The Bone Dragon (20 page)

It’s all stuff we’ve done before, of course, just not for a while, because of the ribs. But it’s more than that. It’s not that I mind doing the things that Phee and Lynne like or that they never do anything I want when we go out together . . . But today is all about what I enjoy. It’s all about me. And not for any special reason, like it’s my birthday or something, but just because. Just because they want me to be happy.

Outside my house, they both hug me, seemingly without care, but I don’t have to remind them not to press on my ribs.

It’s a perfect day.

They both twist around in the back seat to wave as Phee’s mum drives off, leaving me on the garden path. Amy already has the door open to welcome me home. I stand for a moment, taking in her smile. Right now I am happy and lucky and my ribs don’t hurt and the world is wonderful. I walk up the path into a house full of people who love me.

Uncle Ben challenges me and Paul to Monopoly. We gang up on him, but it doesn’t help. With defeat in sight, I abandon the game and go into the kitchen to help Amy with dinner. I find her opening what looks like a small cardboard tissue box and taking out something that looks like a plastic bag gone wrong.

‘I was just going to call you,’ she says. She laughs when she sees me staring dubiously at the things on the table. ‘Disposable plastic gloves,’ she explains, holding one up by the fingers. ‘And no, they’re not for dinner. Remember Dr Barstow gave us a prescription for an anaesthetic cream to help with the aches once your wound was healed up? Well, I picked it up this afternoon and the pharmacist said we’d need gloves because the effects are cumulative. I don’t think either of us really wants to gradually numb our fingers along with your ribs.’

I pick up the leaflet Amy has spread out on the counter.
Capsaicin cream
, I read, wondering how it’s pronounced, as I pull a glove out of the packet and wriggle my hand into it. ‘It says it’s made from chillies: actual chilli peppers.’

Amy squeezes a little dollop onto the tip of my finger. ‘Now, don’t get it on the scar itself,’ she cautions and we both bite our lips as I rub the cream into my skin. It’s disappointingly white for something made from chillies; we exchange a sceptical look as I pull my top back down and start to rinse the glove under the tap.

‘Just throw it away, darling,’ Amy says. ‘There’s a hundred in the box so we might as well start afresh each time, just in case.’

‘The leaflet says I need to “apply two or three times per day”. I’ll do it down here in the mornings, but is it OK if I take some of the gloves upstairs so I can put it on again at night?’ I ask, gingerly stretching a fresh glove.

‘So long as you’re careful, darling,’ Amy says.

By the time I return from taking the cream and extra gloves upstairs, the kitchen is glorious with the fragrance of ginger, garlic and spring onions.

‘Bruise the lemongrass stalks,’ Amy reads, squinting at the recipe book as she passes the packet absently to me.

I take the meat tenderiser to them and bash happily away, breathing in the clean citrus perfume with relish as I reduce the stems to mush (I’m nothing if not thorough when a recipe invites me to crush something).

‘That’s probably enough, darling,’ Amy suggests as she peers down at the spatter on the chopping board.

Her tone heralds a tentative question about what’s bothering me and usually this would make me roll my eyes but smile all the same. Today I know I am going to snap instead. I haven’t finished obliterating the lemongrass and I don’t have any intention of talking about what’s really on my mind.

‘Ms Winters wants me to think about goals,’ I say before Amy can open her mouth.

As I hoped, she looks relieved, taking this to mean I’m just feeling a little pensive, and resumes her chopping, though her eyes flick over to me with every few beats of the knife against the board. ‘And what do you think?’

I shrug and slouch against the counter, then sigh and move to start separating the coriander leaves from the stems. ‘Today was brilliant. Can I have a goal that I always have really good friends that will do things like this for me?’

Amy smiles. ‘That’s a very wise goal, Evie.’

I wrinkle my nose, then stop myself from saying something snotty. ‘I’m really happy now,’ I say. ‘I’ve got you and Paul and Uncle Ben . . . and I’ve got Phee and Lynne. And I came top in history last week and the only thing I’m rubbish at is Mrs Poole’s sewing projects and I don’t care about that anyway since none of it counts towards my coursework portfolio. I don’t really know what I want apart from keeping things the way they are and doing well in my GCSE modules . . . until A-levels and university, I mean. But right now . . . right now things are good, you know? I’ve got everything I really want.’

Amy has stopped chopping. I look at her hands, rather than her face, because I know what sort of expression she’ll have and it’ll just be embarrassing to see it.

‘I love you so much, Evie,’ Amy says, because Amy says stuff like that. Right out. No mucking about.

I stare at the mushrooms she’s just finished slicing. ‘I know,’ I say because I know that Amy will get what I am really saying.

‘Maybe I should develop a yearning for a sports car anyway,’ I say. ‘Just so I’ve got something to tell Ms Winters.’

Amy laughs and sets to work on the pak choi.

We have work to do
, says the Dragon when I open my eyes in the dark.

The urgency tumbles me out of bed. I am hurrying so much I nearly fall as I rush down the garden wall. I stumble to one knee, locking my fingers into the channels between the bricks and swaying as I struggle not to topple off. The Dragon hisses, a little spitting sound of fear and anger. I kneel there, even when I know I won’t fall, panting, letting my heart rate ease. Finally, I rise again, but slowly, wavering with the rush of expended adrenalin. I make my way cautiously down to the ground.

We’re silent all the way through the woods, along the towpath and then out on to the street.

It’s cloudy tonight, the air heavy with dew. Fallen leaves make the pavements treacherous and slimy.

‘Where are we going?’ I whisper. ‘There’s nothing pretty down this way. It’s just houses.’

The Dragon does not reply.

We turn down an alley and emerge on to a track along the back of a street of terraced houses. When the Dragon starts to creep down my arm, I stop and stare into a carefully manicured garden with precisely cut flower-beds and neatly trimmed shrubs, and there, leaning carelessly up against the wall of the house, is Sonny Rawlins’s shiny new top-of-the-range mountain bike.

It’s padlocked to the drainpipe, but honestly – like that’s going to stop anyone. I mean, I don’t padlock my bike, but then no one can see into our garden because of the trees. And even if they could, I keep my bike hidden in the gap between the shed and the fence. But of course Sonny Rawlins would want
his
bike on display.

‘What are we doing here?’ I hiss at the Dragon, as it seats itself regally in my palm.

You have meat in your pocket
, says the Dragon.

I stare stupidly into the smug, upturned face.

Take the meat out of your pocket
, the Dragon insists.

I reach into the left pocket of my jacket, then the right, before realising what the Dragon is talking about: I’d completely forgotten about the half-eaten hamburger from yesterday.

I take it out wonderingly, nonplussed at the thought that dragons might like hamburger as much as humans. Somehow I’d never imagined that. Grimacing at the stale bread and the slightly grey cast to the meat, I fumble the napkin open one-handed so that I don’t have to upset the Dragon’s comfortable position, but the Dragon leaps from one palm to the other . . . and starts to tear into the hamburger: squeezing the day-old meat between its talons, coating its feet and legs and tail with it.

You will help me to wash later
, the Dragon tells me, conveying serious disgust.

I just stare.

Now put the rest away
.

Then the Dragon gathers its haunches, wriggling like a cat does just before it pounces, and launches itself into the air. It alights neatly on the back tyre of Sonny Rawlins’s bike.

I stand frozen by the garden gate. I daren’t call the Dragon back, but neither do I dare to climb over the gate to join it.

The Dragon turns to regard me solemnly, chest pushed out proudly. Then it smiles a smile full of needle-sharp teeth . . . and sinks them into the tyre. And again. And again. Then the front tyre. Then it swarms up to the handlebars, needle-sharp claws clicking softly on the metal as it scratches through the paintwork. It sinks its teeth into the brake-line before climbing on to the gearbox and fishing about in one of the little openings, just like Phee’s cat did the time it brought a mouse into the house then let it go and it ran under the piano.

‘Quick, quick . . . Let’s go. Let’s go,’ I whisper to myself, my blood thrumming so hard and fast that I have to hold on to the gate to keep my balance.

The Dragon extracts its claws from the gearbox, takes a moment to sink its teeth into a cable emerging from the box. Then, before I realise it’s all over, the Dragon is sailing back towards me.

But suddenly it is changing direction, diving on to a black rubbish bag scrunched down beside one of those grey-green wheelie bins. I watch the Dragon tear into the bag, tear and tear until the ground is littered with little scraps of black plastic and rubbish.

Finally, the Dragon comes soaring towards me again. I reach out my hand. As soon as the Dragon’s claws touch my fingertips, I am running, running back down the track to the alley and out on to the street. But I have to stop before I’ve gone more than a hundred paces. I turn into another little snicket and gasp for breath. The Dragon scrambles on to my shoulder while I press my fist against my chest and try to make my breaths shallow. Bile floods into my mouth and I have to cough, cough and spit on to the ground against the urge to throw up.

It is too soon to be running
, the Dragon says solemnly.
In any case, there is no need. That also is part of our contract. I shall not put you in any true danger
.

I want to ask what contract the Dragon keeps talking about, because I don’t remember agreeing to anything, but I am finally getting control of the nausea and don’t want to risk setting it off again by speaking just yet.

We will go down to the river
, the Dragon says.
Tonight’s venture has been most successful. Now you must grow calm again so that you may sleep
.

There are bats out tonight: jagged little shadows darting through the air above the riverbank, diving around like swallows. We sit on the edge of the tumbledown wall along our section of the canal and stare at the sluggish water. Suddenly there is a flurry of movement and the bats dive away.

A fox emerges from the reeds on the far bank. He turns to regard me and I almost think he winks at me. Perhaps he would grin too if not for the sad little vole hanging from his mouth. The fox pads off into the brambles.

There
, says the Dragon.
When you hunt wisely, there is no need to run afterwards
.

‘The fox wouldn’t need to run anyway,’ I counter, rubbing grumpily at the ache in my chest. ‘It’s so much bigger and stronger than everything else on the riverbank.’

It would not matter against a mink, boiling black and frenzied, attacking from behind. Mink are not so large, but they are savage creatures. And they are also very cunning. They plan and follow and wait. They have all the determination in the world
.

‘You think I shouldn’t have needed you to get back at Sonny Rawlins,’ I sigh.

The Dragon sinks its claws into my thigh.
No!

It’s not an exclamation or a protest, not a shout, but there is something urgent and intense in the word.

I stare down into the Dragon’s eyes, reflecting the night mist above the river so that the blackness of the huge pupils seems to swirl like oil on dark water.

I am your Protector
, says the Dragon.
That is the heart of our contract. I have come to you so that you will be free.

I rub at the bridge of my nose. In the wake of the running, I’m getting a horrible headache. ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about. What contract? Free from what?’ I snap.

You
wished
me
, the Dragon says.
You made a contract when you wished me just as I am: a small wish for such a powerful token. Neither more than you needed nor less.

I suppose it’s natural that dragons talk in riddles. Just like it’s a relief to know that they don’t actually like day-old hamburger: it wouldn’t be very dragonly. But the whole ‘riddle me this’ thing is very annoying sometimes.

‘I don’t
understand
,’ I say.

The Dragon regards me steadily.
That, too, is part of the contract
.

I roll my eyes skywards and blow out a sigh that turns into a cough that kicks my headache up to migraine proportions. ‘I give up.’