Hidden Among Us (2 page)

And now I’m scared. So, so scared. Fourteen years isn’t enough.

I have to find a way of unravelling that curse, of cheating him – them. The Hidden.

His father.

I won’t let them have Lissy. I won’t let her go.

3

Fourteen years later

“Yes?” The librarian barely looked up from his computer; I got a prime view of his greasy thinning hair. I showed my Reader’s Pass: he had no choice but to help commit my crime. He wouldn’t know that until afterwards, though.

I handed over my request, written on a sheet of paper with the school letterhead. All I could do was hope that and the forged letter from the Head of History would be enough to impress the librarian. My heart rate accelerated.

When the librarian looked up, his expression was blank, all trace of emotion ironed from his face. “You do realize that we advise all researchers to inform us of their needs up to two hours before—”

I shrugged, carefully. Could he sense my panic? “Sorry.”

The librarian glanced down at his computer screen. “What you’ve asked for is restricted access, anyway.”

Frozen sweat spread across my back, between my shoulder blades. I tugged the counterfeit letter out of my back pocket and handed it over. My tormentor glanced at it, sighed, and at last, he got up out of his seat.

“If you’d like to follow me, sir.” Extremely sarcastic with the
sir
.

But inside I was punching the air. I’d done it. First stage complete. Now I just had to finish the job.

Stealing a priceless manuscript from one of the most famous institutions in the world.

I walked after the librarian, keeping my eyes on the back of his shirt. The faint dark sweat mark between his shoulders. Wrinkled trousers. Past rows of long dark wooden tables, walls lined with bookshelves – a chubby woman with glasses, head down. Some idiot in a tie-dyed t-shirt. So this was where all those awkward losers ended up: the ones who, unlike me, never learned to disguise their intelligence.

One step at a time.

The sheaf of yellowish paper was fragile – almost brittle – between my fingers. A jumble of black lettering.

I must have looked surprised because the librarian said, “It’s more of an obscure journal than a book.” He gave me a grey-lipped smile. “According to my records, this issue hasn’t been touched since 1917. Congratulations – in a few moments you’ll be the only living person on earth to know what the author knew.”

The only living person on earth. It was hot and stuffy in there but I felt cold, all the same. I would be sharing secrets with the dead.

“The Reading Room closes in two hours. Of course, you’re free to make notes. I’m sure I don’t need to point out to a young man from
your
school that annotating the manuscript itself is strictly forbidden.” One last sarcastic smile, and the librarian was gone.

I chose a seat furthest from the information desk and put on the latex gloves he’d given me, horribly slippery against my skin. I glanced down, allowing myself a look. The words flew out at me, stark and terrifying, releasing a wave of memories I wish I could have surgically removed. It’s still so clear after fourteen years.
My parents both crying, led away by policemen. The empty baby basket, and—

I forced myself to make sense of the letters on the page.

It is well known they take children, for what purpose only God can tell—

This was it. I’d found it. No time to read on. I had to get this over with. Get out of there.

I had no bag except a library-branded clear plastic carrier; my stuff was all waiting in the locker room downstairs, according to the strict regulations. That was OK. That was just fine. I didn’t need a bag. I picked up the manuscript, leaning back in my chair. Everyone else was busy reading. The tie-dyed guy stared off into space but towards the door, well away from me.

Now
. I had to do it now.

After fourteen years I was going to know for sure who they were. Why they took my sister. And if they were coming back.

Just as I was about to hide the journal, I saw that someone else had broken the rules, too.

There was writing in the bottom margin. Brown ink, sloping old-fashioned letters – no one writes like that any more: a hundred years old at least.

They will kill you—

Then I felt true cold fear, all right: an ice-cold hand taking hold of my guts and twisting.

What was it supposed to mean?
Who?

I slid the manuscript down between my tucked-in shirt and my skin and walked out of the Reading Room, through the British Library café – black smoked glass everywhere like some kind of low-grade club in Shoreditch – out past the lobby and down a flight of steps into the wild mad roar of the Euston Road: four insane lanes of lorries, cars, double-decker buses and lycra-wearing cyclists gambling with death. A bit like me.

And all this time, Lissy was running for her life and she didn’t even know it.

4

The house loomed up behind me, all rain-slick stone and glittering windows. Daylight was fading now, and the air felt like damp cold hands on my skin.

Out in the courtyard, Connie was crouched down by a puddle, bare feet in the water, bright red shorts and legs streaked with mud. Her hair was pinned back with a load of shiny clips that stood out bright against the grey evening; they were decorated with red plastic cherries, an orange pineapple. The overgrown cobblestones shone with wet.

“Connie!” I called. “Your mam’s looking for you.”

She turned and smiled, a jumble of white teeth. “All right. In a minute, Joe. Don’t worry about Mum. She’s just in a massive stress because of Lissy.” Connie reminded me of a puppy, loud and enthusiastic. “We were on our way to pick Lissy up when she texted and said she’d got on the train instead. I couldn’t believe it! We had to drive all the way here without her!”

“It’s not like she robbed a bank.” I was sort of intrigued by Connie’s sister and I’d not even met her yet.

“Mum was sooo cross.” By the look of it, Connie was half enjoying the scandal and half terrified by her sister’s crimes. Catching a train didn’t seem like a big deal to me, but I didn’t know the full story then. “Anyway,” she said, “have you met my friend?”

“What are you on about? There’s no one here.” I followed Connie’s gaze over to the tangle of undergrowth on the far side of the courtyard.

I’d been wrong: we weren’t alone.

There was this tall lass standing among the rain-drenched nettles and cow parsley. A wave of shock shot through my body. How could I not have seen her before? Long white hair coiled around her shoulders, even though she looked only a couple of years older than me, sixteen or so maybe. She smiled at us, just watching. She didn’t seem fussed about the rain or even seem to notice it, even though it was falling so heavily now her face was dripping.

She never took her eyes off me.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Connie said. “She said she’s a princess, and I believe her.” She laughed, like she knew it sounded daft.

The girl smiled at me again. My heart was hammering like a bloody train. There was something about her. She wasn’t just pretty. It was more than that – I couldn’t take my eyes off her, either. She looked amused and a bit thoughtful, and I’d got this bad feeling she was working out how to get one over on me. A bit like a cat teasing a mouse.

“Come inside, Connie,” I said again, deliberately looking away from the white-haired girl. The yard had gone very quiet. When me and Dad arrived, he’d pointed out a fledgling blackbird nosediving from the branches of an apple tree, and you could hear birdsong everywhere. Now it was silent, as if they’d all been switched off.

Which was creepy, to be honest.

“Come on!” I hissed at Connie, and she looked up, surprised at the panic in my voice. I was pretty surprised too – I just wanted to get away from that girl, and I couldn’t have said why if you’d paid me.

“All right, keep your hair on.” Connie got up, looking down at her soaked clothes, her mud-streaked legs, smiling. “Mum’s going to kill me – these shorts are new!” She ran over to the door, shivering theatrically and waving at the white-haired girl, who lifted one hand but said nothing. I turned back, screwing up the courage to tell her to get lost, but there was no one there. She’d gone. Just disappeared.

Lost in the rain.

I must’ve imagined the silence before, because now the yard was full of birdsong again – chattering starlings, even a cuckoo.

I followed Connie inside, walking quicker than I needed to, and as we came in I saw how thick the walls were here – nearly two feet of ancient stone. Were all medieval houses built like nuclear bunkers? Connie skipped off down the corridor leaving wet footprints on flagstones worn smooth by centuries of human traffic. I locked the back door behind us, just in case. The girl may have gone but what if she’d got mates nearby, looking for trouble?

Call me suspicious but you don’t just hang around in other people’s gardens.

That’s when I saw it: a patch of bare grey stone left in paint the colour of curdled milk, just above the door frame. It was the shape of a cross, as if a crucifix had hung there for years and years, since long before the walls were painted.

Whatever the reason, the cross was gone now. Dad had said the house was really ancient, that it used to be a priory hundreds of years ago till Henry the Eighth closed down all the monasteries.
It’s probably haunted,
I told myself.
Headless monks and all that stuff
. Then I told myself not to be an idiot, and wondered again what I was going to do with myself for a whole week. There was no TV: even the radio didn’t work. What did Miriam’s stepbrother
do
here all the time? Dad said he didn’t even have a job, and muttered something about inherited money. So far, the only sign of his existence was a battered old estate car parked on the drive and a dusty bottle of champagne in the fridge with half an inch left in the bottom, which made Miriam tut and shake her head.
Don’t worry about Miles,
she told me and Dad.
He’s a bit eccentric. More like bloody rude,
I thought, but I’d the sense not to say it.

We’d only just arrived. I was bored out of my brain already.

Connie had left the kitchen door open – I could hear her chatting to Dad – but there was another door off the stone-flagged corridor. This one looked much newer, with peeling white paint, glass panels and a pitted, tarnished brass handle. I pushed it open, thinking that maybe I could kill a couple of hours exploring the house – it was big enough: a great rambling sprawly place, all black and white timbers, windows in odd places, and gloomy panelled rooms. I didn’t fancy reading, and I’d broken a guitar string so couldn’t even do any practice till we’d found the nearest music shop.

I found myself in an old lean-to built against the side of the original house. There was a battered, stained table with a jackknife on it, and a dirty sink with a load of manky feathers blocking the plughole. Someone had been gutting pheasants by the look of it – illegally shot, because it wouldn’t be the shooting season for another few months. They were still breeding.
Grandad wouldn’t approve,
I thought. He was retired now but still read
Modern Gamekeeping
every month. I looked around the room, feeling uneasy. There was a lot here Grandad wouldn’t like: next to a pair of mud-spattered boots, a wooden cabinet leaned drunkenly by the cobwebby window, the door swinging open. I went over and shut it, turning the rusty key. What about Connie? You’d have to be brain-dead leaving a gun cabinet unlocked, especially with a kid in the house. It made me feel nervy, like the Reach was a dangerous place. Hanging on the wall beside it was a collection of what looked like torture instruments, all springs and horrible steel jaws. Gin traps, designed to catch and mutilate poachers. Grandad had one in his shed.
Evil things,
he’d once told me.
They’ll maim a man for life, not to mention the kiddies that used to get trapped in them by mistake. It’s a good thing they were banned
.

I couldn’t help shivering, like someone had just dropped a handful of snow down my back. Unsecured shotguns, illegal traps.
It’s not safe here
. I wanted to turn round, go into the kitchen and find Dad. Get back in our car and just drive away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” A harsh, upper-class voice: angry.

I spun around, feeling really guilty, like I was a trespasser, not just an unwilling guest. The stranger was wearing a battered old jacket patched with gaffer tape, and had a soggy roll-up hanging out the corner of his mouth. He looked older than my dad, grey-haired and pale as cheese, but there was something hawkish and dangerous about him. His fingers were covered in blood.
Christ
.

“What do you want?” he snapped. “This is a private house.”

So this was Miriam’s stepbrother, the bloke who owned this place: Miles, a stupid posh-sounding name. What a charmer.

“I’m here with Miriam.”

He frowned and lit a match, holding it to the end of his roll-up, watching me all the time. His eyes were a weird shade of pearly grey, like the sky just after it’s pissed it down. He blew out a cloud of rank smoke.