The Bone Dragon (27 page)

‘I know exactly how strong she is, Ben,’ Paul says and I’ve never heard him so angry. ‘And don’t you
dare
tell me that Evie shouldn’t be protected.’

‘Not from life, Paul,’ Uncle Ben says quietly.

Paul sighs. ‘We don’t cosset her. Not really. I know Amy seems like she does, but she tries, Ben, she really does try to give Evie her space and the right amount of freedom. We’re
careful
about that.’

Now it’s Uncle Ben’s turn to sigh. ‘I know, Paul. I know how well you both look after Evie. I’m just saying that maybe she’d like to do just a little bit of looking after in return. Maybe you shouldn’t deny her that opportunity.’ Paul draws in an audible breath, but Uncle Ben speaks over whatever it was he was going to say. ‘But I’ve said enough about it. Let’s just enjoy our beer and our success. And then perhaps we’ll even think about enjoying a bit of sleep!’

Paul gives an awkward laugh but it’s enough for them to lapse into relatively comfortable silence, though they linger over their absurd celebration only long enough to tip back the last of their beers. Soon Uncle Ben is closing the gate behind him and Paul is relocking the back door. When the light goes out in the kitchen, I scramble to my feet and race up the garden, on to the table, on to the wall. Then I lean down and wipe my sleeve across the surface to remove the muddy footprints. Finally, I climb back up to my room, pausing halfway through the window. My hair is wet and slimy against my cheek, dripping mud down the side of my neck. My whole front is wet through to the skin.

The Dragon leaps from my shoulder to the dresser, flicking its tail so that a little glob of mud spatters against the mirror. I sit down on the window sill and take off my shoes one at a time, cleaning them on the rag in my pocket before tossing them into the corner. Then I pull off my socks and lob them towards the clothes hamper. Next, I wriggle out of my jeans, giving myself a moment of heart-stopping fear as I nearly overbalance and topple backwards out of the window. I roll the jeans into a ball and set them down next to me, then ease off my coat, turning it inside out before I drop it on to the floor. My jumper and T-shirt follow. Shivering, I fetch the bottle of water from my cupboard, stick my head out of the window and start trickling it over my filthy hair, running my fingers through the strands to coax the mud out.

By the time I have towelled my hair off with my discarded T-shirt and pushed the bundle of wet, muddy clothing into my hamper, I am shaking almost convulsively, my teeth chattering so hard my jaw aches. The Dragon watches me silently as I wriggle into my nightie and dressing gown, then pull the duvet up around myself. I huddle against the headboard, arms locked across my chest and hand splayed across my ribs as if I can push the pain down deep enough for it to dull.

‘So now we know,’ I whisper into the darkness.

There is a funny sensation, like someone drawing a circle on my kneecap. When I look down, the Dragon is prowling in a tight circle, just like cats do before they settle. Finally the Dragon stops and sinks its claws down through the duvet to brush my skin.

Sometimes what you want is not what you need
, the Dragon says.

‘Very original,’ I sniff.

Sometimes
, the Dragon continues, unruffled,
what you think you want is not what you truly want at all
.

‘What I want is for you not to speak in riddles the whole time. We’ve passed the point when it seemed clever and reached the bit where it’s just tedious,’ I retort. I feel my mouth start to quiver.

I try not to think of Paul and Uncle Ben clinking their beer bottles together, celebrating their bravery in the face of danger.

This was neither what you wanted nor needed
, the Dragon says.
It was merely an easy thing to hope for. What would it really have solved?       

‘Everything!’ I hiss. ‘Everything.’

The Dragon stares at me impassively.
You already know you are loved. You know that your family would move heaven and earth to protect you from any present danger. No, you are not truly sorry about what we have learnt tonight
.

The Dragon is right, of course. I didn’t want Paul and Uncle Ben to do something awful. It would have ruined them inside . . . But if they had, they would have
understood
so very many things . . . Only then they would have been like me. Like me and Fiona and Fiona’s parents. Not entirely, of course. But a bit. And I could never want that.

Only sometimes I do. Sometimes it feels like Amy and Paul and Uncle Ben and Ms Winters and Phee and Lynne are so different I must be one of those changeling creatures from a fairy tale. And I’m glad, glad, glad that my life with Fiona’s parents hasn’t reached out to touch Paul and Uncle Ben and paint them with darkness, but still . . .

‘What do you know?’ I ask the Dragon, thinking my voice will be rough with anger. Instead, the words come out all bloated around a sob of jealousy so strong it is fury because I want to be disdainful over Paul and Uncle Ben’s pitiful triumph: their self-important schemes, their ‘courage’ in photographing a couple of drunken yobs. But I can’t. I can’t, I can’t. I want to fill my head with mocking words, but instead there is seething, wild rage and envy so strong I almost hate them, hate them, hate them for thinking
that’s
danger.

How dare they think that!
I want to scream.
How dare they not
know
!
And it’s grief, grief and fury wild as a snowstorm because it’s not fair, not fair, not fair that this is what they think, still, at
their
age and I can’t even
remember
what it is not to know: I can’t remember what that sort of innocence feels like. And right now I can barely remember that I love them because I hate them for not knowing when I’ve never had a time when I
didn’t
and I want that, oh how I want that . . .

‘What do you know?’ I say again, choking the words out in a whisper that wants to be a scream.

The Dragon stands tall, head raised proudly, dark eyes reflecting the moonlight.
Everything
, the Dragon says.

‘But I’m so tired,’ I whisper, a thin quiver of sound. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m tired of it all being so hard. Of everything being so hard. I’m tired of being strong and gritting my teeth and getting on with it and bearing it and . . . I’ve had enough now.’

No
, commands the Dragon, and spreads its wings. Not in a sudden flap, like someone shaking out an umbrella, but a slow unfolding, like a flower unfurling new petals. In the moonlight, the Dragon glows a strange blue-white, the tracery of its veins and folds a faint lilac, blushing purple. Out and out its wings stretch, rippling slightly as if responding to the faintest hint of a draught in the stillness of the room.

Together we are strong enough to move the stars. But you must make the right wish. You must wish for what you truly need. That is why I am here. That is the fulfilment of the wish that called me
.

Slowly, slowly the Dragon lowers its wings, folding them back tight against its body and settling on to its haunches.

But tonight is another matter. Tonight is for weakness before we gather strength once more. Sometimes it is no great shame to give in, even to despair, provided that it is just for a little while. Sometimes a little surrender is good for the soul
.

I gather the Dragon to me, cupped in my palms. Then I press the globe of my hands to the pain in my chest, double over so that my forehead is against my knees and cry until the room is white with exhaustion. When I fall sideways on to the bed, the burning skin of my face throbbing against the cool of the sheets, I slip away into sleep almost before I can think.

‘Evie darling?’ Amy says, sinking into the chair next to mine.

‘Mm?’ I mumble, mind on my homework.

‘Can I talk to you for a second?’

Something in her tone makes me look up. ‘Do you need a hand with dinner?’ I ask, though I know that’s not it.

‘Evie darling,’ she says, ignoring my question as she reaches out to put her hand over mine, ‘I know I promised not to pry . . . And I know Paul will say I’m being nosy,’ her eyes flick to the garden window where we can just see Paul watering his way up the flower-bed by the house, ‘but I need to know that you know that you don’t
have
to keep anything secret from us. If there’s anything bothering you, anything you need . . . You know you can tell us, don’t you?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say quickly, looking away from the worry in her face.

‘It’s just that when I came to help you change your sheets earlier, I thought I heard a strange noise, like a machine or something beeping. And I know we checked everything just the other day but . . . Well, you’ve been so secretive this last month. And then when I knocked, you were obviously hiding something before you let me into your room.’

I heave a sigh, picking at a loose thread on my cuff.

‘I just need to know that you’re OK. That this secret isn’t anything
bad
,’ Amy says, reaching over to break the thread off for me. ‘Because first it was all that stuff up on the stepladder, poking about at the top of the cupboard, and now it sounds like you’re doing something with electronics and . . .’ She catches herself then, realising that her voice has been getting louder and louder, the words coming faster and faster. I feel her take and release a breath that warms my cheek.

‘I just need to know if I can help. Because if there’s anything else . . . anything . . . anything like the ribs,’ she finally gets out, ‘if there is, Evie, I’ll fix it, darling. I swear I will.’ There’s something like desperation in her voice.

My stomach turns over.

‘It won’t be like the court case,’ Amy is saying. ‘I promise it won’t. Whatever it is, whatever you need, darling . . .’ Her hand squeezes mine too tightly and now I can hear guilt and apology under the desperation.

‘
Is
it about the court case?’

I jump at the sound of Paul’s voice.

He’s standing by the kitchen door. The hosepipe, lax in his hand, splashes water across his slippers. ‘I know it’s been disappointing and we’ve let it all go quiet. But we don’t have to, Evie. We can find a new lawyer, or we can hire a detective. No, really, Evie,’ he says, though I haven’t rolled my eyes or, as far as I know, made any sign that I think this is a silly idea. ‘We can do that. We just don’t want you to be even more disappointed if it still . . .’ He stops and takes a deep breath. ‘The one thing we can’t do is promise it’ll work. But we can keep trying, Evie. For as long as you want us to.’

Amy presses my hand. ‘Is that what you were doing in the cupboard, Evie? Reading the file? You know we didn’t put it away because we wanted to give up, don’t you? We just wanted to . . . to give you time to recover before we did anything else. But we don’t have to wait, darling. You just have to say the word.’

I open my mouth, not sure what I’m going to say because my mind is blank, blank, blank, but I
have
to say something because I can’t leave them thinking I don’t understand that they’re doing everything possible. I know they’d spend every penny they had if I asked, even though
they
know and
I
know that it’s not going to make any difference. They’ve always done everything decent, law-abiding people can do. And it would be so, so wrong of me to let them think it’s not enough.

I open my mouth and ‘I was looking at the photos of Adam’ is what comes out. I feel sick as soon as the words cross my lips.

They both stare at me.

‘When we go to visit him, on the anniversary, you’re always telling him what we’ve been doing,’ I say, tripping over the words and my own wretchedness. ‘But I don’t know anything about him.’ The millstone of guilt in my stomach pushes down so hard I feel as if I’m pinned to the chair, as if I’ll never be able to get up under the weight of it again. ‘I wanted . . . I just wanted . . .’ I gasp, my throat going so tight it feels like I’ve swallowed liquid metal. The pain burns up into my ears.

Then Paul blinks. ‘Evie sweetheart, why don’t you make us all a nice cup of tea?’ he says gently, in his usual soft, kind voice. ‘I’m going to go and turn off the hose, and after that we’re going to get all the photo albums down and we’re going to have a nice look at them in the living room.’ He’s still talking to me, but now his eyes are on Amy. She is staring at the dishwasher.

The air feels heavy and dark. My head swirls with desperation and the beat of my blood, louder and louder until the chair beneath me, the floor under my feet, grows unsteady. There are not-sounds echoing in my ears. And things that aren’t really there are stirring at the corners of my vision.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.

Amy starts and looks up at me. She blinks a bit and her eyes go teary, but then she smiles. It’s a wan little smile, but a smile all the same. ‘Adam’s not meant to be a secret, Evie. Especially not from you.’ She coughs and blinks some more. ‘Those albums shouldn’t be shut away up in the cupboard where we never look at them.’