Angel's Fury (4 page)

Why’s Nicola talking to me?

She cleared her throat. ‘Look, I’m sorry about last night. I just wanted to sleep with my mates. You understand, right?’

‘Sure . . .’

She came to stand in front of me. ‘You know, you could do with more make-up; it would draw some attention away from those bags.’ She waved her hand in my face and I ducked away. ‘I could make you over if you like.’

She smiled and I narrowed my eyes. ‘No offence, Nicola, but what do you want?’

‘Fine.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘You’re good at German, right?’ I opened my mouth and she flicked her fingers. ‘Yeah, I know, you dropped it. But you’re still better than most of my class.’ She spread her palms. ‘Look, here’s the thing. If I get above a C in my coursework, I get driving lessons. So I need some help.’
She showed me another over-sweet smile. ‘I can give you make-up lessons in return.’

My lips twitched and Nicola sighed. ‘Look, we’re stuck in this room together so we might as well . . . you know . . . use each other.’

I sucked air between my teeth, ready to tell her where to get off. Then I caught a glimpse of us both in the full-length mirror behind her.

The sight made me close my eyes. ‘. . . Alright.’

She grinned. ‘We’ll start this evening, yeah?’

We’d been driving towards Bayreuth for an hour and were firmly into farming country when suddenly the hairs on my neck stood up. I ran my hand beneath my ponytail and my skin started to prickle. Sweat trickled down the inside of my jumper.

I spun in my seat, but my classmates were huddled at the rear of the bus craning to see something in Sticky’s notebook. They couldn’t be the source of the threat I sensed.

I tried to dismiss the eerie feeling, looked out of the window and almost jolted off my seat. We were driving past fields of hops and barley. Almost directly opposite, two hills created a deep
V-shaped valley and between them a schloss hunkered into the centre of the depression like an aged chaperone.

I’ve seen this view every night of my life.

My heart jumped madly and my hands flew to my mouth. Before I could stop it vomit sprayed the seat in front. I cupped my hands beneath my chin to protect my clothes and my classmates began to jeer.

Miss Barnes called for the driver to stop then swayed towards me as we creaked to a halt. She dug in her pocket for tissues and leaned on the back of the seat opposite.

‘Here you go, Cassie.’ As my classmates piled disgustedly off the bus, she dabbed my overflowing hands with a wad of tissue. ‘I’ll clean this up. Get some fresh air and make sure Mr Greene gives you a bottle of water.’

Abandoning my bag I slid shakily into the aisle. My chin and cheeks were wet. I had to wash my face, but had nothing I could use until I got off the bus and faced everyone.

I raised my head so I could see where I was going and the scene through the slewed front window struck me like a fist in the gut. We had stopped directly in front of the hill-hemmed barley field.

A sharp ache pulsed behind my right eye and my belly cramped
again. I rushed off the bus and threw up at Mr Greene’s feet.

Loud exclamations and girlish shrieks greeted this display and my face burned even as the blood tried to flee my cheeks.

Finally my stomach was empty and I nudged tacky strands of hair out of my face. Mr Greene gestured with a bottle of Evian and I held out my hands.

I cleaned myself up as best I could and swilled water around my mouth until the taste of regurgitated meat faded. Then I moved further from the bus to wipe my spattered legs.

When I was done I gathered my courage and turned to face the field.

My knees trembled and I rubbed my eyes, reasoning desperately.

We’re less than an hour out of Hopfingen. In my dream Zillah drives for two hours – it can’t be the same place.

But . . . those trucks wouldn’t have travelled very fast.

I had to face it. This was the place Zillah had died. My class-mates and I were standing at the site of a horrifying massacre.

‘Cassie?’

A hand on my shoulder made me jump. It was Nicola.

‘What do you want?’ My voice was colder than I’d meant it to be.

The other girl stepped back, fumbled in her pocket and came out with an Airwaves. ‘Here.’ She dropped the pellet in my hand.

‘Thanks.’ I stared at her as I slid the gum into my mouth. Her phone was poking out of her jeans. ‘Your phone . . .’

Nicola’s fingers hovered protectively over her precious iPhone. ‘What about it?’

‘It has GPS, right?’

Suspicion tightened her features. ‘Why?’

My mind raced. ‘I-I just want to know how long we’ve got before we get to Bayreuth.’ Nicola glanced back at her mates and I looked away. ‘Never mind . . . if you don’t know how to use it.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Nicola tugged the phone free and I kept my face blank as her fingers danced across the screen. ‘Here.’ She waved it in front of me. ‘It says we have another forty-five minutes.’

‘So that’s where we are . . . those coordinates?’

‘Yes.’ She whipped the phone away, but the information still danced in front of my eyes. I now knew exactly where we were.

Nicola huffed as she put her phone back in her pocket. ‘I bet the bus stinks now.’

She loped back to her friends and I returned my gaze to the field. The sounds of my classmates faded away and I imagined the air filled with screams and the crackle of gunfire.

As I dropped my bag on my new seat I spotted my Meg Cabot jammed into the top of it and ran my fingers over the rumpled pages.
When Lightning Strikes
was about a girl able to find people through psychic visions.

What if this is something similar? If I’m some sort of . . . medium, then maybe there’s a way I can end the dreams.

My hands tightened on the book.

These visions could be haunting me because Zillah’s spirit wants the world to know what happened. My nightmares might go away if someone finds her body.

I stopped breathing, terrified of derailing my train of thought.

I could leave a tip with the police. I’ve got the coordinates of the field and I don’t have to give my name. I’ve got nothing to lose.

My breath trembled as I made up my mind: I’d do anything to end the nightmares. When we got back to Hopfingen I’d find a payphone and first chance I got I’d leave a tip with the
Landespolizei
.

I fixed my eyes steadfastly on the field as the bus pulled away and said a silent farewell to the little Jewish girl I knew was buried there.

If this worked, I’d never have to see her again.

‘Filled with repentance for what his lust had unleashed Shemhazai asked the Lord if there was any hope for mankind . . . The Lord replied: “I will bind your sons into fleshly bodies for three hundred generations.”’

M
y palm smacked into the touch lamp and it crashed on to the floor. The sound echoed the gunshots that still crackled in my ears.

I rested my head in my hands. I’d been home a week.

Maybe they haven’t found the grave yet.

The old dream still haunted me. Its details were as vivid as ever, but each night a new variation ripped my rest apart.

I dug my knuckles into my eyes and checked the clock. I’d barely slept for an hour. Defeated, I lay back down and stared at the shadows on the wall, waiting for sleep to wash the next horror over me.

Unable to face eating, I pushed cornflakes around my bowl.

Mum bustled into the kitchen and started washing up. ‘Did you hear the headlines? Shall I turn it up?’

‘What?’

‘The headlines.’ She rolled her eyes at me and twiddled the
volume on the radio. ‘They said something about our twin town, Hopfingen. You were there last week. Was anything going on?’

I shook my head and put down my spoon. As I waited for the news I gripped the work surface, my heart beating faster. The piece that mentioned Hopfingen was last. It had hit the international news, but wasn’t as important as some celebrity’s latest wardrobe crisis.

‘The German town of Hopfingen has been rocked by reports of a mass grave less than sixty miles from its boundary. Some of the victims have now been identified as local residents whose records were never located at Flossenbürg Concentration Camp, where it was previously believed they had ended their lives.

Investigators are operating under the assumption that this is grisly evidence of a, till recently undiscovered, war crime. However, we understand that police were led to the grave by an anonymous tip and are keen to speak to the individual who left the information.’

If they’ve found the grave why haven’t my nightmares gone?

‘Cassie?’

‘W-what happened?’ I looked around, confused. I was on the
floor. I levered myself on to my elbows, skidded on cornflakes and slipped back down.

‘You fainted.’ Mum offered me a hand, but as she spoke my memory replayed the previous moments.

Oh, God, I’m never going to be free.

I curled into a ball among the remains of my breakfast and pressed my hands over my ears, trying to silence the news report that seemed to be playing on a loop in my head.

‘Dave!’ Mum shouted. ‘Get down here.’

Dad’s voice preceded him into the kitchen. ‘What is it? I have to go.’ His feet stopped in the doorway. ‘What’s wrong with Cassie?’ I curled up tighter and Dad’s wrist rested briefly on my forehead. ‘She hasn’t a temperature.’ Mum murmured something and he pulled his hand away. ‘I knew something like this would happen if we let her go to Germany.’

‘There was no way to be sure. She had to go . . . It was about her future.’

‘And this is about the past,’ Dad growled.

I opened my eyes.

‘We don’t know that.’ Mum clutched an RNLI tea towel as if it was a lifebelt.

Dad climbed to his feet and smoothed his suit. ‘I need to call the office.’

‘What?’ Mum gave a little jump, like a rabbit caught out of its hole.

‘I’m not going in today. We’ve got to sort this out. It’s time she knew.’

‘No!’ Mum sounded desperate. ‘We agreed it wouldn’t help.’

Dad gestured towards me. ‘You don’t think it can make things any worse, do you?’ His legs momentarily obscured my view of Mum as he moved to the kitchen door. ‘I’m going for the video.’

‘Can’t we talk about this? Look at the state of her.’

‘Get her into the front room, Marie. You’ve got time to calm her down a bit. I’ve got to get the VCR out of the loft and hook it up.’

‘
Dave!
’

‘We’re doing this.’ His voice broke. ‘Ignoring it isn’t working. How long has it been since she last slept? It’s killing me that there’s nothing I can do for her. I can’t watch her fall apart like this any more.’

I didn’t think he’d even noticed. I slid my slitted gaze towards his face; his expression was more determined than I’d ever seen it.

‘Let’s try telling her the truth.’ He gripped the door frame and met Mum’s eyes. ‘If it doesn’t help, we’ve always got that number.’

When Mum spoke I was shocked to hear her crying. ‘We said we’d never use it again.’

Dad said nothing more; he simply made for the stairs. I heard him leave a short message for his office then the trapdoor banged above the landing. Mum stood still for a minute then laid the tea towel over the pooled milk and crouched next to me.

My head whirled.

What are they talking about? What ‘truth’ have they been hiding?

Mum shook my shoulder. ‘Come on, Cassie. We’re going to the front room. You can lie on the sofa. You aren’t going to school today.’

I cradled a cup of coffee sweetened with four sugars. Mum hadn’t even objected when I asked for it. Dad was bent behind the television, swearing as he swapped SCART leads. The old VCR sat at his feet, the buttons outlined in dust. He put the silver DVD player on the carpet next to it. Then he hefted the video recorder into place on the shelf. It fitted. The cabinet had once been designed for it, after all.

Dad looked at Mum and they both looked at me. Then he pulled a video box from his jacket. A business card was taped to the front, but I couldn’t make out the faded lettering.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Mum winced.

Dad ran his hands through his greying hair. ‘A picture speaks a thousand words.’

He slid the video into the slot. There was a mechanical whirring as the machine inhaled it and my fingers tightened on my cup.

‘Cassie,’ he said, ‘put your coffee down.’

I placed the mug on the floor. For once I wasn’t about to argue with him.

A picture shimmered into focus and Dad’s face appeared.

The screen was a magic mirror, reversing the damage of the years. In this image Dad’s hair was brown, his skin unlined. But his mouth formed a line above his jutting chin and he was aged by the shadows in his eyes.

This younger version swallowed and nodded at the person behind the camera. ‘It’s working?’

‘You can start any time.’

That’s not Mum’s voice.

I leaned forward.

The Dad on screen ruffled his hair in a familiar gesture and looked away from the camera. ‘I’m not sure we should be doing this,’ he muttered.

‘It’s a good idea to make the recording, Mr Smith. Evidence is often essential in these cases.’

I frowned.

Our name’s Farrier. Why did she call Dad Mr Smith?

I squinted across the room, but my parents weren’t looking at me. Their eyes were fixed on the window into our past.

The conversation was continuing. Quickly I turned back and stared into the television.

‘Okay,’ Dad said. ‘I’m Dave Smith and this video is being taken at –’ he checked his watch – ‘four p.m. on the thirtieth of June 1984. Um . . .’

‘Go on.’ There was a strangely familiar ring to the woman’s voice, yet I was certain I’d never heard it before. I clenched my fists.

‘My daughter, Cassie, is twenty-three months old. She’s just started talking.’ Dad stepped away from the camera to reveal a strange living room overrun with the detritus of life with a small
child: an overturned doll’s pram, a set of building blocks, a miniature chair and table covered with crayons and paper. ‘You can come in now, Marie.’