Ninja.’
He blushed as Pen continued, ‘It’s okay. Besides, my mum’s pretty fierce. If she sees you again, after you suggested you come into my room —’ She whistled and slit her throat with her finger.
‘She didn’t seem that bad.’
‘Don’t let the Karachi Kitten act fool you. She’d shove you slowly through a cheese-grater if she thought you were messing with her little girl. Let me handle her.’
He laughed at that, and a brief guilty look flitted across his face, as though it was wrong to be laughing at a time like this. ‘When Beth gets back,’ he said, ‘I hope you make it up. I’m glad she has a friend like you.’
Something stretched queasily in Pen’s stomach. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
They walked together back across the road, dodging the brightly dressed women carrying bags of vegetables from the market in Dalston.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a diversion?’ he asked her as they neared her house. ‘I could, I don’t know, sing?’
‘No offence, Mr Bradley, but Beth told me about your singing. She says your rubber duck’s about the right audience for it.’
‘Oh, well— Okay.’ He turned back to his car.
‘Mr B, wait!’ She saw him stiffen, snared by the urgency in her voice. She was staring at her front door – or rather, the door frame . Tiny trains had been drawn around its edge, a trail that led away along the bottom of the wall like black breadcrumbs.
They followed it around the corner into a drab alleyway and peered closed at what had been painted onto the bricks.
‘What’s that supposed to—?’ he started. ‘ Fractured harmony ? I don’t—’
‘I do,’ Pen said. She creased her stiff, sore hands into fists and then released them slowly. ‘I know what it means, Mr Bradley. I’ve been there.’ She paused, and then found herself saying, ‘I’ll show you.’
‘Who’s that?’ He pointed at the sketch of a skinny boy using a spear to pick his fingernails with a nonchalant air.
Pen shook her head. ‘Never seen anyone who looked anything like that,’ she admitted. ‘Tell you what though, if Beth’s looking, she’ll find him.’
She dipped into her pocket, lifted out her phone and snapped a photo of the boy. ‘And that means we need to find him too.’
It was only on the way out of the alley that she saw her own face, daubed on the brick, and all the anger she’d been nursing towards her best friend changed intosomething else, something no less sharp, that caught in her throat.
‘Gosh, is that you?’ Mr Bradley murmured. ‘It is – it is you. She did that from memory? Heavens, it looks just like you. I mean …’ There was no mistaking the pride in his voice. Pen wondered if Beth had ever heard it.
‘Yes, Mr Bradley,’ she said, but it was hard to breathe. ‘She’s very good.’
CHAPTER 13
It was morning: the daylamp’s rays pouring into the bulb fell in rainbows, refracted by the glass. Voltaia shifted, the glow of her blood washed out by the surfeit of light. Day . Her eyes stung in the light. Why am I awake? The world outside was a seamless wall of glare. Too early . She shook herself and settled her head back onto her arms, feeling her consciousness ebb away.
The lamppost shook and her eyes snapped open again. It was too bright; she couldn’t see anything, but she could feel vibrations coming through the metal. The filaments in her bones trembled. She started twitching and shifting, moving just enough to build up some magnetism, until she could stretch her fingers forward, and push the field out, teasing the air.
Voltaia recoiled in horror; something was crawling up her lamppost. Her heart began to trip, faster and faster, until it was so beating quickly that even through the light of the daylamp she could see the yellow glow reflecting off the glass.
Lec! she strobed, but her elder sister had run away in disgust at the street-boy’s behaviour and hadn’t come back.
Galva! Faradi!
It was too bright, and she was blind.
He blushed as Pen continued, ‘It’s okay. Besides, my mum’s pretty fierce. If she sees you again, after you suggested you come into my room —’ She whistled and slit her throat with her finger.
‘She didn’t seem that bad.’
‘Don’t let the Karachi Kitten act fool you. She’d shove you slowly through a cheese-grater if she thought you were messing with her little girl. Let me handle her.’
He laughed at that, and a brief guilty look flitted across his face, as though it was wrong to be laughing at a time like this. ‘When Beth gets back,’ he said, ‘I hope you make it up. I’m glad she has a friend like you.’
Something stretched queasily in Pen’s stomach. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
They walked together back across the road, dodging the brightly dressed women carrying bags of vegetables from the market in Dalston.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a diversion?’ he asked her as they neared her house. ‘I could, I don’t know, sing?’
‘No offence, Mr Bradley, but Beth told me about your singing. She says your rubber duck’s about the right audience for it.’
‘Oh, well— Okay.’ He turned back to his car.
‘Mr B, wait!’ She saw him stiffen, snared by the urgency in her voice. She was staring at her front door – or rather, the door frame . Tiny trains had been drawn around its edge, a trail that led away along the bottom of the wall like black breadcrumbs.
They followed it around the corner into a drab alleyway and peered closed at what had been painted onto the bricks.
‘What’s that supposed to—?’ he started. ‘ Fractured harmony ? I don’t—’
‘I do,’ Pen said. She creased her stiff, sore hands into fists and then released them slowly. ‘I know what it means, Mr Bradley. I’ve been there.’ She paused, and then found herself saying, ‘I’ll show you.’
‘Who’s that?’ He pointed at the sketch of a skinny boy using a spear to pick his fingernails with a nonchalant air.
Pen shook her head. ‘Never seen anyone who looked anything like that,’ she admitted. ‘Tell you what though, if Beth’s looking, she’ll find him.’
She dipped into her pocket, lifted out her phone and snapped a photo of the boy. ‘And that means we need to find him too.’
It was only on the way out of the alley that she saw her own face, daubed on the brick, and all the anger she’d been nursing towards her best friend changed intosomething else, something no less sharp, that caught in her throat.
‘Gosh, is that you?’ Mr Bradley murmured. ‘It is – it is you. She did that from memory? Heavens, it looks just like you. I mean …’ There was no mistaking the pride in his voice. Pen wondered if Beth had ever heard it.
‘Yes, Mr Bradley,’ she said, but it was hard to breathe. ‘She’s very good.’
CHAPTER 13
It was morning: the daylamp’s rays pouring into the bulb fell in rainbows, refracted by the glass. Voltaia shifted, the glow of her blood washed out by the surfeit of light. Day . Her eyes stung in the light. Why am I awake? The world outside was a seamless wall of glare. Too early . She shook herself and settled her head back onto her arms, feeling her consciousness ebb away.
The lamppost shook and her eyes snapped open again. It was too bright; she couldn’t see anything, but she could feel vibrations coming through the metal. The filaments in her bones trembled. She started twitching and shifting, moving just enough to build up some magnetism, until she could stretch her fingers forward, and push the field out, teasing the air.
Voltaia recoiled in horror; something was crawling up her lamppost. Her heart began to trip, faster and faster, until it was so beating quickly that even through the light of the daylamp she could see the yellow glow reflecting off the glass.
Lec! she strobed, but her elder sister had run away in disgust at the street-boy’s behaviour and hadn’t come back.
Galva! Faradi!
It was too bright, and she was blind.
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