Angel's Fury (2 page)

‘Have you brought your bags down?’ Mum glanced into the hallway.

I nodded as I snagged a slice of toast from the grill.

‘Good, your dad’ll drive you to the airport before work.’

I almost dropped my toast. ‘I thought I was getting a taxi!’

Mum’s knuckles whitened on a chair back. ‘We can’t afford a taxi. Eat your breakfast . . . he’ll be down in a bit.’

‘Great.’ I sprawled on the chair and she half turned, unable to meet my eyes as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

A grunt heralded Dad’s discovery of my bags. Then he entered the kitchen and the atmosphere crystallised.

Mum looked as if she was going to speak, but the pan on the hob boiled over. She leaped to lift it from the heat. ‘Damn . . . that’s the porridge.’

Drops continued to splash and sizzle on the ring, curdling the air with the stench of burnt milk. Mum swiped a towel over the mess and Dad tilted his head meaningfully.

I took the pan and turned to face him. If I had to be stuck with him in the car for an hour I had to try one more time. ‘Dad . . . I know you don’t want me to go to Germany, but I have to. I won’t be able to do my history coursework properly if I don’t.’

Dad said nothing.

‘Miss Barnes explained the coursework system to you – I heard her.’

Impossibly, his face hardened further. ‘This isn’t something we can afford, Cassie . . . Maybe if you were doing better at school it would be worth it . . .’

‘You are
such
an asshole.’ I dumped the pan next to the sink and slammed the back door open with my palm. The strains of next door’s radio wafted into the kitchen and I paused with my foot on the back step. ‘I’m paying for most of this trip with the money I earned at the restaurant . . . And if you’d let me do German I’d be getting straight As.’

Dad rubbed his chin, raw from his recent shave. ‘We talked about this, Cassie. History and the sciences will be more useful to you in the long run than a language you won’t use outside the classroom.’

‘It isn’t fair. You can’t complain if I’m not doing well in subjects you made me take.’

‘Cassiopeia Farrier.’ Mum dropped the tea towel in the sink. ‘Apologise to your father.’

‘No!’ Rage washed over me, red hot, and I glowered at the
veins of crimson that bled through Dad’s pot-hemmed begonias. ‘I was looking forward to going to Germany and he’s ruining it.’ My voice broke and I bolted into the back garden. ‘It’s not as if I’m not trying at school. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not sleeping too well.’

Mum’s voice was muffled by the closing door, but her words darted after me. ‘You aren’t being fair on your father. It’s hard for him . . . seeing you like this.’

I barely heard his reply. ‘Just leave her, Marie. I’ll take her to the airport – but I still think it’s a mistake.’

F
orty of us trooped into Arrivals with snacks, iPods and Nintendos stuffed into our hand luggage. There we were bombarded by the sound of a language we couldn’t understand: the tannoy boomed like a surf-sucked cave, local families chattered and the staff at passport control gossiped gutturally over our heads as they checked our photos.

The others were uneasy, even the GCSE German class. The boys remained in a tight band by thieving one another’s passports; the girls huddled together more obviously. Some of them glanced at the duty-free shop, but none moved towards the cut-price cosmetics.

Yet as soon as the language entered my own ears I felt comfortable. My old German teacher, Miss Barnes, caught my eye and grinned as Mr Greene herded the group through the sliding doors and out to the car park. ‘Nicola, I know you have a new phone and if it gets stolen because you’re flashing it about you’ll only have yourself to blame. Put it away. Now. Carl,
leave Jess alone. Darren and Caroline let go of one another. Everybody outside.’

I didn’t know why, but it was like coming home.

The air between the exit and car park, however, was humid and heavy. Gasping in the stifling atmosphere I pushed my way to the front of the line and was first on to the coach. I found a seat halfway down the aisle and, knowing no one else would want to sit there, dumped my bag next to me. Then I leaned on the window and blanked out my classmates.

The driver gunned the engine and a thrill went through me: I couldn’t wait to see what Germany really looked like. But as we passed one dull high-rise after another disappointment chilled my cheeks.

Is this it? We might as well have gone to Milton Keynes.

The glaring signs were all too familiar: Coca-Cola, Accenture, Toyota. Miserably I closed my eyes.

The seat prickled my bare legs and I fidgeted uncomfortably before I looked out through the smeared glass again.

Now trees spotted the roadside and structures were growing more suburban. On signs German words began to stand out: directions to the town centre and swimming baths. But the
buildings leaned on a skyline that had darkened to the colour of an ageing bruise.

A storm’s coming. Can we outrun it?

As if in response to my thought the coach speeded up and we quickly turned off the Autobahn into quieter, narrower roads. Here the greenery increased, almost blocking my view of the wounded sky.

The driver switched on a local radio station and I glanced at my watch. We’d been driving for forty minutes. A European rock song, made even more incomprehensible by the DJ’s chatter, crackled out through the speakers.

The boys jeered and I heard the driver speak crossly to Miss Barnes. He only had a tape player; he couldn’t play Sticky’s Killers CD even if he wanted to.

I turned back to the window. We had finally abandoned the city. Fields slid by in a kaleidoscope of green and yellow. Gradually my eyelids turned to lead and my head lolled. I jerked upright with a sting of panic.

I can’t fall asleep.

A bluebottle landed on the curtain near my forehead and although I should still have been buzzing from the double espresso
I’d managed to snag at Stansted, I couldn’t muster the energy to brush it away.

Violently I shook my head and forced my arms towards my bag. Originally I’d had a plastic fork in the front pocket, but it had been confiscated at Security, so I’d have to make do with a hairclip.

I gnawed the little plastic tags off the end then checked that no one was watching. When I was sure that I remained invisible, I ground my teeth and scratched the top of my thigh with the metal spoke.

Immediately a welt appeared, but it was worth it: the pain cleared the rising fog from my head.

I mustn’t fall asleep in front of everyone. If I have the nightmare here, everyone will know what a freak I am.

Clutching the hairgrip in one hand and the handle of my bag in the other I tried to keep my head upright . . . but it kept lolling. The smell of sweaty metal reminded me of blood and the image of the gunman in my dream swam into my mind’s eye. Frantically I jabbed my leg but it was like stabbing wood. I was too far gone to feel it.

The storm clouds made a false night and the rocking
movement of the coach was too strong to fight. I realised my head was resting on the window.

How did that happen?

One last coherent thought jittered through my mind.

Maybe we’ll get to Hopfingen before I start to dream . . .

Daddy shuts the gate. He makes me stand with our neighbours and I hug my satchel so tightly that the frame of Mother’s picture digs into my chest.

The men watch us closely and their cold eyes make me shiver. When they see Daddy lock up behind us, they nod, as if he’s done something good.

I don’t understand why we’re leaving our home and all our things. I try to complain, but Daddy digs his fingers into my shoulder and I know I must be silent.

We walk through the town, passing the tall houses with their curtains closed against us. The baby, Maria, squawks and her mother, Dinah Heidler, shushes her nervously.

Ahead of us the town square opens up. I see many of our friends there already, all with luggage, just like us.

A strained clonking sounds across the square. It comes from the
white clock tower that rises above the fountain. The bells don’t work, but you can still hear it trying to strike the hour. It’s sort of sad.

As the clock quietens, Daddy gives me a gentle push, reminding me to keep moving. Soon we reach the base of the fountain and I look into the stone eyes of the Lady. Her arms are full of hops and her hair covers her dress. One day my hair will be that long. She is lifting one foot, as if to test the water at her feet. I’ve sat on her stone seat almost every day of my life. I wonder if I’ll ever sit there again.

A bell jangles and I look up. Fräulein Ehrlichmann, who owns the sweet shop, has come out to sweep her step. I see her notice us then rush back inside.

Sadness is a weight on my chest. I like her sweets. I don’t understand why people are being so unkind.

Then the bell chimes once more and Fräulein Ehrlichmann runs across the street. One of the men tries to hold her up, but she shoulders past him and comes to stand in front of me. There’s a paper bag in her hand.

‘
Here.’ She hands it to me and I feel the hidden lumps.

Humbugs! A whole bag.

Fräulein Ehrlichmann turns to Daddy. ‘They say you’re going somewhere better. You’ll be with your own kind.’ She touches her
shiny yellow curls. ‘This’ll be good for everyone, you’ll see.
’

Daddy grunts and she strokes my black hair with her red fingers. ‘Goodbye, Zillah.
’

Then the trucks pull up.

Fräulein Ehrlichmann rushes away and does not look back.

I jerked awake and slowly opened my aching hand. The hairclip was pressed into my palm so deeply I had to peel it free.

My heart hammered; before today my dreams had been as predictable as my arguments with Dad. Every night I relived Zillah’s death. Sometimes I saw it from different viewpoints or joined it at different places, but as far as I could remember I’d never dreamed anything else.

Until now.

And although the dream had been tame by my standards, it had left me deeply disturbed.

Probably because I know what happens once Zillah gets on that truck.

Furtively I wiped my chin with my wrist. No one was commenting on my behaviour, so I must have managed to sleep quietly . . . for a change. I forced my shoulders to relax into the seat and
looked out of the window just in time to see the sign that welcomed us to Hopfingen.

The coach stopped outside the
Jugendherberge
and the doors hissed open like airlocks. Bag in hand I stood and slipped into the aisle ahead of my classmates.

As I passed the driver I heard a strangely familiar clonking sound and stopped. My eyes swivelled to a white tower that glowed against the sky above the youth hostel. The clock was trying to strike three, but it couldn’t, because the mechanism didn’t work.

The blood drained from my face and I froze, one foot on the top step, as petrified as the statue I was suddenly certain I would find in the town square.

‘C’mon, Farrier, move it.’ A hand shoved me in the centre of my back and I stumbled down the steps. Only Mr Greene’s palm stopped me from falling and grazing my knees on the cobbles.

Trancelike, I stepped towards the open road. I had to see that square. But Mr Greene caught hold of my arm. ‘There’ll be time for exploring later, Cassie. Listen to Miss Barnes.’

I tried to tune in to the orientation talk, but my mind kept spinning to the broken clock in the white tower. In the corner of
my eye I could just see it, slightly taller than the circling houses, tantalisingly near.

I tried to remember whether or not Miss Barnes had shown us a picture of Hopfingen before we left, but so many of my lessons were a blur of exhaustion that I couldn’t say for sure.

Suddenly my attention was reined back; the girls were clinging to one another with little squeals. I shook my head, feeling as if my ears were filled with water. Miss Barnes was saying something important.

‘. . . So you need to pair up. There are a couple of rooms with three beds. Yes, Jess, your little threesome can have one of them.’ She rattled her clipboard and continued. ‘One group of girls and one group of boys can have a room with three beds, everyone else find a partner and we’ll go into the hostel.’

The question of the strange clock tower was banished by a more urgent horror.

If I have to share a room, I won’t be able to switch on the light in the middle of the night. When I wake up I’ll have to stay alone in the dark.

Fear stuck my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I’d been lucky on the bus: the new dream had allowed me to sleep quietly. But
what were the chances I’d get away with that tonight?

Tomorrow everyone’s going to know just how weird Cassie Farrier really is.

I panicked silently as the girls paired up until only three were left. The small group clutched one another and looked at me as if I was toxic waste.

I clenched my teeth and waited to see who would lose the lottery.

‘Izzy, Fran and Nicola, one of you has to pair up with Cassie.’ Mr Greene left my side and marched over to the dithering trio. ‘Come on, or I’ll make the choice for you.’

‘Mr Greene,
please
, two of us can share a bed.’

My heart rose at their suggestion then fell again when I saw the expression on Mr Greene’s face.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Right, that’s it. Nicola, let go of Fran’s arm and stand by Cassie.’

Mr Greene cast an aggrieved look in my direction.

Like it’s my fault none of the others want to share with me.

The youth hostel was a tall building and Nicola and I had the room at the very top. When we got inside, though, I forgot about the difficult climb in my rush to look through the window.

My fingers tightened on the sill. From here I could see the white clock tower in the town square quite clearly and, just as I had dreamed, there was a fountain underneath. My eyes locked on to the monument and my fingernails cracked on the gloss.