Voices in Stone (2 page)

All heads turned to look at Gray. Isis looked at him too, trying to read his face. The story Mrs Dewson was telling was one of the versions told by the adults who’d been there. All were slightly different, and none were correct. Apart from Gray and Isis, the only living person who knew what had really happened was Philip Syndal, a man who’d been possessed by the Devourer and who’d wanted the creature to take over Isis’s mind instead. He was in a psychiatric hospital now.

Gray still looked embarrassed, but he was standing a little straighter, even smiling.

“Thanks to Gray’s bravery,” said Mrs Dewson, “and the sterling work of the emergency services, Isis was saved.” Everyone shuffled and craned their necks to look at her again.

“Dead girl.”
The words were said quietly, but loud enough for everyone near Isis to hear. The red-hot blush pouring up Isis’s neck was making her even more visible, when all she wanted was to disappear.

“Of course,” said Mrs Dewson, “we don’t all have the opportunity to be so brave, but I hope this term you will all be inspired by Gray’s actions…”

The whispers continued, and a couple of girls giggled.
Dead girl.

Isis sat down, even though Mrs Dewson hadn’t said to yet. She fixed her eyes on a safety notice, reading the red-printed words over and over.
IN THE EVENT OF FIRE, LEAVE IMMEDIATELY BY THE EMERGENCY EXITS.
Desperately, she tried to block out everything else.

Eventually, assembly was over.

“Be safe going home. We’ll see you tomorrow,” said Mrs Dewson, as everyone began filing from the hall.

“Keep your backs straight!” shrieked the teacher-ghost. “If you bring shame on this school, you shame yourselves as well!”

As Isis’s class walked to the cloakroom, Jess’s gang muscled their way up the line.

“What’s it like being dead?”

“Did you see Jesus?”

Isis blushed even more, looking at the floor to avoid the girls’ eyes.
Ignore them and they’ll go away
; only adults would think that might work.

At her hook, Isis crammed her arms into her coat, heaved her school bag onto her back and headed for the doors as fast as she dared.

“Hey,” shouted Connor, the boy who’d whispered in assembly, “you going home to your coffin?”

“You’re not funny!” Isis snapped back.

“I’m not dead either,” he said.

Isis would’ve punched him if she knew how. Instead she spun around and headed out of the door, running for the gates.
Wait until they can’t see me.
That’s when it would be safe to cry.

On the other side of the fence she could see a little girl peering through the black metal bars. As soon as she saw Isis, Angel shot through the fence, the iron sliding straight through her blonde fluff-curls and pink dress. She hopped from foot to foot, waving at Isis.

“I did waiting!” Angel shouted. “I did waiting all day!”

Isis smiled even as she tried not to cry. She held her arm so it looked as if her hand was just hanging at her side, and small invisible fingers slipped into hers.

Isis walked home alone, holding her sister’s hand.

When Isis came in through the door of their flat, Cally was waiting for her, rushing out of the kitchen to greet her with a kiss.

“How was your first day back at school?” she asked.

Isis shrugged, dropping her bag by the door. Angel hopped her way to the living room. “I waited, I waited, I waited waited waited,” she sang soundlessly, clambering onto the sofa and disappearing inside one of the cushions.

“Did you make any new friends?” Cally asked. “Is there anyone you’d like to invite round for tea?”

Isis stayed motionless, close to tears. But her mum only smiled, looking eager; she didn’t know what had happened
at school and Isis could see she was trying to make an effort.

Isis shook her head, following Angel towards the living room.

“I just want to watch a bit of TV,” she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

“
Peppa Pig
!” squeaked a voice from inside the cushion.

“You must be tired,” said Cally. “Do you want a drink? Apple juice? Orange juice?”

Isis turned back to her mum. “Have we got those?”

Cally nodded. “I bought them when you were out. I know it’s a bit extravagant, but first day back and everything!” She headed for the kitchen and Isis followed in surprise. On the kitchen table was a plate piled with biscuits, and an empty glass, waiting for her.

“I told you,” said Cally. “Things are going to be different now.”

Isis picked up a chocolate digestive, while Cally poured her an orange juice. Isis felt a tiny bit better. She was safe here, and Cally was making good on the promise she’d made in hospital.

“I did something else while you were at school,” said Cally.

“What?”

A smile crept onto Cally’s lips. “I got a job!”

Isis stopped eating, a biscuit halfway to her mouth.

Cally laughed. “Really! A real job!”

“But what about your psychic readings, your performances?”

Cally’s smile became a wince. “I’m not doing any more of them. I’ve… come to my senses about all of that. You probably didn’t realise this, but some of the people in the Welkin Society weren’t very trustworthy. And I think Philip Syndal was–” she frowned a little–, “well, not a mentally stable person.”

Isis almost laughed. Her mum didn’t know the half of it.

Cally turned the kettle on. “Like I said in the hospital, I’ve realised it wasn’t healthy for you to be surrounded by talk of ghosts. We need to move on, don’t we?”

In the living room, Angel was singing. “I waited, I waited. I did waiting all day.”

“What job have you got?” asked Isis, beginning to hope. This might change everything – her mum would be out working, not depressed in their flat, they’d have money at
last, and there’d be no more hanging around community centres while her mum tried to make a career as a stage psychic despite not being able to see ghosts.

“Well, it’s wonderful,” said Cally. “I’m sure a higher power must have guided me there. I only popped into Crystal Healing to get a small rose quartz, but I got talking to Constance and she told me she’s just opened a new treatment room at the back. She needs someone to mind the shop when she’s doing her healing sessions.” Cally beamed. “It’s only part-time to start with, but Constance has such a powerful aura, I’m sure she’ll be fully booked in no time.”

Isis put down her half-eaten biscuit. “You’re working at Crystal Healing?”

Cally nodded. “Isn’t that great?”

“They sell incense, and packs of tarot cards.”

“And crystals, and healing bells, and a wonderful selection of books.”

“I thought you meant you’d got a job in a supermarket or something,” said Isis.

Cally laughed. “I would hate to work in a supermarket, you know that.”

“But why do you have to work at
Crystal Healing
?” Isis didn’t mean to wail, but that’s how it came out. Maybe she’d be okay if no one from school ever went past the shop or looked in the window… But, what if they found out? What if they
went in
?

Cally’s smile drifted into a puzzled frown. “You’ve asked me so many times to get a job.”

“Not
there
!” Isis grabbed a handful of biscuits and marched back into the living room. She threw herself on the sofa, switching on the telly.

“I don’t understand,” Cally called after her. “I thought you’d be
pleased
!”

Isis stared at some programme where children got to redesign their bedrooms. She ought to be pleased, and Cally was trying to change. But why couldn’t her mum do something normal, just once?

“Your mother’s right,” whispered a voice from behind her. She twisted around but there was no one there. As she turned, a biscuit crumb caught in her throat and she began to cough. Or maybe it was the dust that was suddenly filling the room? Every surface seemed to be breathing out particles; motes danced in the sunlit air,
fibres floated up from the sofa, dust balls rolled out from beneath the coffee table.

It wasn’t a breeze – the windows were all shut.

A straggle of spider’s web began to un-weave itself from a ceiling corner, wafting in a single line through the air to a point near Isis’s head. Still floating, the spider silk gently coiled in the air, winding itself into a ball, and with each twist it caught the dust and fibres, spinning them in its tiny whirlwind.

Isis got up slowly, moving away.

Now dust was pouring out from underneath the TV stand and rising up from the carpet. Frayed scraps of paper peeled and fell from an old tear in the wallpaper. Above the sofa, the spin of spider silk was transforming into a swirling, mouldy-smelling column. It became a body and a head. Arms formed from the gathering fluff, draping across the back of the sofa. Long, thin legs slithered out, crossing themselves at the knees.

At last, sitting in Isis’s living room was the recognisable shape of an elderly man, dressed in an old-fashioned tweed suit, a fez perched on his head. Across the formless shape of his face, the dust and dirt was beginning to crust, like
drying mud, bulging into bony features and a long, beaky nose. Holes cracked in his eye sockets and blue light glinted through them.

“Mandeville,” whispered Isis.

“The very same,” said the ghost, lifting his fez in greeting. With every moment he was becoming less a creation of dirt, but even as his body settled into its final form, his skin remained patched and flaking, his suit tattered and threadbare. He was human-looking, but rotten.

“What are you doing here?” Isis whispered. “I thought you were… eaten.”

Mandeville smiled, relaxed and amiable. “I must admit, I did think my doom had arrived when Philip Syndal directed the Devourer to consume me, but thanks to your prompt actions only a little of my essence was absorbed before I was freed. When you opened a tear in its monstrous side I was one of the first to escape in the general stampede of spirits. After a period of rest and recuperation, I thought I would come and pay my respects to my saviour.” Mandeville bowed his head. “I am most grateful.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

Mandeville shrugged, sending a puff of dust into the air and making Isis cough. She glanced back at the kitchen, checking that Cally was busy. She turned up the volume on the TV and a boy’s voice blared out, complaining to the show’s presenter about the way they’d transformed his bedroom.

“I appreciate that the effort was for your sister,” said Mandeville. “Nevertheless, I benefited.” He peered around. “Where is she, by the way?”

A small voice called out of one of the sofa cushions. “You goway! You horrid!”

Mandeville tutted. “She has the matter backwards. I believe the correct form is for a child to be seen, but not heard.”

“You
poopy
!” shouted the cushion.

“Children are no better when dead,” muttered Mandeville.

Isis folded her arms.

“What do you want?” she whispered. “And what did you mean before, about my mum being right? Supermarkets weren’t even invented when you were alive; how would you know if she could work in one or not?”

Mandeville raised his eyebrows, cracking the papery skin of his forehead. “I was not referring to her employment. I was discussing her decision to retire from the Welkin Society. Probably the first sensible thing she has ever done, leaving that nest of self-deceivers. And speaking of Philip Syndal, as he is now incapacitated…” One of his eyebrows slowly dropped, leaving the other raised in question.

Isis only needed a moment to work out what he wanted. Someone to be his link to the living. Someone with whom he could be a star, even though he was dead. When Mandeville had been alive, he’d been obsessed by the Victorian psychics of his day. When he’d died and discovered them to be charlatans, he’d set about finding genuine psychics. Isis knew that Mandeville had put decades of effort into Philip Syndal, but while the man had become a celebrity, performing to huge audiences and making regular appearances on television, he’d never even revealed Mandeville’s existence to his fans. Now that his time with Philip Syndal had ended so horribly, the ghost was still searching for fame.

But Isis shook her head. “No.”

Mandeville sighed, letting out a plume of green mould spores.

“My dear, would you destroy my hopes when they are all that hold me together?”

“I won’t do it!” snapped Isis, louder than she meant to.

“Are you all right?” Cally called from the kitchen.

Isis glared at the elderly ghost. “Yes,” she shouted back.

Mandeville smiled, his teeth dangling in his mouth. “Shall I take that as a maybe?”

“It isn’t,” she hissed, “it’s a no. No!
No!
”

But Mandeville was already crumbling. In a blink, he was a falling fountain of dirt, then a stain on the sofa, then nothing.

When she was sure he’d completely gone, Isis turned the TV down and sat back on the sofa. She stared at the television programme, her thoughts a thousand miles away from the boy and his bedroom. She picked up one of the biscuits and put it in her mouth, instantly spitting it back into her hand. The biscuit was now soft and stale, the cream filling fuzzed with bluish mildew.

What was it like, Gray?

It was scary, that’s what I remember.

Not at first. I mean it was just a boring school trip, even though Mr Watkins, our geography teacher, was trying to make out it was really exciting.

“We’re incredibly fortunate to be on this trip today,” he said, standing at the front of the coach before we set off. “UK-Earths doesn’t normally open up to visitors, but they’ve made an exception for us because of, well, community relations. I want you all on your best behaviour, giving a good impression of our school.”

Jayden called out, “How come we’re the ones who have
to do community relations? It’s not our fault there’s been protests.”

I laughed, and other people did too. I mean, on an excited scale of one to a hundred, we were definitely less than ten.

Mr Watkins glared at Jayden. “You are all
extremely
lucky to have this opportunity, so make the most of it.”

“So lucky,” I muttered to Gav, who was sitting next to me, “getting a trip to a big hole in the ground.”

Because that’s what it was. An opencast quarry a few miles out of town, and the reason they needed community relations was because of all the stuff about it destroying the countryside and bringing tons of trucks through town. There’d been loads in the paper, even a protest camp nearby somewhere.

Not that I’d been bothered, but Dad was of course. Summer was over, all the crops had been harvested, so he couldn’t go out crop-circle hunting. Which meant other things, like conspiracy theories and the quarry. Or conspiracy theories about the quarry.

Mum even got a phone call from him about it, which put her into a right outrage.

“I can’t believe your father,” she said, storming into the kitchen like it was my fault. “He says I shouldn’t let you go on the school trip.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s against his
principles
! That is so like him.”

I wasn’t really surprised because Dad has principles about a lot of things, like me not being allowed a mobile phone. That’s definitely the worst. Not being allowed on a school trip, well that might’ve been a good thing.

“If I can’t go, can I have the day off?”

Mum glared at me. Normally she might’ve said that then Dad could take the day off work to look after me, but she wasn’t letting me visit him. Not since she found out about him taking me out UFO hunting all those times. I had to tell her because it was the only way to help Isis. Dad had warned me not to and he’d been right; when Mum found out she went mental! She said he was irresponsible, and swore a lot. And later it didn’t matter how much I said I actually liked going UFO hunting, because by then she had her killer comeback.

“Look what happened to your friend Isis.”

“She did survive,” I said, but Mum just gave me one of her looks.

I was amazed that Dad even knew about the school trip, seeing as I hadn’t seen him since the summer. I wondered if he was cyber-stalking me – him and his UFO-freak friends are always setting up ‘search and alert’ programs.

But Mum said, “He read about it in the local paper, and he claims that proves it’s just a publicity stunt and that we shouldn’t be supporting the ‘corporate destroyers of the environment’.”

“Well they are destroying the environment,” I said.

Mum only rolled her eyes; sometimes I wonder how Dad and Mum even dated, let alone got together and had me.

“I don’t mind not going,” I said, sort of hopefully.

“It’s not about whether you mind!” snapped Mum. “It’s about your education. She signed the form with a fast jab of her pen, nearly tearing through the paper. I knew then there was no way I was getting out of the trip. Mum was probably going to escort me onto the coach herself.

Um, are you sure you need to know all this for your… therapy? I could tell you just the main things, if you want?

Our coach shunted through the traffic in town, with the
other coaches behind us. Our whole year was on the trip, so we were practically a convoy. It took a while, but eventually we were out past all the roundabouts and heading into the countryside. It isn’t far to the quarry, but the coaches went slowly because the road was so bendy. It took at least half an hour of driving, but eventually we turned down this new-looking road, heading for a pair of tall gates with a high, chain-link fence stretching off either side. We passed a sign that said
UK-EARTHS: CAUTION HEAVY VEHICLES
and the gates were opened by a couple of people in bright yellow jackets and safety helmets.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t very impressive. A car park and some mobile offices.

“Is this it?” Jayden said as we got off the coach. It’s what we were all thinking. You could hear a rumbling clattery noise in the distance, but that was the only sign of it being a quarry. We milled about while the teachers got us into our class groups and checked our names off lists. The staff from the quarry came out to meet us, led by a woman in a smart suit. Mr Watkins rushed over to talk to her, all smiling and hand-shaking.

Jayden nudged me.

“Community relations.”

Teachers from the other coaches joined Mr Watkins, and there was more pointing and checking of lists. Then he came bustling back to where my class was standing, followed by the smart-looking woman.

“4B,” he announced, “this is Dr Harcourt, who is the um…”

“Public Affairs Director,” she said.

Mr Watkins smiled in this sucking-up way. “Yes, Public Affairs Director of UK-Earths. She is going to guide us around the quarry today, and you’re very lucky to be the first group going onto the site.”

None of us said anything.

“Isn’t that great?”

A few people nodded. Was he expecting a cheer?

Dr Harcourt stepped past Mr Watkins and smiled at us. Not a genuine smile; like she had to, you know?

“So, class 4B…” she said, then she turned her smile at Mr Watkins. “I thought class 4F were going onto site first?”

Mr Watkins shook his head, and his bald patch went bright pink. “I’m afraid 4F are being… well, there was a
bit of rowdy behaviour before we left school which resulted in the class losing their first place.”

Dr Harcourt’s smile got even faker. “Oh. I see.” She didn’t seem very happy, like she wasn’t used to things going differently to how she’d planned. She threw an annoyed glance at us, like we were the ones who’d played up, and led our class to one of the Portacabins, where one of the men in hi-vis jackets gave us each a fluorescent tabard and a red safety hat. He did a test of the warning siren, which sounded like a foghorn.

“If you hear that, you need to get out of the quarry, straight away,” he said. “We let off three blasts, two minutes apart, before any blasting, and also if there are any safety issues anywhere in the quarry. So if you hear the siren, get back here, and don’t mess about, okay?” Most of us nodded. The ones not listening, well I reckoned it was only evolution if they got blown up.

Dr Harcourt led Mr Watkins over to a computer while that was happening, and they starting checking our names again, this time to an on-screen list. She still didn’t look happy.

“I think we should get the other class, the ones who were meant to be going first,” she said.

“Don’t worry, my lot won’t mind going out of turn – they’re happy about it, just look at their faces.”

She didn’t.

“That isn’t what I meant. We have everything organised and this change of events is not…”

But Mr Watkins was shaking his head. “It won’t be possible,” he said. “We can’t go back on discipline in that way. The class have to take their punishment otherwise there’d be…”

“Anarchy,” whispered Jayden, grinning at me.

“Revolution,” I whispered back. “The breakdown of society as we know it.”

Mr Watkins didn’t go quite that far, but there was no way Dr Harcourt was changing his mind. Teachers can be like that, I guess, because they’re so used to bossing everyone about.

We had to wait in the office for ten minutes while she argued at him, but he wouldn’t budge, and eventually Dr Harcourt was the one who gave up, saying that she’d be writing to the head teacher about it.

We lined up at the door, and Mr Watkins came along, checking we all had our hard hats and stuff.

“What is her problem?” he muttered to himself. “What does it matter which class goes in when?”

It mattered a great deal. Dr Harcourt should have worked harder to ensure things were kept in order. And she should not have assumed that you would all emerge unscathed.