Half Bad (21 page)

Nikita had been watching Bob’s place when Clay was there. She saw me and followed me. I didn’t notice her until she was standing in front of me. I bought her a hot chocolate.

Nikita’s real name is Ellen. Her eyes are amazing, like a sea, a clear, turquoise sea, currents of blue and green moving through them. She’s a Half Blood. Her mother was a White Witch and her father is a fain. Since her mother died, Ellen has been outside the witch community and pretty much ostracized by them. Her nearest relative on the witch side is her grandmother, who pretends she doesn’t exist. She lives with her father in London and says she goes to school “half the time.” She also says she’s sixteen, but I’m not sure, she looks younger.

She told me that Jim went to France and that she wanted to go with him but he said no. I told her a bit about myself. And about Arran, Deborah, and Gran, and Annalise. She agreed to help me get a message to Arran.

* * *

Ellen is waiting for me as we agreed. While I was meeting Trev she has searched the internet for information about Arran. There isn’t much, but his old school website has a small article about him winning a prize and going on to study medicine at Cambridge. We get the first train out of Liverpool that’s heading in that direction. It’s late by the time we arrive in Cambridge, and I tell Ellen she has to stay in a B&B for the night. She doesn’t look too happy when she realizes I’ll be sleeping rough, but the good thing about Ellen is that she quickly gets that there are some arguments she’s not going to win.

The next morning we meet up at nine. The B&B landlady has given Ellen a leaflet about Cambridge and a small map. Ellen says she’s going to suss the college out and see how many Hunters are around. She’s convinced there will be some watching Arran. We agree to meet up again in the evening.

* * *

“I saw one Hunter. She swapped over with her partner at four o’clock, so it looks like they’re watching Arran twenty-four seven, doing a twelve-hour shift each. If they believed you’d try to see him they’d have many more than that.”

I nod. I’m not going to try. I don’t want to give him any more trouble than I already have.

Ellen thinks the best time for her to see Arran is in the college dining room at breakfast. She thinks she’ll be able to sneak in and sit with him as his guest. The Hunters hang around outside the building, and Arran isn’t in their sight most of the time.

I give her a small picture that I’ve drawn. “He’ll know it’s from me.”

“Okay. But I’m going to take a photo of you as well.”

Oh.

“I’ll just show it to him on my phone. So he can see you. What you look like now. We could do a video.”

I shake my head. “A photo.”

“You could speak to him on the phone.”

I shake my head. I couldn’t.

* * *

I wait in a park where we have arranged to meet. I feel sick.

Ellen’s bright. She won’t mess up.

But I still feel sick.

* * *

It’s midday when I see her walking toward me. She’s smiling. A big smile.

“It worked fine. He looked a bit confused at first, but then I showed him your drawing and he was so happy. He kept smoothing his hand over it. He wanted me to send the photo of you to his phone but I said that was too dangerous. So he looked at it while we talked.

“He’s enjoying studying. He’s found his Gift, which is healing, but it’s not very strong. He misses home and Deborah. Deborah is living in Gran’s house. She has a boyfriend called David. They want to get married.”

“Married!”

“She wants children. Arran says David is great. He’s nothing to do with the Council or Hunters. He’s a White Witch, from Wales. He works as a carpenter. Arran said that you’d like him. Deborah has an office job in town. Arran says she’s happy there. He says to tell you that she has an amazing Gift.”

“What is it?”

“Well, I don’t really get it but it’s something to do with being good at paperwork. I’m not sure if he was joking.”

I don’t think he’d joke, but paperwork doesn’t make any sense.

“He said that your gran died three months ago, when Arran was home for the holidays. He said she went to bed saying that she was tired. She died in the night.”

“You asked him, didn’t you? Was it suicide?”

“I asked him. And he said he didn’t know. He said Deborah thought she might have taken one of her own potions.”

I know Deborah is right.

“Arran said that after you were taken the Council often called your gran down to London for questioning. He said she refused to answer anything.”

“They never questioned Arran?”

“He said not, but he’s not very good at lying.”

“And Deborah?”

Ellen nods.

“He said Hunters searched the house a few months ago. Deborah overheard them saying something about the ‘incompetents at the Council.’ They had a feeling that you had escaped.

“He asked what they did to you and where you were kept. I told him that I didn’t know. I told him you were well.”

“Thank you. You didn’t tell him about the tattoos?”

“No. You said not to.” She takes a breath and tries to smile. “I asked about Annalise too.” Ellen’s tone isn’t promising. “He’s never spoken to her since you left. Even at parties and weddings, he and Deborah aren’t allowed near her. He heard that she had a small Giving ceremony.”

She was seventeen last September. “She still goes to school, doesn’t she?”

“I didn’t ask that. I got the feeling he didn’t like talking about her.”

“Yeah, well. He disapproves of me and her.”

“Why?”

“He thinks I’m asking for trouble. Her family are very White, brilliant White. Pure as they come. Involved with the Council . . . Hunters.”

“She doesn’t sound your type.”

“She’s not like them.”

And she is my type, very much my type.

“You’re not thinking of going back to see her?”

I think about it a lot, though I know it would be stupid.

Ellen says, “I told Arran where I live in London. He said we should meet up, maybe. I thought that I could get messages to him for you. I’d be like the go-between.”

I don’t know. It might be better if I never contact them again. But if anyone could do it Ellen could.

I say, “Ellen, I don’t want to get you into trouble with the Council.”

“Ha! Too late for that.”

She gets out her mobile phone. “I took a photo of Arran. And a short video.”

I tell myself I’m not going to cry, not in front of Ellen, and I’m okay at first. Arran looks a little older, but his hair is the same. He’s pale, but he looks good. He tries to smile and doesn’t quite manage it. He tells me a little about what he’s doing at university, and about Deborah and David, and then he tells me how he’s missed me and wants to see me but knows it’s impossible. He hopes I’m well, really well, not just physically but inside myself too, and says he’s always believed in me and knows I’m a good person, and he hopes I can get away, that I must be careful whom I trust and that I must leave them all behind, how he and Deborah will be fine and will be happy knowing I am free and that is how he’ll think of me, happy and free, always.

I have to walk away for a bit after watching it. And I so want to see Arran for real and be with him, and I know I can’t. I can’t ever do that.

* * *

Later I thank Ellen for helping me. I’m not sure what else to do. I offer her some money, but she doesn’t want any, so we have fish and chips and sit in the park eating them. I tell her she has to go back to her dad, and she complains, but not much.

She selects a chip and asks me what I’m going to do next.

“Get three gifts.”

“You’re going to find Mercury, then.”

And I wonder about Ellen. “What do Half Bloods do, Ellen? Do they have Givings? Do they have Gifts?”

“They don’t have Givings unless the Council allows it, which only happens rarely and also means working for them in exchange for them allowing the ceremony. I’ll never work for the Council; they despise us. All witches do. But I’ve heard of a few Half Bloods in the past who have had Givings from their witch parent and have found their Gift. My gran’s too terrified of the Council to even see me; she’ll never help me.”

“So? What are you going to do? If you can’t get three gifts from your gran or the Council?”

“I don’t know yet. There’s always Mercury. But she’s the absolute last resort.”

“What do you know about her?”

“She’s a nasty piece of work. You shouldn’t trust her. Rumor has it she makes slaves of little girls. So I’m not racing over for her help just yet. You shouldn’t trust her.” Ellen picks a fat chip.

“I’m not a little girl.”

“She doesn’t make slaves of little boys, she eats them.” Ellen pops the chip into her mouth.

“You serious?”

Ellen nods and swallows. “That’s what I heard.” She selects another chip and looks up at me. “Not raw. She cooks them first.”

Geneva Airport. The journey here was stressful: working out how to get a flight, flying, and worst of all standing at Passport Control. Though my passport worked fine.

The instructions on the piece of paper Trev gave me say to be at the revolving glass doors at 11 a.m. on Tuesday. There are people walking in and out of the glass doors. People of all ages: business people with mini wheeled suitcases, air hostesses with micro wheeled suitcases, pilots with black-leather wheeled cases, holidaymakers with huge wheeled cases. Everybody is moving quickly, not really rushing, not in bad moods, just getting to where they are going.

And then there’s me, wearing sunglasses, a cap, an Arab scarf, fingerless gloves, a thick green army jacket, jeans, and boots, carrying my battered rucksack.

I don’t know what time it is but I’ve been here ages: it’s way past eleven o’clock.

A movement in the cafe to my right catches my eye. A young man in sunglasses waves me over.

I pick my way through the narrow gaps between the tables and stand opposite him. He doesn’t look up but swirls his half-full coffee cup around and drains it. He puts the cup in the saucer as he stands, grabs hold of my arm, and, moving fast, guides me through the revolving doors and into the next building, the train station.

We go down an escalator to Platform 4 and straight onto a train. It’s gloomy in here. The train’s a double-decker and we go upstairs, where he lets go of my arm. We sit on a sofa-style seat with a little round table in front of us.

My contact looks a year or two older than me, Arran’s age, I guess. His skin is olive, and he has shoulder-length wavy hair, dark brown with lighter streaks in it. He’s smiling, lips together, like he’s just heard a really good joke. He’s wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses with silver frames, almost identical to mine.

The train starts, and a few minutes into the journey a ticket inspector appears at the far end of the carriage. My contact goes downstairs and I follow. We stand by the doors. He’s slim, a tad taller than me and he doesn’t have the hiss of a mobile phone to him.

I think he might be a Black Witch. I want to see his eyes.

The train stops a minute later. It’s Geneva Central Station. My contact sets off fast, and I walk a step behind him.

We walk for an hour or so, always fast, but going back on ourselves quite a bit; I come to recognize a few shop windows and glimpses of the lake. We finally enter a residential area of tall apartment blocks and stop at a door in an old building much like all the others we’ve passed. The road here is quiet, a few parked cars, no traffic, and no other pedestrians. My contact pushes a number code into the entry system, saying to me, “9-9-6-6-1 . . . okay?”

And I say, “9-9-6-6-1, okay.”

He lets the door swing back hard in my face so that I have to stop it with a slam of my palm. I stride after him up the stairs, up and up, and up, and up, and up . . .

We continue to the sixth floor, the top floor, where the stairs come to an end at a small landing. There is one wooden door.

Once again there isn’t a key but a number code. “5-7-6-3-2 . . . okay?”

And he goes in and lets the door slam behind him.

I stand looking around. The varnish on the door is peeling, the landing is bare, the plaster is cracked, an old blackened cobweb hangs loosely in the corner. An empty silence hangs around too. There is no hissing.

He opens the door. “5-7-6—”

“I know.”

His smile has gone, but he still has his sunglasses on.

“Come in.”

I don’t move.

“It’s safe.”

He holds the door wide open with his back and repeats, “It’s safe.” He speaks quietly. His accent is strange. I think it must be Swiss.

I walk over the threshold and the door clicks shut behind me. I feel him watching me. I don’t want him there, behind me.

I wander around the room. It’s large, with a kitchenette in the right-hand corner: a few cupboards, a sink, an oven. Moving around I pass between the fireplace and a small, old sofa. There’s no carpet, but wooden floorboards stained dark brown, almost black, and three rugs of different sizes, all a sort of Persian design. The walls are painted a creamy color but there are no pictures or anything else, apart from a long smoke stain on the chimney-breast over the fireplace. It looks like a fire might be the only source of heat, and the slate fireplace contains a metal grate and some blackened logs. Next to it is a large pile of wood, a newspaper, and a box of matches. Moving left, I come to a small window that looks toward the lake and the mountains beyond. I can see blue water and a section of green-gray mountains. In front of the window is a wooden table and two old-style French cafe chairs.

“I left the window open when I went out. The fire keeps filling the room with smoke.”

He goes to the fireplace and starts to build a fire.

I watch.

He lights the pile of newspaper and it goes out.

“I want to see Mercury.”

“Yes. Of course.”

But he doesn’t stop messing with the fire.

“I don’t get the feeling that she’s here.”

“No.”

I go to one of the other two doors and open it. I can tell he’s stopped with the fire and is watching me. Inside the small adjoining room is a bed, a chair, and an old-fashioned wooden wardrobe.

“That’s my room,” he says, and walks past me to close the wardrobe door. There isn’t much to see. He hasn’t made his bed. There’s a book on the chair.

I lean against the doorway and say, “Good book?”

He gives me one of his smiles as he passes out of the room and goes to the other door.

“This is the bathroom.” He says it precisely, as if he has been practicing it. It’s bigger than his bedroom, with a central freestanding bath, a large white basin, and a toilet with a cistern above and a chain. Black and white tiles cover the walls and floor.

I look back at the apartment and say, “Am I supposed to stay here or something?”

“Until Mercury is ready to see you.”

“Which will be when?”

“When she thinks it’s safe.” He never sounds confident, but I think it might be because of his accent. Everything sounds like a question.

“I need to see her soon. There’s a deadline.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Do you work for her?”

He shrugs. “She asked me to meet you and stay with you until she’s ready to see you.”

I rub my face with my hands and look around the room, “I can’t sleep here, inside.”

“I’ll show you the terrace.”

He walks around the bath to a sash window and slides it up. I stick my head out and then climb through it. There is a small terraced area surrounded by four steep gray-tiled roofs of the building. It’s a private haven. The flat area is about the size of my cage, and I find I’m saying, “I’d like sheepskins.”

He nods and smiles, like he knows just what I mean, and says he thinks that he can get some.

* * *

I’m alone in the apartment. My smiling friend has gone out. I poke around all the cupboards and in his room, but there’s nothing much to see.

I check out the roof, scrambling up the steep slope to one side of the terrace. The roof descends precipitously on the far side and nothing would check a fall to the street six floors below. I walk along the ridge of the roof. To the side the gap to the next building is narrow, but it would be impossible to leap across to the roofs of the neighboring buildings, as they are taller. The back of the building is like the front. There is no fire escape. The terrace is a trap.

But I don’t have many options. It’s less than a month until my birthday, and I’ve nowhere else to go. I have to get three gifts or I’ll die, I’m sure of that now. I need Mercury.

* * *

The terrace turns out to be a good place to sleep, cut off from the wind and the road noise. I’ve pulled out two of the rugs to sleep on, and with my sleeping bag as well I’m warm. The sky is clear and the moon is full, so there’s no way I’m going back inside until morning.

The moon is high when my contact wakes me. He’s brought sheepskins. Six of them. They’re thick and clean and just about perfect when they’re laid out.

My contact sits on his haunches on the opposite side of the terrace from me. His legs are long, but I can see his thigh muscles are thick. His arms are folded and his head slightly on one side. He still has his sunglasses on, and his hair is tucked behind his ears.

I close my eyes. When I open them a few minutes later he has gone. He moves silently. I like that about him.

* * *

Morning. I lie here and get to know the place, see how the sky lightens with the dawn and deepens with the day. The sounds of the city are an inconsistent, muffled grumble. There’s a faint hiss from the building. My stomach starts making noises, and I can smell bread.

In the kitchenette my contact is leaning with his back against the unit, sunglasses still on.

“Breakfast?”

This is not what I expect from a Black Witch.

“I have croissants, brioche, rolls . . . jam. Orange juice. I’m making coffee, but I have hot chocolate too.”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

He smiles a huge smile, lots of regular white teeth. “What’s yours?”

I wander over to the chair and look out of the window. He lays the food on the table. The coffee is strong and milky, and he serves it in a bowl. He sits opposite me and dips his croissant in his coffee, and I copy. I’ve never had a croissant before. It’s okay. Celia wouldn’t approve.

He’s watching me the whole time, though all I see is myself in his mirrored glasses. His fingers are long and bony, pale really, considering his skin is olive. When he’s finished his croissant he rips a roll in half and from that rips a smaller piece. He cuts a section of hard, cold butter and puts it on the piece of bread. A perfect oblong of butter on a ragged piece of bread. He puts it in his mouth and chews, lips together, and all the time it’s as if he’s trying not to smile.

“You look pleased with yourself,” I say.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” He puts his hand up to his glasses and takes hold of them as if he’s going to take them off, but he doesn’t. “That sounds very English, doesn’t it? I’m very pleased to meet you, Nathan.”

And instantly I’m pissed off.

He laughs. “You’re funny, though. Very funny. I like you. You scowl like . . . it’s a proper scowl.” He laughs again.

I cut an oblong of butter. Then another. Then another.

“Why do you keep your gloves on?”

“Why don’t you take your sunglasses off?”

He laughs. Then he takes one of my pieces of butter and puts it on his bread. When he has finished eating he says, “I’m Gabriel.” He pronounces it funny.

“Gabrielle?”

He laughs again. “Yes, Gabriel.”

I put a section of butter on some bread and try it. It’s good, creamy.

“How come you know my name?”

He smiles. “Everyone knows your name.”

“No, they don’t.”

He sips his coffee and swirls it around and sips it again. “Okay. You’re right, not everyone. But all Black Witches in Europe, some Black Witches in the States, most White Witches in Europe . . . most White Witches everywhere. Few fains, though, very few fains.” He shrugs. “So . . . no, not everyone.”

And I see this famous person in his mirrored glasses looking back at me, not scowling but looking pretty miserable. I look away, out of the window to the distant section of mountains.

“Is it that bad, being Nathan?”

Every White Witch I have ever met has known who I was. One look at me and . . . it’s like I’ve got a big sign on my head. It seems it’s going to be the same in the world of Black Witches.

I turn back to him. “I’d prefer to be anonymous.”

“It won’t happen.” He’s pushing his hair back off his face but at least he’s stopped smiling. “Not with your father being who he is.”

And his father and his father and his father and his father . . .

“Who’s your father?” I ask. “Anyone I’d have heard of?”

“No, definitely not. And my mother . . . no again. Two very fine Black Witches, but not famous. When I say fine I mean . . . respectable . . . for Blacks. My father is living in America now. He had to leave after he killed my grandmother—my mother’s mother.” He shrugs. “I should explain that it was self-defense; my grandmother was attacking my father. It’s complicated . . . She blamed him for my mother’s death.” He swirls his empty coffee cup. “Anyway, they are not famous.”

“Violent, though.”

“In both violence and fame, your bloodline outdoes mine.”