Ross Lawhead (5 page)

He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. No, he reflected, the real trick isn't the signature—it's in making all the teachers believe that you were the sort of boy who would never even
think
about faking his mum's signature. And that meant, as so many things in life, keeping your head down.

He picked up his school bag, fished out his gym clothes (wouldn't need those), and thought about signatures and permission slips. Where did they all go? What happened to them? Were they all put in a file somewhere? Did anyone really check them?

Would this little scrap of paper be scrutinised against all the others— checked for authenticity by a man in a white coat with a giant magnifying glass in a brightly lit room? By now there must be more of his fake signatures on all these different slips and documents than his mother's real one. To the school office his forgeries were more authentic than the genuine article.

He was just checking that his keys were in his pocket when his eyes fell on something unusual. He and his mum didn't get a lot of mail other than bills, but there, on the floor beneath the front door, was a red envelope. He was so surprised that he actually took a half step back and then bent down to pick it up.

He turned it over and looked at who it was addressed to—it was to him. Someone had remembered his birthday.

There wasn't any sender's address on the envelope, and he didn't recognise the block capital handwriting on it. Quickly, he thrust it into his jacket. It felt like a secret, and he wanted to keep it to himself as long as possible.

All the way to school he thought about the envelope. It might be from Nan, his mum's mum, but she didn't really go in for that sort of thing—she was more forgetful than his own mother. It could be from Grandma and Grandpa Tully, but he hadn't seen them in three or four years, since the separation.

He could see that the coach was already waiting when he got to school. He sighed. He'd actually prefer a day of the ordinary routine rather than having to navigate the chaos of a field trip. For a moment he considered not going, but last time that meant he'd had to join another class for a day—a dangerous and unknown social minefield. He handed his permission slip to Miss Singh and got on the bus, sitting down in the first pair of seats that weren't occupied and sliding over by the window.

He sat there unmoving, trying to be a part of the background, holding his breath when anyone passed by. Eventually the coach was nearly full and he thought he'd gotten away with it, but just as Miss Singh had crossed the last name off her list, a group of girls—who had already passed him—came back up the aisle and stood at his seat.

“Look,” said one of them. “If we get
him
to move, we can all sit together. Hey, Daniel.”

He pretended not to hear.

“Daniel!”

He turned and saw Callie Johnson bending towards him. “Hi, do you mind moving so that we can all sit together?”

“Where to?” he asked, playing for time.

“I don't care, you little freak,” Callie said in a low voice, leaning towards him. “Just leave.” The girls behind her giggled. He heard one of them mutter the word “outrageous.”

Daniel wasn't fazed. “I'm fine here,” he said.

“Find a seat, girls,” Miss Singh called down the aisle.

Callie Johnson leaned closer into Daniel. “Move,” she growled, “or I'll sit next to you and pinch your arm till it falls off.”

Daniel turned to look out the window.

“Girls, find a seat,” said Miss Singh, coming towards them.

“Move!”
Callie growled under her breath.

He didn't. Callie couldn't do anything else until Miss Singh reached them. Her last chance would be to protest the unjustness of Daniel's attitude and try to make the teacher move him—which she might.

However, as Callie turned towards the advancing Miss Singh, someone pushed past her and slid into the seat beside Daniel.

“This seat free? Mind if I take it? Thanks.”

“Freya?” said Callie, appalled. “What the—?
I
was going to sit there!”

“If you were going to, you would have already,” Freya replied curtly.

Miss Singh had reached them. “Okay, girls, find a seat. Now.”

With no hope of being able to shift
two
people from their seats, the group of four was forced to disperse with groans of annoyance.

“Thanks,” said Daniel to Freya, once the coach had started and they were on their way.

“No problem,” said Freya. “Callie and her posse are acting like real cows these days. I can't stand them. Besides,” she said, giving him a wide smile, “I know a secret.”

“I know you do,” said Daniel.

“It's your birthday,” Freya said in a low voice.

“I know.”

“Do you know how I know?”

“Yes.”

“Because it's my birthday too,” Freya said, her smile widening even further.

“Happy birthday,” Daniel said miserably.

“Remember when we were in First Year together and they threw us both a party?”

“Barely.”

“Well, I remember it.” She smiled. “Did you get anything nice?”

“Sure, lots of stuff.”

“Did you bring anything with you?”

“No, of course not.”

“I did. Look . . .” Freya pulled a silver necklace with a teardrop-shaped pendant out from beneath her school jumper.

“It's nice,” Daniel said.

“Thanks. It's from Mum and Dad. What did you get?”

“What is this all of a sudden? You haven't talked to me in a year, and now we're best friends?”

“If you don't want me here, I'll switch seats with Callie . . .”

“No, it's fine. I'm just saying . . .”

“So what did you get?”

“I told you, lots of stuff. Look.” Daniel pulled out the red envelope from his jacket pocket.

“Who's it from?”

“Don't know,” said Daniel. “Haven't opened it.”

“Well, go on then. What are you waiting for?”

Daniel shrugged. “You do it,” he said, chucking the card into her lap.

“Okay,” she said, sliding her finger underneath the envelope's flap and ripping it open.

Daniel watched as she pulled out a shiny card that had a brightly coloured picture of a dancing clown on it. It was a kid's card, not a card for someone who'd just turned thirteen.

“Do you want to read it or shall I?” Freya held the card up, and Daniel watched a crinkled slip of heavy, rectangular paper slide out the bottom of it and onto her lap. She picked it up and passed it to Daniel. It was a ten-pound note.

“You read it,” he said, folding the money and sliding it into his shirt pocket. Freya opened the card.

“‘To Daniel,' ” she read. “ ‘Happy birthday, from your dad.'”

“That's it?” Daniel said, leaning towards her.

Freya handed the card to him. “Doesn't say much, does he?”

Daniel gave a jerky shrug. “The last time I heard from him was three years ago. Today he sends me a card with some money in it.”

Daniel heard himself say those words and felt wretchedly sorry for himself. Three years—three whole years, and then what?

Ten pounds and a crappy card with a stupid clown on it with a mocking, leering laugh. His hands clenched and he tore up the card, dropping its twisted pieces on the floor beneath his feet.

He turned his face to the window, eyes hot, tears threatening to drip down his face.

Freya sat quietly next to him and didn't say a word until they reached the church.

2

Daniel turned and walked down the church aisle, stopping at a short wooden railing that ran wall to wall just before the altar. His head was tilted as far back as it would go so that he could stare straight up at the ceiling. Behind him he could hear Miss Singh droning on about some stained glass window just around the corner— no one could see him here.

There were stone carvings everywhere—on the walls, on the ceiling, on the arches, around doorways, along the columns— carvings of animals, plants, people, and mythical creatures. The arches leading up to the chancel were lined with dozens of carvings of sunflowers—stacked row upon row like strings of rising suns. On the large archway over the church entrance there were a mermaid with a sword, two battling centaurs, a roaring lion, a king with a crown, a face with a leaf in its mouth, weird zigzag patterns, and other bewildering designs.

Daniel walked up the aisle towards the altar. He felt peaceful here. The anxiety and emotional chafing of the bus ride was becoming less painful, gradually washing away. Marveling at this amazing building, he felt part of something much, much bigger than himself, and he knew he was the only one who felt it. It was like he understood what the church was feeling—an old, proud indifference to the chattering, squabbling children who were walking inside of it. It was as though all the shoving and pushing and jockeying for attention and importance—all these things that affected him so much—were irrelevant to the enormous, beautiful building. It was created for something else.

Behind the altar there was a small arch, partially hidden in the shadows. For a moment he thought there was a passageway underneath it, and hearing the call to adventure, he intended to follow it, but when he got closer he saw that it spanned just a blank wall of stone.

The archway oozed antiquity and was crammed with interesting figures. It must have been a doorway to something at some point. On one side there was a knight wearing a pointed helmet and a thick beard. In his left hand he held a round shield, and in his right was a large axe with a long straight edge. Underneath him was a horse, a dragon, a lion, and an ox. Opposite him, on the other side of the arch, was another knight, a lot like the first, but this one held a spear. Beneath him was something that looked like a dog, or maybe a lamb, a woman with a staff, and then an eagle and an angel.

He sat down in an uncomfortable wooden chair beside the altar, opened his sketchbook to a clean page, and started drawing the figures on the arch. He had just finished tracing the shape of the axe in his book when he heard a rustling sound behind him, like the flapping of a flag. A shadow fell across him and then quickly lifted. Startled, he twisted around and looked up into a plain gothic window. Something had passed next to it—flickered across it from outside. But it was gone now. He turned back to his sketch.

The light in the church was growing dimmer. The December sun was setting now, even though it wasn't very late at all. He finished drawing the first knight and quickly moved on to the other.

He heard his class moving across the church—probably to another window—and slouched back closer to the altar so no one would see him.

“What are you doing?” a voice asked him, making him jump.

He twisted around, his eyes wide.

“Freya!” he exclaimed in a whisper. “Flip! Don't sneak up on people like that!”

“Sorry,” Freya answered automatically. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Daniel said, moving his pencil carefully across the page. “What does it look like I'm doing?”

“You'll get in trouble for wandering off,” Freya said, coming to stand behind Daniel.

“Yeah? Then so will you. Why are you hanging around me so much?”

She ignored him. “Not bad,” Freya complimented. “You're good at that.”

“I'm not, really,” Daniel said. “It's just that I like knights. I draw them all the time.”

“You've got the arm wrong just there.”

“It's fine, just a little long, that's all,” he said, reaching for his eraser. “Anyway, that's what it looks like on the arch.”

Freya sniffed and straightened up. “Where does the tunnel lead to?”

“What tunnel?”

“Haven't you looked down it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That tunnel, there.” She pointed. “Where does it go?”

“There's no—” Daniel looked up and then jerked his head back in surprise. There
was
a tunnel underneath the arch. “That wasn't there before.”

“Good artists need to notice everything,” Freya said crisply. She walked up and poked her head through the arch. “The wall's curved, I can't see around it. It's odd, though, usually churches from this period don't have catacombs. We should ask Miss. I wonder if it may have been made—wait.”

Daniel brushed past her, having packed up his sketchbook, and walked into the tunnel.

“Where are you going?”

“It sort of spirals downwards,” he said, stopping a short distance in. “There's some kind of light coming from farther on. A glow.” He took a couple more steps forward.