Knaves Over Queens

KERRY SCRABBLED OVER THE gate and ducked behind the hedge when she heard the old van chugging up the lane. She was sure it was Mandy being taken to school by her grumpy dad and she didn’t want to be seen, even though she’d imagined it so many times.

In her fantasy, she’d be walking down the lane just as the van came round the corner, right next to the gate so they could pull over safely and chat to her without blocking the narrow road. Her friend would burst out of the old banger and throw her arms around her. ‘I knew it was you!’ Mandy would say. ‘Where have you been? Everyone’s been asking about you!’

Fantasy Kerry would laugh and say, ‘Oh, there was a mix-up and the council said I didn’t have a place at the school so I’ve just been teaching myself.’ Sometimes, her fantasy reply was less plausible. ‘They did this test on me and it said I didn’t need to go to school any more, so I’ve just been hanging out at the farm, chillin’ out, y’know.’

When she was feeling particularly annoyed, as she did this morning, her imaginary conversation would be darker. She would hold out her hands, covered in the pale blue cotton gloves she hated so much, and say to her old best friend, ‘I’m supposed to tell you that I’m allergic to everything now. But the truth is—’

She jumped at the sound of the van’s horn. Had they seen her? She crouched lower, the dungy smell of a nearby cowpat horribly strong now the morning sun was heating the field up. A fox shot through the bars of the gate next to her and she realized the van had blown its horn to move it out of the road. Mandy’s dad might be grumpy, but he would never run something over if he could avoid it.

Shaking, Kerry was caught between the relief that she hadn’t been seen and the burning wish that she had been. Those hated blue gloves were in her pocket. She was tempted to push them into the cowpat with a stick, but as with all the other times she’d thought about it, she put them on instead. She was almost at her uncle’s house, and she couldn’t take the risk.

Kerry stood up once the chugging wheeze of the van’s engine had faded away and watched the fox race to the opposite side of the field. She couldn’t help but remember when Mandy’s mum had taken them both to the cinema in that van, years ago, when they went to see Toy Story 2. She’d loved the trip there almost as much as the popcorn, the van seats high enough to see over the thick Cornish hedges that lined the roads. It had taken nearly an hour to get to the cinema, thanks to the winding roads and the way the ancient van struggled with the hills, but they’d chatted all the way there and all the way back.

She didn’t want to remember it. It merely made her long for trips like that even more. If only she lived in a town, somewhere with a cinema and shops a walk away – or even a bus ride! There were no buses that served the nearest village and that was over two miles’ walk away. The little shop there, where she used to get her Saturday morning treat, had closed down over a year ago, leaving just a pub and the village hall. It wasn’t worth the risk to go there with nothing to do. Only one of her former classmates actually lived in that village and they had never really liked each other anyway. The rest were scattered over farms and other tiny villages. If only Mandy lived closer! Just one secret friendship would make everything easier to bear.

She wondered what Mandy looked like now. Was she spotty? It was one of the things she’d been warned about but so far she’d only had a couple of zits on her nose and chin. Did she still have her long brown hair or was that style too childish now? After all, the last time she had seen Mandy they had both worn vests beneath their school uniform, tied their hair back with bobble ties shaped like fruit and wore knee-high socks. Now she was wearing a bra – something she and Mandy had once giggled about – and wouldn’t be seen dead in knee-high socks. Her hair was still just as black, curly and unruly as it ever was. She feared she wouldn’t recognize Mandy now, but she knew her old best friend would know her a mile off.

Shoving her gloved hands deep in her jeans pockets, Kerry resumed her bad-tempered stomp across the field. She was already on her uncle’s land, and never left it, but she was still out of sight of the farmhouse, nestled as it was in the valley below. Once it had felt as if the whole world was just two valleys and the fields that stretched over the hill between them. When she was younger, before everything changed, her uncle had owned all the fields she could see from her bedroom window. Since then he had sold off half of the land, but the hill was still his.

The day Uncle Cal came over to tell them about the sale was just as sunny and they had all stood on the patio at the back of the house, the adults with tea, she with apple juice. Uncle Cal hadn’t been himself since he’d arrived. Instead of gathering her up into his arms as he normally did, he’d just patted her on the head and gone to find her parents in the studio, both of them covered in clay and dust up to their elbows.

‘Let’s ’ave a cuppa,’ he’d said to them and like her, they’d known something was up.

He’d been expecting a fight. She knew that now, looking back. But her dad had just nodded at the news and said, ‘You can still walk from our house to yours without leaving Tremaine land?’ When Uncle Cal had nodded, he’d nodded too. ‘Well then. That’s not so bad. We’ve still got the hill.’

‘I’ll never sell the ’ill!’ Uncle Cal said. ‘And I put a rider on the sale, sayin’ it has to stay dairy land. Don’t want none of them property developers gettin’ any ideas. I reckon Pentroath’ll buy it. He’s all right.’

In her family’s eyes, the other local farmers that were ‘all right’ were the ones who helped each other out when the man from the government made them kill all the cows and burn them to stop the spread of foot-and-mouth disease. That had been the first time she’d seen her uncle cry. Mr Pentroath had helped him that day, and rested a hand on his shoulder when he broke down.

She could still remember the smell, even though it was over two years ago. Even now it made her shudder. That year had seen the last of her primary school education, the slaughter of the animals she knew by name and the end of her freedom. So many people said 2001 had been the worst year for farming since mad cow disease. For her, it was the worst year for a very different reason.

Cresting the hill, Kerry looked down into the neighbouring valley and saw her uncle’s farmhouse. It was too big for him but he’d never leave it, even though it was draughty and damp and felt cold all year round. It had been in the family for generations, since her great-grandfather built it to replace the old cottage that his grandfather had built there before. The Tremaine family had owned the land she walked on for hundreds of years, but it didn’t have the same magic for her as it seemed to for her uncle and father. Right now, the same fields they had played and worked in felt like an open-air prison.

The cows were in the next field. She knew all their names too and, even though she worried it would always be there, the fear that they too would be culled had passed. Unlike the herd before, she didn’t head over to say good morning to them but instead moved as far away as she could. A couple headed towards her in the hope of a fuss so she picked up the pace and got through the next gate before they reached her.

From the last field before the farmhouse she could hear Damson barking. She made sure her gloves were on properly and tucked them into her sleeves so there was no gap exposing her skin. At least it wasn’t too hot yet. She missed wearing T-shirts.

Damson was waiting for her on the other side of the last gate, the only one with chicken wire secured over it to stop her running through the widely spaced bars. Her mouth was too full of her favourite ball to bark now. She was mainly Border Collie, with enough German Shepherd in the mix to make her a little bigger, with black-and-white fur and the most gentle nature. The sight of her delight made Kerry’s heart ache for Damson’s sister, Plum. She checked the gloves again before reaching into her back pocket for one of Damson’s favourite biscuits.

‘Hello! Yes, I’m glad to see you too! But you know the rule. Sit. Calm down, now. I’ll be through, dreckly, you just sit first. Then you get your treat.’

Damson sat and dropped the ball in front of her, long lines of drool stretching between it and her mouth as she spotted Kerry’s closed fist.

‘Now, you stay, Damson. Stay, there’s a good girl.’ Kerry dropped the treat over the top of the gate and then opened it as Damson gobbled the biscuit up. Once she was through to the other side and the gate was locked behind her, Damson was on her feet, nudging the ball with her nose, tail wagging. With a grin, Kerry picked it up and threw it as far down the yard as she could. Damson sped off, leaving a plume of dust, barking happily.

Kerry threw the ball three more times, grateful that Damson had learned to drop it at her feet and then back off after each retrieval. When it looked as if she was getting too excited to remember, Kerry reminded her to stay and placed a treat in front of her as a reward. She resisted the urge to fuss her, despite the gloves. It wasn’t worth the risk. So she threw the ball one last time and hurried to the front door as Damson sped off again.

It was unlocked, as usual. ‘Helloooo!’ she called. ‘Only me, Uncle Cal!’

She ate some scraps of crispy bacon left in the frying pan before rinsing it in the sink. Closing the heavy lid of the AGA oven, Kerry wondered where her uncle was and why he’d left the kitchen in such a mess. He was usually far tidier than this.

‘Hello?’ She peeped into the living room that was barely used and wrinkled her nose at the dust. It used to be her gran’s favourite room and Uncle Cal kept it just as she’d liked it. She wouldn’t have approved of this neglect.

She had gone down the hallway to the bottom of the stairs, wondering if he was in the bathroom, when she heard his voice coming from the office. It used to be the dining room until her grandparents died and her uncle took over the farm. He said he was tired of carting boxes of receipts and paperwork up and down the stairs but they all knew how much he hated it when it was his turn to do Sunday lunch. At least her dad loved cooking, when he remembered to do it, and Mum didn’t resent doing a roast every now and again.

Kerry paused, listening long enough to realize he was on the phone. He didn’t sound happy. She heard something about being unreasonable and not having enough time before she hurried back to the kitchen. As much as she wanted to know what was going on, she knew better than to listen in. She’d only blush if something was said and then he’d know she’d eavesdropped.

Unable to go back home, Kerry put on the rubber gloves over her cotton ones and started washing up. It was clear that Uncle Cal was struggling to keep on top of things, even though it was well into June and all the calves had been born.

Just as she was starting to dry the dishes, the post was delivered. Wanting to be helpful, she gathered the letters from the mat to leave on the kitchen table ready for when he finished his call. She couldn’t help but see the red words stamped on several of the envelopes.

Demand for what? Money? She flipped them over, seeing return addresses that were in London. She left them on the table and went back to the sink.

‘But I’ve got someone coming over. She knew …’ he sighed. ‘She must have forgotten.’

He looked tired. And he was wearing a tie and a plain white shirt with smart trousers, instead of a tatty T-shirt and jeans. ‘You goin’ somewhere after?’ she asked.

The sharpness of his tone made her polish the plate she was holding harder. Uncle Cal was never snappish like this. If her mother hadn’t told her she wasn’t allowed home until lunchtime, she would have left then and there.

‘I’m sorry, my ’andsome,’ he said, crossing the kitchen to come and hug her before remembering himself and stopping a few feet away. ‘I got things on my mind, s’all. But it might be best if you come back over later. I’ll let you drive the biggun’ if you like.’

She loved driving the tractor, but she could see it was a bribe. ‘I can’t go home. Dad’s agent is there.’

His frown returned, deepening. ‘T’int right,’ he muttered, grabbing the kettle and filling it at the sink. ‘Girl your age should be at school. Should be meetin’ new people. When I were your age …’ He flicked the kettle’s switch, scowling at it.

‘I don’t need school, not when I’m inheritin’ the farm. I don’t need no exams to prove I know how to take care of it all. There ent no GCSE in muckin’ out and silage, is there?’ Kerry said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

It didn’t seem to work. If anything, it made her uncle’s dark look even worse. ‘There ent no future in farmin’, Kerenza. No future at all.’

Steam plumed from the spout and the kettle clicked itself off. She watched her uncle making a cup of tea, feeling a tightening in her stomach. Her eyes flicked from the red-lettered envelopes to his poorly knotted tie and the dark patches of damp cotton at the armpits of his shirt. Who would he wear a suit for? Suits were for weddings and funerals and bank managers, he always said. But bank managers didn’t visit farms. Did they?

He stirred in the milk, keeping the spoon circling far longer than he needed to. ‘Didn’t that doctor do anything? I thought he was supposed to be the best in the country.’

The change in topic threw her. Doctor? Then she remembered the latest lie, one said in haste over Sunday lunch a few weeks before, when her uncle had started giving her parents a hard time about her ‘allergies’. She’d hated her mother so much as she made up another pile of crap to throw Uncle Cal off the scent. Surely it was better to tell him the truth? When she said as much to her mother that evening, she’d been furious.

‘You call me a liar when all I’m doing is protecting you?’ Her voice sounded as harsh as a shovel scraping the concrete floor of the cowshed when mucking out. ‘How can you think any good would come of people knowing what you are? You’ve seen them on the news—’

‘I’ve seen them savin’ people! There was that thing on the telly about when Captain Flint caught those people who blew up that ship and—’

‘Don’t you be goin’ on about that Captain Flint, he b’aint no natural thing! You want to end up like him? Being ordered about by the Queen and havin’ no life of his own? That want you want, is it?’

‘Mel …’ her dad had said to her, gently, but when her mother got started, it took more than a gentle man to stop her.

‘I don’t want to keep lyin’!’ Kerry had shouted back. ‘And Uncle Cal wouldn’t tell no one! Not if we asked him not to!’

‘You think he’ll just nod and smile and nothin’ will change? Do you think he’ll still love you when he knows what you are?’

Then the tears had come, hot and overwhelming, and she’d run from the room. Not even her dad’s efforts to comfort her with his gentle voice had worked that night.

She looked at her uncle who was staring at her over the rim of his mug. Surely he would still love her if he knew the truth? He loved her even though he thought she was some freak allergic to the most unlikely things. But she couldn’t find the courage to tell him, not after all this time. That would hurt him, finding out his own family hadn’t trusted him, and she couldn’t bear the thought of that.

‘Oh, he said we were doin’ all the right things and … and that it’ll probably just get better when I’m older. Like asthma, y’know.’

He glanced at the clock above her head. ‘You can go and watch the telly upstairs if you like, but …’ He paused, reconsidering. ‘No, I’m sorry, Kerry, you need to go back ’ome. I can’t … it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to be here when she arrives.’

‘Just someone from … the bank. Nothin’ for you to worry about, but I’d never forgive myself if it made you ill. There’s some fruit in the bowl, and the flask is under the sink. Make yourself a picnic if you like and go over to the north field, it’s empty at the moment. Come back after lunch and I’ll show you how to strip the Rover’s engine. I’ve been puttin’ it off. Gotta make sure you learn somethin’ useful, eh?’

She put an apple and a banana in a bag, mainly to keep him happy, and left as he shoved the post into a drawer and muttered a goodbye. Maybe if she walked back over the hill slowly the agent would be gone by the time she got home.

‘Oh! I forgot!’ her uncle said, searching a pile of newspapers and then pulling one out. He rolled it up and handed it to her. ‘Take this with you. Look on page twenty-five. I’ll see you later, right?’

In the north field there was a tree her great-grandmother had planted on her wedding day. The story handed down to each generation was that she had buried a pasty below its roots, so the piskies would be appeased, and poured beer over the newly planted sapling to keep the buccas happy, so the wedding night wouldn’t be disturbed.

Of course, no one really believed in buccas or piskies any more, but she could remember her grandfather always telling her to break off a chunk of pasty crust and throw it into the hedge for the little magical creatures to eat. And even now, every time they had boiled eggs for breakfast they all turned the empty shells upside down afterwards and broke them at the bottom, so they couldn’t be used by local witches to sail out to sea and sink the fishing boats. Even though she knew it was ridiculous, she still did it. Habits died hard.

Now the tree her great-grandmother had planted was a stout oak with a thick trunk perfect for sitting against and a generous shaded area that all manner of wildlife made use of in the hottest summers. There were little clumps of hair trapped in the gnarls of the bark where the cows had rubbed against it the day before.

She settled in a dusty hollow between two roots and flipped to page twenty-five of the West Briton. When she saw the pictures she clamped a hand over her mouth and looked away, unprepared for the shock.

It was a double-page spread about her father’s sculptures and the renovation of Polgurnow village hall funded by his success. It was a simple ‘local artist done good, hero of community’ story, with one important omission: the truth.

The largest picture was of his first ‘sculpture’ of Plum, their old dog. Just the sight of it made her throat tighten and her chest feel as if it was being buried under a pile of bricks. Her gloved fingertips twitched at the memory of running her hands over Plum’s fur and how, faster than she could register what was happening, the glossy coat had turned to stone beneath her fingertips. One moment she’d been fussing the dog for being such a clever girl, the next she was stroking a granite statue of her. Every little detail had been preserved in the freakish transformation, even the stitching in her collar that had changed too.

Her father had come rushing out of the studio at the sound of her screams and she had a vague sense of being comforted before the memory lost cohesion.

It was sheer luck that she hadn’t done the same to her father by accident. It didn’t occur to either of them that she had been responsible for what had happened to Plum. It wasn’t a natural conclusion to leap to.

She could remember arguments that night as she lay in bed, the first time she’d ever heard her parents raise their voices to each other. Her father had wanted to take her to a doctor or contact the authorities, maybe even the Silver Helix, while Mother had argued that keeping it a secret was best for all of them. If they told anyone what had happened, their daughter would be taken away. Perhaps they would never let her come home again.

Kerry wasn’t sure if she believed that any more and she certainly wasn’t sure if it would be worse than being stuck on the farm. The newspaper article was singing her family’s praises, describing how her father’s success had rescued their tiny village from the brink of ruin, the village she wasn’t even allowed to visit. She hadn’t seen the village hall since her eleventh birthday, only a couple of months before her card had turned, as the people on the telly said.

Scanning the text, as much to stop herself from looking at the pictures, Kerry hunted for a mention of herself. She found it quickly, nothing but a throwaway mention of a daughter. It seemed that the journalist had actually listened to her mother’s request for privacy.

She carried on reading. It told the story of a struggling pair of artists, one a potter, the other a sculptor, trying to survive. Then the breakthrough when her father tried ‘a new technique’ and created the most lifelike sculpture of a dog that Paul Wetherby had ever seen.

Kerry pressed her lips tight together at the sight of Wetherby’s picture with her father at his gallery. Once a big deal in the London art scene, he’d retired to Cornwall and opened a little gallery in Penzance. It was for tourists, rather than locals, and her parents had minor success with a few pieces there. Then on a visit to their home, to see what they were working on in the studio, he’d seen Plum in the corner.

It was obvious that Wetherby was visiting today because he wanted another ‘sculpture’ to sell. She hadn’t made one for a few months, having cried for days after the last, a little hedgehog that her mother had found. There was a buyer in London, someone who collected hedgehog art apparently, who was willing to pay an absurd amount of money for a ‘perfect reproduction’. She’d wondered if they would have been willing to pay that money if the buyer had known one of their favourite creatures had to die in the process.

‘I know it’s hard, pickle,’ her mother had said as she held the cardboard box containing the hedgehog. ‘But it’s so quick they can’t feel a thing. And that money could do so much good. That deer you changed last year fixed the village hall, didn’t it? There are dozens of deer. One less doesn’t make any difference, but that hall being saved has made all the difference to the village, hasn’t it?’

‘We’re going to give half to the RNLI and the rest will keep us going for a few months. You know how much the lifeboats need donations; they don’t get any funding from the government. Just think, this little hedgehog could help save lives!’

Her mother always knew what to say to make it seem unreasonable not to obey her. Of course, refusing to kill a hedgehog seemed perfectly acceptable when held up against saving lives.

What really hurt was how much the animals she changed trusted her. She’d always found it easy to befriend them. Her father had once joked that she couldn’t go outside without making a new friend. After they realized she had killed Plum, she’d chased away all the local wildlife – from ravens to rabbits – that used to visit her each day for titbits of food. She couldn’t bear the thought of accidentally killing them. Weeping the whole time, she’d easily coaxed the hedgehog out of its protective ball to snuffle at her finger. The buyer didn’t want a ball of spines, after all.

There was a picture of that damned hedgehog in the paper, with a caption beneath marvelling at how skilled her father was in creating those granite spines. Kerry slapped the pages shut and rolled the newspaper up again to stuff it between two branches, ready for when she went home. For a moment, she wondered whether to just run away rather than returning home and being asked to kill another helpless creature. But then where would she go? All of the family was here and she knew terrible things could happen to children who ran away.

Besides, her uncle was in trouble, she could tell. Then the most awful thought occurred to her. What if she could make a sculpture that would give him enough money to—

Between messing about at the oak and then stripping the Rover’s engine, Kerry managed to avoid her parents all day. She had dinner with her uncle, nothing more than baked beans on burnt toast eaten in silence. He looked ill with worry, now that there was no engine to distract him. She helped him bring in the herd for milking, taking care to have the broom handle ready in case any of them tried to get too close so she could gently push them back, and then went home as the sun set, her feet getting heavier with each step.

Her parents’ modest house was so different to her uncle’s farmhouse, being modern and much more comfortable to live in. It had two bedrooms and an annexe on the back that was her parents’ studio. One half of the studio contained a kiln and her mother’s pottery paraphernalia and the other her father’s stone-working tools. He still sculpted sandstone as that was far easier to work than granite. It was one of the reasons her ‘sculptures’ commanded such high prices. It was a very difficult stone to work and far too hard to sculpt anything with the fine details as her curse could create. There were always a few blocks in the studio though, more as a sort of set dressing to satisfy Mr Wetherby when he visited. Thankfully his visits were rare.

When she entered the house she could hear her parents arguing again. Kerry slammed the door so that they would know she was home and the shouting stopped. ‘Only me!’ she called.

Her parents appeared at the doorway between the hall and the studio, all smiles and tense shoulders. ‘Hello, pickle,’ Mum said with a forced smile. ‘Did you have a nice day with Uncle Cal?’

Kerry nodded. She hated the way they were smiling at her. It was worse than walking in on them fighting. She busied herself by taking off her shoes and putting them on the rack next to the door. ‘I’m going to bed. I’m tired.’

‘Don’t you want to watch X Factor with me?’ her dad called as she started up the stairs.

She wasn’t tired at all. She just didn’t want to have the inevitable conversation about the pressure the agent was putting on her father for another sculpture. Kerry went to her room, shut the door and sat on the bed. She looked at the dolls on the shelves that she hadn’t played with for years and yet, somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of them. She looked at the basket of cuddly toys in the corner and felt they were both childish and too dearly loved to give away. There were posters on the walls of a TV show she and Mandy had loved but that she hadn’t watched for over a year now. These things didn’t connect with her any more, but Kerry had no idea what to replace them with. It felt as if she was stuck in a life that didn’t fit her any longer.

‘I’m going to bed.’ Kerry hurriedly took off her socks and gloves. The door opened anyway. ‘Mum!’

Kerry threw her dirty socks into the corner just to annoy her. ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

Her mother sat on the bed an arm’s length away. She was holding a newspaper clipping and with a jolt, Kerry remembered she’d left the copy of the West Briton in the tree by accident. But when her mother unfolded the piece she held, Kerry realized it wasn’t the same newspaper.

‘There’s an ace who works for that Captain Flint bloke, called Pygmalion,’ Mum replied, handing over the article. ‘He can make statues come to life.’

The name was familiar. She was certain she’d seen him on the telly, just a snippet about him before her father had marched in and turned it off. It had been something about the Silver Helix and she’d wanted to know more, but her father refused to let her watch it, muttering something about it being nothing to do with them.

Kerry read the article as quickly as she could. There had been some sort of attack in London and Pygmalion had made one of the lions in Trafalgar Square come to life and chase down one of the suspects, pinning him to the ground until a specialist armed unit arrived. ‘It says he just touched the lion and it came to life. He’s like me … but in reverse!’

Her mother smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I thought! And … well, I don’t want to get your hopes up, my ’andsome, but I was wondering if he might be able to help us.’

Kerry gasped. ‘What if he could bring my statues back to life?’ She jumped up. ‘What if he could bring Plum back to life?’

‘We have to phone him! We have to find out the number … or email him. Uncle Cal has a computer!’

‘We have to be careful though,’ Mum said, patting the bed to encourage her to sit back down again. ‘We need to find out if he can do this, but not let them know about you. Not yet. You know how important it is to us to keep you safe. And Plum’s statue was sold for a lot of money. We’d need to find the money to buy her back so it’s a long way down the road yet. Sit down, darlin’, and let me tell you what I think we should do.’

Kerry sat, trying to keep her body still as her thoughts ran ahead. If Pygmalion could bring Plum back it would change everything! She wouldn’t be afraid any more!

Kerry nodded. ‘But if we don’t have Plum …’ Her high spirits crashed. She could see where this was going.

‘We need to test this Pygmalion,’ Mum said. ‘So you need to make a statue. Just one, darlin’, just one.’

‘Then we know. As soon as I saw that article I knew what we had to do, so I went over to Truro this afternoon. To the pet shop.’

Kerry’s stomach cramped. She’d been expecting this, but it was still just as awful as she’d feared. She shook her head. ‘No, Mum, I don’t want to—’

‘But we need to know, don’t we? I know it’s hard, I do, but you just need to be brave, one more time.’ She left the room, no doubt to fetch the purchased pet. Turning a poor creature to stone didn’t feel like being brave: it just felt evil. Like that snake-haired woman in the myths they’d studied at school in her last year. Medusa. Was that what the newspapers would call her, if they knew what she could do?

Her mother returned with a small pet carrier with a metal grille forming the door. Even before she could see it, Kerry could hear the mewling of a kitten and tears sprang to her eyes.

It was set on the bed, the door facing away from her. ‘Now, darlin’, you need to be strong. Just think about Plum. If this works, we can get her back, can’t we?’

‘And you’ll have something new to sell.’ The words sounded so much more bitter voiced aloud.

‘We all have to do what we must to survive,’ Mother replied. ‘And now is not the time for that argument. Come on now, dry your eyes. Just this one, that’s all I’m askin’ for.’

Kerry swiped her sleeve across her nose as her mother opened the door of the carrier. The kitten looked like a fluffy black ball filling her mother’s hand.

Her first instinct was to love it. To pick it up and cradle it to her chest and kiss the top of its little head. But she pushed that down as swiftly as she could, knowing what would happen if she didn’t.

‘He has little white fur boots,’ her mum said, coaxing the kitten to uncurl and reveal them. ‘See?’

Kerry’s bottom lip juddered. Why was her mother pointing them out to her? It felt like the height of cruelty to make her admire the kitten like a new pet, rather than something she was being asked to kill.

The kitten stepped off Mother’s hand and hesitantly explored the duvet with his paws. His squeaky meow made Kerry jump off the bed and back away.

‘Oh, Kerry. I hate having to ask you to do this, I really do. You know that. But just imagine if that Pygmalion could change her back.’

Her mother’s gaze flicked away, focusing on the kitten. ‘If that man can do this, I’m sure he will understand why we want to keep you safe. I’m going to ask him to help us protect you. He’ll know what it’s like to be … different.’

There was so much in that pause between the words. Was her mum thinking other words before she settled on that one?

She watched the kitten approach the edge of the bed, his booted legs stepping with the still-jerky movements of the very young. His eyes were a dazzling green and Kerry wanted nothing more in that moment than to be able to take care of him and love him as she had loved Plum.

Her mother’s eyes were upon her, she knew it, just as she knew there was no way she could get out of this, short of running away. And she was too cowardly to do that. She glanced at the newspaper clipping again, wanting to hope so much, wanting to believe Pygmalion would help her even though they’d never met. But if she were him, and there was a girl who needed mistakes like these to be fixed, she’d do it without hesitation. She had to believe he would feel the same. It was the first time she’d had hope.

Forcing herself to move back to the bed, Kerry knelt down beside the kitten and sucked in a breath as she held out her fingertips, just as she would when meeting any new animal. She liked to give them the chance to come to her first, when they were ready, deciding for themselves if they liked the smell of her. As much as she didn’t want the kitten’s curiosity to bring him closer, she wanted it over as quickly as possible.

There was never any way to tell exactly when it would happen. Sometimes it was the first touch, sometimes it was a few moments later. The only mercy was that it was always quick, and quick enough that she was certain they didn’t suffer.

The kitten mewed and loped towards her with his unsteady gait. Kerry held her breath, bracing herself for the inevitable and fearful that she could scare him away if the sob building inside her throat escaped.

She felt the warm brush of his tiny nose and as the fear peaked within her, the kitten froze, taking on the dull grey of granite before she had even blinked. She snatched her hand away as his little body tipped to the side, preserved with his neck outstretched, his curiosity given stony permanence.

Her mother picked the stone kitten up with great care, knowing full well that it would be so easy to break off one of the whiskers or the tip of an ear with its once-downy fur. There was no black-and-white fur now, no brilliant green in his eyes. Now the only thing that caught the light was the occasional speck of mica trapped in the granite. She carried it out of her room, leaving the empty pet carrier on the bed. Kerry only had enough time to close its door before she returned.

‘I know that was hard,’ she said. ‘Oh, I wish I could cuddle you. Maybe if we wrapped the duvet—’

‘No,’ Kerry said sharply. The other times she’d rejected the suggestion it had been out of fear. This time it was anger. She didn’t want her mother to try and offer her comfort, being the one that had upset her! ‘I just want to go to bed now.’

Her mother lingered in the doorway. ‘I’m going to London tomorrow. To see that … man. There’s hope, Kerenza, you have to hold on to that.’

But all Kerry could think of was that pause. What else was her mother tempted to call Pygmalion? She picked up the pet carrier, gave it to her mother, moving forward as she did so to push her out of the room. Closing the door in her mother’s face, Kerry rested her head against it and finally allowed herself to cry.

There was a message stuck to the fridge when Kerry went downstairs for breakfast, held on by the Nordic troll with a magnet in its back. No one in the house liked the thing, but no one had the heart to get rid of it either. She pulled it free and read that Uncle Cal was busy all day and it would be best if she stayed at home.

She could hear her father working in the studio, chipping away as some awful music from the seventies blared from his ancient stereo. Mum had obviously left; she would never let him have the music on that loud if she was working in there too. Drifting to the window, she could see the car was gone. London was at least six hours away, and that was on a good run. She wouldn’t be back until late.

She made herself some toast and put extra jam on it, then hit upon the idea of scouring the news for any sign of Pygmalion. But she’d missed the breakfast shows and, with neither satellite TV nor a computer, there was nowhere else to look until the lunchtime news.

‘Did you see the note?’ her dad asked from the doorway. When she nodded, he came over and took the TV remote, switching it off. ‘Seeing as you’re free today, can you help with the shed? It needs to be painted and the weather’s perfect.’

She couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to get out of it. The day passed with a steady string of jobs in both the garden and the house. She missed the lunchtime news and the evening news too. Her father was full of energy, directing her in the midst of his own work. It wasn’t until the evening, when they were watching the X Factor episode he’d taped for her the night before, that it occurred to her that he had been keeping her busy.

He shook his head. ‘I got a text saying she was setting off soon. You’ll be in bed when she gets back.’

‘You might as well go to bed. If you’re still awake when she gets back, you’ll see her then.’

He didn’t look away from the screen as he spoke. He was just as tense as she was. ‘Have you seen that Pygmalion on the news?’

‘You know I don’t watch the news. Half of it’s lies and the rest is propaganda.’

‘Everything we need to know about living our lives can be found right outside our door. Worryin’ about what them politicians in London are doin’ is bad for you.’

‘People worry too much about what other people are doin’.’ He closed his eyes and sighed, then looked at her for the first time. ‘I know you’m worried, my ’andsome, but there’s nothing on the news that’ll help with that. We just have to wait for your mother and see what’s to do. A’right?’

Kerry sat back, cuddling a cushion, wishing they had a computer so she could find out about the ace online. She had so many questions that needed answers. Was she really an ace? She didn’t look different but she could do something … unnatural. But what she did was horrible. Did that make her a knave? No, they looked different, didn’t they?

She watched the singers on the TV, filled with a sudden loathing for the vacuous spectacle she and her dad used to love. It seemed stupid now. Empty. She closed her eyes and curled up as he commented on the latest performance. No matter what the news from her mother was, she’d go to Uncle Cal’s tomorrow and ask to use the computer. She had to learn more about aces. And knaves. Just in case.

The sound of the front door closing woke her. She had fallen asleep on the sofa, and judging from her father’s quiet groan he had done the same. They both scrabbled to their feet, Kerry delayed by the blanket that her father must have draped over her.

Just as she was reaching the hallway there was another sound – squeak of a meow – and she stopped, her body rigid as she listened for it again.

For a moment, all Kerry could do was cover her face with her hands as the relief flooded through her. She hadn’t realized how much she had needed this, until now. Then she dashed to the door to see her father pulling the little kitten out of the pet carrier, its white-booted legs splayed out in surprise.

‘Look, Kez!’ Dad said, holding him out towards her. ‘He’s right as rain!’

Kerry laughed and cried all at the same time. ‘What was Pygmalion like, Mum?’

‘Plump little fellow in a waistcoat. Nice enough, I s’pose. He was very understandin’. He said we were doin’ the right thing, given how young you are.’

‘No! He’s got a job. Busy one at that. There are all sorts of dodgy wronguns that he and that Flint bloke have to catch, y’know. But he wishes you well and said that if an accident ’appens again, he’ll ’elp us out.’

Kerry looked to her father to share her joy, but there was a frown which he quickly tried to hide. ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘I think we’ll keep this little one in our bedroom tonight with the door closed.’

‘Well, we know it’s possible now,’ Mum said and yawned. ‘But not right away because of the money, like I said. It’s past three. We should all get to bed and talk in the mornin’.’

Kerry looked at the kitten curling up in her father’s palm and wished she could take him to her room. Even though there was the real chance of getting Plum back, there was something about the way her parents looked at each other before climbing the stairs that made her nervous. Something was being left unsaid, and she was certain it was because they didn’t want her to hear it.

Her mother’s voice, high and strained, woke Kerry with a jolt. It was muffled by the bedroom wall, but still loud enough to penetrate. They were arguing again. It was mid-morning and she’d slept far later than usual. She worried about the kitten and whether the raised voices would be frightening him. What were they fighting about now? Surely the news about Pygmalion was a good thing?

She lay still for a moment, frustrated by how she couldn’t make out the actual words, before getting out of bed and creeping out of her room. The door was thinner than the wall and she wanted to hear this one. Unlike all the other arguments that had filled the house over the past two years, something had actually changed. There was no cure for what she was – as far as they knew – but there was a safety net now. Had Pygmalion said something that caused this one?

‘But it’s not right!’ her father was saying. ‘How are we going to explain it to her? Bad enough that we’ve asked her to change all those animals. Asking her to do this is … it’s going too far!’

‘What choice do we ’ave?’ was her mother’s reply. ‘We didn’t ask for any of this! At least we made some good come out of it! I know it’s … I don’t want to do it either, but think of the money! God knows we need it!’

‘We’re talking about the farm! About Cal! If we don’t help him it’ll kill him, Crispin! You know that!’

Her dad was only wearing his pyjama bottoms, Mum was in her nightdress. At the sight of her they both froze. ‘Nothin’ that—’ Dad started to say, when Mum shook her head at him.

Her mother came closer as Dad scooped the kitten off the bed and held it, in case it was tempted to go over to her. ‘The farm’s in trouble. Uncle Cal just can’t make enough money any more. It looks like he has to sell it.’

‘Times are changin’, my ’andsome. Farmin’ just int what it was. We’ve been tryin’ to help but …’

‘It’s not enough,’ Dad said. ‘He hid how bad it was from us. He thought he could sort it out but he can’t and now he needs a lot of money very quickly, else we’ll all be thrown out.’

‘This land is part of the farm,’ Mum said softly. ‘That was the agreement. We gave up a big share of the farm after your grandparents died and in return Cal helped us to build this house. This was back when things were good. Before the foot and mouth and losing the herd. He had to sink so much money back in just to keep the farm goin’ and it wasn’t enough.’

Kerry wouldn’t have believed a word of it if she hadn’t seen those envelopes with the red writing on them, and the way Uncle Cal had been acting. Then she remembered what she’d heard through the door. ‘What were you arguing about?’

Kerry swallowed the lump in her throat away. ‘Do you need me to make more sculptures? Is that it? To save the farm?’

‘No, Mum, tell me now. Is that what I need to do? Were you scared of asking me because you think I’ll want to send them to Pygmalion instead of that Mr Wetherby?’

Another silent look exchanged between her parents sent her temper soaring. ‘Just tell me! I can’t stand it when you’re like this!’

‘The animal sculptures make a lot of money, but not nearly enough for the farm. But, Pygmalion said … he knows that there are people who …’ her mother looked up at the ceiling, ‘… who want to know what it’s like to be a statue and then be changed back. It’s … a weirdo thing. And … he said they ask him about it all the time and when he heard there was someone who—’

Kerry clamped a hand over her mouth, appalled. ‘You want me to turn a person to stone?’ she whispered through her fingers. ‘An actual person?’

‘No,’ said Dad, at exactly the same moment as her mother said ‘Yes.’ They looked at each other, something expressed without words between them, before her father walked away to the window and her mother took another step closer. ‘Yes, darlin’, that’s what we need. Pygmalion knows some very, very rich people. Strange people who … who get excited about this sort of thing. He said if you change them into stone, he’ll change them back. And we’ll get a lot of money for it. Enough to keep the bank off Uncle Cal’s back for a while, at least until he gets back on his feet.’

Kerry looked from her mother’s desperate eyes to the kitten that had clawed its way onto her father’s shoulder to survey the room. He was still turned away from her. ‘But … that’s just horrible. Why would anyone want that?’

‘I’m going to put the kettle on,’ Dad said and she stepped aside as he went out, his face as white as the fur on the kitten’s feet.

‘Pygmalion said it will work and he must know better than any of us, mustn’t he? But we have to be very, very careful and keep it a secret. No one must ever know. A’right?’

‘He was very certain,’ Mum snapped. Then she held her hands up. ‘Sorry, love, sorry. I’m just so tired and I’m so worried about Uncle Cal and the farm and us, too. Where will we live if we can’t save it? How will we be able to keep you safe if we don’t have anywhere to live?’

It was hard to think when her mum looked at her that way and when all of her worries sloshed about inside. It felt wrong, totally wrong, but her mother wouldn’t lie to her about something like this. It was too big and important. And she had to do something to help Uncle Cal. ‘Will it save the farm if I do it?’

Her mother’s eyes were welling with tears. ‘Yes, darlin’, yes, it will. You’ll save the farm … all of us. Maybe even Plum, if we—’

Kerry looked down at her toes, at the pyjama bottoms that were too short now. It still felt wrong, but she couldn’t think of a way to say no that wouldn’t sound selfish. If those people wanted it, if Pygmalion thought it was safe, if it meant saving the farm, then what else could she say to all that? ‘A’right. I’ll do it.’

Kerry looked down from her bedroom window onto the roof of the art studio annexe below. The light shining through its doors spilled onto the garden and every now and again there was a shadow as her father moved around.

Her mother was down there too and Kerry was glad. She didn’t want to be with either of them. They should have told her it would be today. They should have given her a chance to be ready. Mum said it was to stop her from getting nervous, which was fair enough, but it still annoyed her. She hated surprises and this was the worst sort.

She tried to imagine what kind of a person would pay someone to turn them into a statue and then back again. It made no sense to her. It would be the same as going to a hospital and asking the doctors to stop her heart and then start it again. How could there be any fun in dying?

There was one question that she just couldn’t shake off; if the person died when they were turned to stone and Pygmalion brought them back to life, would their soul somehow come back to their body? It wasn’t the sort of thing the experiment with the kitten could answer. She hadn’t known his personality beforehand and he’d been taken back to the pet shop so she didn’t know if there were any long-term effects. Did kittens have souls? Did people?

Uncle Cal said she wasn’t allowed on his computer but didn’t say why. He was grumpy and withdrawn and had sent her away early every day, even when there was still work to be done. She wanted to tell him they had a plan, that it would be okay, but she’d promised to keep it all a secret.

Kerry rested her forehead against the cool glass of her window, unable to look away from the studio roof. All of these questions and yet there was already someone down there, ready to take the risk. How could they not be asking the same ones?

Folding her arms, her mother gave her a hard look. ‘I thought I told you not to think about it too much.’

‘She talked it through with Pygmalion and he was happy. Now, your dad has set her up in the pose she wanted and it’s set dressed. Like those classical statues in the book we showed you.’

‘She has a veil, and a very simple dress. And we’ve done her hair too. She’s been practising her pose and your dad has been sketching her. To help her relax and get used to being still, a’right? Now, we think it would be best if you just go in super quiet like, and just touch her back. Don’t say anything to her. Don’t tell her you’re about to do it.’

With a smile fixed in place, her mother sat on the bed and patted a space near her. ‘We talked it through and all three of us agreed that it’s the best way. It’s all to do with the way we hold our breath and get all tense if we’re waitin’ for something to happen. Like … imagine I was going to take a picture of you when a bucket of water was being thrown over you. If you knew it was comin’, you’d hold your breath, and your shoulders would lift up a bit and you’d probably clench your fists, right? Well, this is the same. She wants to look absolutely natural as a statue. Not knowing the exact moment when it’s goin’ to happen will keep her relaxed, see? That’s all it is. Now, let’s not keep her waitin’, eh?’

Like every time she felt nervous about something, her mother sounded so reasonable it felt silly to keep questioning it. There was nothing she could say that would stop this from happening. And if she refused, Pygmalion would be angry and then there would be no hope of getting Plum back at all. Besides, they needed to save the farm.

No matter how much Kerry tried to tell herself that it was up to the woman downstairs if she wanted to do something this stupid, it didn’t stop her legs trembling as they went down the stairs. The sound of something operatic floated down the hallway from the studio’s open door and she had the urge to just turn around and run from the house and never come back. She even half turned, only to see her mother standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching her.

Kerry managed a little smile as her mother raised her index finger and pressed it to her lips, urging her to be silent, before shooing her onwards with a couple of flicks of her hand.

The music grew louder with each step. Her father came into view, seated at the far end of the studio with the doors behind him. He was wearing his reading glasses and sketching. As Kerry approached the door, she saw a sort of plinth that wasn’t usually there, like the big rostra blocks they had in the school hall that were used to make a temporary stage for the school play. It was covered in one of Grandma’s fancy old tablecloths and lying down upon it, back to the door, was the lady who wanted to be turned into a statue.

Kerry froze at the sight of her. Her back was smooth and uncovered, the sheer gown she was wearing was very low cut. She had flowers in her hair shaped in a sort of crown, holding on a chiffon veil that covered her hair and shoulders. It was like looking at the back of an artist’s model, posing as a medieval bride resting after her wedding.

When she reached the doorway her father looked up and then straight back down at his sketchpad without even reacting. The music was loud enough to mask her footsteps and she was only wearing socks anyway. Keeping her eyes fixed on the model’s back, Kerry moved into the room without seeing any change in the woman’s position. Certain that the model had no idea she was even there, Kerry stretched out her hand and leaned closer.

Her fingers were trembling and her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. It felt wrong! How many times had she been desperate to touch someone else, to brush her fingers against her mother’s hand as they walked, to reach out for a hug from her father? She’d worked so hard on quashing that need for touch that to do it now felt unnatural.

She wants to do this, Kerry reminded herself. She wants this, and I need to save the farm and Uncle Cal.

Besides, her mother was watching. She could feel her eyes on her back. With her lungs burning from having held her breath too long, Kerry lurched forward, touching the woman’s back. For the briefest moment it felt warm and soft. Then it was cold, hardening before her eyes. The veil, the dress, the flowers, all turned to granite, taking on a new beauty of its own.

Her father tossed the sketchpad aside and rushed across the room to inspect the transformation. Kerry, fearing she was going to be sick, heading for the patio doors instead, needing the fresh evening air and to move away from her parents who were both heading for the new statue.

Kerry looked back at them, both touching the stone flowers of the crown, whispering to each other. She couldn’t see the woman’s face, obscured as it was by the thin layer of granite formed by the veil, only the hint of her cheekbones and the ridge of her nose. There was something so hauntingly beautiful about it and the way the delicate sweep of the granite dress described the curve of her hip.

She realized that she wasn’t looking at the statue as if it were a real person. Suddenly cold, Kerry pulled her sleeves down over her hands and wrapped her arms around herself, silently praying that Pygmalion was right.

The second statue was a man dressed like a Roman centurion complete with helm and spear. The third was another woman, painfully thin, dressed in a thick medieval gown and another veil. The fourth was a willowy, long-limbed woman who was dressed in a simple long white gown with angel wings on the back that her mother had made from real feathers and her hair brushed over her face like a strange sheet.

There was a gap of several months between them, long enough for the nightmares to subside between each one and the arguments to settle in the house. The first statue earned them enough money to pay off Uncle Cal’s most urgent debt repayment. By the time the payment came for the fourth, the farm was out of danger. Uncle Cal was his old self again and even cooked them a Sunday roast.

Kerry took down the old posters in her room to make way for a new corkboard. She pinned the postcards and notes she received from the statue people on it, just to remind herself every morning that she hadn’t done anything bad. Just like the kitten, Pygmalion had changed them back and asked them to write to her, reassuring the family that they were safe and well and very happy with their experience. He then forwarded on the mail. The postcard from the first lady showed Trafalgar Square and one of the huge stone lions. It was her favourite. She hadn’t received a note from the latest one, but she’d only been turned into stone a week before.

They never addressed the notes to her, but Kerry understood that both Pygmalion and her parents never mentioned her to the statue people by name. She’d learned from her mother that they didn’t even know where the studio was, having been brought there blindfolded as part of the agreement made with Pygmalion. They’d thought everything through, to keep her safe.

She wished she could write back to them though. Neither Pygmalion nor her parents agreed to it. She had so many questions. Did it hurt when they were changed back? Did they remember anything? Were they the same afterwards?

‘Mum,’ she said over dinner one evening, ‘if another person wants to be a statue, can we afford to buy a computer if we buy Plum’s statue back? Uncle Cal says his is broken.’

‘But I could look things up. To teach myself. They’re always readin’ out website addresses at the end of TV shows. I’m missin’ out! I’m fifteen next week and it’s not fair!’

‘What’s not fair? Having a lovely home and a family who cares for you?’ Mum said, gathering up the plates. ‘Having an uncle who’s happy to teach you a livin’ and all the skills you need to—’

‘He said himself there’s no future in farmin’. And anyway, all I need to do to earn a livin’ is turn weirdos to stone. I bet Pygmalion has got a computer.’

The phone rang and her mother answered it. ‘It’s Wetherby,’ she whispered with her hand over the mouthpiece after a brief conversation. ‘He wants to come over next week. Is there anything happening on Wednesday?’

As her father went to get the diary, Kerry left the table, angered by the way they kept trying to cocoon her. It was as if they didn’t want anything ever to change, expecting her to still be happy with the same things she had done when she was twelve. Wanting to drown out the sound of her parents’ voices, she put on the TV. With glee she realized she would actually catch the news, which was normally over by the time she was allowed to leave the table.

She’d missed the national news, so there was no chance of seeing Pygmalion or Captain Flint, but she kept it on anyway, just in case something really local came up in the regional segment.

There was something boring about some politician visiting Truro and she was about to change the channel when a picture of the lady she’d turned to stone the week before came onto the screen. ‘Detective Inspector Pat Trelawny of the Devon and Cornwall Police has announced that they are treating the disappearance of Melanie Barker as suspicious.’

‘Mum! Dad!’ Kerry called. ‘It’s the lady who came last week! She’s on the telly!’

They both ran in as the report continued. ‘Miss Barker, known to the authorities as a vulnerable person, was last seen sleeping rough in Penzance two weeks ago. If you have any information on her whereabouts, please call the information line displayed below.’

‘Quick, write it down!’ Kerry said, wishing for the millionth time that her parents would get one of those new clever TV boxes that meant you could pause live TV. When neither of them moved, she dashed over to the little table in the corner with one of the phone handsets on it, and the notepad that sat beside it. Just as she’d got a pencil ready, her mother turned the TV off.

‘Mum! We need to phone the police and tell them she’s in London, with Pygmalion.’

‘It wasn’t her face, I noticed. It was her chin, it was really pointy, just like hers was.’ She pointed at the blank TV screen. ‘And her ear was the same. The left one had a tear where an earring must have been caught on something and split it. I remember wondering if the scar would come out in the granite and it didn’t and …’

It was as if someone had filled the room with ice and she shivered as she took in the expressions on her parents’ faces. Her father looked ashamed, unable to meet her eyes, while her mother looked panicked. ‘We have to tell her,’ he said.

‘It’s all just a misunderstandin’,’ her mother said. ‘They just looked alike, s’all. No need for any drama.’

‘I never liked it,’ Father muttered, shaking his head. ‘Never wanted to lie. Never wanted any of this!’

As his voice rose, Mother’s panicked expression mutated into one of anger. ‘Don’t you go makin’ out you’re some bloody victim in all this!’

‘Why wouldn’t you want to call the police about that lady?’ Kerry asked but her father wouldn’t even look at her. ‘Oh God,’ Kerry whispered as an answer occurred to her, staggering back until she bumped into the wall behind her.

Her mother turned to face her, trying to smooth out her features with a fake smile. ‘Now, Kerenza, there’s no need to get upset.’

‘Those people haven’t been changed back, have they? It was all a bloody lie!’ She clamped her hand over her mouth as her stomach heaved.

‘Kerry,’ her father began, but she ignored him, sending her mind back to the beginning of it all, the day her Mum brought the newspaper article about Pygmalion to her.

‘But … the kitten. I turned it to stone and you brought him back alive. It had to be Pygmalion. I remember it! I remember that kitten so well! His little white fur boots. How else could you have …?’

She looked at her father and took in the guilt on his face, the way he kept looking at her mother.

Kerry squeezed her eyes shut, unravelling the lies. ‘There were two kittens, weren’t there? That’s why you pointed out his boots! To make me think it was the same one! You never met Pygmalion at all! It was all … God, how could I have been so stupid! All those notes … you must have sent them all.’

It was so obvious! They’d made her think that Pygmalion was able to change them back when they had just really been sold as statues. That was why they wouldn’t let her on the internet! So she wouldn’t find anything about them being sold!

All of the nonsense about weird people who wanted to be statues and then changed back … it seemed so ridiculous now. She’d murdered them! That’s why she was never allowed to meet them beforehand and why she always had to creep up from behind. Otherwise the victims would have asked questions and the careful poses that her father had arranged would have been spoiled.

‘We needed the money!’ her father said. ‘And they were bad people, Kerry, people who did nothing good in the world.’

‘Did you even see Pygmalion?’ Kerry shouted at her mother. ‘Or was that all bullshit too?’

‘What? You tricked me into murdering people and you’re upset about my bloody language? Answer the question!’

‘This is exactly what I told you would happen!’ her father shouted at her mother. ‘We should never have lied to her in the first place! We should have just lost the farm and made a new start!’

Then the tears came, violent in their assault, choking her throat as the full scale of her parents’ deception hit her. How they must have lured those people to their home, promising a payment in return for being an artist’s model, only to be murdered, turned into ‘art’ to be sold grotesquely as her father’s work.

Beneath it all was the deepest rage at herself and her stupidity. All those times she had doubted, all those times she’d felt it was wrong and she didn’t have the sense – no, the courage! – to stand up to her mother and say no.

She wiped her tears from her eyes, knowing she had to get away from them. She couldn’t live another moment with people who thought that deceiving their child into murdering innocent people was justified by needing the money.

Kerry bolted from the living room, the hallway seeming to stretch as she threw herself towards the front door. It was dark outside but she knew the way across to Uncle Cal’s so well she’d be able to find her way. There was enough time to form a route in her mind before a blinding pain at the back of her head snatched it all away and sent her tumbling into darkness.

It was dark when she woke up and she was lying on something hard with strange edges that were digging into her ribs. A terrible dull ache throbbed through her skull and when she put her fingertips to her hair there, she could feel a tender lump where there hadn’t been one before.

Her nose was blocked with mucus from the crying and her throat was scratchy and raw. She sat up and banged her head on a shelf, making something fall into her lap; an old plastic tennis bat from the set she’d played with as a small kid. She was in the cupboard under the stairs!

Kerry thought about the spiders she knew were in there. There was a light, somewhere, but then she remembered that the bulb had blown the week before. Hesitantly feeling her way, she made it to the door and pushed against it, only to find it wouldn’t open. There wasn’t a lock on it, not that she could recall anyway.

The realization that one of her parents had hit her, dragged her in there and barricaded the door dawned on her slowly, as if her thoughts were sticks being dragged through thick mud. She couldn’t quite believe it, even though there was no other explanation. How could they be normal one moment and then hurting her the next?

They were scared of her and had been ever since Plum died. And she understood that. She was afraid herself, constantly terrified she would accidentally touch something and turn it to granite. And they’d never been able to soothe that fear with hugs or even just a squeeze of the hand. That was the hardest thing. She craved touch more than anything, and now she wondered if the lack of it had led to her parents forgetting they had once loved her. Because they couldn’t love her now, not really. This wasn’t something you could do to someone you loved.

At first all she could do was cry and shake violently. It wasn’t very heroic, not like in the countless TV shows she’d watched in which the hero immediately started fighting as soon as they realized they’d been captured. On the most basic level she couldn’t equate her parents to the villains, despite what they’d done.

She had to fight the urge to be sick with long, deep breaths and her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She twitched at a tickling sensation on her leg, then realized that if a spider did start crawling on her, it would soon be turned to stone. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that.

Kerry froze at the sound of a noise outside the door. A creak of the floorboard perhaps, or a chair?

‘Kerenza?’ It was her father’s voice, softly spoken through the tiny gap between the door and the frame. ‘Are you awake?’ At first she didn’t answer. There was nothing but rage and tears. Words seemed impossible.

‘I’m so sorry, my darlin’,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘I can hear you movin’ and you must be scared and hurtin’ and I should’ve … I should’ve stopped all of this happenin’. It’s my fault. I didn’t stand up to your mother when she suggested it. I was weak. I wanted to help Cal. And I wanted the farm to stay in the family, where it belongs. It was wrong, what we did.’

‘You made me kill people!’ she sobbed through the door. ‘I never would’ve done it if … if I wasn’t so stupid!’

‘Lyin’ to you were wrong, Kerry, it were wrong and I regret that, more than I can describe. But … those people being turned to stone, that’s not something I regret.’

‘I need to tell you about them, ’cos I think when you know what they were like, you’ll feel better. I’m not sayin’ the way we did this is right, not for a moment, but it’s not what you think. They weren’t innocent, good people, brought here and killed. They were awful, awful people, who did nothin’ but spread misery to everyone around them. That man I dressed as a Roman soldier? He beat his wife and kids. Put her in hospital and broke his son’s arm. The police told him to stay away but he kept harassin’ her. Terrorized them, he did. And that skinny woman we made into a medieval princess? She stole money from a charity. The first one, she got drunk and ran over a child but her daddy was so rich, he got a lawyer and she got off scot-free. And the one we made into an angel? She killed her baby. Drowned it in Penzance harbour when she was high on drugs.’

‘How do you know those things about them? Did Mum tell you? She could’ve made it all up to make you feel better.’

‘It was in the paper, love. On the internet. She read about them getting away with it. That man got off scot-free too. The woman takin’ from the charity got ten hours’ community service and she had her hand in the till at the shop she worked at an’ all. That woman who killed her baby was never even sent to court. They put her in an ’ospital for a while and she ran away and was livin’ rough on the street, stealin’, makin’ a nuisance of herself. None of those people did anythin’ good in the world, Kerry. So no, I don’t regret what happened to them, not one bit. Uncle Cal never harmed a soul in his life, works hard. A gentle man, you know that. And he was goin’ to lose everythin’ and it would’ve killed him, Kerry. He never would’ve got over it. So the way I see it is that you made the world a better place. That mum and her kids are never goin’ to be scared of that bastard comin’ and beatin’ them again. That rich cow is never goin’ to kill another child when she gets drunk. Do you see? You made them into somethin’ beautiful. You turned monsters into art!’

Kerry blew her nose into her jumper as she struggled to make it all fit in her head. ‘If it was such a good thing, why didn’t you tell me? Why did you trick me like that?’

‘That there is what I regret. Your mum and I didn’t think you was mature enough to see the good in it. We shouldn’t have tricked you, pickle, we should’ve told you the truth. And the kitten … that was low. I argued with your mother for days over that. But I can’t blame it all on her. We both done it.’

A long sigh came through the gap. ‘You were. She never saw him. He don’t know about you or any of this. I don’t know how to say sorry about somethin’ this bad. I … I can see it from your point of view and I can understand how you feel, I really can. All I can say is don’t feel bad about those people. They were poisonous, makin’ everyone’s lives around them worse.’

‘Your mother panicked and threw that bookend at you, to make you stop. She didn’t mean to knock you out, she just wanted to stop you from runnin’ out in the dark in such a state. It’s not like we can just put ourselves in front of you, is it, eh?’

‘Because we didn’t know what you’d be like when you woke up, darlin’!’

A long pause. ‘Yes, my ’andsome, we are. And I hate to say that, but no more lies now. You can kill us so easily. And you were angry and upset – rightfully so! We wanted to have the chance to explain everythin’ safely. To talk it through with you, without havin’ to worry. Can you see that?’

It made sense. It always made sense, though, didn’t it? They’d been lying to her so long she didn’t know what to believe any more.

‘We were scared you’d leave and the world out there … It’s not for you, my darlin’. It’s full of bad people and if anyone found out what you can do … I dread to think what would happen. We were scared that if you ran away, you might kill someone by accident.’

She’d been expecting him to deny it. ‘Because they wouldn’t care if they were bad people or not, would they? We’d just be murderers.’

‘That’s right, darlin’, that’s right. That’s why your mum panicked like that. We were scared for you and for us.’ After another pause, he added, ‘We still are.’

Kerry tried to imagine going to the police. How they might want to touch her, just to make her get into the car like she’d seen on TV shows. They always touched the top of the criminal’s head to stop them banging it on the frame of the door. If she went to a police station instead, what if they wanted to take her fingerprints? Would they believe her without seeing the proof of her curse with their own eyes?

Even if she did make it through that without killing someone, it would end up with all three of them in prison. She’d be isolated. In a cell. Forever. Her throat started to close up again. ‘I won’t go to the police,’ she croaked. ‘I don’t want any of us to go to prison.’

‘Good. I want to open this door, Kerry. Can you come out slowly if I do that?’

The tears had stopped, but not the shaking. There was too much to process, all at once, and she didn’t know what to do about any of it, but she was certain she didn’t want to stay in the cupboard a moment longer.

It sounded as if a chair was moved away from the other side of it and then the door opened, casting a crack of horribly bright light across her and making her squint. Once he was sure she wasn’t about to jump out on him, her father opened it wide and stood back.

Kerry stooped to get under the short door and was grateful to stand upright again. Her mother was standing at the far end of the hallway, face red and puffy with crying. Her father was still rather pale, his eyes red-rimmed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mum whispered, starting to cry again. ‘I didn’t mean to hit your head, just your back, to make you stop. Are you … are you bleeding?’

Kerry looked at her fingertips and brushed the back of her head again to be sure. ‘No. There’s a lump though.’

Her mother started to sob into her hands, saying she was sorry over and over again. Kerry stood there, unable to go and comfort her and not even sure if she wanted to anyway.

‘It’s done now,’ she said, hoping it would make her stop. ‘I … I just want to go to bed.’ She wanted to get away from them, wrap herself up tight in her duvet and try to work it all out. Not stand there, hurting, as her parents stared at her with frightened, guilty eyes.

‘We’ll talk it all through in the mornin’,’ Dad said, putting an arm around her mother. ‘Clear the air. When we’ve all had a rest.’

‘I don’t need to talk about it,’ Kerry said. ‘I just want you both to promise me there won’t be any more. No more people. No more animals. I won’t turn anything into stone ever again. Not for you. Not for Uncle Cal. It’s not right. Whatever way you want to think it is, it’s not. Not for me.’

‘Of course,’ Dad said but her mother looked at him with a frown and in that instant, Kerry knew her mother would ask her again. Not for a few weeks, but she would, and she would make it seem like saying no was unreasonable.

The last thing she had on her mind was to rest when she shut the bedroom door. She sat on the bed for a few moments, wiping her face and blowing her nose, wincing at the way it made her head throb even more.

Wanting some fresh air, she went to her window, only to find it was locked. The tiny little key that usually stayed in the security lock was gone.

Everything seemed to collapse into that one fact, that one missing key. They had locked her in. She looked down onto the roof of the studio and saw that the skylight was closed, no doubt locked, and the doors were shut too. It was nighttime, she reminded herself, of course they were locked.

A creak on the stairs sent her to the door of her bedroom and she pressed her ear to the gap between the door edge and the frame. There was no lock on her door, thankfully. She listened to her parents using the bathroom and when the footsteps approached her door she leapt into bed and drew the duvet right up to her ears. The door opened behind her for a few seconds and then closed again.

Her heart pounded in rhythm with the thumping in her skull. After a few minutes she could hear the creak of her parents’ bed as they climbed into it and then the low murmur of a conversation.

Taking care to avoid all the squeaky boards, she opened her bedroom door silently and went into the hallway to listen in on her parents.

‘I double-checked them all,’ her father was saying. ‘And I brought the keys up here.’

‘Wetherby said it would be half a million for the next one. If we wait another six months, it’ll go up to a million.’

‘It’s a rarity thing,’ her mother replied. ‘The buyer in Dubai wants a male figure, something classical. They’re minted over there. I reckon we could get more if we offered Wetherby a better cut. Just an extra five per cent. Then it’s in his interest to make them pay even more, isn’t it?’

Kerry pressed her lips tight together as her eyes welled with tears. She waited for her father to say something, to push back at last. ‘I dunno, Mel. I dunno if Kerry will do another one. I don’t know if it’s right. And we can’t tell her we’ll be gettin’ Plum back either, now she knows the truth.’

‘We need to tell Cal she knows. Before she does. We need to keep him onside.’

Kerry went back to her room and closed the door with great care, tears running down her cheeks.

Her uncle had known what they were doing. All this time, he’d never said anything to her, never once asked if she was happy with what her parents were asking her to do. He’d stopped pressing for news on allergy doctors before the first victim was turned to stone and now she knew why. Of course they’d had to tell him. He had access to the internet, he would have seen the news about her father’s amazing new life-sized human sculptures. He was just as bad as them. Nothing was going to change. They were never going to let her go.

She stood, still as stone, feeling something shift within her. None of them loved her. She was just a freak to them, something terrifying to manipulate to make them money. Something to control.

All she’d thought about for years was freedom but it had been a nebulous daydream, little more than images of running across the fields to the boundary of the farm and not turning back to go home again. Of watching the TV whenever she wanted to. Of having her own computer and using the internet.

Such childish visions of freedom. Her jailers had been so good at their job she hadn’t even noticed the real bars they’d put around her, made of the promise of love, rather than of steel. They’d convinced her that staying away from the rest of the world was all about protecting her when it was really all about protecting their income.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the moment her parents must have told Uncle Cal what she was, and more than that, about the sculptures and how they were made. He must have sat down with them, listened to the plan to save the farm and at some point nodded and agreed to it. He might not have liked it, but she couldn’t care less about any moral doubts he might have had. The day he had decided that getting the money for the farm was more important than her was the day he stopped being her uncle and became another jailer.

Kerry knew that if she stayed in this house, this life, she would never be free. She could refuse but when they were desperate for more money what would they do to her? Hit her again? Deprive her of food? Water? She was dependent upon them for everything.

Getting away from them felt like an act of survival, even though the thought of going out into the world terrified her. They’d kept her sheltered and ignorant and she would have to learn the differences between the real world and what she’d seen of it on TV very quickly. She’d have to avoid people, but somehow buy food, find somewhere to live and a way to earn money that wasn’t dependent on the death of an innocent creature or a human victim.

But even if she could achieve all of that, she knew that as long as her parents were alive, they would never stop looking for her. If she got out, their secret could too. It wasn’t just about preserving their income, it was a matter of escaping justice too. But if she told the police what they’d done, she would be in just as much trouble, if not more. She’d been the one that actually killed those people, after all. They’d just be … what was the word? ‘Accessories to murder’. That was it. And on the police shows she was allowed to watch, it was always the murderers that were punished the most.

Kerry went to the corkboard and took down the pinned notes, tearing each one into little pieces as she considered her options. She couldn’t go to the police. She couldn’t find somewhere to live and get a job without endangering the lives of others. She needed help and the only person she could think of approaching was Captain Flint, the one man she suspected would not only understand what she could do, but also be immune to her curse. He was already stone, after all. She had no idea how to find him, but if she could get onto the internet, perhaps she could find a way to contact him and ask for help.

Even if she did find him though, she was only fifteen. Her parents would have the right to make her come home. They were her legal guardians and she’d never be able to explain why they shouldn’t be without incriminating herself.

The idea of freedom began to take on a new form. As long as her family lived, this would never be over. Her father had tried to convince her that the murders were some form of justice. That those people would have got away with their crimes unpunished if it wasn’t for her. Just as they would, if she did nothing.

Kerry waited for over an hour until she could hear her father’s snore. There was a chance her mother was still awake, so she packed her rucksack with clothes and used a trip to the bathroom to test whether her mother was asleep. She knew, given the events of the evening, that if her mother was awake, she would move at the sound of the bathroom door and make their bed creak. But there was no such noise as she returned to her room. She stuffed her toothbrush into the rucksack and went back into the hallway.

Kerry was surprised when she was able to open her parents’ door. She thought they would have barricaded themselves in, and a part of her – the weak, childish part – was disappointed they hadn’t. She crept inside the room that had always held a magical quality for her when she was young, before her card turned. She pushed aside memories of Sunday mornings when she would wriggle into the bed between them for lazy cuddles, and crept towards the foot of the bed.

Her mother was deeply asleep, mouth wide open and drooling onto her pillow, as her father’s snore rumbled away beside her. Neither of them stirred during her approach.

Her mother’s left foot poked from the duvet, her father’s right foot next to it. Both were within her reach, but she couldn’t move, assaulted by memories of happier times. But in each of those memories she was young. Normal. Still their little blessed child, born on St Piran’s day and brought home the same day that the daffodils bloomed. A little girl who sang in the school choir, who loved her dog, and made friends easily.

That girl was gone. They hadn’t loved her the same way since the day she had killed Plum and she had tried so hard to ignore how they had changed. But now, when she thought of recent times, it was easy to recall the way they stiffened whenever she walked into the room, the way they seemed relieved when she said she was going over to Uncle Cal’s and how they tensed up when she returned. She’d stopped being their little girl years ago. And they had stopped being her parents.

Reaching out, she touched both of the exposed feet, holding her breath as the chill of stone replaced the warmth of their skin. When she released the stale air inside her, they were a study in repose, two sleepers beneath granite sheets far too realistic to have ever been shaped by a stonemason’s tools.

The bed creaked loudly and then something in the base snapped and they crashed to the floor, making her yelp and leap back. As the dust settled, she became aware of a pain in her chest, as if something was trapped, but she swallowed the sob down. She wouldn’t be sad for these monsters made into art. She wouldn’t let herself be weakened by grief. It was easier to imagine her heart was stone, incapable of misplaced love and loyalty.

Kerry held up her hands, her thumbs at right angles from her palms, placing the statues lying on the floor in an imaginary picture frame.

‘“Freedom”,’ she whispered. ‘“A study in granite, by Kerenza Tremaine”.’

The money was in the tin in Uncle Cal’s desk, as it had always been. She counted it out before folding it and tucking it into the wallet she’d stolen from her father’s studio. There was almost a thousand pounds in cash and the Rover’s diesel tank was full. It would get her out of Cornwall.

She went back to her uncle’s bedroom to look at him again, just to be certain. Like her parents’ bed, the rickety old bedframe had broken, unable to support the weight of his granite body and the stone sheets covering him. She didn’t cry at the sight of him either. She’d promised herself she would never cry ever again. Her imagined granite heart was unfeeling, incapable of being fooled a second time.

Her bag was waiting where she’d left it on her uncle’s kitchen table. The Rover was loaded with food and all the supplies she could think of. No teddy bears. No dolls. All childish things were behind her now.

A newspaper lay on the table, the word ‘Flint’ visible just above the fold. He was going to be at a place called Ascot, guarding Queen Margaret, the article said, following threats to her life.

Ascot. Where the horses raced, she’d heard of it. There was a map in the Rover and she knew how to drive well enough to get there. She would find Flint and ask him for help.

She looked up Ascot on the computer, found a nearby hotel and phoned them, booking a single room for the next two nights under a false name.

Thinking ahead, she grabbed the notepad and wrote a note, knowing that the security people around the Queen would never let her near, but they might pass a note on if she was persuasive enough.

Dear Captain Flint,

I am an ace. I need your help. I can turn people to stone and I have nowhere to go. I am staying at the Red Lion Hotel in Ascot for the next two nights under the name of Lisa Buckingham.

My real name is

She stopped, tapping her teeth with the pen. Not Medusa. She had to choose a name for herself before someone else did.

How to Turn a Girl to Stone