Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope (51 page)

“What was that?” whispered Oksa in horror.

“A Crucimaphila, Oksa,” murmured Dragomira brokenly. “The ultimate Black Globus.”

An icy shiver ran down Oksa’s spine. So that’s what the terrible Crucimaphila was! Gus, as overawed as Oksa, staggered, but didn’t lose his footing. Abakum carefully put away his Granok-Shooter and lifted Dragomira into his arms. Impatient to leave this nightmarish house at last, the four of them turned, went upstairs and regained the peace and quiet of the street.

“Let’s go home, kids.”

And as the Fairyman was driving them through the icy rain to the city centre, they had no idea that Mortimer McGraw had entered the cellar a short time after they’d left. At the same time as they arrived in Bigtoe Square, the boy, in tears, his heart filled with rage and insane hope, was clutching a phial filled with the particles of the black hole which was now his father, the Felon Orthon-McGraw.

Z
OE FRANTICALLY RUSHED AROUND THE
M
C
G
RAWS
’ house, looking in every room. Orthon had disappeared and there was no sign of his wife Barbara or his son Mortimer. She was alone.

“Go to your room, Zoe, don’t worry,” Mortimer had told her, two weeks ago. “I’ll pop up and see you in a bit.”

That was the last time she’d spoken to him. She’d waited all
evening
, then she’d fallen asleep, worn out with worry. The house was empty when she’d woken up. Horribly empty. Again Zoe had waited for hours for Orthon or Mortimer to come back, wandering from room to room and leaving worried messages on their mobiles, which had rung unanswered. Hours had turned into days. The cupboards and fridge gradually emptied, dust settled on the furniture, growing thicker by the day, and spiders’ webs formed high up on the walls. With all hope gone, she’d finally had to face hard facts: she’d been abandoned. She was all alone in the world with nowhere to go and no one cared if she lived or died. The house felt as if it were closing in on her like a tomb.

This unpleasant sensation shocked her into action. She packed a small bag with her most valuable possessions: the photo album documenting key events in her short life, a few birthday cards, a pendant in the shape
of a clover leaf and her gran’s strange-looking flute. Then, with her bag slung over her shoulder, she walked to the Pollocks’ house without looking back, her heart in pieces.

When Dragomira opened the door she was astounded to recognize a thin, grubby Zoe gazing at her with desperate, tear-filled eyes ringed with dark circles.

“Mrs Pollock, I’m so sorry for coming here—I didn’t know where else to go…”

Then, overcome with emotion, she sank down onto the top step in front of the house. Dragomira, still bruised and battered from the blows she’d received during her encounter with Orthon, summoned the Lunatrixes to help. Zoe didn’t resist, too exhausted to show any fear of the
remarkable
creatures. They carried her up to their mistress’s apartment and laid her on a sofa, where she immediately fell asleep, wrung out by sadness.

“Misunderstanding is about to experience mending!” exclaimed the Lunatrix, sounding even more enigmatic than ever.

“Oh, please, my Lunatrix,” said Dragomira, rebuking the small creature. “This is no time to speak in riddles!”

“Beware of judgement overflowing with errors and grudges, Old Gracious,” continued the small creature nonetheless. “Vast importance must be attributed to this girl because she contains Gracious blood…”

The Old Gracious frowned and slumped down onto the sofa opposite the one where the Lunatrixes had deposited Zoe. Despite her weakened condition and the scolding she’d just given her Lunatrix, she knew in her heart of hearts that this pitiable-looking girl was going to turn their lives upside down.

Dragomira was watching Zoe when she woke up, which made the girl feel rather awkward, even though she could see no hostility in Baba Pollock’s eyes.

“Hello, Zoe,” Dragomira said softly. “Are you feeling better?”

When Zoe replied “no” in an almost inaudible whisper, Dragomira leant towards her and, gently taking her hand, murmured kindly:

“I know you’re scared. I would be too if I were in your shoes. I just want to say that I don’t mean you any harm—quite the opposite, in fact. You can trust me.”

Feeling somewhat reassured and, above all, hopeful, Zoe glanced shyly at Dragomira.

“Why don’t you tell me everything from the beginning?” suggested the old lady.

After a brief hesitation, Zoe made up her mind. The words poured from her in their hundreds, tumbling over each other to get out. Her battered heart ached and she was racked by sobs as the painful memories tore her apart. But once she’d started, Zoe couldn’t stop. She kept
talking
through her tears while Dragomira stroked her hand, realizing the magnitude of the mistake mentioned by the Lunatrix.

“So your father isn’t Orthon McGraw then!” gasped Baba Pollock in amazement.

“No. He’s my great-uncle, my gran was his twin sister. He took me in when she died.”

She was now speaking in a tiny voice. Startled, Dragomira looked at her with even greater intensity and murmured:

“Reminiscens… Reminiscens was there, close by, and we didn’t realize.”

“She told me you’d known each other when you were young and that you alone could help me if I was ever in trouble. She really admired you, you know. I’ve got some photos of her, if you’d like to see them…”

“I’d love to,” whispered Dragomira.

Zoe took the photo album from her bag and handed it to Dragomira, who carefully opened it. The old lady turned the pages, her mind reeling.
She kept looking from Zoe to the pictures and back again, her amazement increasing with every page.

“My gran knew a great deal about all kinds of things, particularly rocks and precious stones,” continued Zoe. “She was a diamond cutter. She’d always lived with me and my parents because she adored my dad. He was her only son. When he died, she focused all her energy and love on me. We’d both often hold back our tears to avoid upsetting the other. We had to be strong for each other and that was really hard. I’d lost my parents but she’d lost her son.”

“That’s awful… Is that your dad in these photos?” asked the old lady pointing to a page of the open album.

“Yes.”

“He was very handsome.”

Dragomira stared at the photos for a long while, her brow furrowed. Suddenly she was struck by an incredible thought and the blood drained from her face.

“I’d like to ask you something, Zoe,” she said, trembling. “What was your father’s name? And do you know his date of birth?”

“My dad was born on 29 March 1953 and his name was Jan Evanvleck.”

Dragomira sank back on the sofa. All these pieces of information came together in her mind, making her head spin and sucking her into a vortex created by over fifty years of repressed grief and untold secrets. The truth erupted like molten lava from a volcano.

“Leomido…” murmured Dragomira.

She looked at Zoe, her eyes full of tears.

“You haven’t lost everything, my child. When you knocked on my door, you found a family. Your own family.”

“I… I don’t understand!” stammered Zoe.

“My dear brother, Leomido, is your grandfather.”

I
T WAS THE END OF TERM AT LAST AND THE STUDENTS OF
St Proximus were letting off steam, racing around the courtyard shouting and laughing, their uniforms in disarray and their ties
unknotted
. Oksa Pollock and Gus Bellanger were more than ready for the holidays—they’d begun to think the school year would never end. So much had happened… What with the revelation of Oksa’s mysterious origins and the vaporization of Orthon McGraw, the Runaways’ sworn enemy, the last few months had held more than their fair share of exciting discoveries and terrifying ordeals. Determined not to let these thoughts dampen her high spirits, Oksa shook her head and began dragging Gus towards the fountain in the middle of the paved courtyard. Her friend struggled to free himself, laughing.

“It doesn’t take a genius to guess what you’re up to!”

“How could you say no to a refreshing dip in honour of this red-letter day!” exclaimed Oksa, pulling her friend by the arm with all her might.

“You’re making a big mistake if you think you can use brute force. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that nothing and no one can make me do something against my will!”

He brushed back a strand of dark hair with pretend arrogance. Weak with laughter, Oksa let go—and, losing her balance, crashed into the edge of the fountain.

“Ouch,” she yelped. “My elbow!”

A ring of blood appeared around the tear in her blouse.

“That really hurt,” she grumbled. “Blast! Look at the mess I’ve made of myself.”

Gus held out his hand to help her to her feet. She twisted round to take off the little bag she wore strung over her shoulder and handed it to him.

“Will you look after this for me while I go and clean myself up?” she asked.

“Wow… the Young Gracious’s magical accessories? What an honour!”

Oksa smiled at him and headed off in the direction of the grey stone cloister. Gus watched until she vanished into the shadowy staircase that led into the magnificent building.

Twenty minutes later, Gus was still there.

“Come on, Gus!” yelled a golden-haired student. “We’re going to play basketball.”

“No thanks, Merlin, I’m waiting for Oksa.”

Sitting there patiently against a low wall with nothing much to do, Gus gently pressed the bag. Inside he could feel a soft, round shape—the Tumble-Bawler. He hoped it wouldn’t kick up a fuss. As if it could read his mind, the Tumble-Bawler said:

“Don’t worry, young Master, discretion is my middle name! It has to be, given that high volume doesn’t make for a low profile.”

This quirky motto made Gus smile.

“Come on, Oksa… what on earth are you doing up there?” he grumbled after a few more moments.

“I can inform you that the Young Gracious is currently in the first-floor toilets, fifty-six yards north-north-west of here,” the small creature couldn’t help volunteering in a muffled voice.

Gus shuddered uneasily at the thought of someone overhearing this unconventional conversation, but all the other students were having too
much fun to pay attention to him. Tired of waiting, he finally stood up and headed over to the staircase.

Walking along the deserted corridor, all he could hear were the sound of his own footsteps and the hubbub from the courtyard. A strange feeling came over him as he remembered the awful events that had taken place just four months earlier—Oksa injured, fiendish McGraw showing his true colours, Miss Heartbreak… He couldn’t help glancing inside the lab as he walked past and, as he did so, he heard someone singing a sad, slow song that sounded like a lament. Intrigued, he turned the door handle—the lab was unlocked. Gus walked in and looked around. He couldn’t see anyone, but he could definitely hear someone as clearly as if they were standing right next to him. He opened Oksa’s bag: the Tumble-Bawler hadn’t made a sound.

“What’s going on? What is that noise?”

He walked round the room, clutching Oksa’s bag tightly. He looked under every desk and opened the door to the store room, then the large cupboard. Nothing. And yet he could still hear the soft, mournful
weeping
. He stopped searching and stood in the middle of the room listening hard, all his senses on the alert. He could now make out what sounded like faint words amongst the sobs.

“What are you saying? Where are you?” he stammered, looking around despite his fear.

He heard a voice which sounded as though it were coming from a long way off and yet was very close, saying:

“I’m here, right in front of you. I need your help. Please come and set me free…
I’m begging you
!”

Oksa was hurrying back to the courtyard, her shirt still damp, when the wail of a foghorn caught her attention.

“Hey, that sounds like Gus’s mobile!”

The ringtone grew louder as she walked past the first-floor lab, then cut out. Oksa stopped and listened for a few seconds. With a smile, she heard what she’d been expecting to hear: Darth Vader’s rasping voice telling Gus that someone had just left a message. It was Gus’s phone. She immediately pushed open the lab door and walked in.

“Gus! Are you in here?”

No answer. Oksa glanced around and looked under the desks. Her friend didn’t usually play tricks like this, but you never knew what he might get up to. Suddenly she spotted his mobile on the floor.

“What’s his phone doing there?” she muttered with a frown.

She picked it up and looked around again with a puzzled expression, then walked out of the room and went to join the others.

“You haven’t seen Gus, have you?”

Zoe looked up, an expression of concern on her pretty face. Oksa kicked herself for worrying her friend for no reason and hurriedly continued:

“What an Incompetent he is. Look, he’s lost his mobile!”

Grabbing Zoe’s hand, she dragged her after her as spontaneously as ever.

“Come on, he must be hiding around here somewhere. Let’s go and track him down.”

Since Zoe had been living with the Pollocks, Oksa had discovered how nice it was to be friends with another girl. Real friends. The pity she’d felt for Zoe at first—aroused by the girl’s unhappy past—had been replaced by a sincere, mutual affection that had taken them both by surprise. Now they were firm friends, united by a huge secret.

“Just wait till he dares to show his face again…” grumbled Oksa.

After half an hour spent searching fruitlessly for him, the two girls were back where they’d started and they were both feeling more concerned than they cared to admit. It was getting late and the students were
beginning
to file out of the school.

“You’d better phone home,” suggested Zoe, her forehead creased in an anxious frown, which only made Oksa feel more unsettled.

By the time Pierre Bellanger and Pavel Pollock had arrived in the courtyard, the girls were beside themselves with worry. They had spent nearly an hour searching the school from top to bottom again with mounting desperation.

“He isn’t at Bigtoe Square, or at home,” declared Pierre, sliding shut his mobile.

The caretaker locked St Proximus’s heavy gates and they had to face facts: Gus was nowhere to be found. Oksa and Zoe gazed at each other, eyes brimming with tears. The peace and quiet of the last few months had obviously just been a brief respite.

The Runaways were in shock. Brune and Naftali Knut, the imposing Swedish couple, and Dragomira’s brother, Leomido, had rushed over to the Pollocks’ house in a show of solidarity. Night had fallen long ago, doing nothing to lighten the heavy mood. Pierre, his face furrowed with worry, had his arms around his wife, Jeanne, who couldn’t stop crying. Dragomira walked over and gave them a hug, but couldn’t think of anything comforting to say. Standing behind Marie’s wheelchair, his eyes fixed on Oksa, Pavel felt paralysed by a creeping sense of anxiety.

“Perhaps we should inform the police?” suggested Oksa hoarsely.

“We can’t do that, Oksa” replied Abakum, the protector of the Runaways. “Anyway, we all know they’d just say he’s run away.”

“Gus wouldn’t run away from anything. He’s been kidnapped!” cried Jeanne, frantic with worry.

“But by whom?” they all wondered, though no one dared to voice their thoughts. Only Oksa plucked up enough courage to say what they were all thinking:

“You don’t think it could be a Felon, do you? Orthon McGraw can’t have been the only one to have got out of Edefia; who’s to say there weren’t others?”

They looked at her with some degree of gratitude. This was the
best-case
scenario for all of them. It would mean that Gus was going to be used as a bargaining counter by the mystery kidnapper and wouldn’t be harmed while negotiations were under way. But what if the kidnapper wasn’t a Felon? It didn’t bear thinking about.

They sat there all night constructing theories and possibilities, mobiles in hand and eyes glued to the front door. Around five o’clock in the morning, slumped on a sofa next to Zoe, who was just as despondent as she’d been the night before, Oksa suddenly discovered what was to be their first lead. She’d kept Gus’s phone and was listening for the umpteenth time to the last message that had activated the voicemail alert she’d heard. It was from Jeanne. “Gus, I haven’t been able to get hold of you. Your dad will pick you up in an hour. See you soon!” Amazed that she hadn’t thought of it before, Oksa carefully examined everything her friend might have recorded. There wasn’t anything much of interest in his messages, but there was something weird in the phone’s photo gallery: just before his mother had called—the clock on the phone confirmed it—Gus had taken an odd picture.

“Look!”

Oksa showed them the thumbnail on the screen of the mobile.

“What on earth is that?”

Pavel immediately switched on his computer to enlarge the photo and everyone crowded round to take a look. As soon as the picture appeared, Zoe cried out:

“That’s my gran, Reminiscens!”

“Are you sure?” exclaimed Dragomira.

“Of course I am!”

They all stared at the screen: the picture showed the upper half of a woman who looked around seventy. She was staring straight ahead, her
pale blue eyes wide with despair and fear. She was slim, dressed in dark colours and her drawn face aroused compassion.