Fairytales for Wilde Girls (23 page)

 

Last Man Standing

There it was, her anchor at last – a tenuous happiness, but at least it stuck fast in the current, something she could hold tightly on to, even when Edgar himself was out of reach.

Isola and Edgar talked for hours, about everything. When the baby was sleeping and they had to whisper, when they lay on the floor and watched movies almost muted – even then they were aware of each other. While she braided a strand of her anime heroine-hair, he clogged his mouth with peach slices. Their fingers entwined, and bells tolled in the distant churchyard, startling them apart.

Father's only rule – ‘No sleepovers!' – had been steadily upheld since that first night she'd spent curled in his arms. Of course, Father didn't know about that – getting up at the crack of dawn had enabled her to sneak home and sufficiently rumple her bedsheets to foster the belief she'd slept in them.

Isola was too shy to tell Alejandro about her relationship with Edgar. Ruslana and Christobelle would have been so excited to gossip with her, and the thought came with a stomach pang, a pricked nerve in the skin.

Alejandro had begun to go missing again, for long hours. She especially hated when he left at night. They would argue and he would always end up leaving, the air cold in his absence and sometimes still in his presence.

On these nights Alejandro insisted on summoning the only nearby Nimue kin who was even vaguely trustworthy. Winsor pouted the whole night, and Isola didn't feel safer; if she heard about his plans in advance, she'd always stay at Edgar's.

Winsor was a horrible guard, anyway. One night, when Alejandro went to Scotland to speak with the ghosts of druids about exorcising hauntings, Isola caught Winsor trying to swipe a safety pin from the dresser. Winsor wanted to use it as a faerie bayonet, to defend herself against an aggressive spider, she claimed. Isola was thankful for once that Grandpa Furlong wasn't around – he would be so disappointed in her for not squashing Winsor there and then.

A Brief Excursion into the Conflicted Mind of the Spaniard

‘I'm so glad you're back, Ale. Sorry I yelled at you.'

Alejandro, the first and then the last man standing, sat at her bedside and shushed her into silence, fingering the silver buttons on his waistcoat. She had no idea what it cost him to leave her – and what it might cost to stay. He needed a distraction. He tried to mentally drift somewhere as sunny as Spain.

‘I really do hate Winsor, though.'

He smiled, and went to watch the window, steeling his mind, awaiting the worst. But at midnight, as his princess finally dozed and Florence whisper-sang on the lawn, his alien hand tugged loose his cravat and looped it round her throat. He watched as Isola was startled awake by the cold silk and the sudden pressure. Her eyes said it all, iridescent in the moonlight.

It took every ounce of love in his blood not to kill her. His hands went limp, and he sank to the floor, and didn't speak until morning. Outside, Florence cackled at the top of her bloodied lungs.

When Isola's eyes had opened and stared straight through him, he was transported to a moment in his past: he lay choking, cold saliva welling up around his pale, bloated pillow-lips. His jerking hands knocked the bottle from its perch, absinthe soaked through his clothes; the girls lifted their skirts from the liquid, hissing in annoyance, while Alejandro drifted away into the Indian silk pillows. Finally he lay unmoving and unblinking, his mouth slightly open, wet and paste-blue. Nobody noticed, not for the longest time.

And time passed around him – those girls were gone, and so were his bones, but still he remained, solid as ever. The house continued to be a haven for people of that kind; the poppy-pipes exchanged for things in little plastic baggies, needlesticks to match their limbs.

How had he ended up dead and rotting in such a place? He had been happy enough; he had loved his sisters but hated himself, for petty reasons he couldn't recall. The youngest, browner than their mother and full of cheek, wore ribbons in her hair.

It was decades before he snapped from his stupor. The sound woke him. A strange machine was rushing the walls like the enraged bulls men fought in his homeland. Large metal fork-fingers were peeling back the ceiling and rotted wood was collapsing all around him. Alejandro became aware of the feeling in his limbs again. He blinked, and looked, properly looked, at that thing stretching above, the thing he hadn't seen in so long – the sky.

And the colour – blue, like a ribbon woven through the black hair of someone small and important. The colour shouted so loudly, louder than the machines. His mouth was so dry, his limbs so stiff. His eyes felt huge and swollen in their eternal unfocused stare.

He sat up, slowly, then stood all at once. There were the ruins, and him, but no remnants of the sinner's den it had once been, no bones to mark his grave by. Had they come to carry him out? He couldn't remember. Why had he been there in the first place? The time before the den, the short time where he still felt the cold and warmth and hunger pains – it was hazy, but there was something about three small girls, and something about the smallest one. His fingers curled in muscle memory; in his periphery the visions danced, and he was raking those fingers through brown hair, over a ribbon, blue as the sky. He looked up again, that huge expanse, and remembered Lucía, Jacinta, and his Francesca . . .

It was morning now, in the present moment, and Alejandro found that Isola was still looking at him. Had her eyes always been so blue?

 

‘Isola? Please, I would like to talk to you.'

Isola was busy preparing for school; she didn't look at him. ‘I understand, you know. What happened last night. I know you didn't mean it.'

‘Thank you.' His voice caught in his throat. ‘That means . . . a great deal to me. But I would like to discuss something else.'

She yanked a brush through her hair, still refusing eye contact.

‘Are you listening, Isola?'

‘No,' she snapped. She stomped downstairs and out the door, and he followed in her wake.

‘Pardon?'

It was spattering a light rain. She'd left her umbrella inside, and the rain stained her hair a darker shade of blonde; all her unnatural colours seemed as though they were streaming down her head and curling into the gutters.

‘No, I'm not. Because you're just going to tell me you're leaving, too. Don't try and be a gentleman about it, Ale.'

He ducked down as they passed the grave of the plum tree, and he bundled something in his arms. ‘Believe me, I do not wish for this, and I am not trying to be noble. I am trying to protect you in the only way I –'

She wheeled to face him and saw Alejandro's cradled arms. There was something fuzzy nestled there, something rain-dappled and deep black.

‘Is – is that a rabbit?'

The creature, which looked mightily like a rabbit, lifted its head, wrinkled its whiskery nose at her and announced, ‘Fooly girl! I is a
gargoyle
.'

 

Bunny Batman

A gargoyle was rolling on the floor in Isola's bedroom; a slick black oil stain against the pink carpet.

‘I have been looking for him for some time now,' explained Alejandro. ‘They are a rare species – garden-variety gargoyles. I have heard they like sweets.' Opening the music box, where Isola kept hidden candies, he selected a caramel, unwrapped it and tossed it to the floor.

The creature sniffed at it, stuck out its tiny black tongue for a taste, and then gobbled it up. He rolled on his back and sucked contentedly, his stubby legs in the air.

‘What the hell is a garden-variety gargoyle?'

Alejandro cringed at her language. ‘It is a Child of Nimue.'

‘We is protectors, girly and ghostie,' the gargoyle grunted. ‘We is guardians. We keep the bad ones far, far away.'

‘Exactly like the stone gargoyles that watch over cathedrals,' Alejandro added. He made to pass her the music box, but she didn't take it. The melody wove through her hair.

Gargoyles on cathedrals,
Isola thought.
Like Batman over Gotham.

‘One problem, Alejandro,' she said out loud. ‘This is a house, not a church – no matter how much incense I burn.'

He rattled the box. ‘I am not asking him to protect the house, Isola. I want him to protect
you
.'

‘What from?'

‘You know what.'

She tugged the hem of her skirt down and wished her tights weren't so sheer. The bruises were too obvious now: twelve black rings, six on each leg.

‘I think you were right about the others being under her control. And I do not believe she wants to kill you,' said Alejandro heavily. ‘Rather, I believe she wants to take your life as her own . . . to possess
you
.'

Stunned into compliance, Isola placed a chunk of watermelon rock candy on the floor by the dark creature.

The gargoyle was fluffy and perfectly rabbit-like, bar his luminous red eyes and solid black teeth, which made him look as if he had a mouthful of licorice. He was still pretty cute, though. The gargoyle couldn't wrap his tiny tongue around the syllables in her name; he repeated after Alejandro until he reached something that sounded like ‘Solawile.'

‘Just try “Isola”,' she said encouragingly. ‘Not “Isola Wilde”.'

‘I–I–Iso–' he muttered, his beady red eyes squinting with effort. ‘Too hard. I call girl
little fool.
'

‘And I'll call you vermin,' responded Isola, earning her a pointed look from Alejandro.
Be nice,
his eyes said in Spanish.

Alejandro knelt down to give the creature his terms and conditions. ‘We shall keep you fed and housed, and in return, I ask that you keep a particular Nimue spirit away from Isola. She is female, in her mid-to-late teens. She has dark hair and wears a black dress. We have been referring to her as Florence for the sake of convenience.'

‘Florey the ghostie girl, make stay far away,' grumbled the gargoyle.

The gargoyle's voice was both squeaky and gruff. He sounded bothered all the time, and his English was oddly composed, like a baby Mozart's first banged-out tune.

‘Do you have a name?' asked Isola.

He gave her a withering look. ‘
I
is garden-variety gargoyle, idiot.'

‘No, not a species, a
name.
Like how we gave Florence a name.'

‘No name. No need.'

‘What should I call you, then?'

The little creature puffed out his furry chest. ‘
Garden-variety gargoyle
!'

‘We'll work on the name later,' she said uncertainly. ‘Ale, could I have a word with you?'

They went into the bathroom and turned the lock. Isola didn't waste a moment. She folded her arms and demanded, ‘What are you planning?'

‘To protect you, as I promised.'

‘How's he supposed to help?' she hissed. ‘He's a bloody bunny!'

‘Gargoyle!
' yelled the creature in the other room.

‘Remember, Isola, to always be kind to the smallest,' Alejandro said softly, his voice quivering on the wet tiles. A candle flame flickered in his presence. ‘Everything will be all right. I promise.'

‘So,' said Isola conversationally when they returned to her bedroom, ‘I was born in the year of the rabbit, you know.'

‘I is
not
a rabbit!' snarled the gargoyle. ‘Solawile born in year of fool!'

The gargoyle lay on her bedroom floor over the next few days. Isola wasn't sure what it was supposed to do, and when it would begin doing it. She had taken to simply calling him Bunny, which he couldn't stand, but which stuck to him, an invisible name-tag.

‘I just want you to try,' whispered Alejandro while Isola aggressively brushed her teeth. ‘Just
try
to get to know him. And while we are on the subject, I think it is about time you spoke with Grape. She's clearly concerned for your welfare. She does not mean any harm.'

Isola spat into the sink. ‘All right, all right. Enough with the relationship advice, Saint Pip!'

 

Chapel Blitz

‘Oh, I'm so sorry about everything,' Grape was saying with relief. ‘I thought you were
really
upset with me, you seemed so distant. It was like –'

‘Hold on.' Pink smoke drifted lazily down the corridor, up near the light fixtures. ‘Is the school on fire?'

‘I wish,' said Grape. ‘Isola?' she added uncertainly.

Isola only had eyes for the smoke; it wove and spider-webbed, like oil in water. No-one else noticed it. It passed over her head and Isola could smell honey, tar and cherry blossoms.

She could smell Grandpa Furlong's magic pipe.

Ignoring Grape's calls, Isola ran and followed the smoke, hardly watching where she was going. Several girls yelled after her as she swerved to avoid collisions, but they passed by with barely a register of hurt; she was immune as long as those strange scents wafted around her head.

‘Grandpa?' she yelled down the empty chapel, her voice bouncing off the bowed heads of saint statues and eyes-skyward cherub faces. ‘Grandpa Furlong?'

Lit candlesticks dribbled over the altar, and a stone Jesus flexed his abdomen on the cross overlooking the pews. Dusty sunlight beamed coloured spotlights through the high windows. Painted gold stars pinwheeled on the ceiling. Books of psalms and hymns were scattered throughout the wooden pews. There was an air-raid shelter further down the chapel's aisle – a remnant of the Second World War; an old adage that God offered sanctuary.

The pink smoke trail above was shifting to a bright blue, and despite the silence, excitement bubbled up inside Isola. She knew that pipe like a childhood doll; its shifting colours and smells so different and yet always the same, always recognisable. St Dymphna's was the one place Alejandro insisted the brothers never go – whatever had happened on Aurora Court must be preventing Grandpa Furlong from returning there, so this was the next best thing.

The door to the shelter at the rear of the chapel creaked open, exposing stairs that led down into darkness. The pipe smoke drifted up from underground.

‘Grandpa Furlong?' she called, tentative now.

The cold floor creaked as she took a step forward.

The chapel entrance burst open, and in flew the half-ghost of Sister Marie Benedict. She stumbled on the hem of her habit, wax from the candle she carried dripping down her arthritic-curled hands.

‘Get down, child!' shrieked Sister Marie. ‘Hurry! The bombs are falling!' She chivvied Isola towards the shelter, but Isola ducked around her and retreated to the altar. ‘The bombs, the bombs!' the nun continued to yell. ‘What are you doing? Can't you hear the sirens?'

At her last word, a great shadow seemed to pass over the sun, and the light shining through the faces of the window-apostles went out. Then a low caterwauling cut through the air – so loud Isola slammed her hands over her ears, so awful her blood ran reptilian-cold.

An air-raid siren.

Then the chapel roof began to crack – dust fell, colouring Isola like an antique statue, and the painted starry sky began to split.

Something knocked her forcefully off her feet. Isola rolled over, looking wildly for her attacker, but there was no-one but the nun, who was already hurrying towards the shelter. Isola hugged the base of the altar, as one by one the long-stemmed candles blew out. She screamed as the shelter doors blew wide and she went whooshing down the aisle, dragged feet-first on some invisible rope. She tumbled down the stairs, and Sister Marie slammed the door behind her.

Isola, in the dark with her heartbeat.
Live, live, live,
it commanded her with every thrash.

After Isola's first day at St Dymphna's, she'd sat on the end of Mother's bed and asked, ‘Why did they make a fountain for that nun? The one who was so mean to you?'

‘Sister Marie?' Mother had replied, poking her dozy head out from under the blankets. ‘Well, she was a wonderful woman before, from what I understand.'

‘Before what?'

‘Before she went a little mad, darling. She was in London during the Blitz, and she never got over it – in fact, she probably got worse. When she was my teacher, she hated noise, movement, and children especially – and children as you know cannot be anything but whorls of noise and movement. She hated anything out of the ordinary. She hated the stories we told one another. She went on an absolute crusade against what she called “the demonic supernatural” – she started burning Enid Blyton books behind the library before they forced her to retire!'

A self-hating Nimue,
Isola had thought at the time. Now, a split. And so she'd avoided Sister Marie's spectre as it wandered the school in her old-fashioned habit, stuck in a long-finished battle, ears always cocked for sirens.

The whole shelter was shaking now. Tectonic plates shifted below. Isola imagined the sky slashed in two, solidified blood pouring down as rain and ash.

There were voices in the shelter with her – girls crying, whispering prayers, asking each other whether they'll survive the night. Someone clutched her hand and amongst the whimpering she heard Florence's voice repeating, ‘You brought her here . . . You brought her here . . .' and Sister Marie was rattling down her rosaries, spewing rapid prayers in the same language Florence sang in.

Isola screamed and screamed, pounding on the door, until the world shook apart beneath her.

 

Isola opened her eyes. Her ears were ringing. She lay flat on her back on the chapel floor, staring up at the spokes of pinwheeling stars on the uncracked ceiling. Someone had put their rolled-up blazer under her head. She turned and saw she was at the top of the stairs, and the space below the shelter was stocked with brooms and bottles of window cleaner. Bony fingers jabbed at her neck pulse.

‘I'm all right,' murmured Isola, dazedly trying to swat the hands away.

‘Like hell,' grunted Sister K, picking up her cane with one hand and Isola with the other. Isola must have been even skinnier than she'd thought.

Girls had gathered at the chapel entrance. Gasps and stares were shared when Sister K supported her out. Bridget was snickering somewhere. Isola saw Grape in the crowd. She looked afraid – but was she afraid
of
Isola, or
for
her?

 

‘Don't undy-stand.'

Isola groaned and kneaded her forehead with her knuckles. Explaining things to Bunny was not at all like explaining things to Alejandro. Where was he, anyway?

‘Florence. Was at. My school,' she growled, kneeling on the pink carpet to speak to the gargoyle directly. ‘And so was Grandpa Furlong. I didn't see him, but –'

‘Didn't see,' repeated Bunny sarcastically. ‘You are
fool.
You are easy to catch by little ghostie girl!'

‘Maybe I didn't see him, but I know he was there!' said Isola defensively. ‘He has this pipe –'

‘What attracts fishies, little fool?' He peered at her with a beady eye. ‘A
lure
.'

‘But this was different!' cried Isola, exasperated. ‘It's not just the princes now. She's turning the world against me. The woods, the school – I'll go mad if it keeps happening. I have to do it!'

‘Have to what?'

‘Kill the cosmic circus. Like Ted Hughes said. I have to kill this connection she has with me before – I don't know, before I pull a Sylvia Plath!'

One of Bunny's ears flopped up. ‘Don't undy-stand.'

Suddenly Isola was weeping; she couldn't help it. After a moment, the gruff gargoyle put one paw on her knee. The first sign of kindness he'd given.

She flattened his fluffy ear under her hand and planted a kiss on his forehead, a seed of compassion. ‘Please, Bunny. Help me.'

Bunny looked steadily at her with his ruby eyes and for once didn't snarl at the nickname. ‘The split never done that before?' he asked after a minute.

Isola shook her head. ‘No, Sister Marie's always been harmless.'

‘Then ghostie girl affect her too,' concluded Bunny, and he twitched his nose, his disgruntled expression almost softening. She smiled too, and Alejandro entered the room in time to see it, and if she'd known what would happen next, she would never have let the gargoyle in.