Voices in Stone (6 page)

Isis felt like her mum and Gil set out to ruin her weekend. Gil turned up at the flat on Saturday morning, and he and Cally were obviously making up for not seeing each other: they filled up the sofa, filled up the living room. Isis didn’t have anything against Gil, but this felt like an invasion. She retreated into her bedroom and tried reading, but it was hard with all the giggling and kissing going on.

Her parents had never been like that when they were still together, it had mostly been shouting. After her dad left, Isis used to ask Cally where he was, and mark all his trips onto a world map pinned to her bedroom wall. A way of being with him, and kind of exciting too, to think of her dad in all those exotic places so far away.

Then one day she’d done an online search and found half a dozen companies running cruises around Europe, some of them even taking tours around the coast of Great Britain. Why hadn’t her dad found a job on one of those?

Isis knew other children whose parents were divorced, but their mums and dads still talked and got on. Perhaps her parents had been too in love to be friends afterwards? She’d heard that could happen.

Isis imagined her dad walking into the flat now and stopping in horror at the sight of Cally and Gil snogging away. He’d ask what they thought they were
doing
, with his daughter only in the next room? Then he and Isis would leave, and he’d take her for an ice cream.

She sighed and reached for her mp3 player, pushing the earphones firmly into her ears. Dad wasn’t coming to take her for ice cream; he’d never even been to this flat. He was thousands of miles away, sailing around the holiday resorts and entertaining the tourists, like always.

“I want to play with dollies,” Angel announced, her voice piercing straight through the headphones. She was pointing up at Isis’s old dolls, lined up on a high shelf.

Isis looked up from her book, unplugging one earphone. She shook her head. “Not now.”

Angel put little fists on transparent hips. “But I can’t by my
own
.”

Which was true – Angel couldn’t lift or move any of the dolls. So Isis had to do the actual playing, with Angel directing.

Isis shook her head again and went back to reading, but Angel clambered up onto the bed, then onto Isis’s back. She started jumping, each jump accompanied by the word “Dollies!” Angel had no weight, and Isis tried to ignore her for a minute or two, but it was hard to carry on reading throughout Angel’s jumping – every time she landed, her feet sent two cold shocks through Isis’s back.

Isis put her book down. “All right then.”

And so she found herself arranging the dolls into a tea party, while Angel shouted orders. “No tea for her. She naughty!”

As the day wore on, Isis waited desperately for the sound of the front door closing to tell her Gil had gone. But instead, at about five in the evening, Cally tapped on her door and poked her head around. She was smiling, her cheeks a little flushed.

“Isis, do you mind if Gil… stays the night?” There was a lightness to her voice, as if she’d just finished laughing.

Isis felt herself cringe, even at the thought of it. Plus that would mean he’d be in the flat tomorrow as well, and then who knew when he’d leave?

“Does he have to?” Isis asked, her voice flat.

The smile dropped off Cally’s face. “Well, I suppose he doesn’t. It’s just I haven’t seen him for such a long time…”

“You didn’t
want
to see him,” Isis pointed out. “You told me you never wanted to again.”

Cally flinched. “Yes, I know. But now we’ve talked, and I can see that what happened in August wasn’t his fault.”

“A monster do-ed it,” said Angel, from her place by the dolls.

Isis didn’t answer Angel, or her mum either. Surely Cally could work out what this was like for Isis?

“Please,” said Cally. “I didn’t realise how much I’ve missed him.”

“Mummy been sad,” Angel said, nodding wisely. “Now Mummy happy.”

Isis sighed. “All right then.”

And there was always the chance of…

“Will Gray come over tomorrow?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

Cally shook her head. “His mum’s being careful. She’s keeping him at home, so Gil’s going to pop over there in the afternoon.”

Isis’s feelings must have been obvious on her face.

“I’m sorry, darling,” said Cally, “but I’d be the same if you’d been ill.”

Cally came into the room a little further then, stepping carefully around the dolls. Angel squeaked out of the way.

“Are you sure you feel all right? You’ve been in here all day.” Cally glanced at the floor. “Haven’t you grown out of these?”

Isis blushed. “I was just… checking them. I’m fine.”

Cally peered at her. “Well if you’re sure… I’m just concerned because of you going on that school trip. The school says it’s nothing to worry about, but why did they call the ambulances then? Gray told Gil that the woman from the mining company really flew off the handle when someone asked if they were mining radioactive rocks.”

“I don’t think they’d have let us go on a school trip there if the quarry was radioactive,” said Isis uncertainly.

“Well, Gil says you shouldn’t be surprised at anything big business does. He says it’s really suspicious that the school and the hospital are down-playing it so much. He says that only proves something’s going on.”

“It could just be that there really was nothing,” said Isis.

Cally shook her head. “Gil says the mining company’s probably bought them off, or put pressure on somehow. He’s says they’ll get round the parents next, offering money or threatening them. His phone is set up to record every call he receives – that way he’ll have proof.”

Isis didn’t say anything.

“I’m sure Gil’s right,” said Cally defensively. “He knows a lot about this kind of thing.”

“Yeah,” said Isis. She didn’t care what Gil knew.

The school bell was ringing as Isis walked into her form room on Monday morning. She’d been dreading this moment since Friday – it had loomed over her weekend, turning everything into a countdown. She went the long way round the classroom to her desk, past the usual muddle and noise of everyone getting to their seats and
settling down. The route meant she could avoid Jess’s gang, but Jess still watched her the whole time.

Isis sat down. Now she felt genuinely sick; she wouldn’t even be pretending if she said she was ill. She could put up her hand, tell Mrs Craven that she felt unwell. Jess was obviously planning something.

Isis looked down at her desk, studying the patterns of scratches in the grey tabletop and trying to work out if feeling sick would be enough to get out of class. Maybe if she made a fuss, then went to the toilet and put her fingers down her throat? She’d never tried it, but everyone said…

Mrs Craven was taking the register, calling names and ticking them off. She broke into a cough, which ended with a sneeze.

Isis snapped her head up. Just behind Mrs Craven, a dirty cloud was dancing in slow spirals. The posters on the nearby wall began to crinkle around the edges as if soaking with damp, and by the time Mrs Craven finished the register they had all fallen onto the floor with papery slithers.

“Oh!” said Mrs Craven, picking up the posters and
coughing again as she passed through Mandeville. He waved long fingers at Isis.

Go away go away go away.

But no amount of thinking would make him leave. He slid across the classroom, his arms and legs blurred at the edges. Softly he blended into the centre of Jess’s table, his upper body cut through by the plastic. The group of girls were talking, taking advantage of Mrs Craven’s distraction.

Mandeville nodded at Jess and politely lifted his fez. There were only a few wisps of hair on his scalp and his skull gleamed white through his skin.

“Your grandmother sends her best wishes,” he said to her.

One of Jess’s friends sneezed, and another pulled the sleeves of her jumper down.

Mandeville looked over at Isis, his eyes lit in blue as if closer than the rest of him.

“Poor girl,” he said. “She can’t see or hear me, so she is left without the comfort she might gain from her grandmother’s love.”

Isis pulled her bag onto her desk, opening it up and
pretending to search for something inside. He wasn’t going to trick her again!

The bell rang for the start of lessons, and Isis pushed to the door, wanting to get out as quickly as possible. She moved along the corridor as fast as she could without breaking into a run. She didn’t look back; she was focused on getting to the next classroom before anyone else. They had French, with Mrs Potter. Jess wouldn’t try anything on in there – Mrs Potter was known for sending people off to see the head. Isis was almost at the door of the classroom when she felt a hand tap her back.

“Isis!” It was Jess.

“Go away!” snapped Isis, not even looking round. Jess was probably wearing one of her nasty smiles and flanked by her little gang. But when Isis did turn, she saw Jess was on her own, breathing hard. Her eyes were wide, and she was chewing her lip.

“I’m sorry,” Jess said quickly, “about Friday. Will you sit with me today?”

Isis studied Jess’s face, trying to see the signs of whatever cruel joke she was working up to.

“You never want to sit with me,” said Isis.

Now Jess’s gang were coming up behind them, giggling about something as they walked. Isis had no idea what they were talking about, but she felt sure it was her.

She shook her head at Jess. “No thanks.”

She went into the classroom, heading for a seat at the back, but Jess followed, and when Isis sat down, Jess sat next to her. Jess’s little gang hovered at their usual table, uncertain, and looking their way. Isis was staring at Jess too. When would the joke hit?

“I’m sitting with Isis today,” Jess said to the others. Isis would’ve smiled at their shocked faces if she hadn’t felt so anxious. The other girls muttered together as they sat down. Maybe Jess hadn’t told them what she was planning?

“On Friday Mrs Craven had to
make
you sit next to me,” Isis whispered.

Jess’s eyes flicked down and she fiddled with her pen, twizzling it in her fingers. “No one’s making me sit here now.”

Isis didn’t know how to answer that. So she sat silently, tense and untrusting, as the class settled down. Mrs Potter announced they would be learning sporting vocabulary. Voices broke out again and the room filled with the sound
of ruffling paper as the teacher handed around photocopied sheets.

“Practise the first column of words with your partners,” said Mrs Potter.

Isis studied the words, trying to pretend everything was normal.

“
Jouer a tennis
,” she said.

“
Jouer a tennis
,” repeated Jess.

Isis’s finger was on the next word, but she couldn’t say it.

“What do you
want?
” she hissed.

Jess glanced around, then whispered back. “I want you to tell me more about Gran Marie.”

For a moment Isis was too surprised to answer, then she shook her head.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

This had to be it. Jess was getting her own back somehow. Except she was chewing her lip, and her voice was hesitant.

“Those things you told me on Friday,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about them all weekend.”

Now Isis rolled out the words she’d been practising.
“It was just a joke. I shouldn’t have said that stuff, but I don’t like being called ‘dead girl’.”

In her mind they’d sounded firm and she’d even imagined that she might be able to erase the nickname, but now her voice quavered as she spoke, and worse, Jess didn’t believe her.

“I hardly ever speak to you,” Jess said, “and I’ve never told you about Gran Marie. I’ve never told
anyone
at school what she said about me being good at art. So how could you know that?”

Isis lifted her paper up in front of her face, desperately staring at the writing.
What now?

“We have to do the vocab,” she said. Maybe Jess would get bored, maybe she’d go away?
“Jouer a football.”

But a familiar smell of damp was building. A fibrous, sooty dew blackened the spare chair at their table, condensing into Mandeville.

“How are we proceeding?” he asked, nodding at Jess.

Jess pulled Isis’s paper down. “
Please
, can’t you talk to Gran Marie again?” Her lower lip was sore and red where she’d been biting it.

“I wonder what this spiteful young person could want?”
asked Mandeville, leaning in close to Isis. “To gain access to her grandmother’s inheritance? Or find out a nasty secret?”

“Mum and Dad never listen to me,” said Jess, “and I used to talk to Gran Marie about everything.” Tears gleamed in Jess’s eyes, her chin wobbled.

Mandeville clapped his hands, the bones of his long fingers clattering together.

“A miracle is performed! The bully becomes a kinder, better person.” He pressed a bony cold hand onto Isis’s. “
This
is the power of the medium, my dear.
This
is the good work you are turning your back on. You think being a psychic is about the dead, but it is all for the living.”

Isis pulled her hand away, shuddering at the cold. Jess must have felt the chill too, because she rubbed her arms. Then she stopped, her eyes widening.

“I read on the internet – spirits and ghosts are freezing cold, aren’t they?”

Isis opened her mouth, then shut it again. Panic sang through her mind.

“Is she here?” asked Jess. “Is she?”

“Please stop talking,” Mrs Potter called out. “We’ll work
together on how to use these words in everyday sentences.”

Almost gasping with relief, Isis turned to face the whiteboard, looking away from Jess and the elderly ghost. But Mandeville whispered in Isis’s ear.

“What will you do? Hide the truth of your power and undo all the good you have stirred – or carry on?”

“I miss her so much,” whispered Jess. “Can you talk to her for me?”

Isis stared at Mrs Potter, not hearing a word the teacher was saying. Could Mandeville be right? Might this be her chance to turn something that had always seemed a burden into something good?