WITH THE SLEEVES OF HIS TRACKSUIT TOP ROLLED UP to the elbows, Gus Bellanger was doing his best to stick down the floor tiles that had lifted in the floods. Suddenly he raised his head, automatically pushing back a strand of black hair which fell over his face. A few seconds later, Marie Pollock gave a cry. Gus looked at her, amazed.
“It’s not… possible…” he muttered.
He stood motionless in the middle of what had once been the Pollocks’ living room, his dark blue eyes wide. Then, coming back to his senses, he slowly shook his head. Virginia Fortensky—Cameron’s wife and Leomido’s daughter-in-law—hurried over, abandoning the dishes she’d been drying in the adjoining kitchen.
“What’s going on?”
Gus ignored the question and crouched down in front of Marie.
“You felt it too, didn’t you?” he asked softly.
Clutching at the armrests of her wheelchair, Marie nodded, too choked to utter the slightest word.
“Oksa? Are you there?” called Gus, reeling with excitement. “Oksa!”
The Spurned, who were now living in the Pollocks’ London house in Bigtoe Square, came running when they heard his cries. Gus was in the middle of the room, gazing into space, clearly searching for something which he couldn’t see.
Marie, who was just as agitated, was looking around wildly too.
“What’s up with you both?” asked Kukka Knut.
Naftali and Brune’s granddaughter stared at them, intrigued. Gus collapsed into a rickety armchair. He remained silent for a moment before he could reply:
“Oksa was here.”
“What?” chorused the Spurned in surprise.
“Oksa was here,” repeated Gus, brushing back a long strand of hair.
“But Gus, you know that’s impossible!” said Kukka, going over to him.
She put her hand on his shoulder, her husky-dog blue eyes staring at him in disbelief. Gus violently shrugged her off, as if burnt by her touch.
“Don’t look at me like that!” he yelled. “I don’t need your pity!”
“But Gus,” protested Kukka, going white. “It’s not pity!”
Gus jumped up from his chair and went over to stare out of the window, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his tatty jeans. The deserted square was covered in mud and looked thoroughly depressing. There was the sound of sirens: the Thames was about to burst its banks again. But for those inside the house, that was the least of their worries.
“Gus is right,” added Marie finally. “Oksa was here. I felt it too.”
Andrew, the minister, rubbed his face, looking more sad than confused.
“You think we’ve gone mad, don’t you?” asked Marie bitterly. “But I swear it wasn’t a figment of our imagination. I don’t know how Oksa did it, but she was here! I recognized her scent, I felt her presence, her hair against my cheek. She… she hugged me.”
She hung her head and slumped down, weary and overwhelmed. Since the Spurned had returned to London, her condition had steadily deteriorated and the poison secreted by the soap made by Orthon McGraw continued to ravage her body. Despite the conviction in her words, she was more unsure than she’d ever admit. Was she losing her marbles? Perhaps she wanted Oksa to be there so badly that she’d believed she could sense her as surely as if she were right beside her. But no, she knew deep down that her mind wasn’t playing tricks and that she wasn’t hallucinating. Anyway, Gus had felt the same thing—but how could she get the others to accept the inconceivable?
“Maybe Oksa managed to Dreamfly,” suggested Virginia in a well-meaning attempt to help her friend. “If so, that would mean she’s become a Gracious and she’s okay.”
“From what I know, only the mind travels during Dreamflights,” objected Andrew. “They don’t allow for any physical manifestation.”
The solemn silence grew and their expressions became graver. What if that apparition meant that Oksa and the Runaways were in danger in Edefia? What if it was some kind of… final farewell? Marie closed her eyes and moaned. Everything was spiralling out of control.
“We have to go upstairs!” Gus said suddenly, turning to face the Spurned. “The water’s rising again.”
His sharp words roused them from their gloomy thoughts. This was the fifth flood warning since their return to London. The last one had been worse than the one before, but the water had only reached the ground floor owing to the raised structure of the house. In the days afterwards, it had taken all the courage the Spurned could muster to restore a semblance of normality to the rooms damaged by the high water levels. Despite the shortage of running water, electricity and almost all essential survival aids, their hard work had paid off: the basement was uninhabitable, but the kitchen and living room were back in use. This time, however, the flooding appeared to be more serious and looked as if it might destroy everything. In the din of the army helicopters criss-crossing the sky while blaring words of warning through powerful megaphones and the continual wailing of the sirens, Gus and Andrew took hold of Marie’s wheelchair and went up to the third floor.
Dragomira’s old apartment had been spared by the storms and floods, but not by the looters, who’d gleefully carried off everything that had made these cosy, unconventional rooms so appealing. The thieves had stripped the apartment of its countless paintings, console tables, curtains and rugs, leaving only the crimson sofas and the double-bass case, which were too bulky to be easily removed. The shelving unit which had housed hundreds of phials—some containing extremely rare ingredients—had been reduced to a pile of wood and glass.
Panting, Gus and Andrew carefully set down the wheelchair and went over to the windows. The square was gradually disappearing under brown water filled with an indescribable jumble of debris and refuse.
“If the worst comes to the worst, we still have Dragomira’s private workroom,” said Gus.
Fortunately, the looters hadn’t managed to get into the room hidden under the eaves. After all, no one would have thought there was a secret passage behind the double-bass case. As a result, the workroom had remained undamaged, apart from a few broken windows and some tiles dislodged by the raging winds. The main reason the house was still standing, though, was its proximity to the other buildings in the terrace. Built adjacent to each other, they’d provided their neighbours with shelter, so damage was minimal. “A good principle to follow if we’re going to withstand the hard blows life deals us,” Marie had remarked gravely. Andrew, who was good with his hands, had managed to repair the holes, so the Spurned were able to save the invaluable stocks of food collected by Dragomira for her creatures—a treasure trove consisting mainly of cereals and preserves which enabled the Spurned to be self-sufficient and live in relative safety. Things weren’t that simple, though. Despite the widespread presence of amphibious police vehicles in the city, there was the continual threat of looting. Urban guerrilla warfare raged in the streets and danger lurked everywhere, transforming the country into what was essentially a military state. Initial feelings of solidarity had begun to give way to selfish individualism, despite some qualms on the part of the majority. Then the power cuts had started, the shelves of the grocery shops had gradually emptied, and people had panicked, thinking that their kindness might backfire on them. The core principles of life were forgotten and the law of the fittest had taken hold. It was proving to be an unstoppable process with few exceptions. Severe shortages caused even the strongest wills to waver, and a small canister of gas or a jar of jam became an object of abject greed.
The Spurned had discovered this to their cost when they’d helped the Pollocks’ neighbours, the Simmonses. Glad to share what they had, they’d decided to give a few packets of pasta and rice to this charming retired couple, who seemed to have stepped straight out of handbook on good breeding and etiquette. Two days later, the Simmonses had turned up again at the front door, much more demanding and much less friendly. Andrew had tactfully made the point that it was necessary to use foodstuffs sparingly: in two days the Simmonses had eaten enough to feed all seven people in their group for a week. Mr Simmons had lost his temper and had tried to force his way in, waving a collector’s pistol which, in other circumstances, would have been a completely disproportionate, even ridiculous reaction. Gus had seen red and, without further ado, had put his karate classes to good use, ejecting Mr Simmons with a judo throw which had surprised their rude neighbour as much as the Spurned. Since that unfortunate incident, the Spurned had remained on their guard, disillusioned and very wary.
The sirens were still wailing, assailing their ears and straining their nerves to breaking point.
“I won’t be able to stand this for long,” whined Kukka Knut, sliding down the wall to a sitting position. “I’ve had it up to here.”
Pulling her ecru sweater over her knees, she buried her head in her lap. Sympathetically, Gus left the window from where he was watching the Thames flow over the pavements and roads and went over to sit next to Kukka. In these troubled times, the authorities were dealing with the most urgent situations first and the weather agencies had been instructed not to make any more pointless forecasts. Things didn’t look good: since their return to London, the Spurned hadn’t seen a single day without rain. There hadn’t been a ray of sunshine or a scrap of blue sky. Just cold grey water, which got in everywhere and left its dirty calling card on everything it touched. And in Bigtoe Square, morale, like the weather, was at an all-time low.
“We’re cold, we’re using candles to see, we can’t wash properly and soon we’ll have nothing left to eat either!” added Kukka, her head in her hands.
A greasy strand of blond hair escaped from her untidy bun. Gus reached out to tuck it back into place then, at the last minute, thought better of it.
“It won’t last for ever,” he murmured. “It can’t last for ever.”
Kukka looked at him out of the corner of her eye.
“I didn’t expect such unbridled optimism from you!”
Gus immediately stood up.
“It’s always a pleasure to try and help a friend,” he grumbled, gazing at her forlornly.
“If you really want to help, then help me find my parents!” snapped Kukka.
Disheartened, Gus turned on his heels.
“Don’t be such a spoilt brat,” he growled, heading over to Marie.
Kukka blushed.
“Don’t forget that Gus’s parents are also in Edefia,” Virginia remarked reproachfully to Kukka. “We all have loved ones there, we’re all unhappy, you’re not the only one, Kukka, far from it! Please don’t make things worse by taking your bad mood out on us!”
Kukka stifled a swear word in Finnish—her mother tongue—and sat sullenly in her corner. Gazing into space, Marie took Gus’s hand. The hope kindled by Oksa’s fleeting presence had now been replaced by deep despair. The water lapping at the top step outside the house was about to flood into the hall. The current situation left a lot to be desired and the future wasn’t looking bright for the Spurned.