‘BILLY STRICKLAND’S gone mad.’
They were down by the bridge.
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘He shakes his head and rolls his eyes and talks about hares and ghosts.’
‘I know, Mags. Dad saw it on the local news. They didn’t mention hares and ghosts, though. They just said he was insane.’
‘What a way to go. Shot by your own brother.’
‘You’re lucky you didn’t see it. It’s me should be in the trauma ward.’
‘Yeah. That was so weird. I felt so tired, it was like all my energy was being drawn out of me, and when I woke up I was left with all these crazy visions.’
‘Visions? Visions of what?’
‘Of fire, of running, of blood, of the moon, of a church. And the strangest one was seeing you. I remember seeing you, staring at me. What was that about?’
For the first time with Mags, Robbie was the one with the answers.
‘I think I was right. She needed you. She used you. For a little while, you were part of her. Your friend. She knew you wanted to help her and you did.’
‘I’m not sorry. I’m not. I should be, but I’m not.’
Robbie hadn’t told her everything about what had happened in the church. He would, eventually. But not just yet.
‘Mags?’ He was thinking about his mum’s letter.
‘Yes, Robbie?’
‘What are the chime hours?’
‘The chime hours. Okay. Chime hours. Or chiming hours. In the old days it was when the monks rang their bells. Why?’
‘Nothing. Well, yeah, something. What was special about them?’
‘The only thing I know is that if you are born during the chime hours, you have second sight. You can see things other people can’t.’
‘Is that when you were born?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not why I’m the way I am.’
‘Would Dad know about them?’
‘It’s well-known round here.’
‘So he would.’
‘When were you born, then?’
‘It’s something I need to talk about with Dad, but I can’t.’
‘It’s bad the way you are with your dad. I said that to you. ’Specially as there’s only him and you now.’
‘It’s better that way.’
‘But it’s still no good. Can’t you forgive him?’
It was as if she could read his thoughts.
He could see his mum in the mirror, hear those words.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
He shook his head. ‘No.’ But it wasn’t what he was feeling any more.
She sighed, and the water ran on under their feet.
‘I’ll bet you were born in the chime hours.’
‘Yes,’ he said. The letter, again. ‘Yes. Maybe. What are people saying?’
‘People in general, you mean? They can’t take it in. Everyone thinks the boys were hunting, but no one can work out why they were burning stubble in the moonlight. Unless maybe to flush the animals out, but nobody does that any more. So in the end people think they were just being fruitloops. You know, they always were crazy. Another mad Strickland thing, only this time it went wrong. Poor Billy.’
‘Poor Tommy.’
‘Rough justice.’
‘How’s Mrs Strickland?’
‘She’s not been seen since. He was her prince. I feel sorry for her.’
‘And what about the people who do know?’
‘They’re there. They’ll always be there. Watching and waiting.’
‘Your favourite phrase.’
‘There’s not much else you can do sometimes. There’s lots of things happening you and me don’t know about. ’Specially you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well, it’s true. You might learn, though. And most of them you can’t do much about, but some you can. That’s something else you’ve got to learn. How to tell the difference.’
Robbie took the memory stick out of his pocket. It lay in the palm of his hand, innocent, ordinary.
‘I thought I should do something about this. Still want it?’
‘Yes.’
He flipped it over to her with his thumb. She reached for it, fumbled the catch, and had to jump down into the river after it.
‘Ruined, I imagine,’ she shouted up.
‘Might be better that way,’ he replied. ‘You wouldn’t like it much.’
She was splashing about in the river, her Converses soaked, the dark wet climbing up the legs of her jeans.
He looked down at her corn-coloured head.
‘We didn’t do much, did we?’
‘You can’t.’ She started lobbing stones downriver, lazily trying to hit a tree trunk that was leaning over the water. ‘And –’ she bent down to pick up more stones, brown and glistening from the river bed – ‘it’s not over.’
‘Not over?’
‘Believe me. Not over yet.’ With every syllable she hurled a stone, then bent again for more from the cold rushing waters.