A Strange Fire (Florence Vaine) (26 page)

 “We should go eat dinner now, I’m starved,” I tell him, and he nods,
eyes wandering over me, probably wondering what’s made me so jumpy all of a
sudden.

 Oh dear, I really hope my eyes are playing tricks on me, because if
those wings are any indication of Frank’s true nature then I’m in for some
scary revelations when he finally decides to tell me what he is.

That night Gran brings two friends home with her. I’m sitting in the
kitchen, doing homework at the table when they arrive. Thankfully Frank’s gone
when they get in, I wouldn’t have enjoyed having to introduce him to Gran. The
three of them laugh and joke like school girls, despite being well past their
prime. One of them wears a peach tea dress and has that blue rinse hair that
fascinates me, and the other wears a navy cotton button down that looks just as
cosy as it sounds. Her hair is dyed a more traditional shade of chestnut brown,
though you can see the grey coming through.

 Gran’s in her Sunday best, a floral print skirt and a cream blouse, her
hair has been styled into curls with rollers.

 “Well my goodness Marguerite,” says the blue rinse. “Your ‘do really has
stood the test, not a hair out of place all day.” I wonder who she’s talking to
for a minute, before I remember Gran’s first name is Marguerite.

 Gran grins happily at the compliment before replying, “Diana came this
morning to do it for me.”

 The other two share a glance, and an odd expression takes shape on both
of their faces. Like envy. Or jealousy. It makes me uneasy. I can’t see how
they’d be jealous of Gran getting her hair done, old ladies seem to go to the
hairdressers on a weekly basis. The two women work hard to conceal their
feelings. Unfortunately they can never hide them from me. I can see the
poisonous emotion rush through their colours like a disruptive cloud of toxic
noise.

 Gran introduces me to her friends, the blue rinse lady’s name is Sheila,
and the chestnut brown is Blanche. Old lady names. I realise I fit right in
when Gran finishes her niceties by saying, “And this is my granddaughter
Florence.”

 I give them a shy smile and return to my studies, but oh no, I’m not
getting away
that
easily. Sheila and Blanche both sit down at the table
on either side of me. Wrinkled eyes big and – goodness, why are they looking at
me like that? Like I’m some sort of exotic treasure.

 “Oh, isn’t she a beauty,” says Sheila, fingering my hair, and I wish she
wouldn’t.

 “And just look at that skin,” Blanche adds. “So youthful and smooth,
like a porcelain doll.”

 “Stop that,” says Gran with a tittering laugh. “You two are embarrassing
the poor girl,” her aura quivers ever so slightly. If I’d blinked I would have
missed it, and it makes me wonder if Gran isn’t just the tiniest bit on edge to
have these two women in her house.

 Maybe they’re the friends she doesn’t really like, but simply tolerates
out of good manners. Blanche smells strongly of talcum powder. Sheila has a
wart on her left index finger. I can’t take my eyes off it, and I thank my
lucky stars that she’d touched my hair with the other hand.

 Sheila sits back in her chair, dull brown eyes regarding me with
heightened interest. She must not spend a lot of time around younger people,
because she gazes at me like I’m a puzzle she’d love to know how to solve.

 “I think I might go upstairs and finish this,” I say, gathering my books
and writing pad.

 “No, don’t do that, pet,” says Blanche, grabbing my arm and urging me to
sit back down. “Stay and humour us old girls. Marguerite has told us so much
about you, we feel as though we know you so well already.”

 “Okay,” I reply, too nervous to refuse for fear Sheila will try to touch
me again, but this time with the warty hand. Blanche’s tight grip unnerves me,
but she lets go as soon as I take my seat again.

 “How did the p-party go?” I ask Gran, who’s busying herself making a pot
of tea.

 “Oh, it was an absolute hoot!” Sheila answers for her. “We even had a
few cheeky glasses of sherry towards the end. Bridget Coleman was completely
legless, her poor son had to come and take her home.”

 I have no clue who Bridget Coleman is, and to be honest, I don’t think I
want to know. I’d much prefer to be upstairs in my room right now, rather than
down here, surrounded by the smell of talc and shoe polish.

 Gran brings the tea over and pours us each a cup, I take a sip but it’s
too hot so I set it back down. I get a fright when I glance to my side to find
Blanche’s big rheumy eyes staring intently back at me. I jump just a fraction
in surprise, in that way you do when you see something you didn’t expect. My
jumpiness happens too quickly for me to cover it up, and the edges of Blanche’s
wizened lips turn up in an unsettling grin.

 “Oh my, did I startle you dear?” she asks, in a pleased voice.

 “Just a l-little.” I admit.

 “Florence has always had a bit of a nervous disposition.” Gran explains,
dipping a digestive into her tea, and it’s ironic really, because in her
colours I see burgeoning spots of nervous tension. I wonder what’s causing
them. Perhaps it’s because she’s tired and wishes her two friends would go home
already. Although, if that were the case then I’d be more likely to see
annoyance or impatience rather than anxiety.

 And then, when Sheila eyes Gran’s hair again and says, “Actually
Marguerite, I take back my statement about your ‘do staying intact all day,
it’s beginning to look a tad dishevelled,” I wonder if the blue haired
pensioner isn’t a bit of a bully. There was certainly an undermining tone to
her voice just then.

 “I think it still looks lovely,” I interject, aversion to Sheila
suddenly building up in me.

 “You’re too kind, Florence,” says Gran. “But I’m sure Sheila’s right,
after all, I have been on the go all day, and even Diana’s talented hairdressing
skills can’t beat the effects of age I’m afraid,” then she pats the side of her
head modestly.

 Blanche laughs. “Oh even
Diana
isn’t good enough to do that, too
true.” And the way she emphasises Diana’s name, as though mentioning the title
of a bloody saint, for some reason it just drives me crazy. If they knew how
toxic that woman is on the inside they wouldn’t be half as speedy to sing her
praises. I can’t help myself as I make a disagreeing “Humph” sound and roll my
eyes. Unfortunately, this doesn’t escape Sheila’s shrewd gaze.

 “Something you’d like to say, dear?” she asks, eyes becoming all
scrunched up.

 I sputter a nervous cough. “I, um, I’m just not too fond of Diana, she
gives me a b-bad vibe.”

 Sheila and Blanche both go still as stone, and a tension filled air
consumes the room.

 “Opinions such as that should be kept to oneself, Florence,” says Gran,
in a voice I’d almost describe as hard. It’s the first time she’s ever even
come close to scolding me. My mouth nearly drops open in surprise.

 “S-sorry,” I reply with a frown. Gran’s aura jitters in and out of
place, and her colours show such fear. What the hell? Is she embarrassed by me
saying something negative about her care assistant? Does it bother her that
much that Diana might find out that I don’t like her?

 “I happen to think young Diana is a wonderful woman,” says Sheila,
looking down the length of her nose at me. Blanche has her arms firmly folded
across her chest, her lips taut with distaste.

 “Well, we’re all entitled to our opinions,” I mutter under my breath.

 At this, Sheila’s glare cuts into me, and I have to hold myself back
from laughing at the swift change in her attitude toward me now. The humour is
cut short though, because suddenly a terribly strong light-headedness comes
over me, which is quickly followed by a thumping headache. I put a hand to my
forehead, and a cold sweat comes away on my palm. The strength of the headache
increases, and I push my two forefingers to my temples in an attempt to ease
the pain. It doesn’t work, and I feel like I might pass out.

 I falter to the left and fall into Sheila who gasps in surprise. My hand
grips onto her wrist for support for a fraction of a second, and then the world
goes black.

 The next thing I can remember is being there but not there, amid tall
trees in the middle of a forest in the dark of night. My brain tingles with an
odd sensation, somebody else’s thoughts are inside my head, and a frantic
stream of consciousness ensues.

 Oh God, oh God, oh God, why won’t the sound come when I scream? How
can that be possible? Why have they taken me here? What will Mum do when she
finds I’ve disappeared? She’s stolen so much energy already, so much of my life
and soul, what more could she want? And what do
they
want once
she’s
finished with me? Can’t...move...can’t...think.....can’t…

 And then the voice is gone, but I’m still here, lying flat on the cold,
damp soil. I peer down at my body, and I don’t recognise it at all. The clothes
are all wrong, and I’m too skinny to really be myself, barely any chest or
hips. I lift a hand to scratch my head and find that my hair’s been cut, the
normally long strands only come to my shoulders, and it’s texture has changed
too, curly rather than straight. And that’s when I realise that
I’m
really
not here, but merely possessing the body of another.

 A familiar laugh rings out, but I can’t quite place where I’ve heard it
before. I try to sit up to better see what’s going on, but the body I’m trapped
inside won’t move this time. Most likely because it isn’t actually mine. But
then that thought vanishes when I realise the reason I can’t move is because
something is actively preventing me. An unseen, but powerful force holds me
down, and a deafening vibration shoots through me. My ears ring with static. My
eyes go too wide, pinned open by something I can’t discern. Things hover about
me, but my head won’t turn, so I can’t see what they are.

 The powerlessness is overwhelming. A fear so palpable seizes my heart in
a way I could never put into words. It’s as though I can understand it, relate
to it, but I can’t experience it for myself. It’s the fear of the person whose
body I’m possessing that I sense, and if it weren’t for the fact that the eyes
I see through are pinned open to a state of numbness, I would probably cry.
Because this person is so afraid, afraid because she knows what’s going to
happen to her, and she knows that once it’s over she’ll be gone from the world.
Extinguished like a weak little flame that never got the chance to burn bright.

 Uncountable minutes go by before figures come into view, and if I was
myself I’m sure that my blood would run cold. It’s the terrifying robed women
from my dream, and I feel a lump form in the throat that’s not mine. One woman
stands at the forefront, and I immediately recognise her height and shape.
She’s the one who’d been standing up on the high alter-like podium in my dream.

 She raises both hands so that they’re at an exact ninety-degree angle to
her body. Her eyes are obscured by the hood of her robe, but I can just about
make out her mouth and chin. The mouth opens wide, and something begins to pull
on me. If I ever thought the dark arts were simply a myth, then this moment
would put that belief well and truly to rest. The woman before me is
undoubtedly something darkly magical, and she’s using her powers to kill the
girl I’m trapped inside, without so much as touching her.

 I can feel her drain energy from the girl like some kind of succubus.
I’ll never forget the sensation that creeps up on me, the knowledge of impending
death. I experience every agonising second of it along with the girl who is
dying, helpless to stop what’s happening, and it’s only when her soul finally
severs from her body that the agony ends.

A loud gasp. I jolt upright in my bed in Gran’s house, a damp rolled up
hand towel falls from my forehead. The door quickly opens and Gran hurries in,
colours of concern blinding me like an industrial flash light.

 “Oh, thank the lord,” she cries. “I thought I was going to have to call
an ambulance.”

 “W-w-w…” I stammer, the words won’t come because the feeling of dying is
there in my head, so vividly fresh in my memory. Finally, I manage, “What
h-happened to me?”

 “Oh honey,” says Gran. “You fainted downstairs in the kitchen in front
of Sheila and Blanche. Sheila was so upset that she had to go home. If it
hadn’t been for Blanche’s help I probably wouldn’t have gotten you up the
stairs.” I myself am surprised that even with Blanche’s help they managed to
carry me up here. They must be unusually strong for their ages.

 “I – I don’t know what happened,” I reply, mildly confused. “I’ve never
just fainted like that before, especially without good reason.”

 “Try not to worry about it,” says Gran in a soothing voice, stroking me
on the shoulder. “You just focus on resting up.”

 My body desperately wants to go to sleep, but my eyes won’t close for
fear of returning to the place I’ve just been. Gran hands me a glass of water
and I drink it all down in one gulp.

 “Get some sleep, Florence,” she says, lips turned down in sadness for
some reason. She turns off the lamp and closes over my bedroom door.

 I do sleep eventually that night, more out of exhaustion than anything
else, and when I wake up the next morning to the beeping sound of my alarm, I
really wish the world would just go away. But I struggle onwards and get
dressed. At breakfast, Gran tells me I can stay at home if I’d like, but I
don’t take her up on the offer. I need to go to school to see Frank and Sam,
and tell them about what happened to me last night. I’m almost certain whose
body I’d been in after I’d fainted. Almost certain whose death it was that I
witnessed.

 It’s a pleasantly sunny day as I walk to school, Chesterport weather
seems to always be mild. Although I’m sure it gets cold in December and January.
I spot Frank in the car park with his brothers when I arrive, and the smile on
his face when our eyes meet makes me forget the horrors of last night for a few
peaceful moments. He opens his arms to me when I get close, and I actually run
the last few feet, eager for his hug. He’s taller than me, so my face only
reaches the lower part of his neck. I plant a light kiss on his collarbone and
his hands grip me tighter on either side.