?’
The boy arched an eyebrow. ‘One of the Ugs? Hell no. I’d rather be a ghoul.’ His eyes went nervously to a spot by Ivy’s feet. ‘I’ve had my fair share of running from them, though – if you two want to get away, you don’t have much time.’
Ivy glanced down, wondering what he was looking at. Standing in the grass by her feet was a small leather suitcase with brass latches. A brown paper tag was tied around the handle. Strange . . . Ivy hadn’t glimpsed it in the field earlier.
She bent over and gripped the handle. ‘How did this get—?’ The question caught in her mouth as a wave of tingly heat spread through her fingers. She gave a short gasp: the suitcase felt so much like a hot potato, she struggled not to drop it. She’d had this sensation before, when she held the silver coin. The only difference was that touching the suitcase felt more intense.
The boy stiffened and threw a gloved hand towards the case. ‘That’s mine.’
Ivy held it out to him. ‘All right, I was just—’
Just then, she heard the rattle of a harness in the road.
‘The underguards,’ the boy hissed. There’s no time . . .’ He snatched the case, unfastened the latches, opened it on the grass and dropped onto his knees beside it. ‘Are you coming?’
Ivy’s head was spinning. ‘Coming where?’
Seb dug his fingers into her shoulder. ‘Ivy, we need to do something – now!’
Too late.
The rapid fire of hoofbeats sounded on the other side of the hedgerow. A wild neigh followed the clatter of something loud and heavy, and then Officer Smokehart came tearing along towards them. He moved impossibly fast, his arms pumping as his black cloak mushroomed up behind him. Ivy noticed with a jolt that his face and neck were no longer smooth and pale; they were covered with tiny scarlet dots, like drops of blood. In his outstretched hand he waved his toilet brush, the bristles alive with blue sparks.
‘Go – now!’ The boy yanked on Ivy’s arm, hauling her to the ground.
She felt wet grass under her hands as something pushed down on the back of her head. She saw the brown suede lining of the suitcase expanding before a cold feeling slipped down her spine and she was swallowed by darkness.
Daylight disappeared, along with the fresh smells of grass and wet mud. Ivy gave a dusty cough and reached forward blindly into the shadows. Soft carpet cushioned her hands, sending waves of heat through her body. Her skin felt ticklish. It was the same sensation as before.
‘Seb?’ she cried. ‘Seb! Are you there?’
There was no response. She took a couple of deep breaths but her heart was pounding, her whole body shaking. She smelled old leather and boot polish. She had no idea what that meant. She tried crawling forward. Wherever she was, there had to be a way out.
After a few paces Ivy heard a click, and a sliver of light materialized far in the distance. Her eyes watered with relief as she scuttled towards it. It quickly grew to the size of a letter box, shedding just enough light for her surroundings to become clear. She gasped as she saw the brown suede lining of the suitcase.
Wait – was she inside it?
Was she inside a suitcase?
She hurried towards the rectangle of light, and when it was big enough, clambered out onto a cold stone surface. Looking back, she saw an identical suitcase to the one she’d picked up in that field – the same fastenings, battered leather and brown paper tag – standing on the floor.
She glanced down at her legs and started. They were tiny – the size of rolling pins – but getting bigger. Her bones creaked and her trousers bubbled as if blisters were forming under her skin. In seconds, everything had returned to its normal size.
Trying hard not to panic, she got shakily to her feet and looked around. She was in a huge sandy cave about the same size as her school sports hall. The high ceiling was fitted with two glass discs that oozed butter-yellow light out over the floor, which was packed with the widest assortment of luggage Ivy had ever seen: stacks of suitcases, toppling pillars of hatboxes, piles of handbags and turrets of metal trunks. It was like some sort of cloakroom fortress. She spotted a single opening in the cave wall which appeared to lead off into a dark tunnel.
‘Seb . . .’ she whispered. She needed to find out where he was. She turned back to the suitcase. The lining seemed to disappear into darkness like some sort of optical illusion. She checked the tag on the handle: Lundinor was written on it in black ink.
Lundinor . . . Officer Smokehart had said something about that. The dark-haired boy had called him an underguard. She wondered what it all meant.
Just then, the suitcase began to shake. Ivy retreated from it as it rattled across the stone. The dark lining exploded with blond hair and grey sweatshirt.
‘Gonna throw up,’ Seb spluttered as he fell out of the case and onto the floor. His arms, legs and torso rippled back to normal size as if made of plasticine.
‘Seb! Are you all right?’ Ivy was filled with relief as she stooped to help him up. His hands felt clammy and cold.
‘I really need to—’ Before he’d finished his sentence, he was vomiting.
Ivy dodged out of its path just in time. An expensive-looking leopard-skin briefcase was the unfortunate victim. She covered her nose and ushered Seb into a corner of the cave.
‘Looks like bag travel doesn’t exactly agree with your friend,’ a voice remarked, close by.
Ivy spun round. The dark-haired boy was standing behind her, dusting down his knees.
‘He’s not my friend,’ she corrected in a tight voice. ‘He’s my brother. And of course he doesn’t enjoy bag travel.