He turned abruptly, but just as suddenly turned back and, reaching out, took Roger’s throat in his hand.
“Maybe,” he said, as though to himself. “Just maybe.” Then he nodded once, let go, and was gone, his cloak fluttering like bat wings behind him.
THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST
AFTER FRAGGLE ROCK, the telly went to the evening news, and Ginger reached to turn it off but stopped abruptly as Jem’s last year’s school picture flashed on the screen. She stared at the television, mouth half open, then looked incredulously at Jem.
“That’s you!” she said.
“Ken that fine,” he said crossly. “Turn it off, aye?”
“No, I want to see.” She blocked him as he lunged for the screen; Ginger was eleven and bigger than him.
“Turn it off!” he said, then, with cunning inspiration, “It’ll scare Mandy and she’ll howl.”
Ginger shot Mandy a quick glance—she had good lungs, did Mandy—then reluctantly turned the TV off.
“Mmphm,” she said, and lowered her voice. “Mam told us what happened, but she said we weren’t to trouble ye about it.”
“Good,” Jem said. “Don’t.” His heart was hammering and he felt sweaty, but his hands were going cold and hot and cold again.
He’d got away by the skin of his teeth, diving under the bushes planted at the top of the spillway and crawling down the concrete edging ’til he found a ladderway that went down into the water. He’d shoggled down it as far as he could and clung on so hard his hands went numb, with the black water rumbling inches under his feet and surging down the spillway past him, drenching him with cold spray. He could still feel his bones shake with it.
He believed he might throw up if he thought about it anymore, so he turned away and went to look into the wee girls’ toy chest. It was full of girlie toys, of course, but maybe if they had a ball . . . They did. It was pink but one of the good high-bouncy kind.
“We could go out to the garden, maybe, and have a bit o’ catch?” he suggested, bouncing the ball on the floor and catching it.
“It’s dark and rainin’ like the clappers,” Tisha said. “Dinna want to get wet.”
“Ach, it’s no but a saft drizzle! What are ye, made of sugar?”
“Yes,” said Sheena, with a simper. “Sugar and spice ’n everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of. Snips and snails and puppy-dog tails—”
“Come play dollies,” suggested Tisha, waggling a naked doll invitingly at him. “Ye can have GI Joe if ye want. Or would ye rather Ken?”
“Nay, I’m no playin’ dollies,” Jem said firmly. “Canna be doing wi’ the clothes and all.”
“I play dollies!” Mandy muscled her way between Tisha and Sheena, eager hands stretched out for a Barbie in a pink frilly ball gown. Sheena grabbed it away just in time.
“Aye, aye,” she soothed Mandy’s impending screech, “you can play, sure. Ye have to play nice, though; ye dinna want to spoil her dress. Here, sit down, pet, I’ll give ye this one. See her wee comb and brush? Ye can fix her hair.”
Jem took the ball and left. The upstairs hall had carpet, but the landing was bare wood. He popped the ball off it and it shot up and hit the ceiling with a smack, just missing the hanging light fixture. It bounced off the floor and he caught it before it could get away, clutching it to his chest.
He listened for a second, to be sure Mrs. Buchan hadn’t heard. She was back in the kitchen, though; he could hear the sound of her singing along to the radio.
He was halfway down the stairs when the bell over the front door went, and he looked over the banister to see who it was coming in. Who it was was Rob Cameron, and Jem nearly swallowed his tongue.
JEM PRESSED himself back against the wall of the landing, his heart pounding so loud he could barely hear Mrs. Buchan come out of the kitchen.
Should he go get Mandy? There wasn’t any way out of the house but by the stairs; he couldn’t drop Mandy out the lounge window, there wasn’t a tree or anything . . .
Mrs. Buchan was saying hello and she was sorry if the gentleman was wanting a room, because she was booked full every day this week. Mr. Cameron was being polite, saying, no, thank ye kindly, he was only wondering might he have a wee word . . .
“If ye’re selling anything—” she started, and he interrupted her.
“No, missus, nothing like that. It’s a few questions I have about the stones at Craigh na Dun.”
Jem was gasping for air. His lungs were heaving, but he’d pressed a hand over his mouth so Mr. Cameron wouldn’t hear. Mrs. Buchan didn’t gasp, but he could hear her take breath, then stop, deciding what to say.
“Stones?” she said, and even he could tell she was faking puzzlement. “I dinna ken anything about stones.”
Rob made a polite laugh.
“I apologize, missus. I should have introduced myself, first. My name’s Rob Cameron—and—is something wrong, missus?” She’d not only gasped really loud, Jem thought she must have stepped back without looking and hit the wee table in the hall, because there was a thump and an “Ach!” and the splat of picture frames falling over.
“No,” Mrs. Buchan said, getting ahold of herself. “No. Had a wee turn, that’s all—I’ve the high blood pressure, ken. Get that wee bit dizzy. Your name’s Cameron, is it?”
“Aye. Rob Cameron. I’m cousin by marriage to Becky Wemyss. She told me a bit about the dancing up at the stones.”