I Belong to the Earth (Unveiled Book 1) by J. A. Ironside
Dinner was uncomfortable. More so than usual. It was Grace's turn to cook and the house move had done nothing for her indifferent culinary skills. Dad said a dour grace giving thanks for the dried out meatballs and lumpy sauce as we listened in silence. I prodded my plateful with reluctant stabs of my fork. Since the congealed spaghetti was unlikely to taste better cold, I choked it down, trying to pretend I was eating something more pleasant.
There wasn't much conversation even though this was officially ‘family time’. Which was fine by me but I could tell Amy was bored. I don't think any of us realized how much Mum was the glue that held us together, until she was gone. She would have found some way of getting us all to interact. Mum was so good at making people laugh. She would have even coaxed a smile from Dad. Without her, we just sat here like four strangers forced to share a table in a busy restaurant.
I peered up at Dad through my over-long fringe. Not that he was paying any attention. His expression was even grimmer than usual. I wondered again, what had made him choose here of all places? Why Yorkshire? Or, if he was set on dragging us away from every reminder of Mum, why didn't he take that place in Keighley his friend had offered him? It would have been less remote and we wouldn't be living without an Internet connection, in a draughty old house with sloping walls and uneven floors.
And a cold spot on the stairs.
Because something really awful happened here…
Oh stop it! Just ignore it. Leave it alone. Nothing to do with you.
But once I started thinking about it, I couldn't tear my thoughts away again.
I didn't expect anything to happen. Not really. And I'd always been a bit…odd. Ever since I was a child, I'd sensed things other people couldn't. At least until it was shamed out of me at school. I'd almost forgotten about it until I'd woken up in hospital after the Accident. Whatever had switched my childhood stammer back on and killed my ability to read, had tuned that extra sense up to full intensity. There was no way I could pretend I didn't sense the Dead anymore.
And that cold spot on the stairs was like an itch in my mind. It felt as though it was going to creep up on me.
Stupid thought. Over reacting. Freaking out.
Silence. Loaded with expectation. I jerked myself back to the present. Why was everyone staring at me? Amy raised her eyebrows and jerked her head towards Dad. Crap, had he been talking to me? What did he say? Dad's brow knotted in irritation. He was clearly waiting for an answer. I had no idea what he'd said.
"Suh sorry, D-Dad, wuh wuh wha…?"
"I said have you set a meeting yet about going back to school in September to finish your A- levels? I also reminded you about helping with the flowers on Sunday." Dad's tone was laced with terrible patience. I simmered with resentment, keeping my face down. I hated it when people interrupted or finished my sentences. Like anything I had to say wasn't worth hearing because of the way I said it.
Fury tangled my tongue still further. I was choking on a reply when it hit me. When I was going back to school? Had Dad forgotten I couldn't read anymore? Couldn't read anymore yet, I amended fiercely. It would come back. It would. I glanced at my sisters. Grace had a smug expression on her face. Amy was anxious. Dad must be angrier than I’d thought. I seized on the least important part of his question.
"F-f-flowers?" That was the first I'd heard of it.
"Yes, flowers. For the church." Dad laboured each syllable as if I was mentally sub-normal. "Three ladies on the church committee arrange fresh ones on Sunday mornings before the service. Since you don't do the readings like Grace or Amelia, I've told Mrs Holden that you'll meet them at the church to help." Dad was drumming his fingertips on the table. Not a good sign.
Why did it have to be Sunday? I wanted to practise my music with Dad out of the way. I’d been counting on it. The thought had been keeping me sane through the whole horrible house-move. Now I would be walking into Arncliffe early on Sunday morning, to arrange flowers with old ladies. Fantastic. I wasn't sure I even believed in God but I was pretty sure if he did exist, he didn't need dying floral arrangements in a draughty stone building.
The part about reading stung. It wasn't like it was by choice. Even if I could still read, I'd never be able to stand up and read in church. By the time I'd stammered through the begettings and begottings, half the congregation would have died of old age. My cheeks heated at the unfairness of it. I darted a reproachful scowl through my hair at Dad. He misunderstood my expression.
"Don't worry. They know about your speech difficulties. They'll practise with you while you work. 8.00am at St Martin's then." His tone dismissed me.
He'd told them? My ears were burning now. Insensitive…git. How could he blurt out my problems to strangers? Strangers he was making me arrange flowers with. I forced myself to meet his gaze. Please look at me. See me. Please. I willed him to pay attention. Dad sighed and shook his head. Something he never did at Grace. Or Amy. As if his disappointment wasn't apparent enough every time he deigned to notice me.
I wanted to throw things. Instead, I sat in silence, boiling alive with resentment. I hated not being able to talk. Maybe it wouldn't matter if I was as mentally slow as most people assumed I was. Unfortunately, my brain was always about six gallops ahead of my mouth, which could never keep up.
I would die with so much left unsaid, that a post mortem to find the cause of death, would tumble all the words clogged up inside me out onto the mortuary floor. The morticians would be knee deep in un-used anecdotes and un-spoken insults. I would be the first person to die of enforced silence. I blinked hot, stinging eyes – no tears, as usual.
Grace smirked. That did it. I started clearing the table to get away from them. Even Amy – I couldn’t bear her sympathy right now. I heard Dad's study door close with a definite clunk. Parental duties over for the night then. A humourless smile tugged at my mouth. I wished again that Mum was here. I didn't know how to do this. It wasn't fair to rely solely on Amy. She needed a parent too.
I dumped the plates in the huge stone sink. The water was a rusty colour when I wrenched the tap on, then ran clear. My anger was ebbed away as I stacked the clean plates to dry. I was both sorry and relieved. Anger was exhausting but it was also armour against Grace's sly barbs.
Grace. That was the problem. The tipping point. Dad and I had never been particularly close. When he went off on his first tour of duty, I was too young to really bond with him. When he came home, I would run and hide behind Mum or clutch Grace's hand until I got used to him again. Grace had called me stupid, but held my hand and snuck me sweets anyway. Then Dad was sent to Iraq. When he came back, the laughing man who teased me out of my shyness was gone. Grace had held on to me then too. And that one time…that terrible afternoon when the vase had crashed to the floor. Shards glimmering with a milky sheen in a spray of sharp stars…the monster looming over me, a long leather strap dangling like a sinister snake. Screaming, and Grace leaping, leaping in the way…
I pressed my fingers against my eyes, breath hitching in my throat. Forget it. Forget. That was years ago. So what if Grace and I had been close once. Mum died and things broke. May as well face it. I'd lost my big sister.
Grace drifted past me and opened the kitchen door to the garden. I had the paranoid feeling that I'd somehow summoned her with my thoughts but she ignored me as if I was invisible. She left the door ajar. I was about to close it against the draught when I heard her cry out in surprise. Amy must have heard it too, because she glanced up from pan of milk she was warming on the range.
"What did Grace say? It sounded like 'go away'?" Amy said, puzzled.
I hadn't even noticed Amy come into the kitchen. I really needed some sleep. I shrugged in reply and we both darted out into the stunted orchard.
"Guh Grace?" I called.
"Oh shut up, Gremlin! I hate it when you stutter my name. You sound like porky pig." She cast a hunting glance into the darkness of the moor, behind the garden. "There's someone out there."
"No. Not a dog walker. A…a shape. A dark shape. Watching the house. Watching…me…" Grace trailed off.
Gooseflesh raced up my arms. The cold spot. This isn't safe.
"Wuh where?"
"There." Grace took my arm and pointed so definitely, I was sure she really had seen something. For a moment it seemed that there was a shape in the dark. A tall, masculine shape. No, not a man; a piece of darker darkness in the shape of a man.
We were being watched.
Cold nausea uncoiled in the pit of my stomach.
"Nothing there." Amy squinted into the dark. "Come on it's freezing. We should go in."
The skin on my neck felt horribly vulnerable when I turned my back on the moor. As we reached the kitchen door, I glanced at Grace again. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright.
"He wanted me." She murmured this so low I almost didn't catch it. "He wanted me."
I shuddered. Whatever was waiting in the dark, Grace wasn't scared of it. And she should be.
Somehow, I knew she should be.