Ruined 2 - Dark Souls (13 page)

Back in the flat, her father was making coffee in the kitchen, whistling “Greensleeves.” Miranda darted up the stairs — wet, cold, and utterly defeated, not in the mood for any questions.

On the landing, the bathroom door popped open and Rob loomed in front of her. He reached out one of his long arms and dragged her into the bathroom.

“What?” Miranda almost shouted. She was sick of people jumping out at her or materializing behind her: It was turning her into a bag of nerves.

“Ssshhhh.” Rob closed the door and leaned against it so she couldn’t get out. “I need you to do something for me. Ask for a spare key to this place.”

“The bathroom?” Miranda asked sarcastically, peeling off her scarf.

“No, dummy. The flat. Either Mom’s or Dad’s key — it doesn’t matter. They’ll be suspicious if I ask.
You
have to ask for it.”

“Why would they be suspicious about you asking to take a key to the flat?”

“They’ll know I’m planning to stay out way late tonight with Sally. They already think we’re getting ‘too serious.’ I heard them talking about it last night — in the kitchen, when they thought I’d already gone upstairs.”

“They’re really happy about you and Sally.” Miranda sat down on the edge of the tub. She felt shaky after all the hours of walking around. “They think it means you’re all normal again, whatever that means. And anyway, if I ask for a key, they’ll want to know why. Where I’m going, who I’m going out with — you know what Dad’s like. There’s no reason for me to have a key. How late are you staying out, anyway?”

“All night,” said Rob, as though it was no big deal. “After the pub closes tonight, Sally and I are going to lock ourselves in the cellar, so if and when someone tries to get in, we can nab them red-handed.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous. You won’t last ten minutes in that cellar, let alone all night.”

“Whatever,” Rob said sulkily. He walked over to the window and slid it open, sticking his head out. He couldn’t even stand being shut in the bathroom, Miranda thought. He’d never cope with locking himself up belowground at the White Boar Inn. “Look, this is our plan and we’re sticking to it. If someone breaks in, we’ll catch them. If nobody tries, I need the key so I can sneak back here before Mom and Dad get up in the morning.”

“You’re overthinking this.” Miranda sighed.

“I thought you always said I underthink things.”

“You’re either over or under. You’re never thinking things through in a rational way. What if whoever is breaking in is some kind of violent thug? They could beat you up or kill you.”

“We’ll surprise them.” Rob closed the window partway to stop the drizzle from coming in. “We have weapons.”

“What kind of weapons?”

“A cricket bat and a really big flashlight.”

“As I said, ridiculous.”

“We’ll be fine,” said Rob, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Rob, believe me,” Miranda pleaded. “You’re getting antsy in this bathroom. How are you going to cope with being locked in the dark in that tiny cellar?”

“I have to get over this,” Rob said. “I have to. I can’t go through my life cowering because of … what happened. For Sally’s sake, I need to do this. If I don’t, she’s going to be alone in there tonight. I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

“Look,” said Miranda, realizing she was never going to talk him out of this stupid scheme. “Just sneak out tonight, and whenever you need to come home, get Sally to send me a text. I’ll let you in.”

“I thought we couldn’t get texts here.”

“Not from the U.S. But didn’t you say Sally sent you a text the other day?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Problem solved.”

“I’ll be okay in the cellar,” Rob said, now not sounding convinced at all. He closed the window all the way, shutting it with a bang. They both flinched. “I have to be. This is for Sally.”

“You still haven’t told her?”

“No need,” Rob said firmly. He checked his watch. “What time do we have to meet Mom at that Italian place? I said I’d help Sally’s dad for an hour before dinner.”

“We’re meeting at seven,” Miranda told him, inwardly groaning. She’d forgotten about the dinner plans for tonight. All the singers would be there, talking in overloud voices. Miranda had way too much on her mind
right now — tracking down Nick, worrying about Rob.
There better be good pizza at this restaurant,
she thought, dragging her feet out of the bathroom and up the stairs. And she’d better not get stuck next to the tubby guy or, even worse, the Second Witch.

Y
ou’re sure you know how to get to the restaurant yourself?” Jeff asked her for the hundredth time. Miranda nodded. Rob was already over at the White Boar, and one of her father’s Richard III cronies had turned up to lure Jeff out for a quick drink. All his weird early modernist chums had arrived in town for this weekend’s conference, and they had swarmed some pub nearby called the Lamb and Lion, probably driving out all the locals and other normal people.

“I’ll be fine, Dad. I’ll see you at L’Avventura at seven, okay?”

“I don’t like you walking around in the dark by yourself.” He frowned. “You can come to the Lamb and Lion with me, you know. Have some pop, read your book.”

“No, thanks,” Miranda said quickly. “It’s not late, and there are tons of people out. Really, I’ll be fine. You go
and have a good time. Just don’t be late for dinner. You know how Mom gets about that.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind …”

“Go already!” Miranda couldn’t wait for Jeff to leave. She had exactly ninety minutes until dinner, and she planned to use every single one of them walking the streets of York again, looking for Nick. It was Friday night; on Monday morning, the Tennants were leaving York, and Nick would be gone as well. She had to talk to him, to find out — once and for all — if he was a real person, a ghost, or some figment of her imagination. And she wasn’t going to achieve anything sitting around in this flat, or stuck in the corner at the Lion and Lamb, surrounded by history-obsessed academics.

She’d told her father the truth: The streets really were crowded at this time on a Friday night, some people still shopping, others going out after work, or heading to the evening concert in the Minster. It was Christmas party season, big groups parading around wearing tinsel headbands, hurrying into crowded pubs. Holiday lights sparkled overhead, and street musicians were out on King’s Square, and St. Helen’s Square, and along Stonegate, despite the bitter cold. Miranda marched along, hands in her pockets because she’d left her gloves at home, head lowered against the chilly wind rising off the river. It was busier, if anything, than this morning. Nick was going to be harder to find — if he was even out here, of course.

Time whizzed by, Miranda’s agitation increasing with every step. She had to start making her way to the
restaurant if she was going to be on time: One minute late and her parents would send out a search party of hysterical singers to find her. Miranda turned up St. Andrewgate, almost stomping her feet with annoyance. She was never going to find Nick.

Then someone grabbed Miranda’s elbow and yanked her hard, pulling her into the dank confines of a snickelway. She opened her mouth to scream, but Nick — of course it was Nick — clamped his other hand over her mouth. He loomed over her, his eyes wild and intense.

“Calm down,” he hissed. “It’s only me.”

She pushed his hand away, spluttering with indignation. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she was about to hyperventilate.

“Why don’t you just walk up to me in the street like a normal person?” Miranda rubbed her arm. Nick had practically wrenched it out of its socket.

“I just wanted to talk to you in private,” he said, sounding bemused. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Well, you did.” Miranda had been looking for Nick for hours, but now that they were standing close together in this dark, confined space — a narrow tunnel right here, stinking of urine and damp — all she felt was limp, useless.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “There’s something else, isn’t there? Something’s wrong.”

“Everything’s wrong.” Miranda felt miserable. “I’ve been looking for you all day, because I wanted … I wanted … I just don’t even know where to begin.”

Nick stepped closer, his eyes boring into her, but he said nothing.

“I mean,” Miranda continued, no longer sure of what she wanted to say, exactly, or how to begin saying it, “there’s no point, is there? Because I found out you just lie to me about everything.”

Nick frowned.

“What do you mean, you
found out?”

“See — this is what I mean!” Miranda was annoyed with him now. “You don’t care when I say you’re lying. You only care about how I found you out. You always have to be in control, keeping everything secret. Well, how about this. I know your real name is Nick Fullerton.”

“You never asked me my real name, did you? I would have told you.”

“I don’t believe you.” Miranda pushed a hank of damp hair off her face. “You said you had no family here, but you do. Your grandfather, Lord Poole. I saw a picture of you at his house!”

This news seemed to have more of an effect on Nick. He swallowed hard, and the shadow of something — guilt, nerves, doubt — clouded his face.

“You didn’t tell him … you didn’t say anything about seeing me here?”

Miranda shook her head. “No. Then I would have to explain how I knew you. But I wanted to tell him, I really did. He’s so sad, it’s just awful. I mean —”

“Thanks,” Nick said, interrupting her. He clearly
didn’t want to hear any more about his grandfather. “Thanks for not saying anything.”

“Don’t thank me. Just stop lying to me. Stop pretending to be staying somewhere where they barely know you. And stop pretending to be real when I know you’re … you’re a ghost.”

Nick’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“You heard me. I know you’re a ghost.”

He gave an exasperated laugh and reached for one of Miranda’s hands, squeezing it hard. It didn’t feel cold at all. It felt just the way it did the other day — a little rough. Strong.

“Miranda, I’m not a ghost,” Nick said firmly. “I thought that you, of all people, would be able to tell by now.”

“That’s not what that … that guy said!” Miranda could barely speak, distracted by the sensation of Nick’s hand grasping hers.

“What guy?”

“The one who lives in the flat where you pretended you were staying! The flat with the green door.”

“Him! He doesn’t know anything,” Nick scoffed. He squeezed her hand again.

“He said you went to school with someone named Jim, and Jim told him you were dead. Are dead. Whatever.”

“Well, maybe that’s what I wanted him to think. What I wanted them all to think.” Nick was speaking softly now. The more flustered Miranda got, the more calm Nick
seemed. “But it’s not true. I’m alive, even though sometimes I wish I wasn’t. I’m not a ghost.”

“Prove it,” Miranda said, and Nick pulled her toward him. She instinctively turned her head away, her heart skittering. But the two of them were pressed close now, the leather of his coat soft against her cheek. With one finger he tipped her chin up, turning her face toward his. She looked deep into his eyes — so dark against the pallor of his skin. And then he kissed her.

His lips were soft, but there was a strength, an urgency to the kiss that was almost intoxicating. Miranda felt light-headed and floaty, as though her feet might lift up off the ground. Her eyes were closed now, but she didn’t need to see: She could
feel
the kiss. It was nothing like any kiss she’d experienced before. There was nothing tentative about it, nothing halfhearted. It was intense. It was real.
Nick
was real.

“’Scuse me,” said a gruff voice, and Miranda opened her eyes. A man carrying plastic shopping bags was trying to squeeze past them.

“Sorry, mate,” said Nick, wrapping his arms around Miranda and holding her close. When the man had passed, she slowly pulled away. Her cheeks felt flushed and her heart was still flip-flopping. She could barely bring herself to look at Nick.

“I have something to tell you,” Nick said. He leaned back against the wall, still holding her hand. His cheeks were flushed, too. “I don’t know whether to tell you or not. I don’t know whether … whether I can trust you.”

“Of course you can,” Miranda whispered.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said. “Especially not my grandfather. Not that he’d believe you. Nobody would believe you.”

“Believe what?”

Nick gave her a long appraising look, staring at her in that intense way she’d found incredibly disconcerting when they first met.

“Richard,” he said. “My brother. He’s the reason I came back to York. I just had this overwhelming feeling about him. I knew I’d find him here.”

“What do you mean, find him here?” Miranda was confused. Was the story of his brother’s death another lie? Had Lord Poole been duped as well?

“His ghost,” Nick explained, almost in a whisper. “Richard’s ghost. He’s back. Here in York — he’s back.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve seen him. I’ve talked to him. I was right to think that I was being called back here. It’s seven years since he died — seven years on Saturday. He needs my help. There’s something he needs me to do for him.”

“I still don’t understand,” Miranda said. “How can we help ghosts? Whatever happened to them happened long ago. Centuries ago, maybe. We can’t change the past.”

She thought of the ghosts in Clifford’s Tower reaching out to her with their hands of crumbling ash, and of little Mary tugging at her jacket. How could she possibly help them?

Nick stood gazing intently at her. She could still feel the imprint of his lips on hers.

“I can’t explain,” he said at last. “Sometimes they want our help and we can’t do anything. But sometimes we can. Look, I shouldn’t say any more. At this point, the less you know, the better.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Nick.” Miranda didn’t know what he was planning, but she didn’t like the sound of this.

“Wouldn’t you do anything to help
your
brother?” he asked her.

“Not
anything.
Please, Nick. Don’t do something crazy or dangerous. Please look after yourself.”

“I’ll look after me,” he said with a wry smile. He let go of her hand. “And I’ll look after
you.
See you round.”

He headed off down the snickelway, holding his hand up in a good-bye salute. Miranda leaned back against the damp brick wall, breathing hard. Her head was spinning.

“Next time,” she whispered at his retreating back, “I’ll see you first.”

At dinner with all the singers, Miranda didn’t feel like talking much — not that she could have got a word in edgewise with the Second Witch, who insisted, despite general skepticism, that she was once practically engaged to Prince Albert of Monaco. (“Really! His mother —
that’s Grace Kelly, darling —
begged
me to be his bride. But music was always my true passion.”)

Later that night, full of pizza, Miranda again had vivid and unsettling dreams. She and Rob were in the bathroom, choosing from a cake trolley. Lord Poole’s Land Rover was driving at top speed through a towering, bright green maze that started off looking like hedges and ended up looking like waving corn. Her father was telling her she needed to go look for the dog before it got baked in a pie. “We don’t have a dog,” she kept telling him, but he wouldn’t listen.

And then she dreamed about Nick. The green door on Petergate swung open, revealing a big empty room. Candles lined the windowsills, their quivering flames the only light. Nick, standing behind her, put his hands over her eyes. Then they were sitting in the Minster Quire again, but this time they were kissing. Nick pulled away, asking Miranda to remember him. Of course she’d remember him, she told him, but he kept shaking his head. “May my wrongs create no trouble,” Nick said, and then they both looked up. The Minster roof was open to the night sky, and Miranda tilted her head back, feeling the rain drum onto her face. Nick kissed her again, but now his lips felt cold and papery. She opened her eyes and saw that it wasn’t Nick she was kissing at all. It was the ghost in the attic across the street. When she recoiled, he pursed his lips and started humming, but all that came out was a horrible buzzing, like an angry cloud of wasps drawing closer and closer.

This was what jolted her awake — the incessant buzzing. Miranda rubbed her eyes and tried to sit up. Either she was still dreaming or the wasps were in the room, because the buzzing hadn’t gone away. She reached out wildly for her bedside lamp, bumping the shade before she clicked on the light. The buzzing, she realized, amazed at her own stupidity, was coming from her phone, vibrating in a jittery dance around the tabletop.

Miranda picked up the phone.

“Hello?” she croaked.

“I’ve sent you five texts already.” It was Rob and he sounded furious. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Sleeping.”

“I’m standing around outside, freezing my butt off. I’ve got Sally’s phone. This is probably, like, an international call.”

Miranda padded downstairs as quietly as possible, wincing when one of the steps creaked, holding her breath as she crept past her parents’ closed bedroom door. The time on her phone had read 2:18. Rob hadn’t even left the flat until after midnight: He was going to wait, he’d told her, until the lights were off and he could hear their father snoring. He hadn’t lasted very long in the cellar. No wonder he was in a foul mood.

Miranda slithered down the last of the stairs and slowly unlatched the door. Rob was standing right outside the door, arms wrapped around himself, shivering. They didn’t speak until they were upstairs in his room with the door firmly closed.

“What happened?” Miranda whispered. Rob flopped onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“What do you think?” he murmured. “I freaked out. I just couldn’t handle it. When we turned the light off, it felt as though the walls were closing in on me. The smell was getting to me as well. Stale beer and mold, maybe. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to black out. God, I’m such a loser.”

“What did Sally say?”

“She thought I was joking at first. Then — you know, she was concerned, and sweet and all. Said the whole thing was a stupid idea anyway.”

“I’m glad
she’s
got some common sense.”

“She was just trying to be nice. She’ll probably never see me again.”

“I doubt that,” said Miranda.

“We tried turning on the flashlight, to see if that helped, but that was even worse. They haven’t cleaned off the graffiti yet — I’ll offer to do it tomorrow. During the day, when you can open the trapdoors, it’s not so suffocating down there.”