Bad Dreams (10 page)

She makes the same joke every week. I slid off my watch, and passed it across.

‘And you, dear.' Mum turned to Imogen. ‘What about that necklace?'

Imogen patted it. ‘No, really. It's all right. I always swim in it. The clasp's so stiff it never comes undone by accident.'

‘I'm not sure that's wise,' Mum said. ‘It's one thing wearing it in a school lesson, when everyone knows it's yours. But this session is different.'

‘All right.' Imogen turned her back to me. ‘Can you get it undone, Mel?'

I struggled with the clasp. She was quite right, it was horribly stiff and difficult. But finally I managed to prise it open. The slim gold chain fell like a tiny living snake into my palm. It was so cold, it startled me. And though I was sure it was imagination, it seemed to stir of its own accord, even before I prodded it with my finger.

‘What are those strange scratches on it?' Mum asked, opening her bag for me to spill the glittering loops of gold safely inside.

‘My mother says they're charms,' said Imogen. ‘The wavy shapes stand for water, and the pointy ones for roots.'

‘Curious,' said Mum, snapping her bag shut. ‘And much safer here with me than in those lockers.' She set off up the stairs for the café, and I turned to Imogen.

‘Why did you
say
that?' I demanded.

‘About the roots and water?'

‘No,' I said. ‘About Councillor Leroy not being there to give me the Harries Cup.'

‘I didn't say that. All I said was—'

She stopped, and stared at me, appalled. I couldn't work out what was wrong with her. It wasn't quite like all the times before, when blood drained from her face. But she still looked horrified enough.

‘Oh, no!' she whispered, her eyes on me, huge and round.

‘What's up?' I asked her. ‘Is it bad news about Councillor Leroy? Is he going to
die
?'

She shook her head and tried to pull herself together. But though she tried to answer sensibly, she still looked weird. Not scared, exactly. More sort of cagey. Shifty-looking, even.

‘What's going on?' I demanded. ‘Imogen, what's going on?'

She took a breath and said firmly: ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.' But she was still looking hunted, and, desperate to distract me, she glanced around.

‘Oh, look!' She pointed to the label under the photograph on the wall behind. ‘That's who we're talking about – Councillor Leroy.'

And that's when I guessed what had happened. While we were leaning back against the wall to let the father with the pushchair pass, her head must have brushed against the photo. But if, from that, she knew he wouldn't be the one to give me the Harries Cup, she must have known what was going to happen to him. And I like Mr Leroy. He was so kind the year that Toby beat me, managing to make me smile even though I was close to crying. And Mrs Trent says he even remembered to ask after me when I wasn't there last year. I wouldn't like to think of him as ill. Or
worse
.

‘So why won't he be there?'

Imogen said uneasily, ‘Mel, I don't know.
Honestly
.'

I don't think I've ever heard anyone say the word ‘honestly' more as if they were lying. But this was no time to start a quarrel. If I had raised my voice, it would have echoed up over the balcony, and Mum would have hurried down from the café to chew me out for being so rude to someone I'd invited.

Scowling, I turned away. And then I thought: Well, fair's fair. She might be hiding something, but there are things I don't tell her. She didn't know I liked her near me in the pool because the fact that she kept everyone away gave me more room to practise.

Cheered, I lifted my bag of swimming things. ‘Come on,' I said, grabbing her arm. ‘All this is wasting good swimming time. Let's hurry up and get changed, and get in the water so I can get on with my tumble turns.'

And, filled with relief at being let off the hook, she rushed after me through the swing doors.

CHAPTER TWELVE

N
ot that the great clear-a-space-around-us plan was working properly. It was so irritating. From the moment we stepped in the changing rooms, we were surrounded. First, Imogen got caught up in a game with the small children in the next cubicle.

‘Knicker-snatcher! Knicker-snatcher!'

I heard them giggling the whole time I was getting into my swimsuit. And even as Imogen and I went through the tunnel to the footbaths, their squeals were echoing off the tiles.

But I was sure that, once we were in the water, everyone would drift away as usual. How wrong I was. Imogen splashed into the shallow end, gasping as she got used to the water, and suddenly she was being mobbed by excited children, all shrieking and calling to her, and it was obvious that if I was going to find room to practise, I'd do far better up the other end.

‘See you in a bit.'

I looked up after every tumble turn, thinking her usual magic would have worked, and there'd be space around her. But it got worse. Each minute that passed, more children gathered, desperate to join in the game she was inventing. ‘Can
I
play? Can
I
play?' And, by the time I'd finished practising, she even had a group of parents floating lazily on their backs a few feet away from her, taking advantage of the fact that here in the pool today was the most brilliant unpaid nanny.

‘Mel! Melly! Over here!'

She'd seen I'd finished. Still, I took my time, watching her curiously as I stroked my way through the water towards her. She looked like a different Imogen suddenly, standing taller, and swinging the children round, bursting with energy.

‘Mel! Come and help! I
need
you.'

At her imperious command, I swam a little faster. But once I reached the circle, instead of joining it I arched up and plunged under to play the shark around the little forest of waving legs. Standing knee-deep in churning water shrieking with laughter is certainly not my idea of fun.

But no-one can stay for ever under water. So, in the end, I had to surface to face this merry, bright-eyed person who'd been turning things into a glorious play-time.

Just like her mother . . .

And that, of course, is when I realized. Splashing to her side, I pulled her round to face me. ‘It's that
necklace
, isn't it?'

‘Sorry?'

Peeling strands of wet hair from across her eyes, she stared.

‘That necklace you're not wearing at the moment! That's what's making you—'

‘Making me what?'

‘You know.' There was no other way of putting it. ‘
Creepy
. You've taken it off, and now you're a different person. No-one would recognize you. Look at you! You're—'

But little hands were grabbing at her. She swung around to face a dozen shining wet faces, all yelling.

‘Imogen, come back!'

‘Swing me again!'

‘Don't go off now!'

Imogen turned back to me, distracted and torn. ‘That can't be right,' she said. ‘Don't forget everything started
years
before I was given the necklace.'

‘Yes, maybe it did,' I said. ‘But—'

Then something made me stop – right there. Go carefully, I warned myself. If Imogen's mother can't see that she once had a totally different sort of daughter – ablaze with life – then she must really have her mind set on this magic stuff. Melly, you might have to sort all this out yourself. Don't forget Professor Blackstaffe says in his book that ‘knowledge is power'. So maybe it's best not to give too much away.

‘Oh,
right
!' I said. ‘Stupid of me. I'd forgotten you'd already had those visions earlier, when you were younger.'

She didn't notice anything suspicious. And anyway, the children were still clamouring. ‘Imogen! Swing me!'

She picked up the nearest child and swung her round. Quickly, I copied her. ‘Who wants the next go? Queue up! Queue up!'

As I said, standing in circles shrieking with merriment is not my idea of a good time. But I did stick it for a good half hour, rather than have Imogen even remember what it was that I'd just said before her little friends distracted her.

Or begin to suspect what it was I was thinking.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

O
f course she thought that wearing the necklace had nothing to do with it. Imogen wasn't a reader. If you don't read, you don't get all that practice in picking up clues, and making up pictures in your head of how things must have happened. I'd suddenly imagined her exactly as she'd described herself when she was little, standing by the Christmas tree, sparkling all over because her cousin was hooking every glittery thing that he could find onto her somewhere.

Every glittery thing . . .

Then, just a couple of years later, in the very same room, dancing a private princess dance for her mother. She'd have her tutu on, of course. And her pink ballet slippers. But to dress up to look the part, surely the first place she'd have gone was the old jewellery box. With the help of some hairgrips, even the slinkiest of gold chains can be made to look like a tiara.

And then, last year, on her birthday, what was she given? (Because around then is when she said all this started in earnest.) The very day she took the desk beside me, she'd said, ‘My granny gave it to my mother, and now she's passed it on to me.'

I know my mother wouldn't pass on something like that, unless the day was very special.

What day's more special than your birthday?

‘
First, check your working
,' Mr Hooper says. So, in the changing rooms, I asked her casually,

‘What should I ask for on my birthday?'

‘Melly, your birthday's not for
months
.'