Dead Statues (11 page)

Animals might work, but the effects wouldn’t last long. What sort of existence would that be for my friends? Wasn’t being dead already hell enough?

The Elders had shown me the happy lives my friends could have if I made my choice and
pushed
everything back in place. Murphy would be with his daughters – they would have never been murdered in their beds by Sparky. Isidor would be with Melody, just like he had always wanted. Kayla would have Sam and Potter would have...

To think of that was unbearable, but I had to face it. Potter would spend his life with Sophie.

She wouldn’t reject him in the world which would exist when I
pushed
back. Neither of them would know any different – but I would. To Potter, I would have never existed, wiped from his memory, from his life. Would I remember him?

Wherever I ended up, would those feelings I had for Potter still rage inside of me? Would I spend the rest of eternity carrying the scars for the person I loved, but could never have, knowing that they were with another? Is that why the Elders carried so many scars? Why their faces and bodies seemed to be stitched back together? Were they the scars they carried for failing to make their choice? Would I become just like them – one of them?

With so many unanswered questions racing around my mind, I leant into the wind and driving snow, and continued on to my father’s house. I didn’t want to let any of my friends go, especially Potter. Despite my anger for him, I loved him, and nothing would ever change that. I wanted us to be happy together. I deserved that, didn’t I? But that was selfish of me, right? Could I really forsake my friends; deny them a shot at happiness because of my love for Potter? I didn’t want him to be with Sophie – he was mine. I loved him. I thought of those statues the Elders had shown me. The images of Murphy holding his daughters’ hands haunted my soul. I remembered watching from the window at Hallowed Manor as he had carried his daughters’ lifeless bodies into the woods. I could see him crying in Potter’s arms as if it were only yesterday. How could I deny Murphy the chance of being with his daughters? I pushed the memories away, but they were only replaced with images of Isidor, so often alone, standing to one side, not really fitting in with the rest of us. Melody had accepted him, they had accepted each other, and the statue of them looking into each other’s eyes, filled me with joy, yet sadness too. It was within my power to give them each other back, or snatch it away from them. Again, I tried to push those pictures away, but they were only replaced by images of Kayla.

My sweet little sister, Kayla, who at times seemed so angry and lost, but she had a right to be – she had lost so much. Both her parents had been murdered, and so now had her brother. Kayla had found a friend in Sam; could I take him away from her, too?

Then there was Potter. Perhaps he still did love Sophie? Maybe it was Sophie he was meant to be with? The statue the Elders had shown me said so. I could carry on tricking myself that it was me Potter truly loved, but he didn’t, not really. At the earliest opportunity he had gone back in search for Sophie. Could I blame him?

Wasn’t I now going in search of my father? I needed to see him again, to know that he was okay. Why did I want to know those things?

Because I loved him. Even though I could barely imagine how painful the moment would be when I had to make my choice and send Potter back into Sophie’s arms, I knew that I had to do it. I had to make that choice for Potter and for all of my friends. I loved them all enough to want to see them happy – that’s all I wanted.

So with my mind set, and listening to
Iris
by Leona Lewis on my iPod, I made what was left of the short journey to my father’s house.

Knowing that no matter what happened there, I would be presented with some kind of choice, and I was ready to choose.

Potter

Within seconds, I was soaring amongst the clouds above the cottage Murphy had rented out. Did I feel bad for not explaining to him I was going in search of Kiera? Not really. It was great to have Murphy back, but for too long now, I had come accustomed to making my own decisions.

Some of them had been shit, there was no denying that now, but I had done the best I could. Those were mistakes I was desperate to put right, especially the ones where Kiera was concerned.

She’d probably be really pissed at me for going after her, but I could live with that as long as she listened to what I had to say. Kayla was right; I should explain how I truly felt for her. I couldn’t imagine – I didn’t want to imagine – a day where Kiera wasn’t a part of it. I had meant every word I had said about Kiera, when Sophie had asked me at the farm on Black Hill to describe her.

“...Kiera has this really annoying habit
of wanting to do the right thing the whole
time,”
I remembered explaining to Sophie.
“She
wants to do the right thing by everyone, even if
it means that she loses out somehow. She threw
herself into the arms of a serial killer because
she couldn’t bear the thought of others
suffering. Kiera is the smartest, bravest, and
most selfless person I have ever known. But
deep inside, she is so gentle and kind, and
sometimes I think that I’m not even good
enough to hold her hand, let alone share a life
with her.”

To hear my own voice in my head, I wondered now if I hadn’t been right about those last words I had said. To think of Kiera made me smile inside, and I knew Kayla was right. I should have told Kiera those things I thought about her.

What had been the point explaining to Sophie how much Kiera meant to me? It was Kiera who needed to know how I felt about her. I just hoped that I could reach her in time – before she made it to her father’s house where a trap of some kind undoubtedly waited for her. How much of a head start had she got? An hour, perhaps? She could have reached her father’s house by now. I could be too late already.

With my wings angled like points on either side of me, I tucked my arms against my sides and headed in the direction I had last seen Kiera going.

Snow whisked past me as it left the clouds. I dropped slightly in the air to get my bearings through a break in the clouds, and stopped. On the other side of the hill where Murphy’s rented cottage stood, I could see a mass of berserkers.

They were heading up the side of the hill towards the cottage where my friends sheltered. I hovered, hidden by the cloud, and watched them silently approach the cottage on all sides. They were circling the cottage to cut off any chance of my friends escaping.

I looked into the distance, wanting to go after Kiera, knowing that time was running out if I were to intercept her before she reached her father’s house, and the trap I now believed had been set for her there. Below I could see the berserkers approaching the cottage, my friends unaware they were going to be attacked. I looked again in the direction Kiera had been heading, then back down at the cottage.

Which do I choose?
I roared inside.

Go after Kiera and my friends would surely die. Stay and help my friends and Kiera would walk into a trap just like Isidor did. I looked back again, through the snow, hoping that I might see Kiera in the distance, on the brow of some hill.

The snow perhaps slowed her progress, reluctant to use her wings for fear of being seen, therefore still visible somewhere in the distance. There was no sign of her. I looked down again as the berserkers crept around the outside of the cottage, their pointed noses sniffing in the air. With my wings spread wide on either side of me, I looked again into the distance, just hoping that I would see Kiera making her way back towards the cottage, deciding that it was a mistake to go see her father after all. There were only drifts of snow.

With my claws out, I flipped backwards in the air, and then raced out of the clouds and back towards the cottage.

Kiera

By the time I had reached the top of the small hill, the taste of the rat had finally left my mouth. Its blood was still working, sedating that constant need in me for the red stuff. The weather had eased a little, but the air was bitterly cold and my hair, shoulders, and coat were white with snow. At the top of the hill, the wind howled all around me, and I looked back in the direction I had come. I could see my footprints leading away into the distance and back towards the church, which now looked small, like part of a miniature town some way below me. Just like everything else, the graveyard and the spire of the church were now white, and from where I stood, the world looked peaceful, like a picture on the front of a Christmas card. From where I stood, I couldn’t see any statues, and despite what the Elders had said, I knew I had seen them, and I could remember what one of them had told me.

Lead us to the Dead Waters
, the statue which had resembled me had said. Even now it seemed to talk on the wind which howled about the hillside.
We will follow you.

But where were these Dead Waters? I wondered. And what were they?

The Dead Waters will give us life, and
you can’t push back without us
, the statue’s voice had told me.

Unlike what the Elders had told me, the statue had said that if I wanted to
push
back and
save
my friends, I had to bathe in these Dead Waters. As I stood on the crest of the hill, I spied a thin column of black smoke spiralling up into the white sky. It looked like a pencil smudge on a blank piece of paper. Sheltering my eyes with my hands, I peered ahead and could see that the smoke was coming from a house in the distance.

My father’s house. I looked at it, then glanced back over my shoulder in the direction I had come.

Did I listen to the statue and go back, lead them and my friends to these Dead Waters, wherever they me be? Or, did I continue on towards my father’s house and make the choice which would ultimately set my friends free? With my head tucked down, and my long hair fanning out behind me in the wind, I set off in the direction of the house and the black spiral of smoke.

The house sat alone on an area of ground which was mostly surrounded by trees and brambles. The nearest road was about a mile or more away, which you could get to by following a narrow path which led away from the front of the house. I had been able to see this as I made my way down from the hill. Not far from the house, there was a small crop of trees. They offered some protection from the snow, as I stood and spied on the house. I’d already made up my mind; I would look at him from afar. There was a temptation, knowing my father was somewhere inside that house, to run towards it and find him. I was scared, though, now that I was here. What would it be like to see him again after all this time?

I just wanted to see his face again, to know that he was all right. I could hear Murphy’s and Potter’s warnings inside my head, telling me that this man wasn’t really my father. He was, though.

It was my father in a different
when
, that was all.

Now that I was so close, it was easy to push Potter’s and Murphy’s warnings from my mind.

The desire to see my father again, and knowing that he was so close, was overwhelming.

Concealed behind the trunk of a large tree, I watched the house, hoping to see some sign of him. I knew already that my father in this
when
was slightly different from the one I had loved.

My father had always liked towns. He enjoyed the convenience of it, and it was near to his work.

This place was remote, unlike anything he would have usually chosen. I could see several flowerbeds lying before the house on a patch of turf. I couldn’t tell if they were well-kept or not because of the blanket of snow, but I knew my father had never enjoyed gardening. Before the house stood what appeared to be crab apple and plum trees. Both were fruitless. In fact, as I stared at the house, it didn’t look as tranquil and well-kept as perhaps I had first thought. Brickwork showed through, where large areas of paint had been allowed to flake away. The roof was missing some slates in several places, and the front door, which at first sight looked grey, was actually just weather-beaten and dirty. This surprised me, as my father had always been rather meticulous about

how presentable and clean the house looked. Perhaps there were slight differences between
whens
? I wondered.

I rubbed my hands together, then blew warm breath over them. My fingers ached with the cold, but it was better than having them turning to stone. With my back hunched, and trying to make myself as small as possible, I peered around the edge of the tree trunk, and watched the house.

The snow had almost stopped now, and I could see that no one had approached or left the house all morning by the lack of footprints leading to and from the house. I knew that my father was home by the sight of the continuous stream of smoke that poured from the chimney. He was probably sitting before the fire reading a good book. Who in their right mind, other than me, would be out eating rats and watching the house of their dead father from behind a tree?

I’d almost given up hope of seeing him, when suddenly I saw the outline of someone at the window. Was that him? I wondered. Whoever it was, they had passed the front of the window too quickly for me to see. Perhaps there was someone else in the house. A wife, perhaps? Murphy and Potter had told me that my mother had died during childbirth, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t remarried. Who would want to live in such a remote place on their own? Not me, nor my father – not the one I had known. How did he get to work each day? He had been a pathologist and was pretty much always on-call. Havensfield was a good five miles or more away. Was my father a pathologist in this world? Perhaps he did something completely different? Did any of that really matter? I’d only come to steal a secret look at him, not find out his life story.