Bad Dreams (11 page)

‘I know,' I said. ‘But I like thinking about it. What did you get last year?'

Her eyes shone with the memory. ‘A trip to London. We saw
Copacabana
!'

‘Brilliant! What did you wear?'

‘Well, we were in posh seats. So I wore my blue top and red velvet skirt.'

‘What about jewellery?'

She thought back. ‘Earrings. And my necklace, of course, because I'd just been given that. Oh, yes. And my swirly snake ring.'

‘If there's time, check twice
,' says Mr Hooper. So on the way out of my cubicle, I pulled my new library book out of my bag and rested it on top, ready. Then I made sure that when Mum undid her handbag, I was at her side.

‘Here you are, Mel,' she said, holding my watch out. But I ignored it totally, and slipped my hand inside her bag, to fish out the necklace.

Again, it was cold, and almost too slinky to the touch. I didn't drop it, though. I kept a grip as I held it out towards Imogen and pretended to stumble. And, as I fell, I laid my hand flat on the library book.

Such a howling! I could barely hear for baying in my ears. And sounds of yelping and snapping. It was
horrible
.

‘Mel? Sweetheart?'

I'd sunk to my knees, my hand still flat on the book. Mum offered me the water bottle she was holding.

‘You look quite faint, love. Have a sip of this.'

She pushed the water closer and I went berserk. Flailing out wildly, I dashed the plastic bottle from her hand and sent it rolling over the tiles.

‘No!' I screamed. ‘No! Get it away from me!'

‘Mel, what's the
matter
?'

Mum's face was close, her arms were tight, and though they've told me since that I was screaming, inside my head it didn't sound like proper screams. More like a howling.

Mum kicked my bag away to drop beside me on the floor. ‘Mel? Mel!'

At once, the shaking lessened. The awful noises in my ears began to fade. Imogen insisted after that it was only a few seconds at most before my echoing screams turned into sobs. I wouldn't know. The only way that I remember it, there were no sobs at all, just a horrible whining and whimpering, and, as I gradually realized that Mum was holding me and I was safe, the most peculiar leftover feeling of sick unease.

Mum pushed my hair from my face. ‘Melly? Are you all right now? Can you walk?'

I shook off the last pricklings of terror.

‘I'll be fine. Really.'

Imogen reached for my bag. ‘I'll carry this.'

I nodded, and thrust the hateful necklace into her hand. ‘Here, take this too.'

‘Thanks.'

She rushed ahead to push at the revolving door. Mum kept her arm around me as I stumbled through. And I was glad that Imogen had already spilled out of the doorway into the car park, safely out of hearing, when Mum, still very worried, said to me, ‘Mel, that was
terrifying
. You looked positively
haunted
.'

That night, still feeling shaky, I pulled
Wolf!
out of my bag and settled down to it. You don't have to be the greatest reader in the world to know what's coming. It was about a pack of wolves during the summer one of them caught hydrophobia – a mortal fear of water. Even as I was reading, I could hear echoes of the ghastly howling deep in my head.

‘
And, if it's really important
,' Mr Hooper says, ‘
and you have time, check it a third time
.' So maybe I really should have found some way to get the necklace in my hand again, and touch a photo, to see if, out of nowhere, I suddenly knew something I shouldn't.

But I couldn't face it. For one thing, it was obvious the necklace worked even more fiercely on strangers than on the people who owned it. When I touched
Wolf!
, it had whipped up a storm of a vision. If it had ever worked even one half as vividly for Mrs Tate or Imogen, they would have realized its powers in a flash.

Or . . .

It was the creepiest thought yet. Maybe the necklace recognized its enemies. Maybe it sensed when someone hated it and thought the whole idea of seeing the future was sick and horrible, and quite, quite wrong.

And I
do
think that. I truly do. Suppose I had a necklace like Imogen's, and touched a photo of someone in my family – Dad, say – and suddenly knew that something dreadful was going to happen to him before he came home on his next leave. I couldn't
bear
it. I'd go
mad
.

No, seeing the future is terrible. Crippling. It shouldn't be wished on anyone. And it was hardly Imogen's fault that her dad wasn't around any more, and her mother was the sort who preferred seeing things as ‘interesting' or ‘fun', to looking at them clearly.

It could be one of Professor Blackstaffe's little problems.

My mother would have been a definite
A
. She had as good as said so.

I wasn't sure if Mrs Tate was
B
or
C
. I did know one thing, though. They were both useless.

So I knew something else, too: it was up to me.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
had my doubts, though. Lots of people have a gift that makes life hard for them. Dennis has to do two hours on the piano every evening. Clive couldn't come on the French trip because his football coach said it was far too near the county trial. And Moira's parents have to drag her out of bed at five every morning to drive to the ice rink for her solo practice.

At least, though, most of the time, those three enjoy what they're doing. Poor Imogen might be happy enough lost in her daydreams on the little yellow tub in the book corner, but, when I thought about it, the only time I'd ever seen her truly happy was that time in the pool. Who would have thought that taking off a tiny gold chain could cause such a miracle of transformation? Like Snow White in her coffin when the bite of poisoned apple fell from her lips, Imogen had woken to her own real self – lively and noisy, and surrounded by friends (just exactly the sort of person Mr Hooper wishes I was!).

He is a teacher, so I asked him first.

‘What is the word for one of those things that makes someone different?'

He looked at me as if I'd spoken to him in Greek. ‘What
sort
of thing?'

‘Sorry. I can't tell you that.'

‘Well, what sort of “different”?'

I glanced at Imogen. ‘Sorry. I can't tell you that, either.'

I knew exactly what was coming next.

‘All right, Mel. Give me an
example
.'

I didn't want to say a word about gold, or even jewellery. But thinking about the necklace did remind me of the peculiar scratches on the gold. Water and roots, she'd said. So, just for an example, I picked one of those.

‘Suppose it was some sort of root.'

‘Some sort of
root
?'

It did sound a bit daft. ‘All right,' I said hastily. ‘Some kind of acorn. A silver acorn that's been lost for years. And, when it's found, everyone who touches it—'

Again, I hesitated. The last thing I wanted was to invite suspicion.

‘Everyone who touches it can cook sausages perfectly!'

I'd certainly invited suspicion now.

‘Melly,' Mr Hooper asked me, ‘do you really think you ought to be in school today? Were you at all feverish this morning?'

I brushed his anxieties aside. ‘What is it
called
?' I said. ‘I
know
there has to be a word for it. What's it called? A magic something that makes people able to do things they can't do normally.'

‘Oh, that!' he said. ‘It's called a talisman. Or an amulet. They're both charmed objects. Both have magic powers.'

So it was back to the town library. And now, with the right words, I found my way through all the indexes, and through the lists on screens. And there was loads. A paragraph in this book, a whole chapter in that. Even a few sinister stories. In fact, from reading some, I started to see why these peculiar charmed objects were always being found in places like the darkest caverns and the deepest wells. They'd almost certainly been chucked there by the poor soul who'd had the rotten, miserable luck of being blessed with them before.

Because, all through my reading, one thing was absolutely clear as paint. My first, and worst, suspicion was the right one. For all she might love those magic moments in the book corner, dreaming of playing with puppies, or cantering through moonlight on snow-white steeds, Imogen would never be properly happy until she was rid of the necklace.