‘Mu-um,’ Joy said pleadingly.
‘I’ve told you. She’s not welcome here.’
‘She’s my friend, Mum.’
‘I’d like her to leave.’
‘But –’
‘It’s okay,’ Merry said. ‘I’m going.’
She snatched up the necklace, face burning, and hurried from the room.
On the landing, she glanced back. Joy’s mum had picked up the stereo. She walked over to the window and dropped it through. There was a dull crash. Joy buried her face in her hands.
Merry clenched her fists.
Leave. Now. If only they could.
FIFTEEN
‘Just running a quick errand, then going shopping. If hungry, money in kitty jar.’
Flo looks at her mum’s text – which she has sent three times, presumably because the first two wouldn’t go through – and glances at the clock. Already gone eleven.
Mum’s timekeeping can be haphazard at the best of times and this morning she was really out of sorts. Something happened last night, and although Flo believes her mum when she says she saw a light in the chapel, she gets the feeling that there’s more to it. Mum probably thinks that she’s protecting her, but Flo often feels like saying, You’re not protecting me when you keep stuff from me, you’re just worrying me.
That’s the problem with mums. Despite them saying they want to treat you as an adult, Flo knows that when her mum looks at her, she still sees a six-year-old girl.
After her mum had rushed out of the door, still fumbling with her dog collar, Flo searched the kitchen cupboards for something for breakfast, coming up with half a packet of digestives and a pack of cheese-and-onion crisps, which she demolished while finishing the King book (definitely one of his best). But her stomach is rumbling again. Also, she has the nagging feeling that she’s wasting the day. No TV, no internet. She needs to get up and do something.
She could take a look in the cellar, see if it’s any good for a darkroom, but she isn’t wild about the thought of creeping around a dark, cobwebby space right now. Although she is loath to admit it, she’s still a little freaked out by what she saw in the graveyard yesterday.
Of course, in daylight, with a night’s sleep behind her, the memory is growing less distinct, her mind working hard to rationalize it. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. Perhaps it was someone playing a joke. It all happened so quickly. She could have been confused, her eyes fooling her. And if there really had been something there, the camera would have captured it.
Flo has never believed in ghosts. Because of her mum’s job she’s been around graveyards and death more than most kids her age. She has never felt there was anything remotely scary or spooky about them. The dead are dead. Our bodies just lumps of flesh and bone.
On the other hand, she could kind of get on with the idea that we leave imprints upon the world, a bit like a photographic image. A moment captured in time by a combination of chemicals and conditions.
Her stomach grumbles again. Okay, enough dwelling on ghosts. She wanders into the kitchen and picks up the glass kitty jar on the windowsill. It’s filled with loose change and a few pound coins. She empties seven quid’s worth out. There’s a small shop in the village and it’s only about a fifteen-minute walk.
She stuffs the change into her pocket and lets herself out of the house, locking the door behind her and stuffing the key in her pocket. And then she hesitates. Her camera. There might be some cool things to photograph on the way. She darts back inside, picks it up and slings it around her neck.
The pavement leading to the village is narrow. At times, it dissolves completely into overgrown grass and stinging nettles. Hardly any traffic passes. The drone of farming machinery and the occasional mournful moo of a cow are the only sounds. It feels weird everywhere being so quiet.
She stops a couple of times to snap photos. A derelict barn, a lightning-scarred tree. Pretty soon, she can see the beginnings of habitation. A village hall to her right surrounded by playing fields, an ancient-looking children’s playground, where a mum pushes a toddler on a swing.
Further on, there’s a small primary school on her left and the houses start to nudge up closer together, a couple of side streets running off in both directions. She passes a whitewashed pub, abundant with hanging baskets. ‘The Barley Mow’, the sign proclaims.
The village shop is next door to it. Carter’s Convenience Store. She shoves the door open. It jangles with an old-fashioned bell. A middle-aged woman with a thick helmet of grey hair sits behind the counter. She stares at Flo as she walks in.
Flo smiles. ‘Morning.’
The woman continues to stare at her, as if she has two heads. Finally, she summons up a gruff: ‘Morning.’
Flo tries to ignore the feeling of being watched as she wanders around the shop. People are suspicious of teenagers, especially if you look a bit different. She sees it all the time. The worried glances older people give you, as though every single teen harbours a secret desire for their handbag. She often wants to shout out, We’re just young. We’re not all muggers, you know.
She buys a loaf of bread, butter, a bar of chocolate and a Diet Coke. That should sustain her until Mum gets back from the supermarket. The woman serves her quickly, as if eager for Flo to leave the shop. You and me both, Flo thinks.
She eats the chocolate bar sauntering along the pavement and washes it down it with a swig of Coke. She’s almost at the village hall when it occurs to her that she might be able to get a half-decent phone signal in the village. She takes out her phone. Three bars. A miracle. And enough to message Kayleigh and Leon. She glances around. The mum and toddler have gone. The playground is deserted. She walks in and sits down on a rickety bench near the roundabout. Then she takes out her phone and brings up Snapchat.
She’s barely started typing when she hears the gate to the playground creak. She glances up. Two teens walk in. A glossy blonde girl in skinny jeans and a tight vest and a well-built dark-haired boy in a T-shirt and shorts. Not her tribe. And straightaway, something about their swagger tells her that this could be trouble. But it’s too late to get up and walk away. Not without looking lame. This is the stuff that parents don’t understand. The everyday minefield of being a teen. Trying to avoid situations that could blow up in your face.
Flo keeps her head down as the pair sit on the swings nearby, but she can’t concentrate. She can feel them watching her. And, sure enough, the girl calls out:
‘Hey! Vampirina.’
Flo ignores her. She hears the swings squeak as they get up and walk over. Beefy Boy sits down next to her, deliberately invading her space. He smells of cheap body spray and vaguely masked BO.
‘You deaf?’
Great. So, they’re really going to do this.
She glances up at him and says politely, ‘My name isn’t Vampirina.’
‘Should be. Goth.’
‘I’m not a Goth.’
Blondie looks her up and down.
‘What are you, then?’
‘Minding my own business.’
Don’t rise. Don’t give them anything to work with and they usually get bored.
‘You’re new here.’
‘Nothing gets past you.’
Blondie regards her curiously. Then she clicks her manicured fingers. ‘Wait. Is your mum the new vicar?’