Thirty

They had given her back her clothes.

When they let her out of the cell, she followed quietly. A woman came forward to meet her, holding out her hand by way of greeting.

‘I’m Carrie Phillips,’ she said. ‘I work for the Social Services.’

The girl looked at her. It was bright in the corridor, and the bodies of those around her fluctuated in her sight. The policeman who had opened the door of the cell, a small broad man of her own height, with flat eyes like a cat, reflective eyes, had struck her immediately with his patched energy—energy threaded together like blocks of colour, each block jostling the other for precedence. She had passed him sensing only the brittle touch of his interest, that bounced on to her, from her, back to her. He would soon forget her entirely. His attention never stuck in one place.

But Carrie Phillips had no light. The girl regarded her with interest. A curious phenomenon. Not even that deflecting contact. This woman who was holding out her hand to her, a tall woman, was entirely dimmed. Her aura was cool and bleak. Carrie Phillips was in a caring job, but she didn’t care any longer. The girl looked into her eyes sympathetically and touched the fingers held out to her. Immediately, she saw another country—a busy street. A riot of colour. Carrie, who seemed to be looking at her so intently, actually had another picture in her head—colour in the picture, a street in some hot place, and a person in that street. And it was intimately connected with the letter that was in the black case slung on a long strap over her shoulder.

The girl looked at the case, and felt Carrie’s disappointment. Carrie was trying to find a solution to a relationship that had gone terribly wrong, but she would never get to the country, and the person who had written the letter would never come home.

The girl squeezed her hand.

‘And we don’t know your name,’ Carrie said. ‘Which makes things just a little difficult. Not impossible, though.’

She signed a form.

Another was put in front of the girl, but they wanted her name. She gazed at it apologetically, and put the pen down again.

‘That’s a nice dress,’ Carrie said, as they waited for the girl’s belongings. ‘Is it new?’

It was. Alisha had made it for her. Alisha was very good at sewing, which, she had explained tartly one night, was not an easy, feminine task. It took a mathematical turn of mind to master the three dimensions of dressmaking. She had the fabric already in a drawer, and had held it against the girl’s face.

‘It’s your colour,’ she had said.

Gratitude had made the girl take up Alisha’s hand. She had pressed it to her face.

‘Come on now,’ Alisha had said, a catch in her voice. ‘All that is finished with. Forget what happened before. This is another life.’

The material was very pretty. Alisha’s fingers were careful, deft. Alisha made many of her own clothes, a fact that the girl had not appreciated when she had brought the clothes from the shops. The reaction to them was still fresh in her mind.

‘You stole these? All these?’ Alisha had asked, plainly horrified. ‘But why?’

For you.

‘Didn’t he teach you anything at all? Not a single common decency?’ Alisha demanded. ‘Did he teach you to steal, instead?’

She had thrown the clothes, still in their carriers, into cupboards in her bedroom, exasperated. ‘How on earth am I going to get them back?’ she had muttered. ‘Didn’t you listen the last time? Why do you persist in doing it?’

Alisha had turned. Her eyes had rested for some time on the girl’s face. ‘Write it down, then,’ she had said.

She had.

For you.

‘No, not for me,’ Alisha had said. ‘If that’s what you mean, not for me. I don’t like theft. Especially of something for which I have not the slightest use.’ She had looked through the packages. ‘Shoes!’ she had exclaimed. And then begun to laugh. ‘And look at them!’ She had held up the polished black court pair and waved them in front of the girl’s eyes. ‘Can you see me in these?’

Humour had always got the better of Alisha. When she fell prey to one of her laughs, bright points of blue danced in her space. Alisha had a halo, an advanced aura of true perception and patience, a spirituality. It was the reason that the girl had gone to her in the first place. When she laughed, the blue shone out in fantastic wheels, that moved as Alisha spoke. The arc above her head radiated. She was an old woman, but she was full of energy, full of interest, of creativity. She would hold out her arms, and draw the girl into the light.

It was only on the last day, when she had tried to show Alisha that she must go, that Alisha had tried to pack, and it had taken a scene—a scene where she walked out without any other item of clothing, without any possession—before Alisha saw that she was fixed in her purpose, and, throwing a few jumbled items into a case, had run after her.

Remembering, the girl smiled to herself.

Oh, she had taken hold of life. She came with her. Wanted to be with her, despite her doubts. Would have held her hand right to the last, to the Gate itself, had her frail physical body not betrayed her.

Carrie Phillips looked at her. ‘You look very well,’ she said, thoughtfully.

The girl dipped her head. Of course she was well. She was the sixth chosen Guardian, and she had her task. She would be well until she had completed it. There was no more important task in the world. Any world. But, more than even that, which was astonishing in its significance, she had something more arresting still, which was the tender memory of Alisha’s light. And now, going on alone, which was the task set before her—to go alone to the Gate—she could summon up Alisha’s light, because Alisha was still there, an anxious spirit vainly trying to become physical, a task at which she was not accomplished.

But there was not long to go.

It would soon be done.

Carrie Phillips took her out into the street. They stopped on the steps of the police station, and the girl shrank back, for a moment, from the noise of the world. People hurried past; the traffic laboured along the road.

‘Market day,’ Carrie said.

It meant nothing at all.

Carrie linked her arm in the girl’s. ‘When I called to see you yesterday,’ she said, ‘I told you that the police wanted to support you, find you accommodation?’

The girl was not listening, which was probably just as well, because actually that was not quite true. The police wanted to keep the girl under observation but had no power to prevent her moving around the countryside. Carrie had come in as a go-between, sympathetic to the girl’s plight, and intrigued enough to acquiesce to the wishes of the constabulary. Secure places were like gold dust, but she had found a room in a warden-controlled block. It was a place for young offenders. The girl was to be placed there, where an eye could be kept on her, but where she had some freedom.

‘You remember that? That I’m taking you to a room, a place to stay?’

Carrie noticed the way that the girl’s arm felt in hers. It was heavy, but not limp. Years of contact with the abused and threatened and deprived had taught Carrie that there were many ways to hold a hand, and to detect the personality behind the grip. This girl’s hand was certainly accustomed to be placed; she complied easily, as if she had suppressed her own wishes. And yet the arm didn’t drag. She had retained some sense of herself, Carrie thought. And a kind of dignity. Even grace.

‘My car is along here,’ Carrie said. She held the girl’s small bundle of belongings still—the watch, and a mackintosh that had been in the car and was assumed to be hers, because it was a modern design. Carrie stopped and gave the bundle over to the girl. She inspected it only briefly.

‘Have you got any toiletries?’ Carrie asked. ‘Cosmetics? Clothes?’

No.

All the clothes had been Alisha’s.

‘We’ll have to get you some,’ Carrie said. ‘A few basics.’ She unlocked the car. ‘You don’t have to worry about food, because the hostel will give you three meals a day.’

They got in. Carrie showed her the seat belt.

‘I don’t know how long we will be able to keep you in Brimmer House,’ Carrie said. ‘It’s not that you don’t need it, it’s that there’s such competition for room.’ She started the engine. ‘Still, don’t worry about it. I’ll sort something out. We’ll go shopping for what you need. And when you feel better, you can talk to me. It’s always a good thing to talk.’

The girl looked out of the window as the car pulled away from the kerb.

She wasn’t worried in the least.

She didn’t mind if she was fed or not.

She wouldn’t keep the room for very long.

And where she was going, she wouldn’t need clothes.