The Grasshopper's Child (29 page)

‘Is that really what you believe?'

Clancy didn't answer. Heidi shivered, feeling cold and tired.

The rooks had come closer. Fluttering, rising and settling again they'd made a circle, with Heidi, Clancy and the bench in the middle. Sunlight glinted on blue-black feathers, bright eyes; heavy pewter beaks. There was something strange going on. Clancy looked at Heidi, who just shook her head a little. They sat very still.

The rooks didn't caw or croak but they kept turning their heads, looking at each other and at the human teenagers: like strangers in a crowd, when something terrible has happened and nobody knows what to do.

What will happen to us? thought Heidi. What if it's all
true
about the world ending, and not scare-mongering? The clamour of her own troubles died, and a completely different fear crept under her ribs, burrowing deep—

The birds all rose at once, with a clatter of wings, and whirled away.

Heidi took a deep breath. ‘What d'you think that was about?'

‘I don't know. Maybe it was a Rooks' Parliament. No one knows why they do it, but they get together, form a circle and seem to discuss things.'

‘Cool.'

‘Some people think it's a trial. They're judging a bad guy rook for some birdy crime.'

‘I have to go,' said Heidi abruptly, jumping up. ‘It's late.'

She was over the wall and back in the Gardens before she thought how rude it had been to take off like that. But Clancy would understand. The beginnings of a poem in her head, she almost ran right into someone who had stepped out in front of her.

‘Hey, Cinderella. Are you up early, or out late?'

‘I could ask you the same,' said Heidi. ‘Have you been
following
me?'

George grinned. ‘Didn't mean nuffen, Miss. I got caught up with an old friend, we thought we'd take a stroll in here. How's Clancy this morning?'

‘Sorry, can't chat. I have to get back.'

He stood in her way. ‘Do you even know why he's in Mehilhoc?'

‘I've really got to get on, George.'

‘Try asking him, Heidi. Dead straight, as a friend, I suggest you ask him, if you can get him to tell the truth. You won't like the answer.'

Black Parliament

From ink-blot spatter of nests they came to meet in council.

We were invited.

One old bird, settling feathers on her shoulder

With scary pewter shears, said: Mighty death

Has come to live in your colonies, and grown too strong.

The rock-doves and the gulls, who share your sea-less cliffs,

Are frightened. And so are we.

At first when your fields lay fallow, said another

Turning his head to fix us with berry-shine stare,

We were glad: but now your high-paths are empty blue

Your roaring land-paths silent. There is no kill for us

Beside the bountiful roads. Do you know what lies ahead?

On a green hill, in grey dawn, the conclave circled

We looked into Earth's black eyes, opened on dread

And saw that the reflected darkness was ourselves.

We had nothing to say.

24: The Coutance Pistol

Clancy wasn't worried by the way Heidi had left him. She was always like that,
got to go
and she's off like a rocket; but he hoped the rooks' parliament hadn't spooked her. It had made
him
feel strange. That circle, the grim, knowing way the birds behaved—

Everyone's got issues these days, he said to himself. Even the wildlife. He watched her race down the hill, long legs flying; then set out on errands of his own. His boat was under a road bridge on the way to Mayle: where he'd moved it when he was lying low. He took a good look at the meadow, making sure there was nothing left of the Carron-Knowells fest, and went to fetch it. Everything was fine, just as he'd left it. Clancy returned the sheaves of cut grass he'd used to blur its outline to a nearby hayfield. He stowed the shiny yellow listening device under his rowing bench: cast off, and slipped downstream on the falling tide.

The meadow was dead quiet. He moored his boat under the thorn, hid it as before; and then sat on the bank, thinking about the night he'd arrived. When the trees were still bare; the stars were so bright, and the roe deer waded in white mist.

Everything is so beautiful he thought. Love it and let it go.

He'd come to Mehilhoc on a mission, and found a second mission waiting; that he could not refuse. He didn't regret taking on Sharing the Care. He couldn't regret a moment of the time he'd spent with Mrs Scott-Amberley. But last night Heidi had set him free.

So it was over. All he had to do was make the phone call, the call he had sworn on his soul that he would never, ever make. But even that could wait, now that everything was settled.

Moving carefully around the village, out of sight of roads and tracks and houses, he made his way to Stauntons' Camping and Caravanning Site. This choice amenity was found up a dingy lane, above the Cement Works housing estate. It was just a big field really, with a few trees to obscure the unromantic view of Upper and Lower Hillsides. A row of static caravans faced open land towards the sea. One of them showed signs of occupation: mud scrapes, and a laminated notice, featuring the portrait of a slavering attack dog, on the front door. Above the dog another laminated message warned YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.

A pair of stranded touring caravans, swathed in tarp, roosted in the car park. The rest of the site was empty and bare, except for a toilet block. It was surprising that Stauntons hadn't been invaded by Travellers, really. It wouldn't be a bad pitch, if you liked plenty of fresh air and didn't mind a bit of a slope. But Carron-Knowells Enterprises would have found that inconvenient, thought Clancy, grinning to himself. If they'd tried it, the nomad folk were probably buried under the recycle bins. Or else their bodies had been added to the mash: in the vodka distillery that occupied that toilet block.

Clancy didn't think the old CCTV was working. The site was protected by armed security staff instead, but there didn't seem to be anybody around this morning. Maybe it was too early for business. He approached one of the touring caravans and poked at the swathes of tarp, hoping for a glimpse of what was inside.

‘Looking for something, son?'

Cyril's dad had come up very quietly.

Clancy had seen the site manager before, from a distance. He now knew for sure this guy was Cyril's dad, because he'd seen the family together at Corporal Harris's funeral. Mr Staunton carried a shotgun: casually, but as if he meant business. He was a big man with a cropped grey head, small grey eyes, and heavy grooves of iron-grey jowl.

‘Oh, hallo Mr Staunton,' said Clancy. ‘Yes, I was looking for you. In the hope of obtaining certain goods I believe you supply. If you're open. Or I can come back later.'

‘You're under age.'

‘Absolutely right. I wouldn't dream of asking you to sully your principles by serving me vodka. I'm here in need of hunting supplies—'

Clancy had talked to Duushto at The Fertile Crescent. He'd learned that the name had been given to the shop by the previous owners, who were Iraqi, and had left Mehilhoc during the Occupation; and that Mr Staunton might sell ammo.

If he likes the look of you—

Mr Staunton took Clancy's currency note, and stared at it coldly.

‘I'm fending for myself,' said Clancy. ‘Don't want to depend on the State.'

‘Going after a few
rabbits
, are you, son?' Mr Staunton handed the note back, his eyes widening in concentration as he studied Clancy. ‘I know who you are. The mystery boy at Exempt Teens.' His grey mouth was a trap, his pupils were black stones. ‘You know my Cyril? What d'you think of him, eh? A bit of a strange one? A bit peculiar?'

‘Everyone's peculiar,' said Clancy. ‘I like him. He's a good mate.'

‘You should have met him when he was a baby. Have you ever looked into an innocent child's eyes, and known that he's in
hell?
That's what my baby's life was, a form of pure hell, called Profound Autism. If it hadn't been for the support of Jesus Christ, my wife and I couldn't have stood it. D'you know who saved my boy from that hell?'

I can guess, thought Clancy, his heart pounding.

‘George Carron and Portia Knowells. They paid for our Cyril's first class ticket out of the Pit, and it's a debt I can never repay. Get it? You'd better come along to my office.'

Clancy walked ahead of his captor, to the static caravans.

Heidi raced her lunch chores and sped back to the Temple. She needed to talk to Clancy about her plan, and she had to warn him that George was about: George had been following them, watching them. The way he'd watched them when they were working on the fountain, the day the Purple Suitcase turned up. Why? What was he up to this time?

She hated to admit it, but George could still get to her. When he'd jumped out like that, so she'd almost fallen into his arms, there'd been fireworks again. What's wrong with me? she thought. I'm inexperienced, that's what. As a teen with adult dependents Heidi had never thought of having a love life. No sex, not even some boy to hold hands with and kiss. She didn't have time, and in her own opinion she was too young. When you're fifteen with a Mum barely twice your age, you tend to feel there's no reason to hurry. The sugar-rush she had for George (which she hated), and the totally different way she felt about Clancy were equally, completely new to her—

I stumble, I blunder

I feel like my head's on backwards.

It was okay that Clancy hadn't made the slightest hint of a move, last night. She hadn't made a move either: and she understood. His personal force field didn't let anyone get that close. They were mates, good mates. She didn't want that to change. Not right now, anyway. But if he knew how she still reacted George, despite everything they knew; and maybe he did, because guys
sense things
, then he'd obviously despise her—

The courtyard was empty. A handful of gold-green tassels, fallen sycamore flowers, lay on the pavement just inside the gateless gate. She stepped around them, thinking of the thickets that surrounded the Temple: and wondering how he managed to leave no tracks, not a sign that there was anyone coming and going. Clancy wasn't at home. She decided to leave him a note, and go running. Luckily she had a stub of pencil in the pocket of her jeans, and a paper napkin from the barbecue. But where should she leave it? It had better be out of sight. Clancy never took chances with his privacy. She got up on the platform, in the inner chamber, and saw his bivvy and his pack: neatly tucked away in the roof timbers, under the tattered quilt of green tiles.
Watch out George is about. Need to talk. Gone running, I'll be back. H x
. She twisted the napkin into a bow, and looked for a place where he was bound to spot it.

There was a pile of books beside the pack. Clancy's library.

Well, if there's something to read, I'll wait, thought Heidi. She lifted the whole stack down: and soon found out why the Hooded Boy was so sure there was no future.

Clancy dropped from his favourite sycamore bough to the dragon's rooftree. He knew immediately, with a shiver of fear, that there was someone in the Temple. An enemy, lying in wait! But the enemy was Heidi, sitting on the stone platform in the inner chamber. She watched him, silently, as he dropped into the courtyard: just the way he'd watched her, when she found his lair that day in the snow.

‘So that's how it's done. Where've you been?'

‘I had some errands. Are you okay, Heidi?'

‘Not really. Sit down, we need to talk.'

Clancy sat cross-legged on the pavement. Heidi joined him. She dumped the books, and the box that had been hidden behind them, in front of him. She said nothing, just looked.

‘You've been searching my stuff?'

‘Not intentionally. You weren't here. I was leaving you a note, to say I'd be back.'