The Bone Dragon (13 page)

I summon a slightly watery grin. ‘Fat chance,’ I retort, and my tone is only a hair’s breadth from cheerful.

Uncle Ben rolls his eyes, only overdoing it very slightly, and grins back as he reaches out to stop me turning the page. ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ he reads.

I glare at the caption but, canting my head to the side, I’m relieved to find I don’t get why the statue in the photo is Alice at all. It’s a lovely thing but I’d have to hate it even so if I saw Alice in it.

It’s of a girl. She’s just flung a skipping rope up above her head. Somehow the odd bit isn’t that her hands and hair are dissolving into flowers, or that the top of her dress has faded away, leaving her naked to the waist. The really strange bit is that she doesn’t look like she’s jumping at all. She’s leaning, tilting, as if there is a strong wind blowing. And although her face has no features, there’s something intent about the angle of her head, the way it’s turned, as if everything is deliberate. As if she has planned it all, this strange, frozen moment: she hasn’t been caught unaware in a moment of play by the sculptor. No, she’s picked this. And I like that: that she’s the one who’s decided how she’ll be seen.

It’s spoilt by the stick jutting up to her right. I’m pretty sure it’s meant to be a crutch and I hate it. I wish I could reach into the picture, tear it out and throw it away. I don’t know whether it’s there to show she doesn’t need it – that she’s in control – or whether it’s there because really she’s falling, tilting sideways and falling, and help is just out of reach.

We both start when the doorbell chimes. I’d forgotten that it’s Ms Winters’s day to come over. Uncle Ben trails after me as I hurry to let her in.

‘Uncle Ben bought me the best present,’ I tell her by way of introduction as I take her coat.

‘Don’t mind me,’ he says, smiling as he lounges in the doorway. ‘I’ve been promising Amy I’d look at that computer of hers, so I’ll stay out of your hair.’

Ms Winters turns to greet him, putting out her hand politely . . . Only something funny happens then. She stops, with her hand not quite outstretched, just a few inches too far away for a comfortable handshake. There’s something like surprise on her face, a sudden intensity in her eyes. Uncle Ben’s usual easy grin is gone. He has that look you get when you reach the bottom of a staircase only somehow you don’t see the last step and end up not quite falling when the ground isn’t where you expect it to be. For a minute I think they know each other, but it’s not that. It’s something like recognition but . . . not. Then it’s gone, and they both step forwards to close the distance so they can shake hands.

And it should be perfectly normal, only there’s something odd in Ms Winters’s voice – just a hint of something I can’t put my finger on – though all she says is ‘Nice to finally meet you.’

‘Yes. Right. Well, I should leave you to it,’ Uncle Ben says, and there’s something almost sheepish in his tone.

‘I’ll get you some tea first,’ I say. ‘Come on.’ And I lead the way into the kitchen, watching over my shoulder as Ms Winters steps back to let Uncle Ben go first, just as he does the same. They both laugh awkwardly as Uncle Ben puts out his hand, gesturing for her to go ahead.

‘So why the present?’ Ms Winters asks. ‘I thought your birthday was in March, Evie.’

‘It is,’ I say, fetching down a third mug and clicking the kettle on. ‘But Uncle Ben spoils me all year round.’

Uncle Ben smiles, rocking back then forwards on his heels. ‘Well, it’s not
spoiling
exactly when it’s a book. An art book.’

‘He’s working on his excuse for Amy,’ I tell Ms Winters.

‘My sister has a
lot
of rules,’ Uncle Ben tells her in a stage whisper.

Ms Winters’s smile is warm, her eyes almost tender as she says, ‘I can’t imagine they apply when you’ve found something so wonderful. I mean,’ she adds quickly, ‘it’s always so valuable to encourage an interest in art.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you ladies to your tea and studies,’ he says, tousling my hair. ‘See you in a bit.’

But when I glance up from drawing my chair in close to the table, it’s to find that Uncle Ben is still standing in the doorway with a faintly puzzled look on his face and his head slightly cocked to one side. And suddenly I wonder if they have met before. After all, I suppose Uncle Ben – and Paul and Amy – are victims of a sort . . . Could Uncle Ben have gone to Ms Winters’s charity for advice? It’s not impossible, I realise. It’s not impossible at all, though I’d never thought about it like that before.

Then Uncle Ben seems to shake himself. He tosses me a grin and whistles his way nonchalantly upstairs.

‘He seems very fond of you,’ Ms Winters says. ‘It’s obviously been a good day, but how about your week as a whole?’

And my good mood is gone just like that. ‘I hate Sonny Rawlins,’ I say, practically spitting out the name. I know I shouldn’t really talk to Ms Winters about Sonny Rawlins since she teaches him too, and I don’t want to be a tattle-tale, but . . . ‘He’s been throwing eggs at our front door. Putting leaves and stuff through the letter-box. I know it’s him. I saw him riding off on that stupid, fancy new mountain bike of his last week, and a few days ago too. Next time I catch him, I’m going to chuck something back. Like a brick.’

Ms Winters frowns. ‘No bricks, Evie. It’s not a good idea. You don’t want to end up in trouble.’

I slump forwards with a sigh, resting my chin on the book and staring at the wall. ‘I’m not telling you so you’ll sort him out, you know. Just . . . You know how horrid he is, so you understand. So we can talk about it, can’t we? Just between the two of us?’ I ask, turning to look at her.

Ms Winters smiles down at me. ‘Just between us, Evie,’ she promises. ‘And I appreciate that, you know.’

I wrinkle my nose and turn back to glaring at the wall, but I don’t do a very good job of the glare because I’m smiling too much, gathering the pride and fondness in her voice to me.

‘Have you told Amy and Paul it was Sonny?’

I shrug, sighing. ‘They say I can’t be sure it’s him just from his back and his bike. But I know it is. He hates me even more than I hate him.’

Ms Winters settles back into her chair. I wonder if she knows that she always wriggles a bit when she does that. ‘Why do you think Sonny has singled you out?’

‘He hates me,’ I correct. ‘He really does. Why else would he do something like that?’

Ms Winters shrugs. ‘Boys your age can be very funny, you know. They do all sorts of nasty things for no apparent reason whatsoever. Have your neighbours been having the same problems?’

‘No.’

Ms Winters’s mouth flattens into a line and I can see she’s persuaded that the eggs and leaves thing is personal.

‘Why do you think Sonny has singled you out?’ she asks.

‘He’s nasty to all of us – to Lynne and Phee as well – but mostly to me. And it’s not just in my head: Phee and Lynne say so too. Lynne says that one of her brothers was a bit like that with a girl he liked, but none of us thinks that Sonny Rawlins could possibly like me like that.’ I pull a face. ‘Besides, I’d rather he hated me. He’s just horrible. Yuck. Wouldn’t want him liking me.’ I don’t have to force the shudder of disgust that ripples through me.

Ms Winters is smiling. Just a little, but knowingly. And I wonder if maybe she’s trying to demonstrate a normal response to Sonny Rawlins’s awfulness: a condescending amusement for how stupid he is. If so, it’s not helping. I still want to rip his throat out.

From my first day at school – midway through the Autumn Term – he’d stared at me. That look – part speculation, part appraisal, and just a little greed – followed me silently down corridors, prickled between my shoulder blades in the classroom, refused to leave me when I glared in return. We hardly spoke those first few weeks, or after the Christmas holidays, until Valentine’s Day revealed Sonny Rawlins behind the door of my locker, holding out a bunch of flowers. I took them automatically. Stupidly.

‘Do you know what they’re called?’ he asked, smirking.

My gaze dropped to the flowers in my hand and suddenly I remembered the one positive thing I knew about Sonny Rawlins: that his mother was a garden designer. And, just for a moment, I thought about the fact that he had been brought up by a woman who loves flowers. And so, just for a moment, I wondered if I had been misreading those looks.

His self-satisfied words rang in my ears:
Do you know what they’re called?

‘Yes,’ I told the flowers. ‘Yes, I know what they’re called.’

I looked up with a smile. And threw the flowers in his smug, expectant face. ‘You can have your deadly nightshade back, thank you
very
much.’

‘Wait! No . . .’

But I spoke over him, raising my voice so that the whole corridor could hear. ‘You’ll have to try harder than that,’ I sneered, ‘if you want to make me look even half as stupid as you are. As if I’d want flowers from
you
anyway!’

Sonny Rawlins’s face grew red with rage and humiliation, and for a moment I was stunned to see his eyes full of hurt. Full of tears.
He must have been planning this for weeks, for months perhaps
, I realised: the perfect trick to play on the clever new girl. Step One: give her flowers on Valentine’s Day. Make her think that she is admired. Step Two, watch her bashful pleasure.

Then Step Three: shout to the whole school that the flowers are poisonous, just like she is, making a fool of her in front of everybody. He must have dreamt of the moment, rehearsing his triumph over and over . . .

And then I beat him at his own game, in the one area where he might be expected to know more than I did.

Half the school saw it: Sonny Rawlins fighting back tears of fury, utterly routed by the quiet, clever new girl. And I smiled as I watched all his planning go to waste, all his delicious anticipation turning to shame. After all, I thought, why shouldn’t I enjoy turning his own malice back on him, making him his own victim? Why shouldn’t I revel in my little moment of triumph? Because I hadn’t escaped Fiona and her parents to become Sonny Rawlins’s plaything.

‘Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lynne turns out to be right,’ Ms Winters says, jolting me out of the memory. I stare blankly into her face, retrospectively processing her words.

I wonder for a moment if she’s going to say something more. But she looks away and doesn’t. I can’t imagine Sonny Rawlins ever said anything nice about me, let alone about fancying me, to her – or to anyone else for that matter – so she can’t have overheard anything . . . but Ms Winters doesn’t miss much. And she knows how to understand what you mean, rather than what you say or do. That’s the heart of the reason I talk to her: I don’t have to say things for her to hear them.

I sigh. ‘It still doesn’t change the fact that he really does hate me, and I hate him back. I wish he’d just die. People have all sorts of horrible accidents all the time. Why can’t Sonny Rawlins be one of them?’

Ms Winters clearly takes this as a joke since the next thing she says is ‘Perhaps Amy and Paul should have a little talk with his parents since he’s bothering you at home. Do you want me to suggest it to them for you?’

‘No,’ I say sulkily. ‘He lives two streets away. He’ll just be even worse than before.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Ms Winters says. ‘I’ve met his family a few times and they seem like nice enough people.’

I shrug, thinking about sports days and parents’ evenings. ‘I guess,’ I say unenthusiastically. ‘He doesn’t make a prat of himself when they’re around.’ But then I think back to the school fair Ms Winters organised for her charity the summer before last. When the parents had retreated to the tea-tent, Lynne, Phee and I had gone to find Jenny, who’d won the ‘Guess the number of Smarties in a jar’ competition; instead, we found Sonny Rawlins and Fred, and ended up running squealing from them as they threw handfuls of gravel at us.

And yet Sonny Rawlins has a mother who loves flowers and cares about growing beautiful things, like Amy. Who knows the names of all the plants and when they bloom, like Paul. Who can point to all the special little things about each that you only notice if you look really close, like I can after nearly four years with Amy and Paul. But what did Sonny Rawlins learn from his mother? How to try to hurt people with flowers: how to see the poison in them.

‘Well, why don’t you have a little talk about it with Amy and Paul, then we can discuss it again next week,’ Ms Winters says. ‘For now, how about we focus on what you can do to stop Sonny upsetting you so much?’

‘Uncle Ben had some wonderful suggestions. He said we could make a trap. Like a snare for a rabbit,’ I say, sitting up so that I can gesture. ‘You know, one of those things that hoik people up in the air so they end up upside down. Or something that launches rotten eggs back if something hits the front door. Like a catapult.’

‘Your postman might not like that too much if he set it off by accident,’ Ms Winters says, looking as if she wants to laugh.

‘I know. Uncle Ben said that too. But he said we could have it so that we only set it after the post comes and then we can unset it at night. Anyway, he said the best option would be something like a crossbow that fired a water balloon filled with washing-up liquid. Because washing-up liquid’s so slimy and if you get lots of it on you it takes ages to wash off because you just foam. Can you imagine Sonny Rawlins foaming all the way through school and going to the loo to try to wash it off and just foaming even more?’ I ask, giggling. ‘Even without the catapult, I’m thinking that could be a good idea. Only it might be difficult to carry a balloon with enough washing-up liquid around in my pocket. And if I put it in my bag it might burst. Uncle Ben says he’ll see if he can come up with a good solution so I can go armed if necessary.’

‘Your Uncle Ben seems like a wonderful man,’ Ms Winters says with a warm smile.

As soon as she says it, we both realise how unexpected the words are: oddly tender, wistful, as if she is lonely for kindness.

‘You must be very glad to have him to cheer you up and bring you such lovely books,’ Ms Winters says quickly, her tone firm and encouraging, all of that soft yearning gone out of her voice. Her eyes go to the book.