Bsu inklings anthology

Copyright Š 2016 retained by contributors.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the contributor.

Published by the Bath Spa University Presses, Newton Park, Bath BA2 9BN, United Kingdom, in April 2016.

All characters in this anthology, except where an

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Hattie Clark Illustrations by BA Hons Graphic Communication students, Bath Spa University Project managed by Caroline Harris for Harris + Wilson Ltd Printed and bound in the UK by CPI Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wiltshire Sponsored by the Bath Spa University Research Centre for Creative Writing.

Edited by Sarah Milano and Cordelia Lamble

foreword by David Almond Professor David Almond’s novels for children include Skellig, My Name Is Mina and Song for Ella Grey. His major awards include the Carnegie Medal, two Whitbreads, the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize and the Eleanor Farjeon Award. In 2010 he received the highest international recognition given to an author of children’s fiction, the Hans Christian Andersen Award.

I

t’s a privilege to be part of Bath Spa’s Writing for Young People programme, and to help introduce this wonderful collection of work.

Here it is: printed, bound, beautifully produced. Here are the stories, the creations of individual minds, aided by brilliant teaching and communal support; the products of inspiration and hard work, of moments of grace and moments of despair. The words can now be read; the book itself can be put on a shelf to take its place alongside all the books ever published in our weird and wonderful world. It’s there with Dickens, Rosoff, Shaun Tan. It’s also there with the unseen tales, the tales spoken and sung and danced, tales murmured to children at dusk. Writing for young people reminds us that literature is both ancient and brand new, that it is endlessly recreated and that it existed long before the notion of straight lines of print was even thought of.

Sometimes I’m asked, like all children’s writers are asked − often by very grown-up, very civilised people − ‘Why do you write for kids?’ I’ve been asked, ‘Is it the case, David, that you start off by writing for the young, then you grow up and start writing for adults?’ My answer: when I began to write for young people, I wrote better than I ever had before. In writing for young people, the author in me began to grow up.

This is the place − in writing for young people − where all literature has its start, where stories might have their deepest meanings, where words can carry their most powerful charge. We’re also asked, ‘Why write at all?’

‘Isn’t it a strange, pretty whacky thing to do?’ But again, we only have to think of adults telling tales to children in the dusk and think of the children listening, to realise that it is one of the most ordinary, the most human

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things in the world. We do it naturally. Our brains are wired for it. It’s in our blood and bones. And if we don’t allow ourselves to take part in this we’re in danger of being damaged, and the world is in danger of being diminished. The words we write help young people to grow into the world and to become themselves. They link us with the storytellers who have gone before, a chain of storytellers reaching deep into our collective past. At Bath Spa, we are part of this endless, creative, optimistic chain.

Congratulations to all who have their work in these pages. Thank you for these words. All my good wishes for the future. I’m proud to work with you.

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introduction by Julia Green Dr Julia Green is the author of more than fifteen books for children and young adults. Her most recent novel is The Wilderness War (Oxford University Press, 2016).

H

ow exciting to celebrate another successful year of the MA Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University, and a new anthology of excerpts from the students’ manuscripts − the culmination of their MA year. It gives me great pleasure to introduce these new writers to a wider world and to know that many of them will find a place in the fabulous, vibrant world of children’s publishing.

For each individual writer, the publication of this anthology represents the end of the intense period of creativity, writing and rewriting on the MA, and the beginning of a new stage of their writing journey. The evidence is clear: creative writing MA courses really CAN help people improve their skills as writers and find a way towards publication. More than thirty of our former graduates are now established as authors for children and young adults. As I write, Sarah Driver’s Huntress trilogy has just found a home with Egmont; Chris Vick’s Kook will be published by HarperCollins in 2016, as will Eugene Lambert’s The Sign of One (also with Egmont). Sally Nicholls, the first of our MA Writing for Young People students to be published, back in 2005, won the Independent Bookseller’s award in 2015 for her most recent novel, An Island of Our Own; she was also shortlisted for the Costa Award and the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize (won by our Professor, David Almond).

Go into any bookshop and look at the children’s bookshelves and you will be amazed at how many of our former MA students are represented there. How do we achieve this? By nurturing and supporting our students; by challenging them and helping them question the decisions they make; by encouraging them to find the voice and style to make their story the best it can possibly be, to write and rewrite, to keep on thinking and imagining and redrafting. All our tutors are published authors, going through these same

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processes. At the heart of the MA are the writing workshops, where students learn so much from the detailed and specific feedback they give each other, week by week. Our students are good readers, too, giving that same quiet attention to stories that are already published, thinking about craft and technique. They learn about the constantly evolving children’s publishing industry, from people involved in the business: agents and editors, writers and a festival director.

We all care deeply about this work we do together. We know that the stories we tell can touch hearts and minds, change lives and truly make a difference to young people. We have a responsibility to our audience and we take it very seriously, even while we play and have fun.

In this new anthology from the class of 2014−2015 you will find eighteen original stories, each with a distinctive voice and memorable characters.

There are funny and touching love stories for teens, and dark psychological thrillers for young adult readers, wild fantasy adventures for younger readers, and realistic stories with a heart; settings in worlds like ours but subtly different, or back in time, or another part of the world, or in a magic place.

There are stories about family, and friendship, about love, and loss, and finding out who you really are. Something, in other words, for every kind of reader.

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from the tutors ‘It was a huge honour to be asked to tutor on the prestigious Bath Spa MA Writing for Young People: the course has already gained a reputation for producing some incredible talent. This year’s students have certainly done more than their fair share to keep that reputation growing. The standard of writing and the scope of ideas are breathtaking.’

Anna Wilson ‘This year’s anthology is jam-packed with goodies from an enormously talented group of writers for young people. Bold, brave, wicked, wild – their voices sing out from the pages. Working with them has been a real treat and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed being part of the “cooking process”. So, welcome to the feast – I can guarantee you’ll want second helpings!’

Janine Amos ‘Another exceedingly talented and wonderful bunch of students. Take note, publishers and agents: here is where the future of young people’s literature lies.’

Lucy Christopher ‘Once again it’s been a pleasure and a privilege to work with so many dedicated and talented writers − their endless imagination, creativity and sense of fun have been an absolute delight. They have discovered, of course, that writing can be tricky − sometimes it can feel a bit like searching through a deep dark mine. But when you open this anthology you will see that, in the end, no one has emerged empty-handed. Simply turn the pages and see the sparkle of gold …’

Steve Voake ‘Every year I am impressed, not just by the raw talent of the MA intake, but by their determination to find their voices and hone their words and the polish they show on leaving. This cohort is no exception.’

Joanna Nadin 8

‘The writers in this book are shining stars. They have polished their stories vigorously until they have shone and I’m sure they will now light the way for children and teenagers everywhere. I myself am dazzled by their glow.’

CJ Skuse

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10

contents YoUNGeR ReAdeRS 15

Tracy darnton

35 45

Charlotte Hills Anna Hoghton

55 65 75

Miranda Matthews Wendy McInnes Sarah Shillam

Milo and operation Stepdad dinner Lady Luna Island The Cannovacci and the dangerous Powers Club There’s No Place Like Home Magic Mischief Moonseed

oLdeR ReAdeRS 93 103

Sue Birrer Mel darbon

A Child of Heresy Rosie Loves Jack

123 133 143 151 161 171 181

Cordelia Lamble Sarah Milano Anna Morgan Jennifer Newbury Mark Rutherford dandy Smith Roz Stimpson

Boys Will Be Girls Nibbles Finding the Somerton Man The orchard Wings Before I Break Watch Me Fall

188 190

Acknowledgements Illustrators

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younger readers

tracy darnton

T

racy studied law at Cambridge and has worked as a solicitor and senior law lecturer. Reading to her sons and helping at a junior school library revived her long-held ambition to write for children. She has enjoyed developing picture book texts on the MA as well as writing two middle-grade novels: Milo and the Golden Apple of Doom and Milo and Operation Stepdad. Tracy lives in Bath with her husband, two teenagers and a hamster.

About Milo and Operation Stepdad

Milo realises that his mum has no one special to pick goo out of her hair and wipe the ketchup off her glasses after his giant model volcano explodes.

So, with his best friends Eddie and Marcia, Milo sets out to find the perfect stepdad scientifically. However, he soon discovers real life doesn’t obey the laws of physics . . .

Can Milo and his Stepdad Suitability Questionnaire succeed in time for the ultimate romantic evening at the Bangkok Pineapple’s All-You-CanEat Buffet? a) Yes, of course he can. b) No, he is doomed to failure. c) Read the book and find out! tracy.darnton13@bathspa.ac.uk

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TRACY DARNTON

milo and operation stepdad Chapter One

N

oah’s flood was rubbish. A bowl of water, a plastic boat and two grubby penguins.

‘Our volcano is way better,’ I said.

‘No contest, Milo. It definitely beats Noah’s, and Izzy Wilson’s too,’ said Eddie. ‘She’s calling it an avalanche – it’s just a massive pile of icing sugar.’

‘We’ve made the most impressive exhibit at the whole St Christopher’s Disasters Science Show,’ said Marcia.

We stood back and admired it for a moment. Even I was surprised by what only five solid days of papier mâché model-making could achieve.

Eddie’s dad had had to bring it to school in the back of his van and hoist it onto the stage. I don’t have a dad to help with volcano removals.

‘Respect for getting so much ketchup from the dinner ladies,’ said Eddie, high-fiving me.

‘Val was tricky. I had to solemnly swear on her potato masher not to make a mess.’ I dabbed at the spilt ketchup on the floor. ‘Shall we call it Vesuvius?’

‘From the shape of the cone, it’s obviously Eyjafjallajökull,’ said Marcia.

‘Eh?’ said Eddie. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Eyjafjallajökull,’ said Marcia again. ‘It’s my favourite volcano in Iceland.’

‘How about Mount Doom of Doomdom?’ said Eddie. ‘That’s a good name for a volcano.’

‘It has to be a real one,’ I said.

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‘No it doesn’t. Have you seen Sophie Baxter’s?’

True. Hers was painted pink and covered with glitter and grazing plastic ponies and mini show jumps.

‘Pass more vinegar,’ I said. I mixed it up in a big jug with the ketchup.

I was light-headed with the vinegar fumes and had a worrying feeling that I’d lost track of how much bicarbonate of soda I’d used. I needed to check my calculations but I spotted Mum lingering by the noticeboard looking at the photos of the parents’ three-legged race. I waved at her to come over.

‘Your model is amazing – so big! Fantastique,’ she said, walking round it. She’s not French but she teaches it so her brain is full of foreign words that can pop out at any time. ‘I’m afraid Grandad and Betty aren’t going to make it after all, Milo. There was a nasty tangle with Betty’s knitting and the Velcro on Grandad’s anorak.’

Typical.

‘They’re going to miss our presentation on lava production,’ I said.

‘I’ve done pie charts,’ said Marcia, setting up the flipchart.

‘And we’ve got a surprise brewing,’ said Eddie.

But Mum wasn’t paying attention. She was looking wistfully at Miss Woodhall and Mr Pendred. ‘They make a lovely couple, don’t they?’ she said. ‘How terrific for them both to have met that special someone.’

Marcia waffled on about seismographs while I wondered what Mum meant.

‘I never knew there was so much to know about volcanoes,’ said Mum when Marcia paused for breath at different types of magma conduit. ‘But I’d better go and say hello to Miss Woodhall. Super pie charts, Marcia. I’ll be back soon.’

‘Your mum is so great,’ said Marcia. ‘I bet she’d love a special someone.

It’s a shame she’s on her own.’

‘She’s not on her own. She’s got me,’ I said.

‘It’s not the same, mate,’ said Eddie.

‘Aye, that’s quite a mountain you’ve made, Year 6s,’ said Mr Campbell, hobbling over on his crutches. Mr Campbell is our PE teacher who broke his ankle and left arm in two freak accidents last half-term. I had nothing to do with the first one.

‘It’s Eyjafjallajökull,’ said Marcia.

17

TRACY DARNTON

‘Bless you,’ said Mr Campbell.

‘Vesuvius,’ I said.

‘Mount Doom of Doomdom,’ said Eddie. ‘And we’d better get a move on if we’re going to demonstrate what this baby can really do.’

He was right. I hadn’t braved Val the Dinner Lady for nothing. I lowered my safety goggles over my glasses. ‘It’s time. Funnel, Marcia.’

She handed it over. ‘Funnel, Milo.’

I placed it carefully in the top of the bottle buried in the vent.

‘Jug, Marcia.’

‘Jug, Milo.’

I poured the first jug of vinegar and ketchup into the funnel and picked up the second.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t add so much in one go,’ said Marcia.

‘Nonsense,’ I said, tipping more in. ‘We want it to be the most impressive disaster model St Christopher’s has ever seen, don’t we?’

A low rumbling came from our volcano and it began to shake. Puffs of vapour rose towards the ceiling.

‘Ooooooooh,’ said the gathering crowd of Year 3s.

‘Is it meant to be doing that?’ said Eddie.

‘I think so. Though I’ve only practised with an egg cup at home.’

I tipped in the third jug.

RUMBLE I felt the stage vibrating beneath my feet and the model juddered in front of us. Red gooey lava spluttered out of the vent. It was working up to something – a BIG something.

‘Milo, did you put in all of this bicarbonate of soda?’ asked Marcia, holding up the empty container.

‘Sort of,’ I said, edging towards the back of the stage.

‘And all those bottles and sachets of vinegar?’ said Marcia. She tapped at her calculator.

RUMBLE RUMBLE

‘Oh dear,’ said Marcia. ‘I hope I’m wrong but …’

RUMBLE RUMBLE RUMBLE 18

‘What do you mean?’ said Eddie, backing away. ‘You’re never wrong.’

The lava had run down the sides of the volcano and was already dripping off the edge of the stage. ‘…We’ve got exactly three seconds before a major incident,’ said Marcia, pointing at her watch.

‘She’s gonna blow! Take cover!’ I shouted, and we dived behind the stage curtains.

BOOOOOM!!!!!

Chapter Two

I

peered through the gap in the curtains. Izzy’s icing sugar wafted down like an ash cloud, settling on the ketchup stains. Clumps of papier mâché dangled off the light fittings. Our volcano model had mysteriously disappeared. I looked round the hall – the ceiling, the walls, the floor, the Year 3s. It had the look of a dreadful ketchup massacre. It was definitely what Val the Dinner Lady would call a MESS. Parents were huddled together in the corner, sheltering from the fallout. Eddie’s dad was helping Eddie’s mum up off the floor. Mr Wilson was picking soggy paper out of Mrs Wilson’s hair. Mr Pendred had thrown himself in front of Miss Woodhall and taken the full force of the splattering.

And I could see Mum by herself.

Mum had no one special to pick goo out of her hair. She had no one ready and willing to wipe the ketchup off her glasses. Maybe Mum did need a partner to pick up the pieces when disasters happened. Even Grandad had a girlfriend and he was in his seventies.

Miss Woodhall dusted herself off and shouted: ‘Is everyone all right?’

‘Yes, Miss Woodhall,’ called children from under tables and behind the gym apparatus. The Year 3s giggled and licked their ketchup fingers.

‘Aaarrrggghhh!’ yelled Mr Campbell. ‘Help me! I’ve been shot. I’m bleeding.’

Mrs Austen thundered over waving the first aid kit shouting: 19

TRACY DARNTON

‘HEALTH AND SAFETY, HEALTH AND SAFETY.’ She looked him up and down and got out the wet wipes. ‘You’ve not been shot, you big nelly; it’s only ketchup.’ She handed him his crutches and helped him to his feet.

But the floor was slippery from all the lava. He lost his footing and slid all over the place before stumbling and coming to rest with his plastered foot stuck in Sameer’s model of Mount Etna and his head buried in the relief map of Sicily. It’s hard to stop yourself falling into a volcano when your arm’s in plaster.

‘Noooooooo,’ wailed Sameer.

‘Aaarrrggghhh,’ wailed Mr Campbell.

‘Now you’re bleeding,’ said Mrs Austen, whipping out a bandage.

I was just wondering how long Eddie, Marcia and I could stay hiding behind the curtains when they were flung open. It was little Billy Pope from Year 3, his hair splattered with lava. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Can you do that again?’

‘Well,’ I began.

‘No, definitely not,’ said Miss Woodhall. ‘I think this volcano had better stay dormant in future.’

Mr Orchard had come out of his office and surveyed the hall. ‘We haven’t had an incident of this magnitude since … since last month.’ He looked over at me and sighed.

‘Funny how these things seem to happen when you’re around, Milo,’ said Eddie.

‘It’s not my fault; you can’t stop a chemical reaction,’ I said. Though I suppose you could try by not mixing loads of acidic vinegar with alkaline bicarbonate of soda in the first place. And the ketchup didn’t help.

‘We’ve only just redecorated the hall after the Great Flood in the boys’ toilets,’ said Mr Orchard with his head in his hands.

‘And that chaos when Milo dropped the Golden Apple trophy in assembly,’ said Noah helpfully.

‘Don’t forget how Milo’s talk on vacuum cleaners blew the electrics,’ added Izzy.

Mr Orchard groaned quietly. ‘Have you any idea about the amount of paperwork something like this involves? There’ll be complaints.’

‘They’ll certainly remember this session,’ said Marcia’s dad.

‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘I’ll be sponging ketchup out of my best coat for a while.’

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Mrs Austen stood in front of Mr Orchard like a bodyguard as a group of parents approached. But Eddie’s dad went up and shook his hand. ‘I’ve got to say, Mr Orchard, your science show went with a bang. I haven’t had as much fun in ages.’

‘Well done, Mr Orchard,’ said Mrs Wilson. ‘That’s the way to teach science. Make it exciting with explosions and danger.’

‘How refreshing to see a headmaster who doesn’t care about all this political correctness namby-pamby health and safety nonsense,’ said Mr Baxter. ‘I shall be commending you to the local authority.’

‘Really?’ said Mr Orchard.

‘Let’s hear it for the Head,’ said Marcia’s dad. Soon everyone in the hall was clapping and cheering.

Mr Orchard beamed from ear to ear and raised a hand for silence.

‘Thank you, thank you. As you know, we like to be at the forefront of innovation in education. Our motto is “Everyone’s a winner at St Christopher’s”.

After that exciting finale to our science show please join me in the dining room for a well-earned cup of tea and a chocolate digestive.’ Mr Orchard picked his way through the debris and out of the hall, followed by a chattering stream of parents.

‘As eruptions go, that was a big one,’ said Eddie. ‘What was it on the Richter Scale?’

‘That’s for earthquakes,’ said Marcia. ‘Have you learnt nothing from the Disasters Project?’

‘I think we’re going to draw the Disasters Project to a close,’ said Miss Woodhall. ‘I was saving catastrophic asteroid strike for next week but I think we’d better not risk it. Who knows what could happen with you lot, 6W.’ ‘And you needn’t think you’re getting a biscuit after that performance, Year 6,’ said Mrs Austen. ‘Get a mop and bucket.’

‘What’s the name of that bloke you like with the orange hoover?’ asked Eddie.

I sighed. He always pretended not to remember to annoy me. ‘Sir James Dyson.’

‘Hasn’t he invented something to clean this lot up?’ said Eddie.

I looked back at the scene of devastation. Even the superior suction 21

TRACY DARNTON

capabilities of my all-time hero’s greatest invention would struggle with this one.

As we headed for the cleaning cupboard, we passed the banner in the entrance hall. Someone had been busy with a felt tip already:

Welcome to St Christopher’s Disasters DISASTROUS Science Show The parents were drinking their tea in the dining room, standing chatting in couples. Mum waved at me and I watched her for a moment, standing by herself. It was true, she was always on her own or hanging out with me or Grandad. And he was with Betty all the time now and they liked to do weird stuff together like singalong musical theatre. Maybe Marcia was right about Mum – she had spent last night dancing round the kitchen with the broom and playing patience.

And it wasn’t just Mum who was missing out. If she had a boyfriend, I’d have a stepdad. Then he could share my love of science and doughnuts, and move giant volcanoes and help clean up after their eruptions. At that very moment Sameer’s dad was trying his best to reassemble Sameer’s Mount Etna model with a glue stick.

And then I had the beginnings of an idea. A brilliant, I-don’t-knowwhy-I-haven’t-thought-of-it-before idea. I would find the perfect stepdad so Mum wouldn’t be lonely and I’d have someone to do all the dad stuff.

‘Marcia. You’re a girl. Do you think it’s good to have someone special to go places with?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And if someone asked you out on a date, where would you want to go?’

Marcia smiled. ‘The cinema?’

‘Good idea. You can see a good film and you can …’

‘Hold hands on the back row?’ interrupted Marcia.

Who’d want to do that?

She was looking at me with her head on one side and twiddling her plaits.

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‘No, you can eat loads of popcorn, silly,’ I said.

‘You can get two tickets for the price of one on a Monday.’

‘Thanks, Marcia. That’s a great idea for a first date.’

‘Oh, Milo. I never thought you’d ask.’ She smiled at me again.

Ask what? What was she talking about?

‘You see, I can’t remember the last time Mum went to the cinema,’ I said.

Marcia stood bolt upright and raised an eyebrow in that way of hers.

‘Your mum? We’re talking about your mum?’

‘Yes! You’re right. She needs a special someone to go out with.’

Marcia started banging around in the cleaning cupboard.

‘She’s been too busy missing my dad or looking after me to meet someone herself.’ I looked over at Mum again. Now she was stuck talking to Marcia’s dad and pretending to laugh at his jokes. ‘We need to help her find the perfect partner. Are you in?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Marcia, thrusting a bucket at me. The cleaning cupboard seemed to be making her grumpy.

Excellent. I’d need female input for this. ‘Meeting at Sticky Buns Café, two o’clock Sunday. Bring a list of possible stepdads in Stavington.’

‘Just the two of us?’

‘Yes. It’s top secret.’

Marcia smiled again.

‘But Eddie too, of course,’ I added. ‘We can’t leave him out.’ I called over to him. ‘Eddie! I’m putting the dream team back together. You, me and Marcia – Operation Stepdad.’

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ruth griffiths

R

uth grew up in the wilds of Cumbria where sheep outnumber people two to one. When she was ten years old she dreamed of becoming one of three things: a fashion designer; a teacher; a writer.

She soon gave up on fashion after realising that learning to sew is a lot harder than it looks, and has spent the last fourteen years as a primary school teacher instead. A job she loves because she gets paid to make cool stuff out of cardboard boxes and read stories every day.

Ruth now lives in Cambridge with her husband and two children.

Since finishing the MA in Writing for Young People she has been working hard on achieving her final dream – becoming a writer.

About Violet Bloomfield and the Despicable Dinner Lady

Violet has had enough! She can’t stomach one bite of anything that wartywitch of a dinner lady, Mrs Haggerty, makes her ever again. With the help of best friends Bella and Wilf, Violet enters a competition to win a school dinner makeover and a chance to star in celebrity chef Pierre Piquelle’s new show Dinner Lady to Winner Lady.

But as the dinners improve, Violet’s life begins to fall apart. First she accidentally breaks Wilf ’s toe. Now her best friend isn’t speaking to her.

Then Pierre mysteriously disappears. Violet is determined to uncover the truth. She is convinced Mrs Haggerty has kidnapped him and that she is hiding a DARK SECRET in the broken-down-old-swimming-pool-at-theback-of-the-school. Can Violet solve the mystery on her own? Or will she realise that sometimes we all need a little help from our friends? ruth.griffiths14@bathspa.ac.uk 25

RUTH GRIFFITHS

violet bloomfield and the despicable dinner lady Chapter One Mondays Suck Big Time!

I

hate Mondays – they suck.

In fact the only thing suckier than a Monday is a vampire slurping bloodshake through a curly-whirly straw. Which is pretty sucky, by the way, because everyone knows that vampires are extra good at sucking, since they practise a lot, mostly on people’s necks. And I should know because my best friend Bella is a major horror fan and totally into all things super scary.

The only thing suckier than a Monday, or a vampire, is actually a mosquito. (Please see the Suck-o-Meter below.)

The Suck-o-Meter – Seven Things That Totally Suck 1. Getting a toffee stuck in your braces and not being able to speak for an entire day, which is TOTAL TORTURE and I should know, since I have braces and this has happened to me quite a lot.

2. Being halfway through a horror film and needing a wee but being too afraid to go because there might be a monster lurking in the toilet and it might jump up and bite you on the bum.

3. Opening a packet of Starburst only to find they’re all green.

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4. An octopus giving you a kiss, which goes something like this: squelchslurp, squelch-slurp, squelch-slurp, kiss.

5. Mondays.

6. A vampire slurping bloodshake through a curly-whirly straw.

7. A mosquito.

You see, according to my other friend, Wilf, who’s totally into nature and all that survivalist stuff, mosquitos can’t even live without sucking, so they win. End of. Plus Wilf reckons they’re actually the deadliest animal on the whole of Planet Earth.

Get that! A teeny-weeny, ickle-lickle mosquito is more likely to kill you than a great big grizzly bear. Who knew? No one, except Wilf – and me – and now you. And even though Wilf looks a bit like one of those weeds Dad makes me pull out of our garden, he is actually EXTREMELY SMART and knows a lot about that kind of thing.

Anyway, back to the point, which is that even though I have friends and I like maths and school’s not that bad either, I still hate Mondays because that means I have five whole days of school dinners left to get through, which looks a bit like this: .

School dinners x five days = TORTURE (. is a special maths symbol for recurring, which means the torture will never end.)

Because there’s something you need to know about the school dinners at Greystoke Primary School. And it’s not just that our dinner lady, Mrs Haggerty, looks like a mangled old witch who’s been in some sort of horrific broomstick accident, which she so does; or that she has a big, hairy wart the size of a baby alien growing out of the side of her chin; or that the school dinners taste worse than dog food, which they do (and I know this for a fact because when I was little I went to visit my nan and her poodle, Pip. According to Mum I crawled off, and when she found me I had eaten all of 27

RUTH GRIFFITHS

Pip’s dinner. Which just goes to show that dog food must taste better than my school dinners because I can’t even manage a mouthful of them without feeling super sick).

But the thing you really need to know is that the school dinners at our school are SO SUPER REVOLTING, I’d rather eat my own toenails than stomach one more bite of anything that warty-witch of a dinner lady makes me ever again.

That’s why today, I,

am making a stand.

Chapter Two I-Am-So-Making-A-Stand

R

ule number one of making a stand: Don’t stand.

Lie down.

Or more specifically, lie down and pretend to be sick.

The best way of doing this is to: 1) Wait until your mum is in the shower and your dad has got his nose buried in the middle of his morning newspaper.

2) Then creep out of bed really quietly and grab a red gel pen from out of your pencil case.

3) Next, draw lots of red dots all over your face so you look like you have a bad case of chickenpox, then sneak back into bed and pretend to be ill.

4) Easy.

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So when Dad shouts, ‘Violet, are you up yet?’ all I have to do is moan a bit and then, in my best I-am-so-sick-I-can-hardly-bring-myself-to-talk voice, answer, ‘I don’t feel well. I think I might be s-s-sssssick.’ At which point Dad appears with his most I-am-truly-concerned-what-is-wrongwith-my-daughter face, takes one look at my poxy spots and decides not to get too close.

Instead he says, ‘You do look a bit spotty … maybe you should have the day off?’

Which is totally brilliant and for once all those drama lessons Mum sends me to on Saturdays to get me ‘out of her hair’ actually seem worth it.

And I’m so happy that I don’t have to go to school today and that I get to miss one of Mrs Haggerty’s DISGUSTING SCHOOL DINNERS I want to jump out of bed and do a victory break-dance on the floor. Then I remember – I can’t – because I’m pretending to be sick. So I make do with wriggling my toes under my duvet instead. And just as I’m thinking about all the scrumptious foods I’ll get to eat, like chicken soup, or scrambled eggs, or jelly and ice cream, because Dad always makes jelly and ice cream when I’m not feeling well, Mum comes in and with NO WARNING WHATSOEVER throws my duvet onto the floor.

‘Nice try,’ she says, shaking her head and picking my pen off the mattress. ‘Now hurry up and wash those spots off your face. I want you dressed and downstairs in five minutes flat. I really don’t have time for these silly games today, Violet.’

Silly games? Humph. This is not a silly game. This is a ‘vitally important to my future health’ campaign. At least that’s what Pierre Piquelle says and he should know, because he is actually a chef, and on TV, and he knows a lot about school dinners. Plus he says that serving pupils food that is ‘not fit for human consumption’ is against the law, which means that Mrs Haggerty should probably be in prison since she is actually breaking the law every single day and so is in fact A CRIMINAL. Not that Mum cares. She’s too busy checking emails on her phone for her important meeting at the bank. Though sometimes I think Mum would have made a better detective than a banker.

‘But how did you know?’ I moan, going to the bathroom to wash the pen off my face.

29

RUTH GRIFFITHS

Mum sighs and rolls her eyes. ‘Firstly, chickenpox spots don’t smell of strawberries. And secondly, they don’t tend to glow in the dark.’

Then she pulls my curtains wide open.

That’s when I stare at the pen Mum has put on my bedside table and realise I must have picked it up by mistake. It’s my bestest and most-favouritest pen of all because Nan brought it back from her holiday in the States. Plus, it smells of strawberries and also glows in the dark. That is when I know I’ve been well and truly BUSTED. So, since my faking strategy didn’t work, I figure there’s only thing left to do to get me out of school and out of school dinners for good. My new strategy is called Telling the Truth.

It goes something like this: Act One: Scene One In the kitchen eating breakfast.

Me:

Please Mum, please can I have a packed lunch?

The school dinners are seriously revolting.

Mum: Violet, don’t be so rude. Anyway, you know packed lunches. Have you practised your spellings yet?

Me:

Yes.

Mum: Really?

Me:

Well … no, not really. But I will if you give me a packed lunch. I’ll practise my spellings every day for a whole month, just so long as I don’t have to eat another bite of anything that horrible excuse of a dinner lady makes me ever again.

Mum: Violet, you mustn’t talk about people like 30

that. She’s probably just a sweet old lady trying to do her job. I mean it can’t be easy serving hundreds of ungrateful children lunch every day. Who can blame her if she gets a bit cranky from time to time?

Me:

[Almost choking on my Chocco Pops] But Mum, she’s not a sweet old lady, she’s a witch.

A horrible, old witch who makes you eat snotghetti with real bogies that Mr Oddfellow, underneath the chairs and tables at the weekend … and it’s green and lumpy and completely gross!

Mum: [Sighing loudly] Violet, don’t be so overdramatic. It’s probably just a little bit of pesto sauce. Anyway you should eat your greens because they’re good for you, you know.

[Mum kisses me on my forehead and shouts up the stairs] Pete, hurry up, I’ve got to go.

And when I get back from work I think we need to have a serious chat about Violet’s drama lessons - all that make believe seems to be going to her head. Witches indeed!

Whatever next?

But before I have a chance to say anything else, Mum’s gone and Dad’s in the kitchen.

‘Hurry up and finish your breakfast, Violet. You don’t want to be late for school.’ He plonks his newspaper down on the table in front of me and grabs a slice of toast. ‘What was that you were saying to your mother about school dinners?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, still in a MAJOR SULK. ‘Well, in my day you were lucky if you got a bit of lumpy mash potato 31

RUTH GRIFFITHS

and a blob of semolina. None of this posh nosh you lot seem to get nowadays. Take that French chef, for instance … that what’s-his-name?’

‘Pierre Piquelle.’

‘Yeah. That’s the one. I’ve just been reading about him in the paper, with his hoity-toity ideas of making school dinners taste good. If you ask me a bit of bland food never hurt anyone. What do you say, Violet?’

‘Hmm … ’ I’m not really listening because I’m too busy staring at the paper.

Win a School Dinner Makeover!

Are your school dinners more dog food than delicious?

Let us help.

Pierre Piquelle is looking for one school to take part in his new TV show Dinner Lady to Winner Lady A show dedicated to making bad school dinners taste good.

Fill in the slip below and include a short explanation of why your school should be the winner.

Entries to be received no later than September 18th.

Oh no! That’s tomorrow!

‘Can I have this?’ I say, pointing at the paper.

‘Sure, love,’ mumbles Dad, spitting toast crumbs into the air. I tear off the back page and shove it inside my bag.

‘Thanks,’ I say, rushing towards the door.

‘Oh and Violet, be careful what you go around saying to your mother.

I know you’re in training to be a famous actress ’n’ all, but I don’t think your mum can handle any more of your wild ideas. Best save them for class, huh?’

Then he gives me a stubbly kiss on the cheek (which feels more like being hugged by a giant cheese grater) and waves me off down the street.

So that’s that.

If my parents aren’t going to believe me then there’s only one thing left to do— I’m going to have to fix this problem myself.

And now I’ve got the perfect idea how.

32

33

charlotte hills

C

harlotte spent her childhood catching minnows in the Mediterranean Sea. Part English, part Scottish and part Irish, she loves to travel and explore the world. When not climbing mountains in New Zealand, Charlotte can be found surrounded by animals. From an orphaned baby hedgehog to a chicken who hates umbrellas, Charlotte has adopted dozens of animals over the years. It was this love of travel and animals that inspired Charlotte’s debut novel, Luna Island.

About Luna Island

Luna loves donkeys, and is determined to adopt one from her local sanctuary. When she discovers that a bonkers billionaire is giving away his private island, Luna knows it will be the perfect place to keep him. Miraculously she wins, but soon finds that life on the Scottish island isn’t quite what she expected.

There are bats in the kitchen and goats in the trees, but that’s just the start of Luna’s problems. Her dad hates the island, and there isn’t a stable in sight. Together with her siblings and new friend, Luna must find a way to convince her parents to keep the neglected island and give her beloved donkey a home. charlotte.hills13@bathspa.ac.uk

35

CHARLOTTE HILLS

luna island Chapter 1 Little Cocoa

T

he donkey’s cardboard antlers wobbled in the wind, and a string of Christmas lights flashed around his neck. I watched him through the window of the sanctuary’s tea room, my face pressed to the snowy glass. He hadn’t been there earlier.

I slurped the rest of my soup. We were all squeezed around a tinselcovered table, as ‘Feed the World’ played on a loop. My brother, Fabien, took a bite of his sandwich and knitted another row of his scarf. Margot sunk lower in her chair and jabbed at her mobile.

‘Can I go back outside?’ I asked, through a mouthful of buttery bread.

Dad, who was browsing through a leaflet about the donkey sanctuary, nodded. ‘All right, but stay where we can see you.’

‘I’m coming too,’ said Margot.

‘And me!’ said Fabien.

We ran back into the snow, towards the last paddock of donkeys. Most of them were huddled at the far end with tartan blankets draped across their backs. I held out my hand and called to them. A grey one lumbered over and nuzzled my coat. I took out a packet of mints and fed him one. The donkey nuzzled me again, and then three more came over.

I laughed and stroked their faces. Soon we were surrounded by noses and ears and tongues. I tipped mint after mint onto my hand, and the donkeys gobbled them gently.

Through a gap in the furry wall, I saw a lone donkey standing at the 36

back of the paddock. He was the same one that I’d spotted from the café; the one with the antlers and flashing lights. I stepped aside to get a better look and realised that he was bent down, licking something.

That something was a cat.

I leant over the fence and heard a purr, small and soft. The donkey nuzzled the cat and licked a long line right down its back. The cat rubbed its cheeks against the donkey’s legs, and the bell on its pink collar jingled. The other rescue donkeys ignored this, as if it happened all the time.

‘You don’t think he’s going to eat the cat, do you?’ I asked Margot, pointing at the donkey.

‘Don’t be stupid, Luna,’ she replied, stuffing her hands in her pocket.

‘They’re obviously friends.’

I’d never met any real donkeys before, but Granny had. Every Sunday before she died, she used to come over for tea and tell us stories. My favourite was about a donkey called Cecil. He’d been her pet when she was little, and Granny kept a photograph of him on her nightstand. He was cream with black eyes, just like this donkey. She said he was the fastest donkey she’d ever met, and that she used to ride him to school. It was the only thing Granny ever told us about her childhood.

I missed Granny’s stories.

I missed Granny.

The cat padded away and Fabien ran after it.

I looked back at the donkey with the antlers, and his ears pointed towards me. His eyes were round like chocolate buttons, and his nose twitched as a snowflake fell on it. I smiled at him.

The donkey pulled back his lips and smiled too.

‘Is he … ?’ I began.

‘Copying you!’ said Margot.

She was right. The donkey was definitely grinning back at me.

‘Wow,’ I whispered.

‘Amazing!’ said Margot.

I clicked my tongue and he trotted over.

‘Hello,’ I said, patting his neck.

The donkey’s fur was soft and warm like a blanket. I tickled his ears, which were almost as long as my arm, and his breath warmed my numb 37

CHARLOTTE HILLS

face. A yellow collar hung underneath his chain of Christmas lights.

Little Cocoa, 2 years old, available for adoption.

‘Little Cocoa,’ I read aloud. ‘Is that your name?’

The donkey nuzzled into me, brushing his face against mine. Yes, Little Cocoa it was.

I stroked his nose and Little Cocoa smiled at me again. There was a piece of hay stuck between his wonky teeth, as though he’d been flossing with it. I wondered why he was there. Surely nobody could have given him away.

‘Let’s adopt him,’ I said.

Margot laughed. ‘We live in a flat.’

‘He could sleep in the bandstand at the park, or we could buy a stable,’ I said.

‘In the middle of London?’ asked Margot. ‘Look, there’s no way Mum and Dad will let us bring home a donkey.’

‘But he’s so lovely,’ I said.

Little Cocoa blinked and rested his head on my arm. I knew Granny would have wanted to keep him. He looked just like the photograph that she’d kept on her dressing table. He looked like Cecil.

‘Kids,’ called Mum, from over by the tea room. ‘Time to go.’

I pressed my nose into Little Cocoa’s ear. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll come back.’

Margot peeled me away and I ran over to Mum and Dad, excited to tell them about him.

‘I’ve found the most amazing donkey!’ I said. ‘He’s called Little Cocoa, and he wears antlers, and he’s friends with a cat, and he smiles!’

‘Oh, that sounds sweet,’ said Mum. ‘He’s only two years old, and he needs a home,’ I replied.

‘I’m sure he’s very happy here,’ said Mum. ‘Can we adopt him?’

‘No, don’t be silly,’ replied Mum. ‘We don’t have anywhere to put a donkey.’

‘But—’ ‘No, Luna, we can’t adopt a donkey,’ she said. ‘Come on, you’ve seen the animals, now it’s time to go.’

Mum dragged me away, and I tripped over my feet as I gazed after 38

Little Cocoa. I watched him until the snow closed around me, and all I could see was a pair of giant ears.

I’d find a way to rescue him. Somehow.

Chapter Two Lobsters

‘I

need your help, Margot,’ I said, flopping onto my bed, which was opposite hers.

She put down her copy of Flying Planes Monthly, and the stink of nail varnish wafted towards me. ‘With what?’

‘Little Cocoa,’ I said.

Margo sighed. ‘You’re not still moping over that donkey, are you? It’s been a whole week.’

‘I never mope!’ I said.

Fabien poked his head round our bedroom door, with our cat in his arms. ‘Who’s moping?’

‘Nobody,’ I told him.

‘Oh,’ he said, and squeezed onto my bed.

I gazed at my photo of Little Cocoa, which I’d printed from the donkey sanctuary’s website. There had to be a way of convincing Mum and Dad to let me keep him, there just had to. I’d find a stable for him somewhere, and get a job to pay for his food. I’d do anything.

‘Please, Margot, what should I do?’ I asked.

She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, and then said, ‘Lobsters.’

‘Lobsters?’ I asked.

‘Yes, lobsters,’ she said.

‘There’s a lobster in The Little Mermaid,’ said Fabien, who was working his way through our entire Disney collection.

‘Sebastian’s a crab,’ replied Margot.

‘Is not,’ said Fabien.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but why are we talking about fish?’

‘Technically, lobsters are crustaceans,’ said Margot.

39

CHARLOTTE HILLS

I glared at her. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Because the supermarket’s selling cooked lobsters for five quid,’ she said. ‘I saw an advert on TV about it earlier.’

‘How does that help me rescue Little Cocoa?’

‘You need to suck-up to Mum and Dad, and also prove that you’re responsible enough to look after an animal.’

‘And what does that have to do with lobsters?’

‘If you cook them a really fancy dinner, you can get into their good books and prove you’re grown up. Then all you need to do is find somewhere to keep Little Cocoa and Mum and Dad won’t be able to say no.’

I hated to admit it, but Margot was a genius.

‘I’ll help!’ said Fabien.

‘All right,’ I said, because two pleading faces were better than one.

We raided our savings jars for the lobster money. Mine was pretty full, because Uncle Tom had given me money for my tenth birthday the week before. Together with Fabien’s money, there was more than enough to buy two lobsters and some swirly ice cream.

‘Come with us, Margot,’ I said. ‘I don’t know where the supermarket keeps anything.’

She put down her magazine with a grunt. ‘It’ll cost you a custard slice.’

‘Deal,’ I said.

Mum was doing her salsa DVD in the living room, punching the air and wriggling her bottom simultaneously. She didn’t notice us as we crept past, and neither did Dad, who was scraping exploded eggs off the side of the microwave.

I grabbed Granny’s old coat which she’d left me, and ran out of our flat, towards the main door. A cold wind hit me and my breath circled above my head, disappearing into the frozen air.

The street was busy, filled with Christmas shoppers heading towards the tube station. A police car whizzed past, its sirens blazing, followed by a queue of impatient looking drivers. Christmas lights twinkled from the window of Kim Zee’s Nail Bar, and a giant Santa wobbled on a rooftop opposite.

I huddled close to Margot and Fabien as we marched down the street, dodging carrier bags and mobility scooters. The supermarket was just 40

around the corner and we dived into its warm glow.

‘What goes with lobster?’ I asked Margot, as we searched for them.

‘Peas?’ she suggested.

‘Gravy!’ said Fabien.

‘That’s not very special,’ I said.

We found the lobster in the frozen section and consulted the box for ideas. As far as I could tell, you were supposed to eat them with a boat and a lighthouse.

‘Let’s get some posh chips and lettuce,’ suggested Margot, and I nodded because none of us could cook anything else.

Fabien and I queued up to pay, while Margot waited for us by the magazine kiosk outside. We counted our money on the conveyer belt, and packed the lobsters in a thin carrier bag. Our plan to rescue Little Cocoa had begun.

I herded Fabien towards the kiosk, where Margot was leaning against the newspaper stand. As I looked at them an idea struck me: we could wrap up Mum and Dad’s dinner in newspaper, and then there wouldn’t be any plates to wash. Dad was always complaining that nobody sold fish and chips in paper anymore. It was a brilliant idea.

With our carrier bag full, we ran back home and emptied it onto the worktop.

Dad, who was unpacking a box of Granny’s books, stared at us as if we’d gone mad. ‘What are you three up to?’

‘We’re making you dinner,’ I said.

He nearly dropped the sugar jar. ‘Why?’ ‘Just being nice,’ I said.

Fabien opened his mouth but I elbowed him in the shoulder. We couldn’t tell Mum and Dad we were sucking up to them. It was better to bamboozle them with our charm, and then ask them about Little Cocoa again. They might agree to adopt him if we confused them enough first.

Dad backed out the door, yelling, ‘Judy, you’ll never guess what the kids are up to!’

I ignored him and read the cooking instructions on the first lobster package.

41

CHARLOTTE HILLS

1 2 3 4 5

Remove lobster from packaging and place on plate.

Defrost for 4 hours.

Cut the lobster along the middle.

Remove pale sac, head, gills and dark intestinal thread.

Crack the shell and poke the meat out with a fork.

That sounded far more complicated and horrible than I’d thought. The whole thing made me feel a bit dizzy.

I took a deep breath and tore open the first box. The lobster landed in the sink, where it squashed a baked bean and snagged on the dish cloth. I poked its hard shell with curiosity, and flung it onto a plate.

The next one landed belly-up. I flipped it over and Fabien tried to stick his finger in its claw, his eyes wide with fascination.

‘The chips are defrosting and making the newspaper soggy,’ said Margot, taking them out of the carrier bag.

I grabbed the newspapers and flapped them in the air. A page fell out and I picked it up, reading the title.

BONKERS BUSINESSMAN GIVES AWAY ISLAND Tom Harding, founder of Rhino Technologies, is giving away his Scottish Island.

The lonely billionaire has gifted dozens of things over the past ten years, including a helicopter to a man from Norway, a Hollywood sushi restaurant to a monk from Tibet, and a herd of highland cattle to St John’s School in Hythe. He also arranged for pensioner Betty Eccles to When asked to comment on his latest giveaway, Mr Harding said, ‘My daughter loved Moon Island, but I haven’t been there since she got sick. Now that I’m alone, the place feels too big. I hope somebody will fall in love with it, just like my Cassy did, and bring joy to the island again.’

This is one of Mr Harding’s biggest and most eccen42

tric giveaways, topped only by the donation of his Borneo estate to a pair of university students. When we last heard from them, the pair had postponed their accountancy courses to raise orangutans in the jungle. It’s believed they have since branched out into gorilla breeding.

As part of the competition’s terms and conditions, the island can never be sold by the winner. Anyone who enters should therefore be prepared to live in the middle of the ocean for the rest of their natural life.

To enter the competition, simply email assistant@ tomharding.com or write to PO Box 828, London, SW19, stating why you want to win.

When asked about a closing date, Mr Harding simply said, ‘How long is a strand of spaghetti?’

Below the newspaper article was a colour photo of the island, with a wonky house and a flock of sheep. It looked beautiful, the sun melting into the sea, and the waves all shimmery shiny.

43

anna hoghton

A

nna is a writer and director of short films. Her most recent film won funding from IdeasTap and starred Marcus Brigstocke, Keeley Hawes and John Nettles.

She is a published poet and her work was shortlisted for the Lancelot Andrewes Award by Carol Ann Duffy. She has been commissioned to write and perform for Bristol Festival of Ideas 2016.

She writes for Tremolo Theatre Company, whose ‘five-star’ show has a run at the Edinburgh Fringe this year. She spent two years on the BAFTA Youth Board, and has been nominated one of ‘24 Influential Bristolians Under 24’ by Rife magazine.

About The Cannovacci and the Dangerous Powers Club

Aribella dreads her thirteenth birthday. Something bad is going to happen, she can just feel it. When she sets her aunt’s hat on fire with nothing but her bare hands, Aribella’s worst fears are realised – she has a dangerous power!

On the run, Aribella meets a man in a starry mask who offers to help her. He invites Aribella to Venice. Suddenly the city in Aribella’s dreams becomes her new home. Aribella enters a world where masks help control powers, gondolas have minds of their own, and she definitely isn’t the only one afraid of getting older. cargocollective.com/annahoghton

45

ANNA HOGHTON

the cannovacci and the dangerous powers club Chapter Seven The Mask Maker

T

he next morning an envelope was slipped under the bedroom door.

‘It’s for you,’ Seffie squealed, carrying it over to Aribella’s bed.

There was a mask stamped into the black, wax seal. Heart racing, Aribella tore open the thick paper and unfolded the invitation inside. Under an embossed mask-shaped header, it read: Dear Aribella, You have been invited to a mask fitting today at 10 o’clock.

Rodolfo will collect you from the dining room after breakfast.

Please be ready.

The mask maker does not like to wait.

Kind regards, The Council of Ten The mask maker’s invitation. Finally! A grin spread across her cheeks. A mask meant everything, with it she’d be able to control her power and stand a chance of passing her test. If she passed she could go on living at the Halfway Hotel with Seffie and Finn and wouldn’t have to go back to her aunt’s lonely house ever again.

‘Come on.’ Seffie said, smiling. ‘We’d better go down to breakfast, or 46

else you won’t have time to eat anything.’

Not remotely hungry, but thinking of the look on Finn’s face when she told him the news, Aribella nodded and dressed quickly. Before they left, Seffie collected her velvet mask bag from the cabinet, looped the glittering strings around her neck and tucked it inside her dress. For the first time, this action prompted no stab of jealousy in Aribella. Soon she’d have a mask bag of her own, she thought happily. Her fingers brushed her bare collarbones. What would her mask look like? Would it be a slender half-mask like Seffie’s, or a full-faced one like Finn’s? Barely aware of where she was putting her feet, she followed Seffie out into the hallway.

A delicious aroma of freshly baked bread caught them on the staircase, as it did every morning at the Halfway Hotel, drawing them down to the dining room: the warm smell of plenty.

The dining room was already full of chattering guests arranged around the circular tables. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the glasses on the tables sparkled.

Finn was waiting at their usual corner table, his hair a mess of black curls. He was mid-yawn, but stopped abruptly when he saw Aribella wave the envelope. He let out a triumphant whoop.

‘I told you,’ he said. ‘I told you your fitting would be soon!’

Aribella smiled, feeling lighter than she had done in months as she took the cushioned chair beside him and gazed around the warm crowded comfort of the dining room. I might be able to stay here. Seffie offered her a round pastry glazed with toasted sugar. Usually these were Aribella’s favourite, but she was too excited to eat anything.

‘You should have something, Ari,’ Seffie said.

‘Quite right,’ agreed a familiar voice. ‘Mask fittings can take some time.’

‘Rodolfo!’ Aribella turned to see the wrinkled face of the best teacher at Halfway. He was wearing a smart green waistcoat with a diamond pattern on its lapels and mustard trousers. He was freshly shaven and his bald head gleamed as if it had been polished. She was glad it was Rodolfo taking her.

More than anyone, he knew how much Aribella needed a mask. He’d seen how out of control and dangerous her power was without one. Aribella’s stomach squeezed, and she pushed the thought from her mind.

47

ANNA HOGHTON

‘Are you ready?’ Rodolfo asked.

Aribella nodded and stood so quickly that she knocked over the glass of orange juice Finn had just poured. After promising she’d find him and Seffie when she returned, Aribella said goodbye and followed Rodolfo out of the dining room.

The hotel lobby was empty, except for Wolf, who was dozing in a patch of sunlight. He raised his shaggy head as they approached.

‘Morning, Wolf!’ Rodolfo called, pushing open the stained-glass entrance doors and ushering Aribella out onto the jetty.

The sky was brilliantly blue and the Grand Canal so dazzling that Aribella had to shade her eyes to make out Rodolfo’s gondola. She stepped aboard, pleased that she barely made it wobble at all now and settled into the front seat.

Rodolfo unlooped the mooring rope and plopped the long oar into the water. With a swish, the gondola slid forwards and then they were off, gliding under the cool shade of the Rialto Bridge, and out again into bright sunshine on the other side. Indigo San Marco flags waved along the Halfway Hotel side of the canal and, opposite, the yellow San Polo flags puffed back.

Market barges passed, laden with juicy tomatoes and bright oranges. Piles of sardine scales flashed silver on decks, like the coins that would soon be lining the trader’s moneybags.

There were several mask shops along the Grand Canal, all with masks crammed merrily against the windows. Aribella tried to guess which shop they’d stop at, but Rodolfo rowed right past them all and turned down a narrow side canal. The houses on this canal were dark and empty. Was he lost?

‘This is it!’ Rodolfo announced. He pulled up by a house with boarded windows. The iron sign on the door was so rusted that the inscription was only just visible.

Leave your masks outside, Here there is nowhere to hide.

For I see through the façade, Sequinned or scarred, And if you can face 48

The mask I make, I’ll show you the truth Of who you are meant to be.

Please enter quietly.

This must be the mask maker’s shop. She’d expected something a little more inviting.

‘I’ll wait for you outside.’ said Rodolfo.

Aribella’s stomach contracted again. ‘You’re not coming in with me?’

‘The mask maker prefers private meetings. You’ll be fine.’ Rodolfo added.

Aribella nodded. Of course she’d be fine. It was just a shop. Still her foot slipped as she stepped out of the gondola and into the dark doorway.

The door was heavy and she had to use both hands to push it open.

The square room beyond smelt musty and was so dark she could barely see a thing. A bell clanged as the door shut behind her with a thump.

Aribella’s heart jumped. On all sides, eyes stared back at her from the gloom. No – not eyes, masks, she corrected herself, feeling silly. Rows and rows of masks propped on black shelves. Nothing to be afraid of. Yet, still, her heart beat fast.

There was something eerie about the way the masks were lined up.

They stood separated from one another and looked very different to the jaunty arrangements in the shop windows they’d just passed. The masks were different too, far more impressive, but not nearly as nice to look at. One was covered in moth’s wings, another had a crown of enormous black feathers that didn’t belong to any bird in Venice. There was one mask made of razor clams with slits for eyes. One had a long white beak, and another had a cruel grate for a mouth. Aribella shivered. Who did that mask belong to?

In the middle of the room there was an age-spotted mirror and a stand with curious bronze instruments laid on top of it. Aribella was just taking a step closer to examine the instruments, when the mask with the white beak moved.

‘Do you like my masks?’ said a voice. A man was wearing the beaked mask. She’d mistaken his robes for shadow. The hairs on the back of 49

ANNA HOGHTON

her neck bristled. He must have been watching her this whole time.

‘They’re … ’ She cleared her throat, unsure what to say. Beautiful was the wrong word but she didn’t want to offend him. ‘Do they – er, all belong to you?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘All masks come back to me once their wearers die.’

The wearers were dead. This was a museum then. The mask she was about to get would one day come back to this dark shop – Rodolfo’s mask would too, and Seffie’s and Finn’s. Aribella suddenly longed to step back into the sunshine.

‘Let’s begin, shall we?’ The mask maker picked up one of the bronze instruments. It had two arms and a wheel in the middle, like a strange version of the compasses they used in astrology at Halfway.

‘Hold still,’ he instructed.

Aribella stayed as still as she could, barely breathing, as the mask maker came closer and used the instrument to measure the distance between her eyes and nose. He then measured between her nose and mouth, mouth and ear, ear and nostril. The measurements kept growing increasingly strange.

The compasses were cold and it was hard not to flinch, especially with the horrible white beak so close. Couldn’t he take the mask off?

Finally, he snapped the compasses closed. ‘Stand in front of the mirror.’

Aribella moved in front of the glass, which looked too age-spotted to see much in. As soon as she gazed into the clouded patina, however, flames appeared. She gasped, thinking her power was out of control again, but when she looked at her hands they weren’t alight. It was just some nasty trick of the mirror. She stepped back and the flames vanished.

‘A strong power.’ The mask maker sounded excited. ‘It will be a challenge to craft a mask able to help.’

Aribella wrapped her arms around herself. She was fed up with being a challenge. How long was this going to take?

The mask maker had just bent to pick up another instrument when there was a sudden movement in the top corner of the room, like a bird fluttering. But it wasn’t a bird and it wasn’t fluttering; it was falling.

Dropping fast. Something rigid and curved. A mask! It was going to smash on the floor.

Aribella’s hands flew out with an instinct that surprised her. She barely 50

had to move at all to catch the mask squarely. It landed, face down, in her cupped palms, the nose nestled snugly in the groove between her hands.

Almost as if it hadn’t fallen, but jumped. But that couldn’t be right…

She turned the mask over. It was grey and cracked and looked like all its decoration had been forgotten. It certainly didn’t belong with the rest of the collection.

‘What are you doing?’ The sharpness of the mask maker’s voice made her start. ‘No one touches my masks without permission.’

‘I didn’t mean to. It fell—’ ‘Liar. My masks never fall.’ Behind the white beak his eyes were narrow.

Aribella stared at him. How dare he call her a liar! He should be grateful. ‘Of course masks fall. I just stopped this one from smashing on the floor. Here!’ She tried to hand the mask to him, but he recoiled.

‘It is your mask now.’

What was he talking about? ‘But I don’t want it.’

‘It makes no difference. Look inside.’

The lining was no longer blank. Instead, fiery letters had appeared and were cooling. Letters that spelled out her name: Aribella No. How did the mask know who she was? She wanted to scrape the letters off.

‘But I can’t take this one.’ she said, her voice rising. ‘I need a new mask, one that’s made for me. A second-hand mask won’t work, will it?’

‘It is yours now,’ the mask maker repeated, opening the drawer under the stand and shoving a velvet mask bag into her hands. ‘Now, get out!’

‘But—’ ‘Out!’ He sounded furious. She hadn’t meant to upset him, but somehow she’d messed up her only chance of getting a mask that could help.

She didn’t stand a chance of passing her test now. Hot tears stung her eyes.

Clasping the hideous mask and bag, Aribella pushed out the door.

The day had turned cloudy and the canal did not look nearly as inviting as it had done earlier, instead it was green and dirty.

Rodolfo was sitting in his gondola. The expectant look on his face 51

ANNA HOGHTON

made it worse. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

Unable to speak, Aribella held up the ghastly mask, hoping dimly that Rodolfo might storm into the shop and demand a new one, but he just stared at it for a long time.

‘Strange,’ he said, finally. ‘I know this mask.’

52

53

miranda matthews

M

iranda’s literary credentials were established early on when she was named after a character created by Hilaire Belloc. It felt a lot less glamorous when years later she was told his poem was about a donkey!

She has always been intrigued by Australia, so was delighted when things fell into place and she found herself living there for five years. Before that she worked for the BBC as an award-winning television documentary producer and director, telling stories in a different way.

These days Miranda relives the Aussie café culture by writing her way round the best coffee shops in Bath, where she lives with her husband and two children.

About There’s No Place Like Home

Australi-ugh! Twelve-year-old Hero Morgan is heading for a new life Down Under, much to her disgust. How will she survive without her BFF Stacey?

And what about those snakes and spiders? Gran thinks new underwear is the answer to everything; her parents wonder if a new puppy might change her mind.

Once there, she rejects all offers of friendship and names the dog Hellhound to show the extent of her misery. A school trip to the outback starts to change her mind about the country but it’s only when Hero and Hellhound find themselves in real trouble that she discovers where in the world her true friends are. miranda.matthews@icloud.com

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MIRANDA MATTHEWS

there’s no place like home Chapter One

S

omething strange was going on. I needed to text Stacey, even though it meant breaking Mum’s ‘no phones at dinner’ rule.

Hey Stace. Weird here. Mum and Dad stop talking when I’m around.

But you said they’ve been doing that for ages. That all?

No. Gran’s come round and is staying for tea … on a school night!!

Her reply pinged back straight away.

Random – OMG – H! I bet they’ve got you a puppy, you’ve been going on about it long enough!

That couldn’t be it, could it? I’d wanted a puppy forever. Stacey and I had done all the research and decided on an English Springer Spaniel – loyal, intelligent, good with kids.

In my dreams!

Way exciting! Let me know!

‘No texting at the table. It’s rude,’ Mum called from the kitchen.

‘Sorry.’ Dad and Gran looked guilty and slipped their phones under the table out of sight.

‘I was talking to Hero,’ said Mum. 56

‘Why only me?’ I asked, but inside a bubble of excitement fizzed in my stomach. I hardly dared think about it, but maybe that’s what all the whispering had been about. A puppy?

Gran and Dad shifted around in their seats.

‘Was that Stacey you were texting?’ asked Gran.

I nodded.

‘You two still thick as thieves then? Your mum tells me you’re never apart.’

‘She’s my BFF, Gran. Best Friend Forever. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have Stacey.’

‘You’re only twelve, Hero; you’ll meet plenty more friends.’

‘Nearly thirteen, Gran, and I don’t want any other friends. We’re in the same class, like the same music and can share all our clothes because we’re the same size. She’s perfect. Thanks for all the pants by the way,’ I said looking down at a bulging M&S bag by my feet.

‘Yes, you won’t find the same quality anywhere else in the world.

I’ve bought your Mum some too,’ said Gran. ‘I wonder if they deliver worldwide?’

‘Ahem,’ Dad coughed, his eyes were wide and he shook his head at Gran who mouthed, ‘Sorry.’

What was going on?

‘OK, ready,’ said Mum, from behind the kitchen door. ‘Surprise!’

I held my breath. This was it! The moment I got my puppy! There he was in my imagination: black and white coat with a big red ribbon round his neck. My fingers were crossed so tightly that my hands ached.

‘Ta dah!’ The door flung back and Mum walked in carrying a huge plate piled with cream, with rivers of bright orange sauce running down the sides.

Disappointment washed over me. Surely all this secrecy had been about more than a dessert?

‘Oh dear, love,’ said Gran, with a grimace. ‘That doesn’t look much like the picture.’

‘Yes, thanks for that, Mother. I did my best.’ Mum slammed the plate down and a blob of cream slid off and landed with a plop on the table.

‘If only you’d said, Grandad could have made you one. Last week he 57

MIRANDA MATTHEWS

made a mean rhubarb crumble at his Over 60s Baking for Beginners class.

That’s where he is tonight.’ Gran leaned towards me and lowered her voice.

‘He calls them the Soggy Bottom Brigade.’

Mum rolled her eyes. ‘Hero, do you know what this is?’

‘Not really, could be anything,’ I replied, still unable to believe my big surprise was a pudding.

‘It’s a … pavlova,’ announced Mum as though she was introducing the queen.

‘Maybe in some galaxy far, far away,’ I muttered under my breath.

‘What?’ said Mum. ‘There’s way too much cream,’ I snapped. ‘You are supposed to see a bit of the meringue. Anyway, why are we playing guess the dessert?’

Dad piped up, ‘Do you know where it comes from?’

‘I dunno. Timbuktu?’

There was a pause.

‘Oh, well, Delia is sure it’s from Australia and, er, guess where we’re going?’ Mum blurted out.

Now I got it. All those quiet conversations had been about a holiday!

I’d always wanted to see a koala in the wild. I felt myself relax. I could always start my dog campaign again when we got back.

‘When are we going? If it’s our winter that means they’ll be in the middle of summer doesn’t it? Brilliant. I can come back to school with a tan. How long are we going for?’ My questions tumbled over one another. I thought of how jealous Stacey’d be when I was bronzed and golden and she was pasty English winter white.

There was silence. Gran started shredding the tissue she had in her hand.

‘Erm,’ said Mum. ‘Wait until I tell Stacey. Am I going to miss any school?’

‘Quite a bit,’ mumbled Gran.

Mum picked up the knife and held it above the dessert. She looked at Dad and said, ‘You tell her,’ before plunging the knife deep into the cream, where it hit the meringue with a loud crack.

‘Three years,’ said Dad, avoiding my eyes.

‘Ha! You said years. You mean weeks, right?’

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Dad’s voice got very quiet. ‘No.’ ‘Three … years?’ I flicked my eyes between them all in disbelief. ‘Are you joking?’

‘No.’ I frowned, trying to take in what I’d just been told. Three years? That would mean that I’d have to leave school, Gran and Grandad and, most importantly, Stacey. I gripped the table to keep myself steady.

‘I’ve been doing some work with an Australian company. They’re setting up a new international office and want me to go and oversee it,’ Dad said.

I took a deep breath, ‘But you like working for yourself. You said you wouldn’t ever want to work for anyone else again.’

‘True, but actually I’ve missed being with other people. It’s lonely on your own day after day, and to be honest the secret Santa gets a bit samey when there’s only one of you.’

I stared at him in astonishment. This was no time to try and be funny.

‘It really is too good an offer to turn down, plus we get to try out a different country. How much fun will that be?’ he asked.

‘I thought you were getting me a dog.’ My voice came out in a wail.

‘What?’ said Mum and Dad, looking confused.

‘All those times when I walked into the room and you stopped talking, I thought it was because you were discussing the dog. You know: English Springer Spaniel – loyal, intelligent, good with kids.’ I felt sick. How could they do this to me?

‘Well, how about we think about getting one when we get to Australia?’ said Mum spooning the pavlova into bowls.

It felt as though my brain was going into overdrive. Gran gave me a sympathetic smile.

‘Gran!’ I said, ‘Can I stay here with you and Grandad?’

‘Oh love, your Mum and Dad would never agree to that. Besides we’ll hardly ever be in now that Grandad’s enrolled in his Stand-up Comedy class and is thinking of doing gigs. Promise we’ll visit, though.’

‘But Gran, what if I start talking in a really strong Australian accent and you can’t understand me?’ I pleaded.

‘Don’t worry about that Hero, darling. I watch all the Aussie soaps 59

MIRANDA MATTHEWS

and can understand them perfectly. Anyway, your mum’s already sold your uniform.’

‘Whaaat?’ I shrieked.

‘Thanks Mother,’ Mum said through gritted teeth. ‘Look, let’s all have some pudding and talk about the move sensibly.’

‘How is some hideous looking dessert going to help?’ I grabbed my phone and jumped up. The chair crashed to the floor as I ran out into the hall.

‘You’re ruining my life!’

Chapter Two

I

jabbed at my phone. The screen was all blurry but somehow I managed to find Stacey’s number. She answered straight away.

‘Hi, H! So? Did you find out what was going on? I bet they’ve got you a puppy, haven’t they?’

‘Swings. Now!’ I said in a strangled voice.

‘Um, OK,’ she replied, puzzled.

I yanked my coat off the hook.

Mum came out. ‘Hero, where are you—’ But I slammed the front door before she could get any further.

There was a misty drizzle, which showed up in the orange beams of the streetlights. I shivered, stopping to zip up my thick coat, before running off down the road.

Whenever Stacey and I had anything to discuss we always met at the swings. They were almost exactly in the middle of both our houses: a small patch of unkempt grass, which sometimes turned into mud, with two sets of swings, one for babies and the other for us. The area wasn’t grand enough to be called a park. We sometimes wondered if we were too old to still come here, but sitting side by side, staring straight ahead, gently moving backwards and forwards we could talk about anything.

I got there first and wiped both seats with the arm of my anorak, sat on one and pushed myself off. I held my face up to the sky and the tears mingled with the fine rain.

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Australia? No way. What about school? What about Stacey?

By the time she arrived I was flying through the air, hoping to somehow obliterate the terrible news.

‘H! Slow down,’ said Stacey through the gloom. Her eyes swept round the small space. ‘It wasn’t a puppy then?’

I dragged my feet on the ground until the swing stopped. She sat on the one next to me.

‘Ugh! This is all damp. I’ve got a wet bum now.’

I could feel that she was looking at me but I couldn’t meet her gaze.

I stared down at my feet trying to find the right words, my hands gripping the chain links.

‘Look, H, are you OK? I’m really sorry but I can’t be long. My mum didn’t want me to come at all to be honest. She said it was too dark.’

‘I’m going to Aus … tralia.’

‘Oh wow! But that’s brilliant. You’ve always wanted to see kangaroos and koalas in the wild, haven’t you? Bring me back a wallaby.’

She furrowed her brow, clearly confused that I wasn’t reacting with the same excitement.

I rubbed my eyes. ‘But I’m not coming back.’

Stacey laughed. ‘What are you on about?’

‘No seriously, Stace, Dad’s got a job there,’ I said, twisting on the swing to face her. ‘We’re moving.’

Her eyes widened. There was a pause.

‘You’re joking right?’

I couldn’t talk. My jaws felt like they were glued shut.

‘NO! You can’t!’ What will I do without you?’ she said, sounding panicky. ‘I don’t have any other friends.’

‘I won’t have anyone in Australia either.’ The truth behind what I’d just said hit me and I let out a sob.

Stacey got up from the swing and flung her arms round me.

‘What are we going to do?’ I asked.

We hung on to each other, neither wanting to let go. I wished I could jump back in time to how things were before Dad’s announcement.

‘Look, H, don’t cry,’ Stacey said in my ear. ‘We’ll always be bessie mates. It won’t make any difference that you’re not living here.’

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‘But I’ll be the other end of the world,’ I whimpered.

She stood back and I could see her eyes were bright with tears, even though she was trying to be positive. ‘We can Skype and email and text.

There are all sorts of ways we can keep in touch. I’ll really, really miss you but we’ll end up talking every day anyway.’

‘Do you think so?’ I said, wanting to believe her.

‘Totally,’ she said, with a firm nod. ‘It’ll almost be like you’re still round the corner. Honest.’

I wondered how it would work with the time difference but Stacey was so adamant that I didn’t want to mention it.

Her phone buzzed. ‘It’s Mum,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘She wants me home.’

‘OK,’ I muttered. ‘I should probably be going too.’ My phone was flashing with texts from Mum. I got off the swing, we linked arms and headed for the gate.

‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see,’ she said.

‘Thanks, Stace. I really hope so,’ I said, turning to go.

‘Oh, Hero, just one thing.’

‘Yes?’ I swung round.

‘You know that waistcoat I lent you, the one with the fringes? Can I have it back before you go?’

62

63

wendy mcinnes

W

endy was born in a caravan, the daughter of creative, spiritual parents. Perhaps this is why she’s enjoyed travelling and exploring so many places (and worlds). And from these journeys she has discovered that, no matter how challenging life can be, there is always some magic hiding in even the darkest of shadows.

The fact that we are all made of stardust also suggests to her that ordinary and magical worlds are inseparable. It is from this belief that her current book, Magic Mischief, has grown.

About Magic Mischief

Eight-year-old Bella longs to be special like her star-crystal baby brother, Archie. But, magically challenged and bullied at Spell School, that’s just not going to happen.

However, when an overworked fairy godmother botches Archie’s blessing, the Chant family is forced into hiding in the Ordinary World to keep him safe. Bella loves living there and quickly makes BFF with computergame geek, Will.

Then a Dark Dragon kidnaps Archie, and Bella must return to the Magical World to rescue him. Helped by Will’s gaming skills and the watchful eye of a highly strung crow, Bella discovers the biggest challenge is herself.

Can she find her own special magic in time and, with her friends, save both Worlds – and Archie – from being burnt to cinders?

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magic mischief Chapter One The Blessing

F

or the hundredth time, Bella wished she were playing outside in the unicorn paddock, not stuck at the front of the castle chapel where everyone could see her. Even worse, Rumple and Stilts were sitting in the first row, nudging each other and pointing. Her face felt all hot and prickly, as if she had spindle-pox. Archie, her baby brother, was so lucky. He was hidden in the enormous blessing crib beside her.

‘Star-crystal babies are rare and very special,’ Bella’s mum, Rose Pink, had explained a few days earlier. ‘That’s why we’re allowed to have Archie’s ceremony in the castle and three fairy godmothers.’

Bella longed to be special too. But it was hopeless. She couldn’t even get the easy-peasiest spells right.

‘Waaaaaargh. Waaaaaargh.’

Bella jumped. Archie’s cries were like a toad screaming, only a thousand times louder. And he did it A LOT. She rushed to the side of the cradle, her best dress swirling around her like green mist. It had taken her mum three whole days and nights to weave its magic. Usually, Bella felt like a real princess in it, only not today.

‘Oh Archie, what’s the matter?’

He was crying so hard his tiny face quivered like a tomato-berry about to explode.

‘Shush, Archie, please shush,’ she begged in a desperate whisper.

‘Waaaargh!’ His little fists beat the air.

66

Bella looked round for her mum, but Rose Pink was still over by the chapel door greeting guests. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Stilts nearly fall off his chair, he was laughing so hard.

Maybe it would help to rock the crib. She grasped the smooth wooden edge and pushed. It wouldn’t budge. How did that ‘shift it’ spell go? Bella closed her eyes and tried to concentrate.

‘I now command you swing and sway, and sweep my brother’s sadness away.’

She opened her eyes and waited. She was absolutely sure she’d got the words right for once.

Something was moving. But it wasn’t the cradle. Instead, the five blessing beads hanging above Archie’s head swung to and fro, sparkling in the light from the chapel windows. Bella put her hands out. The crystal beads twirled out of reach. Horrified, she saw them gather speed. Faster and faster.

Higher and higher. Ping! Ping! Ping! They spun off their thread, flashing rainbows in all directions.

For a split second everything, except for Archie’s crying, went quiet.

Bella’s face felt as if it was on fire.

There was a sudden burst of clapping.

‘Fluttering fishbones! What a display!’ cried Rose Pink, as she appeared beside Bella. ‘So like your father. Everyone loved it. But make sure you get all the crystals back, won’t you, darling?’

‘I’m not, I didn’t … ’ stammered Bella.

‘Tut, look at poor little Archie,’ her mum interrupted. ‘What are we going to do? The fairy godmothers won’t like a grizzler.’ She smoothed her hand over Archie’s forehead. ‘You were such a happy baby, Bella,’ she sighed.

Bella often wondered why Archie was such a cry-baby. He wasn’t being bullied or told he was ‘magically challenged’. Then she felt bad. He couldn’t even talk properly yet.

‘Maybe the FGs will cheer him up?’ she wondered.

‘Fairy godmothers,’ Rose Pink corrected, as she gave her a quick squeeze-hug.

Bella breathed in her perfume of roses and nutmeg, and felt warm and safe inside.

Just then there was a second explosion of clapping, this time 67

WENDY MCINNES

accompanied by roars of laughter and cheers.

‘Shimmering caskets! Your father’s here.’

Bella caught a flash of red and orange and heard the jingling of bells as her father, Jollo, somersaulted up the aisle towards them.

He winked at them before turning to face the audience. ‘Firstly,’ he began in his deep, rich voice, ‘thank you, one and all, for attending my son’s special blessing. Secondly, the fairy godmothers are due to arrive in five minutes – precisely.’

He flung one of his jingling arms out to the side and drew a circle in the air. Instantly, the image of a clock appeared. The ornate hand began to move round in tiny jerks, and a gold mouse began to run round and round the edge.

‘Aaaaaah!’ everyone gasped.

Bella gasped too. She had almost forgotten he could do real magic as well as fun-spells.

‘Now, while we’re waiting, there’s work to be done. Tell me, what has a face but cannot frown?’

‘A clock!’ everyone chorused loudly.

‘Oh ho ho! A giveaway. Try another. What happened to the witch with an upside-down nose?’

‘Every time she sneezed, her hat blew off!’ the crowd yelled.

Rumple and Stilts were right, thought Bella miserably: everyone knew her dad’s old jokes.

She looked down. The cradle was shaking. Archie was sobbing even harder. As she reached out and touched his hand, his fingers closed tightly over hers.

He stopped crying.

Surprised, Bella stared at him and he stared back, blue eyes shining with tears. It was as if he was trying to send her a message.

At that moment the clock chimed, and the mouse disappeared into the zero of the number ten.

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Chapter Two The Fairy Godmothers

A

cool breeze blew across Bella’s face. The air smelt fresh and salty as if they were by the sea. She looked up.

Three great white birds swooped low over the audience.

Bella watched as they landed beside her father on the opposite side of the cradle. But, as their feet touched the ground, the birds vanished, and three fairy godmothers stepped out of the air.

Applause rippled and surged around them.

Bella couldn’t help staring. She’d never seen FGs this close up before.

‘Welcome,’ said Bella’s father, bowing low. ‘We are honoured you have joined us for our son’s blessing.’

‘Honoured,’ murmured everyone in a hushed echo.

Bella pulled away from Archie, ready for him to receive his gifts. As he started crying again, the youngest fairy godmother glided forward. She carried a golden goblet.

‘Hebe’s my name,’ she said, raising her voice. ‘I bring laughter, bounce and joy to a sad little baby boy.’ She tilted the cup and a stream of tiny shimmering butterflies poured out.

They fluttered round Archie’s face, tickling his cheeks. Bella watched in delight. Then she heard a gurgling noise. Archie was giggling! She pressed her lips hard together to stop herself laughing with him.

The second fairy godmother curtseyed. Her dress flounced and glittered as she straightened up. ‘Phoebe here.’ She waved her wand about in the air. ‘Love is my blessing shower, which to Archie’s life will bring great power.’

‘That’s real stardust,’ Rose Pink breathed in Bella’s ear.

Archie sneezed. His hands opened and closed like tiny starfish. Bella longed to pick him up, but her father was already helping the oldest godmother over to the cradle.

‘I’m Esme,’ she quavered, clinging onto the side. ‘The gift of magic I now bestow will through baby Archie like a river flow.’ She stopped.

Then she yawned.

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A great big cave of a yawn.

‘Dear me.’ She shook her head and her wispy hair stuck out like a silver halo. ‘So sorry, I haven’t slept too well over the last hundred years.

Now, where was I … ?’ Her voice tailed off and her eyelids drooped.

Hebe coughed.

Esme’s eyes flicked open. ‘This magic is powerful,’ she continued. ‘And must be respected, so all through his life, Archie will be protect—’ ‘Zzzzzzzz … ’ A sound like a hundred bumble bees filled the chapel.

The fairy godmother was snoring!

Jollo leapt forward and caught the sleeping godmother before she collapsed. When he looked up, Bella felt as if a spring frog had jumped inside her chest. She had never, ever, seen her father look so serious.

‘Pickled pumpkins! Bella, stay with Archie while I go and help.’

‘Mum … wait.’ Bella gasped, but Rose Pink had disappeared.

Loud excited chattering burst out from everywhere around her. She could just make out a few words in the rising sea of noise.

‘Should have retired centuries ago … ’ ‘… really bad omen.’

Then her eyes met Rumple’s. He was grinning and holding up one of the blessing beads between his thumb and forefinger. The frog in her chest leapt into her throat. She started forwards. But before she could reach him, Rumple had scuttled away.

Bella’s shoulders drooped. He and Stilts were nearly halfway up the aisle towards the door. She would never catch them now.

‘Good folk,’ the godmothers, Hebe and Phoebe called out, as they moved gracefully in front of Bella, ‘what a perfect blessing, for a perfect boy.

But, ALL of you must leave now with hearts full of joy.’ Their voices were so clear and sweet, it sounded as if the chapel was full of bells.

To her surprise, after a moment’s pause, Bella heard everyone repeating the words.

‘Perfect blessing, perfect boy, ALL must leave now … hearts full of joy.’

She could see the congregation getting out of their seats and making their way towards the door as if they were under a charm-trance.

‘Oh no!’

70

Bella spun round.

‘What’s the matter with Archie?’ Rose Pink was staring at the cradle.

Bella’s eyes nearly popped out. Her baby brother was glowing all over.

And he was floating, just above his pillow.

‘Oh Mum, he looks so pretty! Just like those orb-lamps from the castle!’ she exclaimed. ‘Maybe Dad did it for a joke.’

‘That’s not funny,’ her mother snapped.

Archie laughed and drifted higher, his gown hovering around him.

Rose Pink screamed and snatched him up in her arms. ‘Shivering Spindles! He’s light as a balloon.’

Jollo rushed towards them, closely followed by the two fairy godmothers.

Rose Pink wheeled round to face Phoebe. ‘Look what you’ve done to my baby boy. Those spells must be out of date. You must put it right, this instant.’

‘Rose Pink, we are so, so sorry,’ Phoebe said gently. ‘It’s not as easy as that. Esme falling asleep mid-spell means Archie has received all the blessing gifts, except that of protection. His pure baby-magic is now so powerful his force can be used for great good or great evil.’

‘Surely Esme can just do the protection spell now?’ Bella’s father protested.

‘We can’t wake her. We’ve tried everything.’ Phoebe turned towards him. ‘Fortunately, though, this isn’t for ever after. As soon as Archie learns to walk, his energy will be safely rooted … ’ ‘But until then, he’s a danger to everyone,’ Hebe interrupted. ‘He can’t stay here in case he falls into the wrong hands. You all have to go into hiding.’

Bella stared at her baby brother. He didn’t look dangerous, just very shiny.

‘Hiding? Where?’ Rose Pink’s voice wobbled.

‘You’re not going to like this.’ Phoebe sighed. ‘But there’s only one place of safety. And that’s the Ordinary World.’

Bella felt as if she had drunk fizzle-pop too quickly and it had gone up her nose.

‘The Ordinary World!’ Jollo exclaimed. ‘You must be joking.’

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‘But, Bella’s schooling, Jollo’s work … my sisters ...’ Rose Pink wailed.

Hebe stepped forward. ‘This is the only option,’ she said firmly and raised her wand.

Chapter Three The Safe-House Nine months later

‘C

awwwww … Cawwww … ’ Bella woke with a start.

She must have been dreaming. Everything was fine. She was still safely in her cosy room in the Ordinary World, not back in the Magical World being chased by Rumple and Stilts. The noise outside was only Scare, their guard-crow, doing his usual morning wake-up call.

‘CAWWWWW, CAWWWW!’ Scare’s second cry was so loud, it made Bella jump.

‘Ouch!’ She bumped her head on the low sloping ceiling.

Then she remembered. Everything wasn’t fine. It was the last day of term at Calmshore School and most probably the last time ever she would see her friends . . .

The curtains at her window began to flap about. There was a sound of ripping material, and a bundle of black feathers hurtled into the room as if propelled by a strong gust of wind.

‘Oh no, Scare!’ cried Bella, as he dive-bombed her bed. ‘You’ve torn the curtains again.’

But the crow wasn’t looking at her. He hopped nervously from one claw to the other, swivelling his inky black head from side to side, as if expecting attack from every corner.

Dad joked he should be called ‘Scared’ because he was frightened of everything, even his own shadow.

Bella slid out of bed.

She reached for the bag of sunflower seeds in her dressing-table drawer.

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Beside it lay the two blessing beads she’d rescued from Archie’s cradle before Hebe transported them here. She sighed. Mum would finally miss them when they went back to the Magical World. But how could she get the other three beads back after all this time, especially when Rumple had one of them!

Scare picked his way nervously towards her, as she held out her hand.

Her best friend, Will, would love him. But the FGs said absolutely no visitors to the cottage. It was so unfair. She knew Will could definitely, totally, cross-his-heart, keep a secret.

The crow stretched forward and nipped a sunflower seed out of her palm. It tickled. The next moment, there was another ripping noise as he disappeared back through the window.

What if she could stay here in the Ordinary World with Scare just for the summer holidays? She knew her parents were longing to go back home.

Every day Rose Pink went on about Archie walking.

Bella tilted her head, listening. Archie must be awake. Soft murmurgurgles came from next door. She couldn’t help smiling.

Archie beamed at her as she crept into his room. He still glowed a bit, but he floated much closer to the ground now.

‘Come and help me get ready for school,’ she said as he wiggled up into her arms.

‘Ba la, ba la,’ he sang, patting her cheek. It was lucky he had his antimagic mittens on otherwise she could end up with a wart or a Pinocchio nose for a few hours.

She carried Archie over to her princess mirror. ‘Look, Archie, see how big you’re getting.’

That was strange. Their reflection was all blurred and wavy. She blinked, but she still couldn’t see their faces clearly.

Instead, a dark shape was filling up the mirror and seemed to be moving towards them. She leaned closer. Three eyes stared out at them; one was half-closed, while the other two were wide open and glowed fiery red.

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sarah shillam

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arah achieved her first literary success at the age of six as runner-up in a Blue Peter limerick competition. Yes, she got the coveted badge, and it would definitely be one of the things she would rescue if her house burned down!

Since then she has written several stories for children, including play-scripts published by Pearson. She works part-time as an occupational therapist, helping people with disabilities to live independently. But she much prefers to work with the characters inside her head, making life as difficult for them as possible.

About Moonseed

When Zakan sees his beloved Grandda turn into a wolf, he initially suspects the village medicine woman of foul play. But, as he works through the clues that Grandda left behind, he realises that an ancient myth holds the answers he is looking for.

Only by travelling into the fearsome Wildwood, and healing the ancient Heart Tree, can Zakan hope to persuade the moon to turn Grandda back. But wolf-Grandda has become vicious and is trying to kill him. Can Zakan find the Heart Tree, or will the wolf find him first? Will Zakan ever see his human grandfather again? sarah.shillam@gmail.com

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moonseed Tales of the Wildwood 1. Moonseed

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he first wolf seed was shaped like a tooth. The first cat seed was shaped like a paw. The first human seed was shaped like an open hand.

The moon’s seed, shaped like a flickering flame, floated on the wind and landed by a tree. It mingled its roots with the tree’s roots, and the tree fed the moon seed as it grew into a shoot and bloomed into a white flower with a thousand tiny petals.

The wind blew and the flower broke from its stem. It floated into the sky and became the moon. Its petals broke away, becoming stars, leaving the moon a perfect circle of light.

The moon watched over the tree that had nurtured it. It sent wind sprites to blow the tree’s own seeds onto fertile soil, and it shone light onto the shoots as they grew in the darkest place on earth. The shoots grew into trees that were not afraid of night because they always had the light of the moon.

And so the Wildwood was born.

Chapter One

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he moon was still visible in the sky. Not pale and thin like a daytime moon usually is, but glowing as if someone had lit a candle inside it.

Framed in a golden halo, it flooded the beach with its melting light. No wonder the sun was sulking behind the clouds.

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Frowning, I slipped inside the forge. Grandda’s back was turned, his tall frame a black outline against the blazing furnace. His book of moon charts lay open on the workbench behind him, its symbols flickering in the glow of the dancing flames. He jerked his elbows quickly and four sharp shreds tore through the air.

‘Grandda!’ I called out.

He looked behind him, his forehead furrowed.

‘Zakan!’ He flung a handful of strips at the fire, at the same time twisting round to face me.

His eyes were bright, but he didn’t quite meet my gaze. He shut the book on the workbench, not noticing a yellow strip flutter in between the white parchment pages at the last moment.

‘Is everything all right?’ I glanced over at the other strips curling under the flames. Their edges blackened, glowed red, flamed into gold and disintegrated into grey ash, all in the time it took Grandda to return the book to the high shelf where it usually lay.

‘Of course!’ He drew a red-hot iron rod from the furnace, placed it on the anvil, and began to pound at it with the hammer. He looked up, barely pausing. ‘You want to carry on with the nails?’

‘All right, Grandda.’

I sat down at the workbench and opened a box of slender iron shafts that I’d sawn up the previous day. Taking a handful out, I paused to glance up at the top shelf. The yellow shred jutted out defiantly from between the book’s pages. Grandda was hiding something, I could tell. But I’d wheedle it out of him. I always did.

We worked alongside each other, me filing the shaft ends into points and Grandda crafting a new set of wheels for a wagon bound for the Fenna Forest, where my da worked as head woodsman. The forest used to be part of the Wildwood, a place with no law beyond survival of the strongest. But three winters ago, Da’s rich master had taken parts of the Wildwood and named them after his children, Fenna and Rooken.

Da lived in the forest all year round and cared for the trees. I longed to work alongside him. I couldn’t imagine a better life: living in peace and helping things grow. My file slipped off the nail point and sheered across my fingertip. I sucked my throbbing finger, but inside I was 77

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beaming: Da was coming home today!

The furnace roared, the hammer struck, Grandda whistled. All was just as it was every morning. We stopped for a break and Grandda warmed up a kettle of liquorice tea in the furnace.

‘I think one of our neighbours has departed,’ Grandda said, his eyebrows knitting together. ‘I saw the family burning the belongings. Did your mam mention it?’

‘She didn’t say anything … ’ ‘Perhaps they lost someone at sea,’ Grandda said.

I shivered and fingered the three acorns that hung from a leather string around my neck. My best friend, Branan, who used to work on the fishing boats, had made the necklace for me and I wore it always.

Grandda’s frown deepened. ‘You’d be less scared of the water if you knew how to swim. Why don’t you let me teach you next summer? You might even like it once you got used to it.’

I shook my head. The thought of all that water pushing into my lungs, flooding my insides and pulling me down to the seabed was too much.

I wouldn’t even paddle in the shallows, no matter how much Grandda begged or the other children teased me.

‘Daft lad, born under a Scratch moon, so you were.’ Grandda ruffled my hair. ‘Ah, but our poor neighbours. It’s never easy saying goodbye.’

He glanced up at a wooden box, next to the book on the high shelf. I’d never seen inside, but he always looked at it when he seemed sad.

The yellow scrap of paper peeping out from the book had curled around in the heat of the furnace. An inky scrawl was just visible in the corner, although I couldn’t read anything from where I stood. I was about to try and coax an explanation out of Grandda when I remembered another puzzle.

‘The moon! Have you seen it this morning?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s glowing like a lantern up there,’ I said. ‘In daylight!’

‘Glowing?’

Grandda slammed his cup down, splashing tea over the workbench, and ducked out through the forge door. He observed the moon like a sailor studies the stars and he had told me the names for every shape it took and 78

what that meant for the day ahead. His trained eye saw its slender changes as it waxed and waned. Da called him ‘Moon Man’, but Grandda said the proper word was ‘Watcher’.

I followed him out. He gazed up into the sky, his eyes wide.

‘I don’t understand,’ Grandda whispered.

‘Understand what?’

‘Today’s moon’, he said, ‘is a Dreamer’s moon. A moon for telling stories and asking questions. The sort of moon when you wouldn’t expect much to change. Not like the Whole moon of course … ’ ‘Grandda—’ ‘Heartache reveals the moon’s true colours, but I can’t work out why.’

He chewed on a thumb nail.

‘Grandda, you’re talking in moon riddles again! You know I don’t like it.’

He looked away from the sky and back at me, his face breaking into a sudden grin. ‘Did I ever tell you the story of the time the great hero Zakan rode a horse to the moon?’

I shook my head and smiled. I was often the hero in his stories.

‘One night – a perfectly clear night with not a cloud in the sky – the moon failed to appear,’ Grandda began. ‘The stars shone from one end of the horizon to the other, all but for a circle of darkness in the middle.

Everyone was frightened and no one could sleep – where could it have gone?

The trees of the Wildwood, which grow by the light of the moon, began to wither, and the wind sprites cried, frightened that their woods would die.

‘Only Zakan knew what to do. He got up from his bed-mat, mounted his horse, and urged it into the sky.’ Grandda nearly hit me as he mimicked the motion of a rider and I couldn’t help giggling. Sometimes he forgot just how far his daddy-long-legs limbs stretched.

‘Zakan found the man-in-the-moon sleeping,’ Grandda continued.

‘He shook the man and woke him. He helped the man-in-the-moon spread out the diamonds that make the moon shine so bright. The people below slept in peace and the Wildwood was saved. Zakan was given a single diamond to keep as a reward, and from then on he always had light, even in darkness.’

He punched my arm gently. ‘You are a hero, Zak. Don’t ever forget it.’

‘Mmm,’ I said, unconvinced. Short and skinny, I had to be the least 79

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hero-like boy in Oaken. But no one believed in me quite like Grandda did, and I loved him for it. If I could find a long enough ladder, I’d climb to the moon for him.

He took a deep breath. ‘I suppose we’d better get back to work.’ He looked into the sky one last time and ducked back into the forge, swallowed the rest of his tea, and turned back to the anvil.

The yellow shred of paper still poked out from between the book’s pages, as if it was sticking a tongue out at me. I frowned and was about to ask Grandda about it. But he was already carrying the cooled iron back to the furnace, whistling as he thrust it into the flames.

Grandda hammered out another wheel while I went back to filing nail points. His hammer sang against the iron and my file scraped along.

Until … Crash! The clang of falling metal rang out behind me. I spun around.

Grandda leant over the anvil, doubled up, as if in pain. The halfformed wheel and hammer lay on the floor either side of him.

‘Grandda!’ Nails skittered across the workbench as I scrambled towards him.

‘It’s all right!’ There was an unusually sharp edge to his voice.

I bent down to pick up the hammer, but it slipped between my fingers and clattered against the stone floor.

‘Have a care with my tools!’ he snapped.

I flinched.

Grandda opened his mouth, about to say something, but stopped short with a gasp. He winced and pressed his hand against his head. I took a hesitant step towards him.

‘It’s nothing,’ he growled. ‘Just a headache.’

Grandda had never shouted at me before. He’d never been sick before either.

He pushed his fingers through his black hair, leaving the few white strands that lay around his temples sticking out like needles.

‘Sorry, Zak,’ he said, gentle now. He squeezed my shoulder, almost leaning on me as he walked past. His fingers burned hot through my tunic.

‘I’m off to lie down for a bit. I’ll be back later.’

His broad shoulders dropped as he ducked through the doorway, and 80

he limped up the wide pathway that led straight to the village. The sun still crouched behind a cloud, leaving the moon alone in the sky. Grandda’s moonlight shadow stretched ahead of him. As I watched, the shadow’s nose grew into a snout. My eyes widened. I blinked and looked again. But now the shadow had vanished beneath the cover of the trees and, moments later, Grandda was gone too.

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paul veart

P

aul grew up in Auckland, Aotearoa/New Zealand. He spent his childhood summers swimming in the North Piha surf, and his winters exploring rock pools. He has survived sea lice, swimmer’s ear and one shark attack (although his parents still insist it was a dolphin).

Paul’s short stories have been published in JAAM, Takahē and Brief, and his short film The Crystal Palace screened at the Belladonna Film Festival. In 2014 he was selected for the New Zealand Society of Authors’ mentorship programme.

About Bruno B Mackerel

Everyone’s parents are weird sometimes, but eleven-year-old Bruno’s parents are definitely weirder than most. They make artwork out of cabbages. They dry their socks in the toaster. They don’t believe in money. And that’s not even the really weird stuff. The really weird stuff starts when Bruno discovers his mum and dad are on the run from a disgruntled god named Gary, who’s come to collect payment for a mysterious, long-standing debt.

As always, it’s left to Bruno to sort things out – only it’s not so easy now he wants a life of his own. But if he can find his parents before Gary does, and if he can discover the secret behind their weirdness, maybe he can still save the family – and his own place in it. veart.paul@gmail.com

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bruno b mackerel Chapter One

E

veryone’s parents were weird sometimes.

Bruno knew that.

He knew almost all kids had the same problem – it was part of having parents.

But he was pretty sure his mum and dad were weirder than most.

The trip to the supermarket started smoothly. Mum drove, Bruno sat beside her and Dad sat in the back where he couldn’t press any buttons. When they reached the car park Bruno pointed out where to stop, and got a trolley, and made sure he had the shopping list. It was a risk, taking his parents with him, but he was buying a birthday cake – he didn’t want to buy a birthday cake by himself again.

All they had to do was go straight to the baking aisle. He’d memorised the route from last time, and it was simple: take a right after the lollies, straight on past the frozen desserts and they’d be there. Once they’d got the cake and supplies they could continue down the aisle to the checkout, with no chance of distraction.

Bruno pushed the trolley through the automatic doors. He directed his parents past the stack of baskets, around the table of discount items and into the— Vegetable section?

This was meant to be the lolly section.

They’d changed the layout.

‘Will you look at that … ’ said Dad, stopping before a display of 84

iceberg lettuce. Bruno felt his heart rate rise. Still, if he could get everyone moving again, things would be fine. All he had to do was find another way to the baking aisle – past the checkouts, perhaps.

But Dad was already approaching the lettuce. He reached out and put his hand on a single loose leaf.

‘Green,’ he said. ‘Like the waters of a mangrove forest.’ He reached for another lettuce at the back, running his hand from its crisp white base all the way to the soft fronds at the top.

Bruno swallowed. Things were OK. They just needed to get out of here – fast.

‘Yeah … green,’ he said. ‘But we’re after a cake, remember?’

Dad didn’t answer. He leaned over the lettuce and inhaled.

‘Hey, Mum?’ Bruno said quickly. ‘Why don’t we leave Dad here and keep going?’

He turned round to find her, but she was on the other side of the aisle, staring at the punnets of blueberries. She grabbed one, popped open the lid and held it up to the fluorescent light.

‘Blue,’ she proclaimed. ‘Like the ocean under a starless sky.’ Then she bent down and tipped the blueberries onto the scuffed floor.

Bruno’s heart sank. ‘Why don’t you put them in the trolley?’ he tried, wheeling it over to her. But it was pointless – he knew it was pointless.

Once his parents found colours they liked – and the colours they liked were always green and blue – there was no stopping them.

One by one, Mum lifted punnets of blueberries off the shelf and tipped them on to the floor beside the first one. Dad picked up his lettuce, carried it across the aisle and placed it gently beside the blueberries. Then he went back for another.

Bruno looked on helplessly. As his parents put more fruit and vegetables on the ground, he felt his cheeks turn red. A woman wheeled her trolley past, pressing against the shelves so she wouldn’t disturb them. An older man wasn’t so careful, squashing a berry underfoot and earning a fierce glare from Mum. ‘Mum … Dad … ’ Bruno pleaded. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’

They didn’t answer. They just kept lifting produce off the shelves and laying it in the aisle.

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‘Please,’ he tried. ‘We need to get a cake. For my birthday, remember?’

But again there was no response. There were more people watching now, and a staff member peered round the corner. She glanced down at Mum and Dad, then hurried off – probably to get security.

Bruno couldn’t take it: he ran. He sprinted down one aisle then the next, dodging shoppers and stackers and displays of crisps. People stared at him and whispered, and children pointed, and he felt like a goldfish in a tiny glass bowl.

Finally he stumbled into the baking section. He took three deep breaths and waited for his cheeks to cool, but they didn’t want to. It wasn’t only his cheeks – he could feel the heat on his neck and ears and forehead.

What had he been thinking, taking his parents to the supermarket again? It’d been ages since he’d last tried – Easter, for chocolates, when it seemed wrong not to bring them. The same thing had happened then, and he’d been crazy to think things would be different now.

Eventually he pulled the shopping list from his pocket and took a glance: as well as a cake they’d need icing sugar and candles.

There were no cakes left. The only candles were pink, and they weren’t normal candles, they were shaped like the number 40. He wasn’t turning forty, he was turning eleven. And with his curly blonde hair, he didn’t even look that old.

At least there was plenty of icing sugar. He grabbed a bag and reluctantly set off back to the vegetable aisle.

At first he could only see the crowd. It was kids mainly, six or seven of them in a semicircle, as well as parents with trolleys.

One of the parents stepped aside, and Bruno caught a glimpse of Mum and Dad’s latest creation. It was no longer just lettuce and blueberries, it was also kale and cucumbers and Granny Smith apples. The apples sat snugly beside each other in a series of wavy curves that stretched right across the aisle. Beneath them were darker, messier lines, created from strips of kale and cucumber, as well as the odd lettuce leaf. Between them all were spirals of tightly packed blueberries, like whirlpools in a churning sea.

It was beautiful. It was embarrassing, but it was also beautiful.

‘Bruno. It’s been a while,’ said a voice. Bruno looked up and saw the supermarket manager walking towards him. The manager’s hair was 86

straight and brown, and her suit was immaculate – she was the opposite of his parents.

‘Now,’ said the manager, gazing at the fruit and vegetables. ‘How would you like to pay for today’s creation?’

Bruno sighed. He reached into his pocket and fished out his dad’s credit card.

‘That will do nicely.’

Bruno grudgingly handed it over.

‘So … ’ the manager continued. ‘What’s with the writing?’

‘Huh?’ ‘The writing. Your parents usually stick to pictures, don’t they?’

Bruno scratched his head. Slowly he eased into the crowd, past the trolleys and adults and transfixed children. A small boy ducked down, and Bruno saw Dad still crouched on the ground. He had a bunch of kale in hand, and he was ripping bits off and using them to construct ragged-looking letters.

Bruno squinted, then the words became clear: BEWARE. GARY’S ON HIS WAY.

Chapter Two

T

he trip home was quiet. Mum still drove, Bruno still sat beside her and Dad still sat in the back. The blueberries, vegetables and icing sugar were in the boot. The bags of apples were at Dad’s feet.

‘He’s on his way,’ Dad mumbled to himself. ‘He told me.’ He lifted up one of the bags and stroked the apples through the clear plastic.

Bruno didn’t reply. He didn’t even listen to what Dad was saying. All he knew was that he was never, ever, taking his parents shopping again.

In truth, Bruno had always known his mum and dad were … different.

The first time he’d been aware of it was when he realised they didn’t speak like other adults. It wasn’t that they were speaking Mandarin or Afrikaans or some other language. And it wasn’t their accent. It was the whole idea of language. For the first four years of Bruno’s life, his parents rarely used 87

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words at all: instead they spoke in grunts and whistles and pops, and sometimes, if Mum was angry enough, she’d vibrate.

It wasn’t until Bruno met Jonathan, a boy his own age who lived next door, that he first heard English. Every weekday afternoon, Jonathan would creep through the hedge to Bruno’s place and teach him a new word. Soon Bruno could say things like ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’ and ‘More chocolate, please!’.

The visits stopped when Jonathan’s mum replaced the hedge with a high steel fence, but the following month Bruno started school. He worked hard on his writing and speech, and taught his parents everything he could, but occasionally they still made mistakes.

‘Bruno,’ said Dad from the back seat. ‘What are we going to do with all these crabbles?’

‘Apples, Dad,’ said Bruno. ‘With an A. And I don’t know what we’re going to do with them.’

Dad nodded.

‘Crabbles,’ he whispered. ‘So many crabbles.’

Bruno sighed. The second clue that they were different to other parents was money. No matter how many times he tried to explain how money worked, they refused to believe that pieces of paper, little metal disks or – even worse – plastic cards could have anything to do with anything.

Shells, they called them. Fronds. Pebbles.

It was frustrating. It also meant he had problems at school, especially when Mrs Varney discovered he couldn’t afford a summer uniform, and was stuck wearing heavy woollen shorts.

Social workers appeared. There were home visits, talk of moving him to a foster family until his parents sorted themselves out. Then one day a group of travelling theatre actors arrived at school, and Bruno realised something: his parents could learn to be actors, too. He wrote them short, easy-to-memorise scripts about how efficient and hardworking they’d become, and every time someone came round to check on him, they’d put on a show. His parents weren’t as convincing as Ben, the ‘Make Science Fun!’ Dragon, but they were good enough to convince the social workers.

Meanwhile, Bruno continued studying. He taught his parents maths, home economics and how to sing the school song. He even managed to get 88

them to sell their paintings at the local gallery, earning enough ‘pebbles’ to get by.

‘Turn right here,’ Bruno said, pointing at the upcoming roundabout.

Mum nodded and accelerated round the traffic island, and soon they were almost home.

Home. That was the third thing that marked his parents out as weird.

It wasn’t the overgrown garden. It wasn’t the fact everything was painted blue and green. It was the little things. It was the toaster and kettle and dishwasher – things regular parents knew about.

Bruno’s parents, on the other hand, hadn’t heard of any of them until Bruno discovered a shop called The Appliance Shed a few years ago. The Appliance Shed was full of things that were meant to make your life Simple and Easy.

The first few months with appliances were anything but simple and easy. His parents got so excited about them that they spent day after day boiling and toasting and washing. They boiled knives and forks in the kettle, warmed their socks in the toaster and cleaned bread in the dishwasher. Eventually Bruno avoided eating toast altogether, since it always tasted funny.

But most of that was years ago.

Things were meant to be getting better Weren’t they?

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older readers

sue birrer

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ue’s childhood backyard was a cliff in the bush in Sydney. This supplied imaginary ramparts for sibling skirmishes with home-made bows and arrows, but real castles were lacking.

Years later, she encountered the Swiss education system. This ensured that her children would never have the same school hours, apart from being home every day for lunch. As this made working difficult, she sold her physio practice, rekindled her love of writing, and did an Open University BA, receiving First Class Honours in Literature and Classical Studies.

She has taught swimming and medical English, and worked long-term as a physio with disabled children. When not on MA sabbatical in Bath, she lives in bilingual Fribourg, amid mountains, cows and picture-book castles.

About A Child of Heresy

In May 1243, in the Pyrenean foothills, the mountain-top fortress of Montségur was besieged. It was the last major refuge of the Cathars, Christian rebels hunted as heretics by the medieval church.

Inside its walls, Metti struggles to survive. She teaches herself archery in secret. As crusaders draw ever closer, she and the women defend the walls.

But her beloved Ramòn, formerly a priest’s novice, is forced into the crusading army; her arrows might now strike him. When Montségur surrenders, Metti must choose between burning at the stake, and an Inquisition prison, where she will be interrogated, and possibly tortured, to reveal where her father is hiding. Unless she can escape … sue@birrers.ch

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a child of heresy Chapter One Bears Mont Saint-Barthélemy, September 1241

I

was perched near the top of my favourite oak when the baby bear spotted me, its eyes bright and curious. It had a splash of white around its neck, as if it was wearing a bleached scarf. I smiled down at it through the yellowing leaves.

It looked away. Someone was coming – blundering through the forest.

Blackbirds flapped off. Rust-brown squirrels scurried up trees and chittered warnings. Whoever it was, wasn’t trying to be stealthy. I pulled my feet up onto the branch and tucked them beneath my brown tunic. Drew my hood over my pale hair.

But it wasn’t French spies. Nor one of our own patrols. I breathed again.

It was a gangly boy I had never seen before. I would have remembered that creamy, almost white hair. His short tunic and hose were dusty beige, yet he looked out of place in the forest. He meandered through the trees, scuffing up fallen leaves with his pointed boots. He must have been at least my age, yet he seemed unaware of the danger. Didn’t he know that soldiers prowled the mountains?

He noticed the bear cub when he was almost upon it.

And … no … he couldn’t possibly be that stupid. He held out cupped palms to the cub. Murmured to it. Reached to pat it.

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‘No!’ I screamed.

The boy’s head jolted up.

‘Up here!’ I waved to him from my branch. ‘Quick!’

‘Why? It’s but a baby.’ His voice was gruff. ‘See? It likes me.’

He was that stupid.

A deep roar sounded from higher up the slope. Goose bumps prickled my arms.

The boy’s face turned whiter than his shaggy hair. ‘What’s that?’

‘Its mother. Get up here!’

He gaped. ‘How?’ Didn’t he know anything? ‘Kick off your boots!’ I bunched my tunic around my hips and shimmied down the trunk to the lowest branch. The bark was rough; I was glad my drawers were thick. The she-bear crashed down the slope towards us. She was far away, but moving fast. She ploughed through tangled arches of blackberries, oblivious to the thorns catching at her fur. I gripped the branch with my knees, and reached down.

The boy had one foot on a knot and was going nowhere. ‘I … hate heights.’

Jesus Christ and all twelve apostles. ‘Put your other foot there. That’s it. Now the branch. Move!’

He wouldn’t be quick enough. We were too low. The bear was approaching fast, levelling a field of bracken.

I grabbed his hand and pulled. The bear was nearly upon us. She had a patch of white on her neck too, except hers was yellowed. Like her snout, and her vicious teeth.

She stood on her hind legs and roared. Every hair on my neck rose.

The boy shot up the trunk like a stone from a catapult, hardly pausing to touch branches with hands or feet. I scampered after him and hugged the trunk. ‘Hold on!’

The bear reached our tree, stretched up and swiped. I felt the breeze of the blow beneath my bare feet, and the thud of her paw on wood. Heart hammering, I climbed higher.

Her cub whimpered. Clutched her leg.

Watching us both, the she-bear grabbed the lowest branch between her huge paws, and shook the tree. I clung on, ducking my head to avoid 95

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a shower of acorns.

‘Our Father,’ mumbled the boy, pressing his face into the bark, ‘which art in Heaven, Hallowed be—’ ‘We’re safe now,’ I lied. Someone had to stay calm. Even if bears did climb oaks in autumn in search of acorns. I had no idea if they climbed after people.

The ground was covered in acorns. The cub squealed in delight and collected some between its paws. It tried to chomp one without dropping the others. But its mother was not distracted. She glared at us.

I averted my eyes – you should never lock gazes with a bear – and began to sing.

Papà said singing showed bears you were not a threat. ‘The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want. He maketh me down to lie …’ My voice wavered on the high notes, but the bear had stopped shaking us.

Above me, the boy joined in, in a crusty baritone. ‘In pastures green, He leadeth me the qui-i-et’ – that rose to a sudden warble – ‘… waters by.’

I giggled. I couldn’t help it. The bear cocked her head at us as if we were both crazed. She opened her maw and roared, and I nearly fell off my branch. I grabbed the trunk, willing my heart to settle. I had lost my place in the psalm. Never mind. ‘Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death … ’ was perhaps not the best place to start.

It was the boy’s turn to laugh.

‘You sing then!’ I said. ‘No don’t. Not if your voice is going to go again.’

The bear tired of us. She scratched her back against the trunk, then slid down to sit and munch acorns. Did she realise she was holding us hostage?

I climbed higher, level with the boy. He straddled his branch, gripping the trunk so hard the veins in his pale arms were sticking out. His tunic was torn at the hem, and his hose were more hole than weave.

I looked down. Mamà bear hadn’t budged. ‘We might be stuck here a while.’

He nodded.

‘Never thought you’d make it this high,’ I said.

He stole a glance at the ground and shook himself. ‘Did you have to remind me?’

He had a strong, square jawline and eyes so blue that … well …

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I turned away, hoping he hadn’t noticed my blush. ‘Watch the view. It’s better to look out than down.’

‘I can’t see for the leaves.’

Good looks clearly weren’t everything. ‘Lean this way. There’s a gap.’

He shot me a reproachful look. ‘I’m forty foot up a swaying tree with an angry bear at the bottom of it, and you want me to lean out?’

‘Only a little.’

He took a breath, and tilted closer.

The leaves fluttered in the cool breeze. Beyond them, to the north, rows of red and gold hills stretched away from us to a hazy horizon.

‘It’s a fine view of Montségur,’ the boy said.

‘Isn’t it?’ Our ‘safe mountain’ fortress squatted below us. Two keeps towered over houses and huts that clung to the rocky slopes. Below the village a curtain wall ran either side of the main gate as far as the cliffs.

The boy let go of the trunk with one hand just long enough to cross himself. ‘The Lord be praised.’

‘What for?’

‘It was a miracle. God saved us.’ He regarded me as if I was not quite right in the head. ‘From the bear?’

‘You saved yourself! With some help from me. God doesn’t interfere in this world.’

It took him a while to digest that. ‘Well, I thank God, and you, for your help. My name’s Ramòn. Yours?’ His voice alternated between croaky depths and squeaky heights.

‘Guillemette. But everyone calls me Metti.’

‘You’re one of them?’ He gestured towards Montségur. ‘A heretic?’

‘I’m a Good Christian!’ I said. ‘Well, my father is. He’s ordained as a perfect. I’m a simple believer. It’s only your church that calls us heretics, and Cathars. But I believe in Jesus just as you do.’

‘Not so fast! How do you know what I believe in?’

‘You mean you don’t believe in Jesus?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Well then. And do you bow down to a pope who says we should all be poor and love one another? While he lives in a palace, and murders everyone who disagrees with him?’

97

SUE BIRRER

Ramòn sighed. He removed a leather pouch from his rope belt and offered it to me. ‘Have some berries. Only slightly squashed.’

‘Thanks.’ I loosened the leather tie. The pouch held fat ripe raspberries, blackberries and a few tiny strawberries. I chose two strawberries, sniffed their sweetness and let them dissolve on my tongue.

I passed the pouch back to Ramón and gazed at Montségur. I hadn’t seen many panoramas in the thirteen years of my current life, but I was certain this was the best. ‘I love it up here. It’s like I’m an eagle, looking down on the world.’

‘You mean you often climb this tree?’

‘Always. If I have time after collecting mushrooms.’

‘Ah, so that’s your basket that Mamà Bear is tearing apart.’

It was true. That rotten she-bear had discovered my basket. She was gnawing on the biggest bolet. ‘Give that back!’ I yelled, grabbing some acorns to throw at it. ‘You horrible, oversized fur ball!’

Ramòn shot out his hand and grabbed my arm. ‘It’s a bear … whether it’s eating your mushrooms or not.’

‘But my bolets!’

‘I’ll help you look for more.’

My eyes stung. ‘I spent all morning collecting them.’

‘Don’t they call Montségur “The Eagles’ Nest”?’

‘Are you trying to distract me?’

‘Yes.’ He grinned. ‘And myself.’ He released my arm, his touch gentle.

‘Well, yes, they do. The curtain wall is like a nest. The keeps are Mamà and Papà Eagle, and—’ ‘Aren’t they a bit square for eagles?’

‘Use your imagination.’

‘Which one is your house?’

‘See the long house on the far right? At the end of the wall? That’s us.

It used to be a perfectas’ house, but they moved to a bigger one.’

Ramòn frowned. ‘So perfectas are your women priests? The perfects the men?’

‘Yes.’ ‘And they live in special houses, as in a monastery or nunnery?’

‘I don’t know what they’re like.’

98

His eyes widened. ‘You don’t get out much, then?’

‘We daren’t go far. Inquisitors might catch us.’

‘Oh … Well, at least you’re safe inside. I wouldn’t want to climb that chicane past your archers.’ He pointed to the access path, zigzagging up through defence walls to the main gate. Sentries patrolled the ramparts above the gate.

I felt myself glow with pride. ‘Montségur is impregnable. But … where are you from?’

‘Bélesta.’

‘That’s half a league away. Did you sleep in the forest?’

‘Yes.’ Why had he slept in the forest? With nothing to show for it but a pouch of berries? And I had just pointed out where our house was. ‘Were you spying on us?’ It slipped out. I wished it hadn’t.

Ramòn looked hurt. ‘Why would I spy? Who for?’

‘The Pope! He wants to kill us all. And you have an ideal view from here.’

‘And you were the one to show it to me!’ He peeked at the ground, and shuddered. ‘Anyway your secrets are safe with me, Metti. I doubt I’ll get down again without breaking my neck. Or being eaten by a bear.’

I tried not to giggle.

‘I like it when you smile,’ he said. ‘You’d be pretty with a scrub up.’

Scrub up? How dare he? My ears were heating up. ‘And I am sure you’ll be handsome once your voice has broken.’

That got him. But he was quick to recover. ‘My voice is almost there.

You caught me on a bad day.’ He chose some berries and passed the pouch.

‘Have some more. They’ll soon be mush.’

They were more like soup. My fingers stained red and purple as I plucked raspberries that weren’t too soggy. ‘So why did you come here?’

‘I … had a fight with my uncle. I walked out.’ He lowered his eyes.

‘Hey! Our bears are leaving.’

So they were. The she-bear loped up the mountain, her cub scampering left and right. With relief, I watched them disappear. It was safe to climb down. That was good; my bottom had gone numb. Yet … I didn’t want to leave. ‘Don’t children in Bélesta climb trees?’

‘I don’t know. I spend my days scribing for my uncle.’

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SUE BIRRER

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s the village priest. He took me in when my parents died. He thinks I have a calling.’

I choked on a raspberry. This was terrible. I was sharing a tree with a boy who might become a priest of the Roman Church. Satan was not supposed to look angelic.

‘You look horrified.’

‘I am … I mean, I’m sorry about your parents.’

‘I don’t remember them really.’

‘And do you think you have a … calling?’ I could hardly spit the word out. ‘To serve a pope who terrifies people with stories of hell, then creates his own with wars and Inquisitors?’

Ramòn’s eyebrows disappeared into his fringe. ‘Are all heretics so blunt?’

‘Good Christians never lie.’

‘I’ll remember that. Anyway, yes, I do have a calling.’

How could someone who seemed otherwise sensible wish to be a priest? ‘Won’t your uncle be searching for you? He’ll be frantic.’

‘Good.’ Ramón’s chin jutted.

I tried for a softer approach. Papà was trying to teach me this. ‘Would you feel better if you talked about it? Why you walked out?’

‘With you? I imagine I’d feel far worse.’

Hmm. ‘I can keep a secret.’

He laughed. ‘How then? When your religion forbids you to lie?’

He had a point. Except … ‘Your religion forbids you to lie, too! “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.” It comes before not coveting your neighbour’s wife. Or his house. I’ll have to check which.’

‘How?’ ‘In the Bible.’

‘You can read?’ Ramón’s eyes were crossing. ‘But you’re a girl!’

‘So? I read and write. Occitan and Latin. My grandfather taught me.

He used to scribe at Foix Castle.’

Ramón’s smile was wistful. ‘So I’ll never be able to confide in you, Metti.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’ll write it all down.’

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Chapter Two The Scribing Kit The path to Bélesta, Wednesday 25 March 1243

P

apà and I left Montségur at first light, and in disguise.

We padded down the steep track, trying not to slip on loose stones and moss. Papà led the horse. Her creamy mane stood out in the gloom. She stepped softly, sensing our unease. Bare trees pressed in on us, branches twining above our heads. We watched for any movement, listened for any noise. Even a rocky outcrop could conceal French soldiers.

The country had been conquered. Once outside Montségur, we were no longer safe. Ambush would be quick and final: we had no weapons.

101

mel darbon

M

el was born in a lift because her mother was determined not to miss the first episode of Coronation Street. When later her brother was born with severe autism, he taught her how to laugh no matter how tough things are.

Mel’s love of storytelling inspired her to give voice to young people who otherwise might not be heard. Her first manuscript, Rosie Loves Jack, is a contemporary YA love story that follows teenage Rose, who has Down syndrome, on her journey to find her boyfriend Jack.

Mel lives in Bath with her husband and their dog, Alfie. Her children claim to have left home, but she doesn’t believe them. Neither does her fridge.

About Rosie Loves Jack

Rose is exactly the same as any other sixteen-year-old, except she has Down syndrome. For Rose this isn’t an issue.

She is in love with Jack, who has been sent away to Brighton, but nothing will stop her finding him.

Rose embarks on a journey full of danger, compelling her to make painful decisions and confront intolerance and prejudice along the way; but kindness and friendship appear where least expected.

She keeps on going until she is finally betrayed, finding herself fighting to survive in brutal circumstances.

Will she ever see Jack again? huxleyblue2@me.com

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rosie loves jack Down’s teen missing Fears are growing for a 16-year-old girl with Down syndrome who has not been seen since leaving home five days ago. rose Tremayne set off for Henley College just before 9am on Friday, 12 December, but never arrived.

Police want to speak to a caller who rang the college in Oxfordshire to say rose was unwell and would not be going in that day. Chief Inspector Tim Jones, who is leading the search, said it was possible that the teenager, of rupert’s Lane, Henley-on-Thames, was making her way to Brighton, where her boyfriend is currently staying.

‘The recent heavy snowfalls and resulting problems on the trains mean her journey won’t have been straightforward,’ he said.

‘I would urge any member of the public who thinks they may have seen her to contact the police immediately.’

He added that rose’s parents were desperately worried and anxious for news. rose is described as 4ft 11in, of slim build with a pale complexion, green eyes and shoulder-length reddish gold hair. she was last seen wearing a black duffel coat, black jeans, cream jumper and distinctive purple Dr Martens boots with a rose design, and carrying a purple fur bag covered in badges.

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Chapter One 2 December Ur marsh-melos have sunk. xxx I put my phone down and clean a circle on the glass to look for Jack.

I can’t see him anywhere. Jack always gets here at three. It’s three and a quarter now.

It’s Christmas outside. I like the lights on the tree in the square. They go blue … then green … then red … then white. I like blue best. It looks like the moon shining. And hundreds of stars. And everyone’s breath is coming out of their mouths in clouds.

I try writing Jack’s name in the window mist.

It’s noisy in the café today. There are lots of students from my college here. They’ve taken all the sofas up. The girls have tinsel on their heads and they’re joining in with all the Christmas songs, but real Christmas is three weeks and two days away.

Jim is laughing at something one of the girls said. I like Jim cos he’s always happy. He wears a green stripy apron with a pocket at the front, for his phone and some mints for fresh breath con-fi-dence.

It’s going to be three and a half round the clock soon.

My friend Jess walks by and waves to me. She comes into the café. Jess helps me with literacy at college on Tuesdays. She’s cool. I want to get a silver nose stud like her.

‘Hi, Rose, good to see you. I love your new Doc Martens, they’re sick!

Oh, that doesn’t mean they’re—’ ‘YeahIknow. Ben told Mum her meatballs were sick, and Mum said it was a revolting expresshun.’

‘True. Lol! Can I join you?’

‘Course.’

‘Where’s Jack?’

‘Don’tknow. I’m worried.’

‘Nothing to worry about. He’ll be in the art room and have forgotten the time. I’m like that with my photography.’

‘It’s ICT today. Jack hates ICT. P’raps he doesn’t want to see me anymore.’

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MEL DARBON

‘Don’t be mad! Have you checked your phone?’

‘Lots of times.’

‘Give him a call. I’ll get us a drink. D’you want another one?’

‘Yesplease. My healthy option, please.’

I kiss Jack on my phone screen before pressing the numbers to ring him.

‘Hey, it’s me, Jack. I can’t talk cos I’m busy. Leave me a message. Ta.’ ‘Hello, it’s Rosie. I’m sitting at our table and your hot choclets gone cold. All the squirty cream has gone invisible. So hurry up. Love you.’

Then I ring him again, just so I can hear his voice. I wish it was his real voice.

‘Don’t lick the window, Rose. Here’s your green tea. Be careful, it’s very hot.’

‘YeahIknow.’

‘Did you get hold of Jack?’

I shake my head. ‘I think he’s with Emma Golding. He told her he loved her in Drama.’

‘We’ve talked about this, Rose. Jack does NOT love Emma, they were just acting in a play.’

‘He said, I love you to her.’

‘It was just pretend, not real, OK?’ ‘OK. But he said he loved Emma two times.’

‘I’m not listening. Look, fingers in my ears, lah, lah, lah … Rose, Jack adores you. He doesn’t want to be with anyone else.’

‘Then where is he?’

Jess looks at her watch. ‘He’s late, even for Jack. Let’s hope he hasn’t done anything dopey.’

‘Whatd’youmean?’

‘Well, Jack has been a bit arsey recently.’

I don’t want to look at Jess for a bit. She’s all wrong about Jack.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Rose. Jack’s great, I like him a lot, we all do, but he can over-react.’

I shove my chair back. ‘I’m going to check for him outside.’

‘I’ll watch your stuff for you.’

It’s night-time on the street already, cos it’s winter. Jack always meets me before the dark comes.

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The cold air bites my face. I hug my arms around me. Whichever way I look, I can’t see Jack. I don’t feel right inside me. I check the time. It’s gone past an hour. Jack is never that much late without telling me.

Toby Varley knocks on the window of the bus as it goes past. He’s waving his arms about and pointing up the hill. I don’t know what he’s doing, but he’s always silly.

I go back into the warm and get my coat. ‘I’m going to find Jack.

Something’s wrong.’

‘He’ll be fine. I bet you meet him on your way up the hill. See you soon, Rose. Take care.’

‘ByeJess.’ I pick up my bag and head back to college. I look back over my shoulder at the bright light spilling out the café window. Jess is laughing into her phone.

My feet keep slipping on the snow, cos I can’t walk fast enough to get to Jack.

All the students are going in a different direction to me. Jack’s face isn’t coming down the hill with them. He’s vanished.

I can see the college at the top. It’s the same size as my hand. I push my legs harder up the hill. They hurt by the time college is bigger than me.

As I race through the car park I see a police car. The light is spinning in a circle on the top, turning the snow blue.

Inside the building, the corridors are empty. My boots squeak on the floor. I tiptoe along to make them hush. The swing-doors at the end burst open, making me jump, and a police-lady runs through the gap. She stops to find her breath and asks, ‘Did you see a young man in a grey hoodie go past this way?’

I shake my head. She turns and goes back through the doors. My heart has a race in my chest. Jack has a grey hoodie.

My legs can’t decide which way to walk, so I make them go to the art room. It’s Jack’s best place. I’m worried as I go up the stairs. Please be there.

I open the art room door, smiling my speshul smile for Jack.

It’s empty.

I so wanted Jack to be here. I try not to get upset. My head is too muddled to sort it all out.

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MEL DARBON

I check my phone again. Still nothing. Maybe Jack went home. I don’t want to think that. Or about the police-lady.

Street light from outside shines into the room. It makes shadow shapes across the wall. I shiver. Something taps on the window, which makes me drop my phone. It clatters across the floor. I stand very still and listen for anyone coming.

I hear something breathing in the darkness. All the hairs on my arm stand to attention. I watch as the paint cupboard door opens by itself. My mouth opens but no sound comes out. In the gap, I see an eye looking right at me. I scream. A body leaps out of the cupboard and grabs me. A hand stops my mouth.

‘Don’t scream, Rosie,’ a voice shout-whispers in my ear. ‘It’s me, Jack.’

He takes his hand back and I push him away. ‘Whatareyoudoing?

Youscaredme!’

‘Shush!’ Jack puts his finger on my lips. ‘We can’t make a noise.’

Jack’s face is white and full of fear but a bubble of angry pops out of me. ‘Why are you hiding in there? I waited and waited and got upset.’

Jack grabs me and pulls me into the cupboard and shuts the door. It smells of damp paint. I can’t see Jack very well, but I feel his body shivering against mine. ‘Whatisit?’ I whisper into the dusty air.

‘I fucked up big time, Rosie.’

‘Don’t say that word! What’s happened?’

The dark starts to go away and my eyes see Jack’s looking into mine.

Then he groans and lets his head fall onto his hands. ‘I’ve ruined everything.’

‘Stop being a drama person. You’re scaring me.’

Jack holds my face and says, ‘I didn’t mean it.’ I can see tears in the corners of his eyes. ‘I lost it in ICT. That prick, Davidson, wound me up and wound me up. Bastard!’

‘Stopit! Whatdidyoudo?’

Jack won’t look at me now, so I pull his face round. ‘Tell me.’

‘I smashed a computer. I couldn’t control myself, Rosie. Then … then, shit!’

‘What?’

‘I threw a chair at the window.’

‘Jack, that’s badbadbad.’

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‘A bit of glass flew into Mrs Foster’s eye. Oh God, Rosie, there was blood everywhere. I never meant to hurt her. I’d never hurt anybody, you know that, don’t you, Rosie?’

‘Yes. But you did.’

Jack takes a big shuddery breath. ‘The police came and it was horrible.

They were asking hundreds of questions. Mr Dean shouted at me, then Mrs Foster grabbed him as she went by on the stretcher and told him that I didn’t hurt her on purpose and that she won’t press charges or something, but—’ ‘What does that mean?’

‘They won’t send me to prison.’

‘Nonono! Not prison!’

‘No, Rosie, not prison. They said before that I might have to go away to some place and deal with my anger. What if they send me away?’

Now I’m crying too. ‘They can’t send you away. What will we do? We need us. I stop your angry, Jack. And you make me strong. You make me Rosie.’

‘I know, I’m so fucking stupid! We can’t be apart, that’s why I ran away from the police so they can’t take me. I have to find a place to hide, so we can be together.’

Jack folds his arms around me. I bury my face in his chest and smell his Jack smell. Lynx and sweat and lemon shampoo. He strokes my hair and whispers, ‘Rosie, Rosie, Rosie,’ over and over again.

I don’t want to leave the cupboard. They can’t take my Jack away. I kiss his eyes and his lips and the soft bit at the bottom of his ear. He trembles when I touch him.

‘I love you, Rosie Tremayne,’ Jack says softly. I’m about to answer him when the door flies open and a torch light shines in our faces.

All I can see is white.

‘Come on, you two,’ a growly voice says. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you, Jack. You’re not helping yourself by running off like that.’

The police-man pulls me out of the cupboard and passes me to a police-lady.

‘Leave us alone! Take your filthy hands off my girlfriend!’ Jack hisses.

‘Jack, don’t! Calm down.’ I try to catch Jack’s hand but the police-lady holds me back.

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MEL DARBON

‘Let him go, love. It’s for the best.’

The police-man pushes Jack forwards. ‘Let’s get you to the car. Your mother is waiting for you at home now.’

Jack struggles to reach me. ‘Rosie! I’ll come back and get you. Wait for me at our special place!’ He swings his fist out at the police-man who yanks Jack’s arm behind his back. ‘Enough! I’ll handcuff you if I have to.’

I twist myself free, then run after Jack. I grab Jack and hold on to him as hard as I can. The police-man drags Jack along, making me run with him.

‘Don’ttakehimaway! Pleasedon’ttakehimaway!’

I stumble, and let go of Jack. The police-lady catches me as I fall.

‘JACK! JAAAAACK!’ The doors slam.

He’s gone.

110

111

laura kadner

L

aura Kadner is one of a rare species: a Los Angeles native. She hasn’t let this affect her as she is neither beach-loving nor blonde. She has been a creative writer since producing a rather-undersubscribed family newspaper at the age of nine.

She once attempted an escape from summer camp, has performed a successful headstand on a moving horse, and later attended NYU where she received a BFA in Dramatic Writing and won the Waldo Salt Award for Excellence in Screenwriting.

Laura was inspired to write Dan and V Go to Hell after reading Dante’s Inferno and wondering what it would be like without the boring bits.

About Dan and V Go to Hell

Seven years ago V’s mother fell through a supernatural sinkhole, straight into hell. And ever since, V has been determined to rescue her. After years of fruitless searching for a way in, she meets Dan, a boy who can talk to the dead. A boy who can help her break into hell.

A boy she plans to leave there in exchange for her mother.

Dan has his own reasons for wanting to go to hell. He wants to find a way to turn his powers off, so the dead will leave him alone. He just wants to be normal.

But when they get lost in hell with no way out, V realises abandoning Dan no longer seems like such a brilliant idea. Together they must road trip through the circles of hell to rescue V’s mom and find a way a home before it’s too late. laura.kadner14@bathspa.ac.uk 113

LAURA KADNER

dan and v go to hell Prologue V

I

had to be fifty feet up at least before I fell. I heard Mom scream when the branch I was holding snapped.

I grabbed at what I could, splinters and pine needles ripping through my hands. The stupid tree shredded my skin and pummelled my body.

I landed with a thud on a thick branch, biting my tongue hard. Then I lost my balance and fell the last few feet to the ground, landing in a heap on top of Mom. She untangled us and grabbed my shoulders. ‘Are you OK, V?’ I wiggled my slightly bloodied arms and legs. I smiled. ‘I’m not dead!’

Mom returned my smile shakily and dug through her backpack.

The only reason I’d been up a tree was to scout our path through the woods and find the easiest way to Esopus Creek. According to Mom’s latest research there was a cave there where the next sinkhole should appear.

A new breed of sinkholes had started popping up all over the country a few years ago. They were bottomless. Scientists had tried to measure their depth, but the machines and people they sent down didn’t come back up. That’s when the conspiracy theories started: the government or aliens.

Nothing anyone could prove. And Mom was all about proof. So here we were.

Mom finished patching up my bloody elbow and then picked up her cap, which had fallen off when I squashed her. ‘Honey, did you happen to catch a glimpse at a good trail before—’ ‘Your mattress-like body saved me from certain death?’

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‘V … ’ I snickered. ‘Of course I did.’

I led the charge to the creek. When we got there Mom looked at her notes and then turned and stared at the nearest bank. She pointed out the mouth of a cave shadowed by an overhang of boulders. I pulled a flashlight out of my backpack and bounded up to the entrance.

Then I heard a familiar and unpleasant man’s voice ring out.

‘You just let her run wild like that, Cecilia?’

I turned and glared at Byron Blackwell’s stupid, craggy face. He had two scars running from brow bone to cheek on both sides. Blackwell was basically Mom’s nemesis. So, he was also mine.

‘Blackwell,’ Mom grumbled. ‘Did you freaking tail us all the way here?’

‘Indeed. And I must say, nice move sending the kid into danger up the tree instead of going yourself.’

I frowned. ‘Hey! I happen to be excellent at climbing trees. And “danger” is my middle—’ I didn’t get to finish. I tripped over a tree root and tumbled down the bank, landing with a splash in the creek.

Byron stifled a laugh. ‘It seems your daughter could use a bit more training.’

Mom snorted. ‘This isn’t V’s first trip to the rodeo.’

‘But it could be her last to a gaping void that’s a portal to God-knows-where.’

‘I hope it’s your last, Blackwell …’

I spat out a mouthful of mud as I hoisted myself out of the water. I plucked up my flashlight and headed back to the cave, ignoring their argument. We didn’t have time for this garbage.

I had only taken one step into the darkness when loose rocks slid out from under my feet. I hoped I was out of sight when I fell backwards onto my butt, sliding down the slope before coming to a stop. Then I looked up and gasped. I was inches from the rim of the strangest sinkhole I’d ever seen.

The edge of it was strange. Unnatural. Perfectly smooth. Like someone had used an ice-cream scoop to dig it out. And you couldn’t see into it at all; it was pitch-black nothingness.

As I crawled over to my flashlight I saw the weirdest thing. A stone 115

LAURA KADNER

embedded in the dirt that had letters carved into it. The letters were laid out in a grid: SATOR AREPO TENET OPERA ROTAS I heard footsteps crunching behind me as I traced the letters with my finger. ‘Was that a traditional pre-exploration swim you took?’ Blackwell called, shaking the end of a rope they’d secured somewhere up above.

‘That’s a portal, all right,’ Mom said. ‘V, get away from the edge. You know better than that. We have to—’ I traced the text with my finger, letter by letter. ‘But there’s this writing on this stone here.’

Mom stepped forward and shone her light over my shoulder. She gasped. But it was too late.

‘Stop!’ Blackwell roared as my finger left the tail of the final ‘S’. His massive hand locked on my shoulder and wrenched me to my feet.

The stone rose from the floor on a pedestal of twisted tree roots. A gust of wind shot up out of the sinkhole and whirled around us. The wind was so strong it actually pushed Blackwell and me away from the edge.

Mom went to take my arm but Blackwell yanked me back towards the rope and yelled over the wind, ‘I’ve got her. Grab the stone, Cecilia.’

Mom darted forward. I tried to scream no but Blackwell had me by the neck.

Then Blackwell let go of me and clambered up the opening of the cave.

I wanted to follow Mom but instead I grabbed the rope. The cave was shaking so hard it was almost wrenched from my hands.

I shot a look over my shoulder and saw the edges of the sinkhole expanding, earth ripping away like it was nothing. Mom leapt her way over the fresh cracks, making her way to the stone. Then the sinkhole imploded with a deafening roar.

Mom threw herself back from an edge before it crumbled, but she was still staring at the pedestal. At the stone. A skinny path of dirt led right to it.

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‘MOM!’ But she steadily dragged her feet toward, like it was pulling her in by the neck. She ignored the cave collapsing around her. And my screams.

Whatever the rope had been attached to fell away, and I clung to the nearest rock. I climbed. I saw something fly by me and realised it was Blackwell. He was going for my mom. But then he ran around her.

He wanted the stone.

A rock fell, knocking Mom down and pinning her leg to the ground.

A scream caught in my throat. Her cap blew off.

I used my last bit of strength to claw my way up to the mouth of the cave. And hauled myself up and out into the sunlight.

Outside nothing was shaking. But the dull roar of the collapsing cave rang out around me.

I looked back into the cave, willing my Mom to be running along that last remaining patch of dirt back towards me. But she wasn’t. She was trapped under that rock.

I saw Blackwell put his hands around the stone when the narrow path to the pedestal fell away. He fell with it, in a tangle of roots and dirt.

I heard Mom scream my name and I looked right at her, terror and confusion in her eyes. She was stuck on the last, tiny island of earth not ripped apart by the sinkhole.

Then the ground tore open beneath her and she fell into the abyss.

They were gone.

Chapter One V Seven Years Later

I

was one step closer to going to hell. Hallelujah.

I rubbed my eyes and looked around. The other desks in the library were mostly empty. I’d been here for hours. I shook out my hands and rolled my shoulders before turning back to my stack of papers.

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LAURA KADNER

I taped the news clipping to my well-creased poster board of research.

The article was about a guy in California who claimed he’d fallen into the Pismo Beach Rupture and survived. But nobody came back, they said.

Pismo Beach was a hoax, they said.

That’s what they’d said about the old lady in Montana who claimed she’d been down and back a couple years ago. Claimed it was a portal to hell and that she’d seen her recently deceased bastard of a husband down there. Up here people treated her like she was nuts. So she insisted they test her blood and they found trace chemicals of an unknown substance.

The sinkhole conspiracy thread of the Occult Omnia message boards went berserkins about that.

I uncapped a red pen and neatly wrote ‘Pismo Beach’ on a scrap of paper on the bottom left of my board. The scrap was labelled ‘Possible Portals’.

The way-too-short list included: Outlook, Montana; Portland, Oregon and Tarrytown, New York. Mom fell at Tarrytown.

The writing started to swim before my eyes and I looked up, out the window. It was getting dark. There were only a couple kids in the stacks that bordered the sea of desks where I sat.

I twisted my neck and it crackled like a car crunching through gravel. I adjusted the light on my desk to look at the photo of the Pismo Beach dude.

He stood at the lip of the sinkhole, something pressed into the dirt by his feet. I peered closer at the ground in the grainy photo and could just make out a rigid grid of letters on a stone or tablet. I smiled. It was a Sator Square.

I used a highlighter pen to colour over the squarish shape in hot pink.

A Sator Square had been found somewhere at the edge of each of the sinkholes where something had supposedly gone down and returned. These Sator Squares were the key – my way into hell to rescue Mom. Countless times I’d tried creating my own to summon my own sinkhole to no success.

I needed to ask Pismo Beach dude how he had done it. I needed— A giant ball of fur leapt onto my papers and I jumped. Then I relaxed.

Just Grimble, the library’s unofficial feline mascot. I scratched him between the ears and he purred like a tiny orange freight train.

He’d sat right on top of the Pismo Beach article, so I couldn’t read around him. I went to move him and the turd hissed at me. Fine. I was done 118

for the night. I reached over his head to flick off the desk lamp and he let me. When I stood up, he jumped off the table and darted away. Dumb cat.

I folded up my thin board of research. Then I shoved my papers and supplies into my backpack and hefted it over my shoulder before heading into a row of nearby stacks. I glanced around then knelt down at the vent right below the window. I eased the grate off the vent and was just setting my work down inside it when I felt someone tap my shoulder. I jerked backwards and smacked the back of my head on something. Someone.

‘Goddamn,’ hissed the voice of whomever it was I’d hit.

I whipped my freshly bruised skull around and found myself staring into a pair of eyes so blue that my imaginative retort of ‘What the fuck?’ died on my lips. They could have been the sparkling blue eyes of an ice dragon guarding a crystal castle. His hands were clamped over his mouth and nose.

I almost apologised for hitting him with my head. Then I remembered my research. The vent.

My nails dug into my fists. ‘What the hell were you doing?’

‘I think my nose is bleeding,’ he said. ‘Is it bleeding?’

He took his hands away and I nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’ ‘You didn’t mean to sneak up on me as silent as a dead body in a dumpster and scare the crap out of me?’

He brought the sleeve of his sweatshirt halfway to his face, like he was going to use it to mop up the blood, when he stopped. ‘No.’ I rolled my eyes. He’d already seen everything so I bent down and slid the grate over the vent.

He held a hand to his nose. ‘What’s in there?’

‘Drug money. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll give you a cut.’ The grate clicked into place.

He pinched his nose and tilted his head back. ‘It’s running down into my throat. Aw, jeez.’

‘Use your sleeve.’

‘This is a really nice sweatshirt.’ He didn’t move out of my way. ‘Can you help me?’

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a baby bird waiting for a worm, only way taller and less naked. Maybe if he were more naked he’d have been less obnoxious.

‘For God’s sake.’ I guided him out of the stacks and over to the librarian’s desk. She wasn’t there. But a box of tissues was. I plucked out a bunch and shoved them into his hand. Then I started to stalk away.

He cleared his throat. ‘You know, you don’t have to be such a bitch.’

I stopped. And turned.

He wiped the blood from his face and smiled, revealing a row of teeth that were gleaming white and straight, just like a picket fence. Probably the result of some seriously expensive orthodontic witchcraft or, barring that, a very benevolent God. ‘You were spying,’ I growled. ‘Being a creepy guy creepily creeping on me.’

‘I’m not creepy. I’m Dan,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘V.’ ‘V? That’s a name?’ He shook his head at my scowl. ‘Sorry. I was just looking for a book when I saw you crouching there, stuffing something in the wall. All freaked out like an old witch stashing away her secret store of virgin’s blood for the winter.’

‘An old witch?’

‘No, no, no. You were acting like an old witch. You look like … uh … ’ ‘Like what exactly?’

But he wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was looking past me. His cheeks reddened and he didn’t even notice as drop of blood slid from his nose down onto the front of his ‘really nice sweatshirt’. I turned my head to see what he was looking at, but there was nothing there. Just the same couple kids who’d been there before.

‘What?’ I looked back at him and he swallowed hard.

‘Like a very smart person. A forgiving person.’

‘Spy on me again and I’ll forgive my fists into your face.’

‘Right. OK, cool.’ The weirdo started backing towards the door. ‘Very cool. I – uh – I gotta go.’

Then he turned and sprinted from the room. What the hell was that about?

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121

cordelia lamble

C

ordelia grew up in the time-warped English countryside. She spent her childhood creating story books for anyone who did/didn’t want them, drawing chalk pictures on the road in front of her house and touching every pony she could find. All in rainbow dungarees of course.

She always knew she wanted to be a writer, but just didn’t know how to get there. So when her family moved into civilisation, she got her chance.

Combining her love of adventures with her love of people, she studied for a Creative Writing BA at Bath Spa University and was immediately hooked.

She then moved straight on to the Writing for Young People MA. Now a fully-fledged adult, she is still creating stories and trying to fool everyone into thinking she still doesn’t hear the call of the dungarees … much.

About Boys Will Be Girls

Seventeen-year-old Noah always knew he was different, but even if he hadn’t, his ‘friends’ at school would have told him. His life was a rotation of 50 per cent boring, 50 per cent lame and 100 per cent tragic. Except for one little thing. He dreamt of being a drag queen like hungover people dream of pizza – relentlessly. It was his favourite secret, the Noah he was proud to be.

Until it got out. A myriad of shit was surely flying his way and Noah braced himself for the impact … that never came. All his friends are chill – excited even – pushing him to be brave and perform instead of sitting at home obsessively watching YouTube videos. Noah has to decide who he wants to be. Drag queen? Cross-dresser? Performer? All of the above? Who even is the real Noah? If he ever figures it out, you’ll be the first to know … cordelia.lamble@gmail.com 123

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boys will be girls Chapter One

‘L

esbians are only lesbians because they can’t get with men. Everyone knows that.’

And just like that every girl in the room was on their feet, screaming at Lee. I took the opportunity to stare at Felix, like I did whenever I could get away with it. He was frowning, but he raised an eyebrow when he caught me. It wasn’t much, but with Felix that was practically foreplay.

‘Hey! Noah, what do you think?’

Wen’s voice was strained and he was on his feet with an expression that cried ‘help me’. It was times like this that I reckoned he would rather die than be president of the LGBTQ group.

I tried not to say anything that would set everyone off again. ‘Well, that’s obviously not true, but I think some guys do think that.’

‘Ha!’ Lee crowed.

The room erupted and I sighed. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from being in this group, it’s that no one agrees on anything. Except about being gay … ish.

‘He’s right,’ said Amara. ‘Boys can’t get past the fact some girls like girls and it’s not all about them.’

Lee smirked at her. ‘Straight men are evil. We should kill them all.’

‘When you’ve done that, you should probably get on to repopulating the world. You know, having sex with girls,’ Amara shot back.

‘Ugh no,’ he shuddered.

Wen somehow managed to steer his ‘Today’s Topic’ back on track.

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‘Good! So we agree that lesbian women are seen differently to gay men?’

I always preferred to listen and think about which drag queens would have uploaded to YouTube by the time I got home rather than trying to argue with people who had louder opinions than I did.

When the meeting was over I stalled, reaching for my backpack as slowly as possible while everyone dashed out around me. I was shamelessly waiting for Felix to tie a shoelace on what looked like yet another new pair of boat shoes.

I was still looking down when he came over, and for some reason I didn’t look up. I just froze like our old dog used to when he’d chewed the buttons off the remote (it happened more often than you’d think).

‘I’m going to McDonald’s,’ he said. ‘Want to come?’

I unfroze to check he wasn’t joking. The boy who didn’t speak had just asked me out. And I know it wasn’t exactly romance – I’m not sure even twelve-year-old me would have been impressed – but, last time I checked, if the boy you’ve been having eye-sex with for weeks asks you to get fast food, then it’s Big Macs all round.

‘OK.’ ‘Good.’ He half-smiled at me and walked away.

I waited for a second, but as he reached the door and looked back, I realised I was supposed to follow.

Throwing on my bag, I hurried after him and we walked off campus into town. I had to admit Kingcombe Uni was pretty cool with its giant glass buildings, but I would rather shit in my hands and clap than go somewhere with people from school. Not that it mattered, I hadn’t got the results of my AS levels back, but I was pretty sure they were more likely to spell D.U.D.E. than A.B.B.A. University was another year of exams and results away.

That was a problem for another day. Right now the issue was walking into town. What the hell was I supposed to ask him?

‘Are you from around here or somewhere … else?’ I managed to pick the most boring and xenophobic-seeming question to throw at him.

He glanced at me, a little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

I got the feeling he knew I was stressed and it amused him.

‘Yeah, I live over there.’ He pointed towards a hill of houses that overlooked the city.

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‘Oh cool, I live that side.’ I pointed the other way. ‘Do you go to uni here?’

He actually laughed that time. ‘Do you?’

‘Not quite.’

He held the door open for me and I walked into a heaving McDonald’s.

‘I’m on my gap year. What about you?’

‘Last year of college.’

He nodded and joined the queue. I waited behind him, silently cursing myself. In one spectacular brain fart, all my ability to have an interesting conversation had fallen out of my head.

We sat down at a table and, just when I thought I was going to have to start another painful conversation, he nudged me with his foot.

‘Wanna play McBingo?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Have you got a pen?’

I shook my head.

‘You have an entire backpack and you don’t have one pen?’

I had an entire make-up bag full of plenty of things that could draw on paper, but that was another story, one I didn’t feel like telling. Especially not on a first date or whatever the hell this was.

He started digging around in the pockets of his shorts, reaching down so far I was beginning to think it was some sort of sick joke. He’d ask me to help and I’d put my hand in his pocket to find the end was cut off and I’d accidentally groped his dick. (I wasn’t vile – boys at my school actually did that.) I felt a flush on my neck as I watched him writhe about until finally he pulled out a pen and grinned at me.

‘Give me your napkin.’

I handed it over and he started drawing out a grid and filling in the squares.

I seized the chance to have a look at him close-up – it made such a nice change from eyeing him across a room. He was as fair as I was dark: all green eyes and long blonde curls. That, combined with the golden tan, the endless supply of new clothes and the fact he had asked me out without even hesitating, meant he was definitely trouble. For me.

‘OK, here’s your one.’ He slid a napkin over to me. ‘Loser buys the winner a McFlurry.’

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I scanned the list. ‘Two inches of butt crack; a break-up – what is this?’

‘McBingo.’ He raised his eyebrows at me cheekily. ‘Just so you know, I’ve never lost.’

‘Oh really?’ I dunked some of my chips into his ketchup. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘I’m counting on it.’

The chips went cold in my hand as I stared at him. He leant forward slightly and my body shifted too, trying to read his mind.

‘Got one!’ he practically shouted in my face, and rushed to cross out ‘child on reins like a dog’ on his sheet.

I slumped slightly in my chair as he scanned the place. For a moment there I thought … I was just imagining things again.

To stop myself from thinking, I threw myself into McBingo, and quickly found out it was like playing with Hitler. Felix may have never lost before, but that was because he didn’t fight fair. He even tried to cover my eyes at one point.

Eventually we reached a tie waiting for ‘a group of boys in Malia/ Maga/Napa tops’, but there was no sign of the local lads on tour. They were probably having a cheeky Nando’s.

He was staring at the door so intently I moved round to watch as well.

There wasn’t much room with the other table being so close and I nearly ended up on his lap – not that I was complaining. He pushed me with his shoulder and I pushed back, trying to keep my focus. We sat in silence for decades until he finally turned to look at me.

‘I think McBingo might have won this time.’

‘I thought you didn’t lose?’

‘I don’t. This is a forfeit.’

Like magic, a group of lads walked in all deep Vs and beaters and swaggered over to the queue. I held Felix’s eye contact, forcing him not to look away. Just when I thought we could look at each other for ever, the lead boy turned to reveal a giant number 69 with ‘shaggaluf ’ written underneath it.

‘Bingo!’ And in a moment that was totally out of body I winked at him. I actually winked at him.

He looked from them back to me. ‘I guess there really is a first time.’

I refused my winning McFlurry and instead he rewarded me with a lift 127

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home in a very shiny new car he’d parked at the Uni. I could have walked, but I wanted to see how it was going to end.

As he pulled up outside my house I made no move to get out of the car.

He turned off the engine and looked at me. ‘You’re a strange one, Noah.’

‘You have no idea.’

‘No, but I’d like to.’

And out of nowhere he leant over to kiss me. A hard, insistent kiss that softened, waiting for me to react. I was completely overwhelmed: he was so warm and smelled so good, I just melted. My hands, which had flown up in surprise, hovered over him. But before I could touch him, he’d already pulled himself away and turned the car on.

I just stared, the literal definition of ‘lights are on, but no one’s home’, until he had to break the silence. Again.

‘See you next week?’

I nodded and got out of the car and it wasn’t until he sped off that I finally found my voice.

‘Oh. My. God.’

Chapter Two

A

s always, I texted Alice when I got in. She was my best friend and the best thing Sulis-Avon Grammar School (SGS) had to offer … until some genius thought of calling us Noah and the Whale and it stuck. Which would’ve been fine, because it’s quite funny and not even that bad on an SGS bullying scale – but Alice’s mum had kind of got at her about her weight all her life. Put it this way, Alice wasn’t fat then and she definitely isn’t fat now.

So, when her parents found out she was being bullied, they flipped and pulled her from SGS, sending her to an all-girls boarding school instead.

Ironic really, because if it wasn’t for her mum then she wouldn’t have got upset in the first place. But that’s parents.

So now we’re best friends over text. She has her new life and I pretend 128

to have mine. Which was fine and all, but now something had actually happened to me and she had to know.

Guess who went on a date AND kissed someone??

I went to find the giant bag of crisps Mum had hidden behind the fridge and it wasn’t long before Alice texted back.

Shit in my handbag and call me Derek, I’m so happy for you!!!

I laughed.

Thanks, Derek, it means a lot.

Was it the boy you’ve been mentally undressing?

Maybeeee … He asked me though! Double win.

I wish you would send me a pic of him already.

It’s creepy. Plus, what if he looked at my phone? How would I explain that?

I snorted. If anyone I knew was ever going to find themselves in a rodeo – it was Alice.

I miss you.

Her reply was slower this time.

I miss you, too.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I never could let things go, so I replied.

When are you back?

It took her even longer this time. She hated ruining the surprise.

Soon.

So maybe I shouldn’t still count her as my best friend seeing as we aren’t as close as we used to be. But the thing is, she didn’t have any competition. Unless you counted Felix, which I so didn’t.

As I put my phone down a sudden wave of sadness came over me.

But when the going gets tough, the tough get going. So, ignoring the fact I was neither tough or going anywhere in my life, I did what all good British people do and turned the kettle on.

I drifted over towards Mum’s CD collection that exploded over the side of the counter. She always had some delicious Eighties music to cheer me up. Cher’s ‘Believe’ was the first thing that caught my eye and I popped it into the machine. Everything Mum owned was hilariously dated, but I liked it. There was something cool about seeing how she used to live.

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The second the song started, I was right there in the music video, next to Cher. Cue the giant fan and soft Eighties lighting. I took my hair out of its bun and flicked it over my shoulders. I got a lot of stick at school for looking like a girl but for moments like this it was perfect.

My make-up would be bold yet tasteful. Smoky come-to-bed eyes with a long flowing skirt; maybe I’d even be barefoot.

The kettle clicked and I incorporated the steam into my music video, pouring with one hand and artistically fanning with the other. It got into my mouth and up my nose, but it was good for the pores so I didn’t fight it.

I just blew it away and kept my lip-sync on point. A stray drop of water hit my hand, scalding me slightly, and I rode out my flinch, turning it into a dramatic power grab towards my body. One, two, three and spin.

I turned to see a tired-looking Mum shrugging off her coat over scrubs that were covered in gross hospital stains.

‘Dance with me!’

She tried to say no, but I sashayed forward and grabbed her hand, spinning her around.

‘Love, I’m really tired … ’ ‘Come on, Mum, release the diva!’

I did a full spin and suddenly there was Steve, clogging up the doorway like the human turd he was. He walked over and turned off the music as I gave Mum wide eyes that she chose to ignore.

My very small Steve limit had been hit and I fled to my room.

Locking the door behind me, I sat at my desk and pulled out my make-up bag. I looked at it for a while, waiting for the inspiration that never came. Steve always had that effect on me. With a sigh, I stood up and kicked aside the heaps of clothing that littered the floor after my last decidingwhat-to-wear battle. People always think it’s a ‘girl thing’, but they’re wrong.

Then again I was more in touch with my girl side than most boys.

Dropping to my knees, I crawled under my desk and lay on my back to look at the pictures I’d taped underneath it. Rupaul, Amy Winehouse, Bowie, Gaga – all the greats looked down at me, radiating the quiet confidence you get when you have your own unique style.

All I wanted was to have my own style. And I did, kind of – it just wasn’t my style. It was the secret me’s style. The drag me: Wolfie Belle.

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131

sarah milano

S

arah grew up in Guildford and an assortment of imaginary worlds. She first considered becoming an author when, aged four, she stubbornly rewrote the educational ending to her favourite picture book to bring a dog back from the dead.

Some years later she obtained a first class degree in Creative Writing from St Mary’s University, London, where she wrote about monsters, mutants, and murderers. She then joined the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University, and wrote a hamster love story.

Some might say she has eclectic tastes.

With Nibbles, Sarah won the 2015 United Agents Prize for ‘Most Promising Writing for Young People’. Whatever she writes next, the dog is guaranteed to come out alive.

About Nibbles

Fifteen-year-old Dylan Kaplan’s idea of a dream holiday includes at least three things: beaches to bask on, cosmopolitan culture, and a chance for romance – or at least his first kiss – with another boy.

Unluckily for him, this year his mum’s treating the family to a week in Cornwall’s Crappiest Caravan Park: Starcross Sands. All his dreams might still come true if he can just win the heart of the fit boy in the caravan opposite. There’s only one thing standing in his way: Nibbles, the park’s massive hamster mascot. A teenage comedy of errors, full of madness, mishaps, and geriatric Elvis impersonators, Nibbles asks whether it really is what’s inside that counts. owlflowers@gmail.com 133

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nibbles Chapter One

T

he car got stuck in a traffic jam at the entrance to the caravan park, under a massive sign that read: WELCOME TO STARCROSS SANDS — LET THE DREAM BEGIN. ‘See, Dylan,’ Mum beamed, pointing upwards as Dad started banging on the horn, ‘it’s going to be a dream holiday after all.’

Every year I was promised a dream holiday, and every year I almost believed it. At least, long enough to start to think wistfully about where we might go. New York would totally be a prime location. Or somewhere like Milan, eating pizzas on the piazzas.

Then, every year, Mum clipped out a load of tokens from the newspaper and dragged us to a caravan park in ‘one of 26 stunning locations throughout the British Isles’ for the ‘special offer price’ of £9.50. £9.50. You wouldn’t be able to get a stale hot dog in New York for that.

Dream holidays are the kind of thing you win on daytime TV shows by answering tricky questions like: Who sees you when you’re sleeping, and knows when you’re awake?

A: The Easter Bunny B: Santa Claus C: Creepy stalkers Then they show you footage of what you can expect: happy people with great hair mooning round picturesque Paris. Climbing the Eiffel Tower. Laughing in art galleries, clutching baguettes.

I’d love to go to Paris. City of Amour. I’m pretty sure you’d only have to step off the Eurostar and look lost for five minutes before some bohemian 134

art student would show up, eager to take a gay kid from Woking under his wing and show him the mysteries of the Louvre.

(Not sure what that is, exactly, but it sounds filthy.)

Dream holidays are all about chance for romance, right? You can’t have a holiday of a lifetime without that.

Wrong.

Last year, our ‘dream holiday’ in Wales involved finding out how long we could go without thinking about eating each other, while torrential rain kept us trapped inside a ten-foot-wide metal box that smelt of old farts. The TV was stuck on the local news channel – looping footage of grannies being airlifted off their roofs during the floods and ‘youths’ paddling down the high street in recycling bin canoes.

Mum said it was ‘cosy’.

This year our dream holiday was starting in a totally inexplicable, unmoving line of cars. It was like a scene from one of those disaster movies where everyone’s fleeing a zombie invasion, or an escaped dinosaur, or the meteor just about to crash into New York. Except, instead of running away screaming, like any sensible person would when faced with a week of the most boring staycation in the world, people were actually desperate to get in.

Dad was blasting his horn over and over, as if he thought deaf people might drive faster. Someone from the car in front of us had got out and was gesturing angrily with a pair of barbecue tongs.

My little brother, Jude, clambered onto my lap in the back seat seconds before announcing that if he couldn’t have a wee soon he would actually explode.

I was just looking around to see if one of the criminally embarrassing rain ponchos Mum always packed for us was anywhere within reach when the car started inching, slowly, forward.

‘I can see the sea!’ Jude yelled, as we got a glimpse of caravans, cliffs and a strip of blue beyond.

I could see the last week of my summer holiday disappearing down the chemical toilet. As usual.

The thing about dream holidays, which you’ll know if you’ve ever been driven through a set of gates lit up in buzzing neon, and found out that the traffic jam you’d been stuck in was caused by a dozen paunchy 135

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old guys in plastic Elvis quiffs and way too tight jumpsuits, two Pink Ladies on mobility scooters and a giant, dancing hamster, is that dreams can be nightmares, too.

Chapter Two

‘S

o, Dylan, tell our viewers, is this fabulous trip to Cornwall’s Crappiest Caravan Park really the summer holiday of a lifetime?’ Kayla thrust her straighteners under my chin like a microphone and gave me her best TV host smile.

This year, after I’d said something about caravan holidays being 1. complete social suicide and 2. the kind of traumatic experience likely to turn me into a total recluse who spends every day on the computer training pixelated dragons to be his only friends, Mum had let me bring my best friend along for the ‘dream holiday’ experience.

I flashed a cheesy grin right back at her.

‘Well, Miss Atreides, not quite. In fact, I might even say it was a glummer holiday.’

‘A slummer holiday?’ Kayla countered, going with the theme.

‘A scummer holiday,’ I said, and nodded to the window, where a gang of drunken Aussies in lifeguard jackets and shades were stumbling past in the dark, slurring their way through an obscene version of ‘Waltzing Matilda’.

So far the trip was about as dreamy as expected.

Apparently the Elvis lookalikes blocking the park entrance when we arrived had got lost on the way to Fifties Night. Mum and Dad hadn’t wasted any time dumping me, Kayla and Jude at our ‘new home-from-home’, before throwing on some cringingly tight outfits which would have looked better attracting moths in the local charity shop and dashing out to make public embarrassments of themselves at the Starcross Starlight Showhall.

My parents are both paramedics with the Ambulance Service. They do everything at speed. They met when they were put on the same shift, but had to be separated not long after because they fought over who got to do the fast driving and turn on the sirens.

Sometimes I think they’re where Jude gets his childish behaviour from.

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We were left with nothing for entertainment but a delivery pizza (from this place on the park, not even anywhere proper) and a tiny TV with a fuzzy, flickering screen. Definitely preferable to watching Dad twirl Mum round in a miniskirt, but not exactly ‘dream holiday’ material.

Our caravan was called 131 Alpine Views, although as far as I could make out the only view we had was of a row of identical tatty beige rectangles across from us, one or two of them distinct from the rest because they had a barbeque outside, or some bunting in the window. The one opposite had a load of tacky garden ornaments too.

Flipping through the TV channels, Kayla found a talent show to karaoke along with while I did Jude’s stretching exercises with him on the kitchen counter. I held his feet and pushed his knees up against his chest: left then right, over and over.

He didn’t mind the routine, but whenever he was out of the wheelchair it was always 50/50 whether he’d do it properly or wait for a good chance to ‘accidentally’ kick me in the face. Today he was seriously determined to give me a black eye.

‘Do that again and I’m leaving you on the cliffs to get eaten by seagulls,’ I told him, catching his flailing foot after it slammed into the side of my head for the third time. Jude was afraid of beaches, ever since one of the £5-a-ride donkeys in Brighton chewed on his towel while he was still sitting on it, then started on his trunks.

‘Seagulls don’t eat people!’ he told me, though I watched his lip waver, unsure.

Kayla broke off from a high note and turned to look at us. ‘They do in Cornwall.’

‘We’re going to get to go out too, right?’ she asked, pressing pause on someone butchering a boyband ballad to come over and grab another slice of Pepperoni Perfection. ‘Check out the Starcross Sands nightlife?’

I huffed out a laugh. ‘You saw where this place is: the middle of nowhere. If there’s any nightlife it’s either granddads in fancy dress or the kind you see on nature documentaries – black and white and lives in a set.’

We wanted banging clubs and fabulous boutiques, but it looked like we were going to be stuck with golf clubs and a tuck shop. Ever since the last Elvis-a-like had stumbled off towards the party, the whole park had 137

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descended into the kind of deathly quiet I imagined was the sound of 5,000 £9.50 holidaymakers going to bed early and wishing they’d booked Disneyland instead.

So, ‘Touch my flamingo again and I’ll wedge it far enough up your arse you’ll be spitting feathers for a week,’ wasn’t exactly what I expected to hear howled into the silence a few feet from where we were.

I looked at Kayla, grabbed Jude and made it over to the window in record time.

‘You can have it back when you admit it was your Troy made our Alfie eat the urinal cake.’

‘Well if your Alfie’s thick enough to do it … ’ There were lights going on in every caravan in the lane, but one in particular was glowing brighter than the rest, with its doors wide open and a small crowd gathered around outside. It was the one with the gaudy selection of garden ornaments: flamingos, gnomes, a palm tree. A boy about Jude’s age was puking in the ornamental bird bath.

‘Are those our new neighbours?’ Kayla asked, raising her voice to be heard over the screech of one lady in a floral nightie bull-rushing the other.

A teenager in a leather-effect jacket dragged at one woman’s frilly sleeve.

‘Leave it, Mum, the flamingo’s not worth it!’

‘Gorgeous alert,’ Kayla muttered to me, while Jude wriggled in my arms to get a better look over the sill.

He was seriously hot. Blond hair, broad shoulders: he looked a bit like Taylor Enson, who’s football captain at our school and who would 100 per cent be my boyfriend if I wasn’t 100 per cent terrified of talking to him. And if he knew I was gay and wouldn’t majorly freak out about it.

And if he was gay too, I suppose. That would help.

Anyway, if we’re talking perfect man, it’s between Taylor and the blond one from the superhero movies with the shoulder-to-waist ratio of a Dorito.

But the mysterious stranger trying to cool down his nightie-clad mum outside caravan 232 really wasn’t bad, either.

His mum, though? Terrifying.

‘Nobody touches my ornaments, Jayden-Lee. You know the work I put in to the décor.’ She gave the other woman a haughty look, and sniffed, ‘Some people just like to live like pigs!’

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‘Who’re you calling a pig, Eileen Slater? You’re the pig here, you … piggy pig.’

Alfie’s mum might not have been that creative with the nicknames, but she made up for it by plunging her hands into Mrs Slater’s hair, dragging her down onto the grass. It was like watching Wrestlemania, but with more genuine violence.

Meanwhile Jude was starting to flail in my arms, and I didn’t think it was just the usual twitches. ‘I don’t like it,’ he whined, tipping his head back to look up at me. ‘I don’t want them to shout.’

‘I know,’ I told him, ‘but this fight’s not over you.’

Usually our mum was the one getting into grudge matches, or at least doling out the occasional slap when someone said something stupid about Jude. He’s got this thing called cerebral palsy, which is a medical condition where his brain’s a bit rubbish at telling his body what to do. He’s as smart as any other five-year-old who’s into ant farms and believes trains have secret lives – too smart for his own good, sometimes – but because he can’t walk well on his own and he talks a bit slurry, people assume he’s a moron.

Mum just gets really lairy when they do it out loud. She’s laid into people in the middle of the local shopping centre before and had to spend an hour in the Shopmobility reception cooling down before they let her back in Primark.

So I guess it makes sense that when people start yelling it freaks Jude out a bit.

I was just debating whether abandoning my prime-location view of the Dramavan was really the kind of martyrdom that should be expected in my brotherly duties, when Park Security arrived to break up the fight.

Kayla almost forgot to keep her reaction Jude-appropriate.

‘What the f-udgecake is that?’

All three of us pressed our faces to the smeary glass of the caravan window to see. There were three security guards in beige safari uniforms that read ‘Safeguarding Your Dreams’ on the back, a blonde woman in a power suit, who was standing by the Security golfbuggy trying to stop any of the gathering crowd of kids from taking it for a joyride and …

I blinked at Kayla. ‘I think that’s a macho hamster.’

It was the same hamster we’d seen shepherding Elvises when we’d 139

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shown up at the park. Huge, bright orange, with a permasmile and two massive buck teeth.

‘Nibbles! Dylan, it’s Nibbles! Can we go and meet him, can we?’ Jude’s elbows needled me in the ribs. The hamster had just tackled Jayden-Lee into a decorative flower bed, but now that the whole scene had taken on the surreal quality of something from CBeebies, Jude was totally into it.

‘Nibbles?’ Kayla asked. ‘So I’m not hallucinating right now?’

‘He’s the park mascot. He runs the kids club,’ I told her. ‘And he must be on some hefty hamster pellets.’

Nibbles, who my little brother was supposed to be spending the next morning at the ‘Happy Hamster Holiday Party’ with, had just dodged a headbutt, and was now kneeling with one paw in the centre of Jayden-Lee’s back, pressing him face first into the ground.

From where we were, I could see he’d rolled him right into Alfie’s vomit-puddle. It was seeping into his perfect golden hair.

‘Looks like Nibbles is busy playing right now,’ I told Jude, lifting him away from the window before he got the idea that hamsters advocated violence. ‘You can make friends with him tomorrow.’

Fifty pre-schoolers, too much sugar, and a stupid orange hamster: there was no way I was getting involved in that train wreck. But things were looking up: once the boy in the dramavan washed the puke out of his hair, I was going to have the fittest neighbour in the caravan park. I murmured the name Jayden-Lee Slater to myself, and wondered if it was really possible to fall in love at first fight.

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141

anna morgan

A

nna was born in sunny Australia, but spent her early childhood surrounded by mountains in Nepal and Tibet as part of an international community of medical workers. Navigating this cross-cultural life made her a curious observer of people, although most of her time was spent reading Enid Blyton and dreaming of going to boarding school. This did not cushion the shock of shifting from home-school in Tibet to an all-girls high school in Melbourne when her family returned to Australia. Finding the Somerton Man explores some of the convoluted friendships that thrive in this setting.

In 2014-15 Anna uprooted her life again to take the MA at Bath Spa University, which confirmed her love of travel and her decision to pursue writing as a career. Anna is now back in Melbourne and has begun work on her second novel. She remains curious about how places shape your identity, and all the stories that go on inside people’s minds.

About Finding the Somerton Man

This is the mystery of a friendship, unbalanced, about to fall.

It is the mystery of new love, tentative and powerful.

It is the mystery of a travelling sister, writing postcards home that say too little and too much.

It is the mystery of a man, found dead on a beach in 1948.

It is the mystery of a teacher, passionate, young, friendly – gone.

They are Lara Laylor’s mysteries, and this is the year she has to solve them. annalauramorgan@gmail.com 143

ANNA MORGAN

finding the somerton man Chapter One

W

e sat in the hammock, legs intertwined. The light of the day was fading, taking the heat, and our freedom. It was the last day of the summer holidays. Neither of us wanted to move inside, neither of us allowed ourselves to shiver. We wanted one more night of denial.

Amanda nudged me with a perfectly tanned, pink-toenailed foot.

I never understood how she always got like that over summer, while I ended up itchy and patchy with sunburn.

‘Loz, you are not taking this seriously.’

I stretched and shut my eyes. ‘No one should be taking things seriously. It’s holidays, Amanda.’

‘Not for long it’s not.’ Amanda moved her cherry Chupa Chup from one side of her mouth to the other, sucking hard. ‘Lara, school starts tomorrow. We need a strategy.’

‘What’s to strategise? Another year of being St Margaret’s young ladies, avoid their brainwashing as much as we can, hand in some homework, boom. Summer again.’ I shivered pleasantly, even though the evening sun was making my skin prickle with heat. It had been one of those sleepy, endless days, when hours of lazing in the hammock in Amanda’s backyard slid by and the night was full of mosquitos.

‘This is my point. If I have to tell my mother that I’m studying with you on a Friday night – and be telling the truth – one more time, I’m going to kill myself.’ Amanda removed the Chupa Chup from her mouth with a pop. ‘Which is why we are going to sign up for the musical with St Stephen’s this year.’

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I held in a groan. The Year 10 musical was legendary. I guess it made sense in a school like St Margaret’s, where opportunities for interaction with the opposite sex were so few.

‘Hannah did that, right? The musical?’

‘Yup.’ I shifted slightly at the mention of my sister. She’d been in Europe all summer and I’d hardly heard from her.

‘So?’ ‘I don’t know. It’s ancient history for her.’ Hannah had been at the centre of it all, of course; I’d listened to countless teary explanations of rehearsal schedules and scene changes that would have permanent, devastating effects on her love life and friendships.

‘Come on, Loz, she must have told you about it. What was it like?’

‘It sounded exhausting, actually.’

‘A social life, exhausting?’

‘Kind of. I’d rather just relax this year, you know?’

‘Ah well, perhaps you’ll get lucky and won’t get through auditions.’

Amanda crunched the remains of her lollipop into splinters. She flicked the white stick out on to her lawn. Her lips were stained a wicked, dark red. ‘Or maybe not. And we’ll finally have some fun this year.’

Adelaide Railway Station, 1948 More than sixty years and one very long overland train ride from St Margaret’s school in Melbourne; in the November of 1948, a man arrived at the main train station on North Terrace, Adelaide.

Rendell Craig was manning the luggage storage at the time. At 11.45am his thoughts were firmly on the pickle and cheese sandwich he had brought for lunch, for which he was due to stop in fifteen minutes. So when the man checked a plain brown suitcase into the luggage storage, Rendell took little notice, filling out the gentleman’s luggage tag in a slightly hunger-fogged 145

ANNA MORGAN

daze. Which was a pity for the local police force, who would have appreciated a more detailed recollection later.

The man then bought a connecting ticket to Henley Beach station, which he did not use. Nor did he ever return to collect his suitcase.

Instead, he boarded a bus to Somerton Beach, Glenelg.

It was the last journey of his life.

Chapter Two

A

manda became my best friend the same day my heart broke for the first time.

It happened like this: lunchtime, Grade Four, a sunny day. I search the grounds of St Margaret’s Primary, looking for my two best friends, Isobel and Charmaine. They aren’t sitting in our usual spot, a tree by the tuck shop.

So I look by the bubblers, by the low brick wall where we sat and ate last year, by the paved area where the Grade Fives play four-square, by the back playground where the Grade Six girls sit around and talk. I’ve got this bright blue lunchbox covered in spaceships. I am intensely proud of this lunchbox because, unlike my uniform, my shoes, and my teachers’ opinions of me, it isn’t inherited from my older sister, Hannah: I chose it myself. But as I look for my friends, I start to feel self-conscious about the spaceship lunchbox. I can see the older girls looking at me sideways, and even though I’ve carefully arranged my face in a distracted, casual expression, face-crumpling tears are coming on dangerously fast.

Finally I see Isobel peeking from behind the side of a building. Her face transforms into a caricature ‘O’ of shock when she sees me, and I hear Charmaine’s high-pitched giggle from around the corner. Relief floods through me, and I run towards them, the spaceship lunchbox banging against my thigh.

But when I get there, they’ve run away. I see their retreating figures across the oval. I am too dizzy with the joy of finding them to be suspicious.

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I guess it’s a new game, I think, and sprint happily after them.

Only every time I catch them, they move on. My chest is tight, my breathing short, I am getting dizzy – I still haven’t eaten any lunch – and finally I yell at them to stop. And they do, two small figures in the distance, backs to me. They wait till I catch up.

‘What’s … the … game … we’re playing?’ I ask, as I get my breath back. They still aren’t looking at me.

‘Well,’ Isobel turns to me, a smile on her face. ‘There isn’t a game. We’re running away from you.’

Crack. My heart starts to splinter down the middle.

Charmaine giggles. ‘The game is, I guess, that we don’t want to be friends with you.’

Snap. And there it goes, neatly in two.

They leave me there, wheezing, holding my spaceship lunchbox. They do not look back.

I try to process what has happened. But it is hard to focus, since I am suddenly finding it difficult to breathe out. I am getting air in, big gasping mouthfuls of it, but I can’t get it out again – instead the air coils in my chest, pulling it tighter and tighter – my heart is beating way faster than it should.

Black fingers stretch across my vision— Turns out heartbreak feels remarkably like an asthma attack.

This may be because I actually was having an asthma attack.

‘Here, breathe through this.’ A girl appears beside me, holds out an inhaler.

I breathe in. My throat opens up, my vision clears. My heart begins to slow.

I look up at my saviour: the new girl, Amanda. She arrived this term and so far has seemed completely uninterested in the political machinations of Grade Four (of course, she’s not at all uninterested – only patient). She watches me with her head cocked to one side and a cold smile that reminds me of icy poles.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Lara,’ I say. I sit down. Through the subsiding panic I absorb this new information: sometimes I need help to breathe.

‘Lara … ’ Amanda sits next to me. ‘I’m going to call you Loz.’ 147

ANNA MORGAN

The spectres of Isobel and Charmaine’s laughing faces, their retreating figures, began to fade.

Amanda soothed my asthma that day, and also my broken heart.

Mandy and Loz. Always in that order, always together. My mum hated my nickname, and loudly called me ‘Lara, darling,’ when Amanda was around, but everyone else called me Loz, since everyone else followed Amanda’s lead.

There were certain rules to being friends with Amanda. When we were younger, the rules were easily defined; we became the queens of the patch of scrub between the line of trees and the primary school car park. No boys (conveniently ignoring the fact we were in an all-girls school), no adults, other girls only allowed to come in with permission. Amanda decided who had permission: Lucy Fairly, because she could do French braids, Tina Yu, because she could do a backflip from standing, and Bindy Cerullo, because she had a broken ankle and let Amanda and I race on her crutches.

I was grateful Amanda hadn’t seemed to notice that I had no special skill, no reason to be allowed in past that icy smile.

As we got older, the rules became more complicated: you must order skinny lattes, not regular; when shopping you must reject all suggestions that ‘Oh, this would look better on you’ (correct answer: ‘no, it’s your colour’); and you must agree to be Team Edward, not Jacob.

Occasionally I would slip up. I’d know this because on some days, I would turn up to school, say hello, and get a slammed locker in my face and a death glare. It was like a switch flicked on and off, and never explained beyond a vague, ‘You know what it was.’

Sometimes I did know: it would be the sound of my essay being read in English as an example (Amanda’s smile growing tighter and thinner with every word, her eyes straight ahead and not meeting my anxious glance). Or it would be my buying fish and chips on Friday, carelessly offering one to Amanda. When we were younger I followed the rules because I was desperate to keep Amanda’s approval. As we grew up I kept following them – out of habit, maybe, or simply because, while it didn’t matter to me, it did matter to Amanda.

Besides, Amanda was fun. She had a way of bouncing into a room, a situation, and meeting my gaze with a wide-eyed, raised eyebrow look that 148

would always make me laugh. We made up dances to Taylor Swift songs and performed them in her living room, and Amanda kept a straight face as she vamped and lip-synched with ridiculous facial expressions, while I collapsed laughing, helpless, on the floor.

She had a weakness for cherry Chupa Chups (mine: Fruit Tingles, especially the multicoloured ones), and loved to use them as lipstick, staining her mouth purple and truthfully telling our Vice-Principal she wasn’t violating uniform code as she really wasn’t wearing any make-up. And I became more fun with her, too. She got me to sneak into our first ever gig – we climbed in an open back window, and I was too busy worrying whether anyone could tell we were underage to enjoy the music – that is, until Amanda grabbed my arm and pulled me into a crazy, limb-flailing dance, and I forgot to be nervous.

So this was me and Amanda: a convoluted, twisted mix of expectations and history, cut through by our eyes meeting as we heard our song played on the radio.

After a while, I guess, you call this friendship.

149

jennifer newbury

J

ennifer’s novels tend to be about teenagers on the brink of growing up and finding themselves, and usually blend weird other worlds and everyday teenage life. Her short stories have been published at Kasma SF, The Pygmy Giant, Dogmatika and various anthologies. She’s won and been shortlisted for several writing competitions and has performed stories at London’s Southbank Centre and across the South West. As co-founder of Dorset’s hippest writing group, Storyslingers, Jennifer enjoys organising literary events. She’s worked in a bookshop and a sweet shop, and has been a gardener, an artist and a graphic designer.

Jennifer often writes under the name J Bell.

About The Orchard

Sixteen-year-old Fi is a skater girl and aspiring DJ who blames herself for the arrest of her stepfather, Ross. Fi has isolated herself from friends and family, and feels so disconnected that she fades into a desolate other world.

This is The Orchard, a world that can be manipulated by the imagination.

Here she meets and falls for like-minded loner, Marc. As she fades in and out of The Orchard, Fi struggles to piece together her hazy memory of the events leading up to Ross’s arrest. Cagey Marc won’t open up about his past.

If Fi and Mark don’t learn to accept their darker selves, they risk becoming trapped in The Orchard for ever. jenny.newbury@googlemail.com www.bellstories.co.uk

151

JENNIFER NEWBURY

the orchard Dear Ross, All I’ve done today is write shitty songs, play Sudoku for three hours straight, and check Instagram. I’ve lost another seven followers.

Or to put a positive spin on it: I’ve gained seven unfollowers. My counsellor tells me I should try putting a positive spin on things when I think they’re going wrong.

No matter how hard I try to spin it, I can’t I don’t remember everything about last year.

There are holes in my memory. I’m afraid of what My counsellor told me I should write you letters, to tell you everything I’m thinking and feeling. She also told me not to send them.

Kind of dumb if you ask me.

Truth is, I can’t stop thinking about you there, in prison because of me.

I’m sorry.

So sorry. back, back, back.

Growing up with you, nothing was ever ordinary. The world crackled with possibility 152

and magic and wonder.

Remember those bedtime stories you used to tell me and Hanna?

They were about a magic world where you can make your imagination come to life. I wanted to be extraordinary, to go to new worlds, to be everything you said I could be. and nestle into the gap between the fence and the shed and I’d close my eyes hoping that when I opened them I’d be in that other world.

Never was. It was just spider webs and leaf mould and walnut shells.

Fi

Chapter One Dissolved Girl

T

he first day of Sixth Form starts in half an hour. I’m at the breakfast table, reading the back of a cereal box. I went overboard with the milk; my Coco Pops are drowning in it.

Mum’s boyfriend Borys comes in wearing her pink dressing gown. His threadbare slippers scuff over the tiles with a dry sweep. I should’ve sat in my normal place on the opposite chair with my back to the room: kept myself locked in my own little world. Here I can see the whole kitchen and anyone who comes in, and they can see me. This ‘new term, new me’ resolution was a stupid idea. I pull my headphones up from around my neck and fill my ears with Massive Attack.

Borys flicks the kettle on. Only the back-of-the-cupboard mugs are clean. He takes time choosing one, then sets Ross’s ‘World’s Greatest DJ’ mug on the countertop and shovels instant coffee into it.

My grip tightens around my spoon.

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Coffee in Ross’s mug.

He could’ve chosen one of the old floral cups; it’s like he’s trying to make a point.

Hanna comes in dressed in her PJs, yesterday’s make-up smudged around her eyes. Year 10s go back tomorrow. Lucky sods. Borys has his back to us, so he doesn’t see Hanna pull a face at him. Her eyes meet mine for a second and roll. At first I think she’s rolling them at me, but then she glances at Borys again and grimaces.

My lips twitch into a smile.

Hanna’s expression neutralises the moment Borys turns around. He says something to her, I swivel a headphone away from my ear, too late to catch what.

She steps towards the door, backing into Mum, who must’ve just come downstairs. Mum slips her arms around Hanna’s shoulders, hugs her from behind.

My chest tightens. She never hugs me anymore.

I stand up and my chair legs scrape shrill against the tiles. The sink is piled with last night’s plates; I add my bowl.

‘You need a lift to school, Fiona?’ Borys asks in his stilted Polish accent.

I glare at him. He needs to shave. His stomach bulges tight against the pink flannel fabric. The smell of coffee stinks up the kitchen.

Mum releases Hanna and wraps her arms around Borys, plants a kiss on his thick neck.

‘No, I’m fine.’ I brush past Hanna towards the door, then rush upstairs to my room. I grab my school bag and put on the massive army-surplus jacket Ross lent me last year. I wear it almost always.

My stomach is jittery. I’m not sure about going back to school. Last year was a real shitter. I keep having to remind myself that it’ll be better this year. New term, new me. I’ll be more chilled, less volcanic. I’ll chat to Wendy, we’ll let bygones be bygones, pretend Year 11 never happened.

Despite my total lack of posts, she still follows me on Instagram, so she’s not completely turned her back on me.

I check myself out in my wardrobe mirror. Denim shorts, tight tee, shin-high sport socks, tangle of long necklaces, bracelets and old festival bands, lime green nails, self-cut hair. The jacket swamps me, but no way I’m 154

ditching it. I pull my phone from my pocket and snap a selfie. It’s been a year since my last post on Instagram. I haven’t had anything worth posting, but I didn’t want to delete and lose all those followers. Someday things will get better, and I’ll get back to living a life worth following. Maybe today is that day. My finger hovers over the upload icon.

Footsteps thump on the stairs. ‘Fi!’ Mum yells. ‘It’s twenty to – get a move on! Don’t start the new year off on the wrong foot.’

I take a deep breath and then tap upload.

My longboard leans against my box of DJ vinyl. I grab it.

Summer is sticking around; it’s more than twenty degrees outside. I put my left foot on the deck of my board, my right pushes off the pavement. I get up enough momentum to set me on my way through the maze of red brick houses, black tarmac roads and white gravel gardens.

It takes ten minutes. School is so empty. It’s just little Year 7s in oversized uniforms, and us Year 12s, dressed to impress. Everyone else starts tomorrow. The school lets the newbies get settled before the masses roll in.

God knows why us Year 12s start a day early too. Most of us have been stuck in this hellhole for five years.

By the time I get to the common room, friends have already carved their corners, marking their territories with draped jackets, magazines, bags. I’ve not been in here before. It’s not the cosy hang-out den I dreamed it would be.

The carpet is worn and pocked with gum, the seats look like tired staffroom hand-me-downs, the newspaper stand in the corner is being used as a coat rack. A graffitied vending machine is about as cool as this place gets.

I sink into an unclaimed seat not far from Wendy and her new clique.

The stink of cheap bodyspray drifts over. Sadie snorts with laughter at something on Wendy’s phone. Wendy doesn’t look too happy about it. The Hello Kitty phone-charm I bought for Wendy’s fifteenth swings as Sadie turns the screen towards Erin. There’s another girl with them who I don’t recognise; must be new.

Wendy looks up, clocks me, her lips part and she blinks, then she gives me an imploring sort of look.

I seize the moment, get to my feet and walk over. ‘Good summer?’

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JENNIFER NEWBURY

I ask through a tight throat.

She squeezes the hem of her skirt in her fist, her cheeks glow pink. ‘Oh … yes, thank you,’ she replies stiffly. Maybe I misread her look.

‘I … uh … I was just wondering if maybe you wanted to meet at lunch?’ I perch on the edge of the chair beside her.

Sadie scoots up on Wendy’s other side and leans forward, eyes fierce on me. ‘Do you really think she wants to hang out with you after the way you treated her?’

Wendy’s cheeks go pinker. ‘Fi was under a lot of stress.’

‘She’s a self-absorbed little prick, Wendy, and she treated you like shit even before the whole Berlin thing. You deserve better.’ Sadie cuts me a glare. ‘I see you’re still going for that teen blogger look, Fi. I’ve got news for you, darling: that ship has sailed – you look like a twat in a charity-shop dressing room.’

I deflate, punctured. My cheeks blaze.

‘Honestly, why bother taking a selfie dressed like that? No wonder you’ve lost so many followers. It’s tragic.’ Sadie flashes me Wendy’s phone screen: my Instagram page.

‘Eff off, Sadie, you stuck-up bitch.’ The room goes quiet. So much for being chilled. God, what’s wrong with me?

Sadie smirks and leans towards Erin and the new girl. ‘Have you heard about Wendy’s ex-BFF here? Last summer she shacked up with her mum’s boyfriend, who’s like, twenty-eight or something. They eloped to Berlin.’

I stand up so fast my bag falls to the floor. The contents scatter.

Her smile gets wider and wider. ‘They were eventually caught, off their faces on dope in some hippy drug squat. Fiona finally returned two weeks into the start of Year 11; her new boyfriend was given a short stretch in the slammer for child abduction and God knows what else.’

‘When are you going to get this through your thick head, you sick bitch: I never “shacked up” with Ross. He’s practically my dad!’

‘It was in all the papers.’

‘Jesus fucking Christ!’

‘Speaking of which—’ Sadie gets up and skips over to the newspaper stand. She comes back with a copy of the local free-sheet.

‘Sadie, don’t, please,’ Wendy warns.

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Sadie ignores her. ‘It says here Ross was released from prison last week.

I’m surprised you’re not already on a ferry with him, on your way to start a new showbiz life in Berlin with your beloved.’

My stomach drops.

She’s lying.

His release day is a month away.

He hasn’t called or written.

She’s got to be lying.

The common room is quiet. All eyes are on me. Then come the whispers. And the laughs. I want to sink into the earth.

‘Wait a minute!’ Sadie’s eyes flash hungrily. ‘You didn’t know.’ She is slack-jawed and excited.

I sit here frozen, unable to speak.

‘He’s been out six days, and he never even told you? Oh my God, that is classic.’ Her eyebrows shoot up. A huge smug smile is slapped across her face.

The bell rings. It seems to go on for ages.

‘Come on.’ Sadie beams at the new girl. ‘We’ll show you the assembly hall.’

Wendy steps towards me. ‘Listen, Fi, I—’ ‘Chop-chop, time to go.’ Sadie grips Wendy’s wrist, drops the newspaper into my lap, then tugs Wendy towards the door.

The story is on page four, just two paragraphs.

Chapter Two Open Eye Signal

I

grab my bag, shove my stuff back in, then pick up my longboard and helmet and push my way against the flow towards the back door. I’d figured it might be too painful for him to reach out from behind prison bars; I didn’t mind waiting ’til he was free.

But he’s been free six days.

Everything blurs together. Ross. Wendy. Mum. Who am I kidding? I can’t just wash the slate clean and pretend that 157

JENNIFER NEWBURY

last year never happened. I may not remember all of it very clearly, but it happened. It was my fault. This lump in my throat, this burning anger, the wet sting at the back of my eyes: all my fault.

I stride through the arts block corridor and out the big double doors.

Up three steps. After clipping on my helmet, I stamp my foot onto the deck of my board and push off. Skate past the car park, netball courts, past Mr Jenkins, ignore his shouts, zoom down the drive, faster and faster, sunlight strobes through leaves. I shoot through the gates and into town.

I dance the board, pushing it into a smooth carving slalom. Wind licks my hair and stings my cheeks. I’m waiting for that free and high feeling to hit me.

I can smell cut grass and spilt petrol. I weave between high street pedestrians. Kids screech and giggle in the nursery school playground.

I crouch and push the board around a corner into the housing estate we lived in when we first moved here. Electronica drifts from an open window – music that makes my brain flash with thoughts of Ross.

The longboard wobbles; I fight to stay balanced.

He probably hates me.

I ruined his life. Of course he hates me.

My ears suddenly muffle. My skateboard wheels clatter distantly. The playground shrieks seem to come from a faraway world. The road surface is rough; it rattles through my feet and up my body.

My fingertips tingle. I shake my hands out. Doesn’t help.

Heat shimmers above the road and my vision quivers. For a moment I swear I can see through my legs, through my skateboard at the tarmac beneath. I’m a ghost. I should step off the board before I fall. My eyelids are heavy; I fight to keep them from closing. They flutter, closed, open, closed again, open.

Two streets are double-exposed on top of each other; the modern estate and an older rundown suburb.

There’s a rushing noise and my ears briefly unblock, then block again, this time completely.

Total quietness.

No high-street traffic, no lawnmowers or birds. All I hear is the roll of my wheels echoing off walls.

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Rundown walls.

There’s only one street now, not the estate. Everything’s different: shabby and dilapidated and grey.

My brain blanks.

The board wobbles and my deck shoots out from under me. I slam tarmac, and land with a thump onto my side. The shock of it chills me, and for a while I lie here in stillness.

The only sound is my own blood rushing through my veins, the tinnitus of silence.

159

mark rutherford

M

ark grew up in England, Wales, Singapore and Texas. He has worked at teaching English, restoring old houses, photographing sharks, and controlling air traffic. He likes surfing, learning about the universe and generally messing about on bikes. Mark lives in Bristol and Moscow.

About Wings

Daniel is fourteen, a schoolboy in the mountaintop refuge of the Citadel, the son of an angel. When Daniel’s wings start to grow, he will be called to serve the Gods as a messenger. First though, he must survive the Liberalia ceremony and fly to the city of Olympus to begin his new life. When Daniel arrives in the city, he meets the girl with the golden eyes. What does she know about the mysteries of the Gods – and the dark secret in his own family? Wings is a story about love, death and betrayal, and becoming an adult in a world not so very far from our own. mark.stephen.rutherford@gmail.com

161

MARK RUTHERFORD

wings Chapter One

W

e are on the roof of the monastery tower, high above the Citadel, on top of the world. The wind is always strong up here; westerly and chilled by the mountains, it steals our warmth and sends the clouds scudding over the jagged peaks.

Ariel and I lean over the edge of the parapet and look across to the royal tower. It thrusts up from the palace courtyard ten stories high to match the monastery in height and grandeur. The twin towers of the Citadel.

On the rooftop over there, seeming only a hand span away, the first dignitaries arrive, clad in purple robes and ceremonial jewels that flash in the sun.

I have seen this ceremony many times before: the Liberalia, when a boy becomes an angel, ready to serve the Gods as a messenger. I have the usual thrill of anticipation to see the novices fly for the first time.

But today I am uneasy. Today my back itches and prickles with strange, ominous sensations. Something has changed. Last night, something inside me woke up.

‘Look, Daniel,’ Ariel points, his blond curls tousled by the wind. ‘Our quad, where we play football – it’s full of people.’

I look down and feel dizzy for a moment. The quad is a green square crowded with peasants from the villages, all craning their necks for a view of the ceremony. A faint babble of excitement rises up as colourful kites dance and sway over the heads of the onlookers.

I hear the sound of footsteps and voices from the spiral staircase behind us, and the younger boys join us on the rooftop. Following them, wheezing 162

and out of breath, is Father Kiril in his hooded brown robe. He sees us leaning over the parapet and starts fussing as usual.

‘Come away from the edge, boys, it’s not safe,’ he says, beckoning us.

He is old but kindly, with crinkly blue eyes. He always comes up here for the Liberalia, despite the hundreds of stairs and his shaky legs. ‘We don’t want any accidents on this special day.’

‘No, sir.’ I climb down obediently.

‘Sorry, sir,’ says Ariel.

Now the royal tower is crowded with people. The sun is almost overhead; it is nearly midday. Nearly time.

I sneak a glance over my shoulder to see if Father Kiril is watching but he has his back turned. He is describing the joys of flight to the younger novices, his arms held out wide to mimic wings. Safely out of his sight, I rummage in my satchel and pull out the small black cylinder. Textured rubber covers steel and glass, alien in our wood and stone world.

‘I’ve got a spyglass,’ I say, showing it to Ariel. ‘I found it in my father’s things.’

Ariel’s sapphire eyes widen. He is afraid, but curiosity overcomes him.

He takes the spyglass timidly and weighs it in his hand. ‘Zeiss,’ he reads on the side. ‘Like Zeus. Is it holy, from the Gods?’ He peers through the larger lens. ‘I can’t see anything.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Yes, it was Zeus’s very own spyglass. Of course it’s not holy! It’s just a little machine; old technology from before. But don’t show old Kiril, he’ll steal it away. And here’ – I turn it around for him – ‘you look through this end.’

Ariel cautiously holds the small lens to his eye as if he is holding a little poisonous snake. A moment passes, then he gasps and nearly drops it.

‘I could see their faces, so close!’ he says. ‘It gives you eyes like an eagle.’ He pushes the spyglass back to me with a worried expression. ‘It’s sorcery. You know old-tech is forbidden, against the Protocol.’

‘Suit yourself,’ I say. ‘It’s only metal and glass though.’

Ariel is my only real friend in the Citadel. It was he who welcomed me to the monastery school when I was a shy, lonely novice from the village.

I just wish he wasn’t always so virtuous.

I hold the spyglass up to my eye and press the button to focus. The 163

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little device clicks and whirrs, bringing the royal tower into sharp relief. The senators and government officials from Olympus have gathered, their gold and purple cloaks flapping in the wind. And there is the abbot from our monastery, dressed in his finest robes and looking very pleased with himself.

Finally, the guardians arrive, escorting the three novices. I zoom the glass in on the new boys. I don’t know any of them closely; they are all in the year above. Their hair is neatly combed, crowned by a twist of laurel leaves.

Their robes are white, edged with purple. But through the spyglass I can see the tension in their shoulders and the fear in their faces.

I know it is the fate of all the boys in my school to stand on that tower and jump off. But when I woke last night with a strange tingling in my shoulder blades, I realised my time is coming sooner than I ever imagined.

My body is betraying me. The knot of dread twists silently in my stomach.

I wonder if my father ever stood here in this spot, on top of this tower, this spyglass in his hand. Did he feel the same terror? Was he still a boy when it was his time to become an angel?

Over on the royal tower, the abbot steps up to preach to the crowd, but the wind snatches his words away so that only fragments of his speech reach us. ‘ … privilege … ’ ‘ … Gods in Olympus … ’ ‘ … destiny to serve Hermes … ’ ‘ … wings of angels … ’ The usual dry lecture, but he keeps it short. After all, once the Liberalia is over, he can pour out the wine.

The three novices kneel before the abbot in turn. He blesses each one with a caress of the head and a splash of oil; then he removes the amulet that hangs around their neck on a strip of leather. Amulets are for children, they protect us from evil spirits. Angels have no need for them, for they are under Hermes’ protection.

My hand goes to my neck where a gold amulet hangs, engraved with the eagle of Zeus, and I think of Mother with a twinge of homesickness. She once told me how she tied it around my neck at the birth-giving, so proud of her new baby boy.

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A single trumpet sounds and a hush settles over the Citadel. Even the wind drops as if on command. I peer into the spyglass. The first novice approaches the edge. Trembling, he unwinds his robe and casts it aside, leaving him naked as a newborn child, soft and frail: ready to be born again.

And now we can see his wings.

Beautiful tawny wings unfurl and slowly flex, open and close: the wings of an eagle. Delicate yet strong. Soft yet ready to harness the power of a storm.

How must it feel to have those wings? Is it a blessing or a curse?

The novice is magnified through the spyglass as the wind blows his dark wavy hair. His face shows a mixture of emotions: he is fighting to control his terror, but as he looks up at his wings, he sees the glory of his new body. He flexes them, stronger this time, and I can feel his anticipation.

You can do it, I think. You can fly.

The trumpet sounds again and I hold my breath.

The novice spreads his wings for his first flight.

He jumps.

Immediately he falls, plummeting one, two, three storeys down, and my stomach drops with him before he manages to control his shuddering wings and angle them, to bite them into the wind and gain purchase on the slippery air. He levels out into a steady glide, describing a broad circle around the royal tower and I expel my held breath with a sigh of relief.

The novice makes a cautious beat of his wings and rises up; beats again and again, growing in confidence as he climbs up above the royal tower. He hovers unsteadily over the assembled crowd and salutes them proudly, then turns his face to the heavens and screams with pure exhilaration, punching the air with his fists for the joy of surviving, for the joy of flight.

‘Bravo,’ shouts Kiril. ‘Bravo! Praise Zeus!’

I put down the spyglass to clap and cheer along with Ariel and all the boys on our tower. ‘I thought he wasn’t going to make it,’ I say, shaking my head in wonder.

‘Have faith, Daniel,’ says Ariel, his face aglow. ‘The Gods will always provide.’

The novice flaps his wings more powerfully now. He takes his bearings on the distant mountains, and with a final salute, sets off. I follow him with 165

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the spyglass as he climbs higher and higher into the clear sky, and my heart lifts with him until he is just a mote of dust in the heavens.

Perhaps … perhaps it won’t be so bad for me.

The trumpet sounds again, calling my attention back to the ceremony.

The second novice steps up confidently. He stands tall on the edge, square jawed with shoulder-length blond hair, and when he strips away his robe, I see he already has the muscular body of a man.

I think of my skinny frame and mousy brown hair. It’s not fair. The lucky devil.

He unfurls his wings and reaches up with them, large and proud. His are white, speckled with brown and black, and he flaps them once, slowly.

Again the trumpet signals it is time.

This novice does not hesitate.

He stretches out his wings and leaps out into the void, catching the updraft perfectly to soar over our heads. He circles around the royal rooftop once, twice, displaying his new mastery of flight as the dignitaries applaud.

Foremost in the crowd are a senator and his wife in fine Olympian clothing: his parents, no doubt, looking overjoyed.

The novice turns and briefly salutes the dignitaries with the clenched fist of Zeus, and with a mighty beat of his wings, sails out over the valley and away to the north.

‘He practised,’ I mutter under my breath.

It was against the Protocol to practise. The Liberalia should be the first time a novice messenger unfurls his wings – like a fledgling about to leave the nest high on a clifftop. But any novice with new wings and half a brain would disguise himself with a peasant’s cloak and steal away to the meadows down the valley. There, out of sight, they could practise gliding down a gentle slope with the soft grass to catch them.

‘Some messengers are just naturals,’ says Ariel. ‘You needn’t always think the worst of people.’

‘He definitely practised,’ I grumble. Zeus willing, so would I when the time came.

The trumpet sounds again and the crowds hush as we wait for the third and final novice to step forward, but there is a pause until the boy is dragged to the edge by his guardian.

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I fumble for the spyglass to focus on him and let out a quiet groan.

‘Oh no. He’s not ready,’ I whisper. The novice’s face is a mask of terror as the guardian grips him forcefully by the arm. I utter a silent prayer for him as he stands swaying by the edge of the roof, his darting eyes refusing to look down at the Citadel far below.

Ariel shakes his head and clenches his fists. Even without the telescope, he can read the novice’s body language. A few unfortunate boys are cursed by a fear of heights, the dreaded vertigo. Maybe he is one of them.

The Gods have no use for an angel who cannot fly.

We watch with bated breath. The guardian speaks closely in the boy’s ear, no doubt urging him on with encouragement or threats. For the novice, there is only one way off the tower.

‘Come on.’ Ariel’s eyes are fixed on the figure. ‘It is the will of the Gods. It is your destiny.’

‘You don’t know how high it looks when it’s your turn to jump. Just you wait.’

‘I have no fear, Daniel. Our god, Hermes, will guide me.’

I glance sideways at Ariel. His face is calm, almost saintly. Hermes will look after him, no doubt. Ariel thinks he is an angel already.

I sigh. I wish I could be so certain.

Through the telescope, I see the novice staring across at us, unknowingly looking straight into my eye. His face is young and innocent, just a boy with wispy brown hair. Perhaps it is my imagination, but I think I see a tear on his cheek.

The guardian shakes the novice’s shoulder as he speaks to emphasise his words. The novice nods his head, resigned, and the guardian backs away.

Now the boy stands alone on the parapet.

Slowly, painfully shy, he strips off his robe and drops it to the ground where a gust of wind snatches it away and whirls it into the air. All eyes watch as the white cloth spins in the vortices between the two towers. Then the wind, capricious and fickle as ever, drops it like a child abandoning a toy, and it flutters down, down, down to the ground below us.

It is a bad omen.

The boy stands shivering with his pale skin and hollow chest as the wind gains strength. Cautiously, he unfolds his wings and beats them, 167

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once, twice. They are lean wings. Grey feathered. Fragile. He looks over his shoulder at the crowd behind him but they are as one, impassive, waiting with arms folded.

The abbot nods.

The trumpet blows again, a long emphatic blast. I can see from the boy’s expression that he knows. If he doesn’t fly now, they will throw him from the tower.

The boy takes another step closer to the edge.

He spreads his wings.

He crouches down.

And he jumps.

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dandy smith

D

andy grew up in Kettering, Northamptonshire and has been writing since childhood. Her authorial debut was at St Edward’s Primary School when she won the ‘Young Writer’s’ competition with her story about a cherry tree that devoured small children. When she was all grown-up (for the most part) Dandy completed a Creative Writing degree at Bath Spa. After working as a rights manager at a small publisher, where two of her titles were published, Dandy returned to university to take the MA in Writing for Young People. When she isn’t writing, Dandy is teasing her dog-sized cat with a laser pen, sweating it out in the gym trying not to think about cake, and mooning over the beautiful yet hideously expensive clothes she can’t justify buying.

About Before I Break

Girls are being taken and Erica Valmont is next. The last thing she wants is to be summoned away from boarding school and back home to deal with her secretive family and enigmatic ex-boyfriend, Quinn. They say it’s for her own protection but no one will tell her exactly who, or what, they’re protecting her from.

Erica has always known her family are keeping secrets, but nothing could prepare her for the truth … danielle.smith09@bathspa.ac.uk

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before i break Prologue

I

never imagined I’d become a murderer.

Though I’d dreamed of slitting open his throat the last few days, I didn’t think it would happen like that. If it hadn’t been for the unnatural twist of his neck or the halo of blood on the floor it might have looked like he’d lain down to take a nap.

I never thought that kind of thing happened outside of bad soaps and films. I looked over my shoulder, half expecting the police to come speeding round the corner, sirens blaring and guns raised, like they do on TV. It was stupid; no one would find me there. No one would come. There was nothing but darkness and silence and the magic that lay heavy against my chest.

Surely, if murder was ever justifiable, his was.

I just had to find a way to escape before the others came back.

Chapter One

I

landed on my arse. Again. Being thrown around by a 190-pound wall of muscle really wasn’t my idea of Friday morning fun, but before I could voice my opinion he lunged at me. I rolled to the left, scrambled upright and battled to get the hell out of his way. Clumsily, he swiped at me but I lurched out of grabbing range and kicked out, aiming my heel at his chin.

Before it could connect, he grabbed my ankle and twisted, hard.

The room span. Air burst from my lungs as I landed face down, gasping for my next breath. Then he was on me – the weight of him hit me full 172

force, covering the length of my body. Knees pressed into my calves and fingers dug painfully into my shoulders. I bit back a scream. Panicked, I brought my elbow up to meet his face, he howled and the crushing weight disappeared.

I leapt to my feet and whirled around, not wanting to let him out of my sight. Like I’d been taught.

We circled each other.

‘Come on, Erica.’ He wiped blood from his lip. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

‘That depends. Are you planning on tossing any more clichéd trash talk my way?’

He shifted suddenly and I back-pedalled. Pulling back, he grinned down at me, clearly amused by my skittishness. Great.

I swept long strands of sweat-damp hair from my face and shifted my stance a little, preparing for the real attack. I didn’t have to wait long before he ran at me, his fist arcing. I span away from him and he missed, no more than a couple of inches from my face. Angry now, I dived forward, tackling him at waist height and brought him down. We both hit the matting. I landed a kidney-high punch before rolling to my feet.

Although he was stronger than me, and a good five inches taller, I was faster, so when he got to his feet and charged me I quickly feigned to the right, pivoted and smashed my heel into his stomach. The force of the blow jarred my leg, making me stumble. He doubled over, his cheeks puffing out, red and sweaty. I didn’t give him the chance to recover; I lunged forward, grabbed a fistful of his red curls, slammed his head down and brought my knee up at the same time.

Bone crunched.

I didn’t stick around to assess the damage; I sprinted for my prize.

It was no more than a foot out of reach when an arm wrapped around my waist and the ground disappeared beneath my feet. The room whizzed past as he swung me around and away from my bounty. He shoved me forward and the momentum drove me into the weight stand. I span around – too quickly – and lost my balance, tripping over my own feet. Elegant and graceful, I was not. I hit the floor hard enough to bruise my knees.

‘You’re making this too easy, Erica.’ His hand clamped around my forearm and hauled me up.

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I threw my weight forward, trying to knock him off balance but his grip only tightened. Damn it. Taking a deep breath, I let it out in a shrill ‘Scream Queen’ shriek and clutched my shoulder, feigning the world’s worst injury. Mouth open in a concerned ‘o’, he dropped my arm. Idiot. He’d fallen for it, treating me like a smooshy, fragile little girl, so I didn’t feel guilty when I swept my foot across the floor, hooked it behind his ankle and smiled sweetly up at him before jerking my foot forward. His eyes widened a split second before his smug arse hit the concrete.

I raced across the room, my heart thudding painfully in my chest; my lungs burned and sweat slid down my back My hand touched the cool metal.

I span round and held up my prize.

‘I did it!’ I said. ‘I win, I got it!’

I skipped over to him and waved Jasper’s idea of a joke in his face, making the plain white muslin cloth dance around his freckles. The flag was his twisted idea of poetic justice; we sparred with our words as often as we did with our muscles and one usually led to the other. I never surrendered during arguments. Jasper said I was too stubborn to ever wave the proverbial white flag, so he made a real one for my training.

I held out my hand and pulled him up. Jasper took the timer out of his sweats and clicked the stop button. He frowned and my breath caught. My fingers beat a nervous tattoo against the back of the beam. Jasper glanced at me and grinned. He was playing with me. Bastard.

‘Five minutes twenty-three.’

I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face and the bubble of pride in my chest. ‘I beat my personal best.’

He walked over to the railing, grabbed two towels and threw one to me.

‘See?’ I said, ‘I’ve improved. Loads.’

Jasper ran the towel over his red curls. I wiped the sweat from the back of my neck. Definitely in need of a shower.

‘You cheated.’

‘What?’

‘You faked an injury,’ he said, his mouth setting in a hard line.

I shrugged. ‘I was playing this to my advantage; not my fault you’re a softy.’

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‘Well, if you’re attacked for real, those little tricks won’t save you.’

I refrained from rolling my eyes. Attending an all-girls boarding school didn’t exactly scream ‘danger’ to me; it’s not like I was often skulking around ghettos or loitering on dodgy street corners.

‘I can take care of myself,’ I said.

‘I’m glad to see you’re not letting your training get in the way of your arrogance.’

I chucked the towel in the basin by the door. ‘It’s not arrogance.’

I smiled. ‘It’s self-belief.’

‘Your coordination could do with a bit of work and I’m concerned about your footwork too.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my footwork.’ I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘My footwork is fine.’ I looked down at my wriggling toes, curling and uncurling them.

‘It needs looking at.’

My head snapped up and I shot him my bitchier-than-thou glare.

Jasper gave me a disarming ‘I don’t make up the rules’ shrug before bending down to retrieve a stray weight. He placed it back in its holster, his muscles rippling with the effort.

‘Sent your arse flying,’ I muttered.

He glared at me and I smiled.

‘Footwork doesn’t change the fact that I got the flag and I beat my personal best. So I can go early. You promised.’

‘You pay me to teach you self-defence, yet you’re practically bouncing up and down to leave.’

I bent down to grab my water bottle. It was actually Daddy Dearest who paid for my training. Learning self-defence was just about the only thing we’d ever agreed on.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow at seven a.m.,’ he said.

I paused, the bottle halfway to my lips. ‘What?’

‘You heard.’

‘But I’m going out tonight! You promised me I’d have tomorrow off.’

He shrugged.

‘You’re such a dick, Jasper.’

‘Hey, guys like me don’t grow on trees.’

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‘You’re right. They should hang from them.’

‘Ouch, that hurt.’ He put his hand to his chest and winced.

‘Truth does.’

He tugged on my ponytail. ‘Either way, I want you here tomorrow at seven, kiddo.’

‘Stop calling me “kiddo”; you’re only, like, two years older than me.

I’m not a kid.’

‘But you act like one.’

‘Do not! Besides, I don’t pay you to drive me into an early grave.’

‘No, you don’t. You pay me to keep you out of one and that’s what I’m doing.’

‘The gym hall doesn’t even open up to students until seven-thirty.’

‘I’m not a student, I’m staff. We’ll get an extra half hour of undisrupted training. Don’t give me that look, I’m teaching you how to defend yourself.’

‘I can defend myself.’

Jasper walked past me, heading toward the exit. He didn’t break stride as his leg shot out so fast I barely had time to register it before I was back on my arse.

‘See you at seven, Erica.’

Teale was waiting outside the gym hall, hair still damp from swimming practice. As soon I stepped into the corridor she pounced.

‘So, another afternoon working up a sweat with His Hotness?’ she asked, falling into step beside me.

I pulled a face. Jasper was like a brother. A brother that enjoyed kicking nine shades of shit out of me, but a brother nonetheless. ‘Something like that. Not that you should care. Don’t you have a boyfriend … rugby star, goes by the name of Luke?’

‘I’m monogamous, not dead. Why aren’t all the gym staff as tastylooking as Jasper?’

‘Because he doesn’t work for Loretto; I hire him for training privately.’

‘Our school only hires middle-aged failed-sportsmen.’ She sighed and then broke into a smile, as if struck by a new, exciting idea. ‘Hey, maybe I can ask my parents to hire Jasper for me too.’

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I laughed, bumping my hip against hers. ‘So is Luke coming to your sister’s party tonight?’

‘He said he’ll show.’

‘That makes one of us.’

‘You’re not coming?’ she said, eyes bulging.

‘Can’t. Jasper wants me in the gym at seven a.m.’

‘Harsh,’ Teale said, pushing the swing doors open with her hip. ‘Just come anyway. It took me forever to convince Mrs Pindar to let us leave this weekend. She thinks we’re staying at my parents’ to “house-sit” while they’re away. You never know, you might even find yourself a guy.’

And back around we go. I had this conversation with Teale at least once a week. Obviously all the chlorine in the school pool had poisoned one too many brain cells because she was suffering from recurring memory loss.

‘Come on,’ she cooed. ‘It’s not like there aren’t, like, half a million guys after the beautiful yet-to-be-touched Erica Valmont. I actually heard there was a bet going on which one of the rugby lads would bed you first.

Don’t give me that horrified little virgin look. Oh, come on,’ Teal teased, ‘I thought you were over the guy who broke your heart.’

I stiffened. ‘There wasn’t a guy.’

‘Yeah, no guy that you’ll actually talk about. There was definitely a guy though, there always is. Last year, when you came to this school, you were all red-eyed and zombie-like for months.’ She sighed dramatically. ‘I’ve known enough heartbreak to recognise it.’

I snorted. ‘Of course. I’m sure you’re truly heartbroken after the twenty-four hours you spend bumping uglies with the random guys you pick up from Fleets every Saturday night.’

Teale opened her mouth to argue but after a meaningful breatheanother-word-and-I’ll-end-you stare, she backed down.

‘Fine. I won’t bring up the guy who has no name … until you’re full on tequila at the party tonight. Please come,’ she wheedled. ‘Besides, Sarah Bitch-Big-Tits is going to be there. Please?’

Sarah had a reputation for being turned more ways than a Rubik’s cube and she wasn’t unfamiliar with webcam, doings things to herself that would make even Miley Cyrus blush.

‘She’s been after Luke for months,’ she said, hugging her English 177

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folder closer to her chest. ‘And I know he doesn’t want Sarah’s cheap acrylics pawing at him.’

I didn’t have the heart to tell Teale that she’d set her wonder-boy boyfriend on a very shaky pedestal. He was in his final year at St Martin’s School for Boys, but he’d been texting and Facebooking a bunch of girls from Loretto behind her back. If I hadn’t overheard a bunch of lower year girls gossiping, I’d never have found out. I could’ve told Teale but I didn’t have any evidence, just rumours. Besides, Teale changed her boyfriends as often as she changed her underwear, so it didn’t seem like a biggy. Give it a few more weeks and she’d be over him and under someone else.

That was almost six months ago.

‘Do you think she’s prettier than me?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Are you seriously asking me that? Don’t let SarahVon-Liposuction give you self-esteem issues.’ And really, Teale had nothing to worry about. With her black, collarbone-length hair and rouge coated lips she looked like a 1920s French film star. It was as if she’d danced right out of the reel of an old silent film. ‘Anyway, Luke’s always been a flirt, you know that. You said it was something you liked about him … don’t you trust him? Do you think he’d cheat?’

‘No, of course he wouldn’t. We love each other but I don’t trust Sarah not to try to get with him and she’ll tell everyone and then I’ll be laughed at.

You have to come, Erica. It’s my sister’s party; I’ll barely know anyone there.

If you don’t go I won’t go and if I don’t turn up then …’

‘I get it. Sarah will see it as an opening and move in on Luke.’

Girls are like sharks, any sign of blood in the water and it becomes a feeding frenzy.

‘Exactly.’

She looked up at me, grey eyes wide, her Oscar-worthy lip tremble in place. I rolled my eyes, already knowing I’d made up my mind.

‘Fine.’

Jasper was going to kill me.

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179

roz stimpson

R

oz hails from the misty climes of the Isle of Man. She is an obsessive fan of Manga, CS Lewis and Dr Who. As a teenager she wanted to be an illustrator, a fashion designer or a full-time Steampunk, but being a writer won out.

Watch Me Fall is an amalgamation of her love for urban fantasy books and the desire to help teens recognise their inherent worth.

About Watch Me Fall

Michael has been abandoned by God, attacked by demons, and now his adoptive mother Mary wants him in yet another high school.

Grace’s life is falling apart around her. Her dad’s night terrors have her nerves at breaking point, and now the new boy needs her help too; Michael has lost his powers. He can’t see the threat around the corner but, thanks to an encounter with Archangel Gabriel himself, Grace can, and now she’s Michael’s only hope of discovering the truth of his ongoing descent into darkness. roz.stimpson@hotmail.com

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watch me fall Chapter Zero Removed Michael

I

was lying naked on a cold concrete floor when Mary found me. They were supposed to be knocking the place down, but it was her job to do the final checks.

I should’ve thanked God I didn’t have that crumbling manor house collapse into a dusty heap on top of me, but I didn’t want to. He was the reason I was there in the first place.

All I knew was I’d ended up in that cellar, my back killed, and that something was missing. There was definitely something I should be remembering: a chunk of flesh had gone from my stomach, or my heart had lost an essential artery. I felt too … light.

I retched as soon as Mary helped me to my feet. She was smiling, trying to be kind, but I don’t think her heart was in it, not at the beginning.

She was too disturbed by what she’d seen on my back.

She draped her high-vis coat over my body and took me to a hospital.

Something about it seemed familiar. Not the antiseptic smell, or the lingering atmosphere of sadness which clung to places like this, but the white.

Whitewashed walls and ceilings, lights that stung my eyes after the dingy grey of the basement where I’d woken up.

It made me feel old, so incredibly old and tired. But when we passed a mirror in the sterile hallway I saw my reflection.

182

It wasn’t me.

It was a small child, no older than ten.

But I wasn’t ten. I was older. I was sure that I was much, much older.

Mary gently nudged me on. She was walking me into a private room and made me sit on a high bed with crisp white sheets.

‘The reception lady is going to send a doctor to talk to you, and a policeman, OK? Have you met a policeman before?’

I shook my head. I didn’t think I’d met a policeman … but … maybe.

It was hard to remember anything because my head flashed with stabs of pain every time I tried to think.

‘Where are you from, do you remember?’ Mary took a seat, and held my hand in a reassuring sort of way. I stared at the difference. Her hands were soft, palest white. Mine were tiny, calloused, and my skin was much darker than hers, the same deep brown as the steaming coffee a nurse had just put on the bedside table for her.

I shook my head to answer, as a man in a black uniform crossed the threshold. He was followed by another, rounder man in a long white jacket.

‘Mary Grosvenor?’ The man in black stuck out his hand. Mary shook it and nodded. ‘And you must be Michael,’ he said, turning to me. He had bristly brown hair and a young face. Not as young as mine, but it was kind and youthful, and he was tall, overly tall, like his spine had never stopped growing.

‘I’m Police Sergeant Woodward; you can call me Emmet if you’d like. And this is Doctor Richards. We just want to talk to you for a little while.’

I nodded, and glanced at the portly man in white.

They were all tall. I felt myself shudder. I wasn’t used to being looked down upon.

The two men asked me a lot of questions. I wished I knew the answers to them myself.

Do you have parents? Guardians? Someone who looks after you?

Where are you from, Michael?

How old are you, Michael?

The doctor examined my head. ‘No damage to the skull to suggest an attack or injury. No bruising, nothing.’ He looked at my hands, too, turning them over gently with his own. His fingers were pudgy and soft. Mine felt red raw.

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He hummed with concern but said nothing about them. ‘Apart from his malnourishment, he appears fine.’

‘But his back …’ Mary’s voice cracked. ‘You should … take a look at his back.’

‘Is your back sore, Michael?’

‘It aches like death,’ I said. All three of them stared at me.

Breaking the awkward silence, the doctor chuckled and turned to Sergeant Emmet. ‘Not uncommon,’ the doctor said. ‘Kids pick up phrases all the time. It’s a sign his mind is healthy, at least in some respects. The amnesia though … we should keep him in for a while, run some tests. I’ll check his back in a moment.’

‘Well, social services are on their way,’ Sergeant Emmet added. ‘They’ll keep an eye on him. In the meantime I’ll run his name through our systems, see what we can come up with. Not sure “Michael” alone is enough to go on, though.’ The sergeant scratched his head. He’d already asked but I’d told him: I had no surname.

My name had been one of the first things Mary had asked me.

‘I’ll see you soon, Michael. Get better, OK?’ the Sergeant said. ‘Miss Grosvenor, can I have a word?’ He gestured to the door.

The doctor said something about arranging an X-ray, just to doublecheck my skull, and all three left together.

I could hear Mary and the policeman in the hallway.

‘He was just in the old house, lying on his front, moaning. I don’t know how they missed him,’ Mary said.

‘Was there anything there? A bag? Clothing? Anything that might have belonged to him?’

‘No, the place was empty; it was about to be demolished.’

‘Hmm. We’ll have to have our own people check it of course, but thank you. I’m afraid you won’t be able to stay with him though, not until you’ve got clearance from social services.’

‘But he’s on his own!’ Mary protested.

‘He’s in good hands with the doctor,’ Emmet said. ‘I’m sorry. He’s a vulnerable child: we have to be extra careful. You did the right thing by bringing him here and calling us. That’ll help if you want to check his progress. I’ll be in touch.’

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There were a few moments of silence before Mary popped her head around the door again.

‘Sorry, Michael, I’m not allowed to stay while tests are going on, but if I’m allowed to visit, would you like that?’ she asked hopefully.

She was nice, I supposed, and she’d helped me get here at least. I nodded. Then I remembered. ‘Your jacket.’ I stood and began to slide it off my shoulders. I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from yelling in agony as it brushed over my shoulder blades.

‘No,’ she rushed forwards and readjusted the jacket. ‘You keep that for now. It’ll keep you warm.’ This time the smile reached her eyes. ‘All right, I’ll see you tomorrow if I can.’ She squeezed my hand and left me alone.

I stared at my stinging palm for a while before Doctor Richards came back and asked me to take off the jacket. I started to slide it off again, wincing, and turned so he could see what I could not.

The doctor inhaled sharply and a prickle of panic rose in my stomach.

A fiery ache was engulfing my exposed upper back.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ the doctor said. ‘Nurse!’ A nurse ran in and screeched when she saw me.

Saw my back.

‘Get him a gown, then straight to X-ray.’

‘What is it?’ the nurse asked, her voice high-pitched and squeaky.

The doctor gestured her outside, but I could hear their hurried whispers through the small sliver of open door they’d left in their hurry to get away.

‘His back’s been stabbed. Twice, with what looks like bones. They’ve just been left there, sticking out, the top bits snapped off … Could you see the marrow? How could someone … ?’

‘Who would do that? Do you think it was his family?’ the nurse asked.

‘Maybe, I don’t know … It’s disgusting, abandoning a child in that condition.’ The doctor paused. ‘Anyway, X-ray. I don’t want to remove those bones until I know they’ve not punctured an organ. Leaving them in may be stopping any internal bleeding. Get a gown for him. Quickly.’

The nurse kept her eyes fixed on the ground when she came in to give me the gown. Then Doctor Richards led me into another room. They told me to stand straight, as still as I could, with my chest against a screen as 185

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they moved another as close as they could behind me. Then they watched me behind glass.

I closed my eyes and heard clicks. Dark and light flashed through my eyelids like black lightning, making me shiver.

A horrible recognition stirred in the pit of my stomach.

This wasn’t right. Lightning was hot, not cold.

Nevertheless, the cold lightning had spread all around me; sinking into my skin as a tumult of voices began laughing, cackling, and things of the depths were snapping the bones in my back, while pain flooded the frontlines of my mind.

Not that – anything but that – I won’t be able to get back!

It was my last thought before I fainted.

I woke and I was lying on my front again, in a room with slatted blinds halfobscuring a hazy sunset. Mary was sitting by my bed.

‘Where am I?’ my child’s voice croaked.

‘In the hospital still. It’s OK. Someone did a terrible thing to you; they stabbed you, Michael, but it’s OK now. The doctor took the protrusions out.’ Mary took my trembling hand in hers.

Something even bigger was missing.

I felt lighter than before.

Like someone had hacked off my limbs.

Protrusions, she’d said.

‘Protrusions? What’s that?’

‘The doctors are saying you’re an angel who had to have his broken wings removed, that’s all. Think of it like that.’

Tears burned in my eyes.

Not that. Anything but that.

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acknowledgements The editors would like to thank the many people who contributed their time and talents to the making of this anthology: t 1SPGFTTPS %BWJE "MNPOE GPS CFJOH BO FUFSOBM JOTQJSBUJPO t +VMJB (SFFO PVS 1SPHSBNNF -FBEFS GPS BMM IFS HVJEBODF BOE DBSF t 0VS NBOVTDSJQU UVUPST o +BOJOF "NPT &MFO $BMEFDPUU -VDZ Christopher, Julia Green, Marie-Louise Jensen, Joanna Nadin, CJ Skuse, Steve Voake and Anna Wilson – for helping us conquer the mountain. We couldn’t have done it without you t +BOJOF "NPT BOE +PIO .D-BZ GPS UIFJS JOTJEFS T HVJEF UP UIF publishing world t "MM UIF TUBê BU $PSTIBN $PVSU t 0VS XPOEFSGVM JMMVTUSBUJPO UFBN GSPN UIF 4DIPPM PG "SU BOE %FTJHO at Bath Spa University, led by Nigel Robinson t 0VS DPWFS JMMVTUSBUPS )BUUJF $MBSL t +FOOJGFS /FXCVSZ PVS HSBQIJDT HVSV GPS UIF A4BWF UIF %BUF BOE website images, and for joining Miranda Matthews and Mel Darbon in coordinating the illustration work for this anthology t $BSPMJOF )BSSJT GPS NBOBHJOH UIJT QSPKFDU UISPVHI )BSSJT 8JMTPO Ltd, and for all her advice and support t 7JDUPSJB .JMMBS GPS IFS DPQZ FEJUJOH QSPXFTT t -JOEB 1JOTPO FEJUPS PG UIF $SFBUJWF 8SJUJOH ." BOUIPMPHZ BOE B partner in crime t "MZTTB )PMMJOHTXPSUI BOE *SVMBO )PSOFS FEJUPST PG UIF MA Writing for Young People anthology, for passing on their insights and experiences t 3VUI (SJïUIT BOE +FOOJGFS 'BVMLOFS GPS XPSLJOH QVSF NBHJD JO hunting down the perfect venue for the anthology launch t "OOB .PSHBO +FOOJGFS /FXCVSZ -BVSB ,BEOFS BOE PVS NBJM out, website and social media teams, for guaranteeing we wouldn’t sit in an empty room 188

t "MM PVS DMBTTNBUFT JO UIF DPIPSU XIPTF FĂŞPSUT BOE XPSET

helped bring this anthology to life.

Cordelia Lamble and Sarah Milano Co-editors of the MA Writing for Young People Anthology, 2015

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illustrators Hattie Clark harriet.clark13@bathspa.ac.uk Cover; Violet Bloomfield and the Despicable Dinner Lady, page 24; Magic Mischief, page 64; Bruno B Mackerel, page 82 Mara Dellavedova mara.dellavedova13@bathspa.ac.uk Milo and Operation Stepdad, page 14; Moonseed, page 74; A Child of Heresy, page 92 Abbie Edis abbigail.edis13@bathspa.ac.uk There’s No Place Like Home, page 54; Boys Will Be Girls, page 122 Tara Hall tara.hall12@bathspa.ac.uk Nibbles, page 132 Lola Martin lola.martin13@bathspa.ac.uk Rosie Loves Jack, page 102; Finding the Somerton Man, page 142 Megan Noakes megan.noakes13@bathspa.ac.uk Before I Break, page 170 Luke Powell luke.powell13@bathspa.ac.uk Dan and V Go to Hell, page 112; Wings, page 160; Watch Me Fall, page 180 Mike Price mikey.price11@bathspa.ac.uk Luna Island, page 34; The Cannovacci and the Dangerous Powers Club, page 44; The Orchard, page 150

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