The Chrysalid Conspiracy (20 page)

Amelia walked up to Horace and stood in front of him, close enough for him to knock her over again. She spoke to him just above a whisper. “Come on Horace, how bad can it be? You’re a mess and I know you like to look good. Rayn can’t do it, she got a smack in the nose, silly bitch….” she continued for a while in the same manner as she reached up and pulled some dried leaf bits from his mane.

Rayn had not been able to hear what Amelia was saying, she’d been waiting to see her come hurtling over the gate, screaming. She couldn’t believe her eyes when Horace lowered his head and allowed Amelia to start brushing him.
You traitor,
she thought.

“Is this right, Rayn?” asked Amelia.

“Yeah,” said Rayn, a little miffed at Horace. “There’s no secret, just get stuck in. It’s hard work.”

“Thanks,” said Amelia. “How long does it take?”

“About an hour.”

“I can stop when I like though, can’t I?” Amelia was getting a little unsure of what she had taken on.

“Stop before you’ve finished and you won’t make it to the gate,” Rayn laughed. “And don’t forget his fetlocks and his tail. Under the tail is a bit unpleasant, but you’ll get used to it.”

“Do I get some help?” said Amelia, getting quite nervous.

Rayn whooped for joy. “Sorry, I’m off sick today.” she said.

After about half an hour, Rayn went back to the caravan and returned with two mugs of coffee. She balanced the mugs on the gatepost and resumed her position.

Amelia caught a familiar smell and turning her head she saw that Rayn was smoking one of her mother’s cigars. She had a wide grin on her face.

“Coffee’s here,” she repeated. “We ran out of tea, sorry.”

“How do I get to it and live?” Amelia complained.

Rayn made a clicking sound with her tongue and Horace moved towards her. Amelia was just brushed aside and she followed him dutifully.

The huge animal walked over to Rayn and offered his head to her. She gave him a stroke and a scratch, pulled a sugar lump from her pocket and let him take it from her hand.

“Had enough, old fella?” she said. “Okay then, off you go.” Horace turned away from Amelia and went to his hayrack again.

Rayn was laughing so much she was in pain, and she nearly fell off the gate. Amelia flared with anger, but quickly caught the humour and accepted that the joke was on her. “Rayn Mgee?” she said. “I was just wondering if you have a PhD in bitchology!”

“And I was just wondering,” said Rayn, “if you were born gullible, or did you have to study for it?” It was Rayn’s turn to fall off the gate. Amelia caught her in a running dive and they crashed to the ground screaming with laughter.

Horace took absolutely no notice as the girls rolled on the ground, laughing and fighting, using language he had heard many times on the caravan trail.

By the time Bridie had returned, Rayn was back in bed, nursing a headache; a real one this time. Amelia stayed for the afternoon and after they’d eaten the large portions Bridie had the foresight to buy, Rayn tried to interest Amelia in her CD collection. She put on a particularly heavy one and told her the group was called ‘Vomit Sox’ and the music was for dancing.

“And banging you’re head against a wall,” criticised Amelia. “It’s just mind numbing nonsense.

“Yes if you like.” agreed Rayn. “It gets you out of those long low moods; it makes you want to move and dance, sing and gyrate. Get rid of the blues; enjoy the ‘now’ and not think about yesterday or tomorrow, and to be honest Amelia, your kind of music makes me think of funerals.”

“That’s crazy,” Amelia shouted at her. “That rubbish has no form, no construction or resolution. How can you understand the history and development with just constant dissonance?”

“Who needs history when the vibrations are running through your body like an electric shock and the pounding in your head drives away all semblance of rational thought? My music is another world, a million miles ahead of yours. I once heard of television being described as ‘chewing gum for the mind’, but my music doesn’t need the mind. You listen with your whole body. It’s the ‘here and now’, no past no future, just the rhythm driving through your body, freeing your imagination and emotions. It’s the ‘Now’ of life.” Her face shone with an inner belief.

Just in time to prevent bloodshed they remembered their previous argument and agreed to disagree on the subject.”

Amelia had promised her mother she would be home before Molly left and, having told Rayn she was getting nowhere with the Professor’s book, she said she wasn’t going to try again till after Christmas. Promising to pick up Bridie’s washing, she walked home back up the lane, huddled in her anorak against the cold wind, which had suddenly sprung up.

Back in the shop Amelia settled her mum and then cleared the kitchen and put the washing machine on. After stacking the dishwasher to maximum she had to hand wash the pots and pans. Then, feeling as if she’d earned it she took a long hot lingering shower then went up to her room. She caught sight of the book on her bed and her mind started spinning about George, Nigel, Rayn, Bridie, Melkins and Miss Collins and a couple of gay gypsies. By the time she was back to reality, she’d finished tidying up. “At least you’re good for something,” she said to the book, and went to bed.

There was no storm. No wind and rain lashing at her. No lightning or thunder and she wasn’t in a tree. There was nothing except iron railings on each side of her. They curved up and over to form a tunnel. She moved along it and saw an opening. Before she could get to it, a barrier came down closing her in, preventing her from escaping. The same thing happened each time she saw an opening.

Running along the tunnel, it suddenly opened out into a huge space, as if she were in a giant birdcage. The soft sand she stood on was hot against her bare feet. Someone was in the centre armed with a chair and a whip. It was hard to tell if it was a man or a woman because of the garish clown outfit and the gold facemask it wore. The clown held the chair and whip like a circus lion tamer.

Then she saw Rayn and watched in confused horror as the crouching girl gave a roar as huge fangs grew from her mouth, curving down below her chin, gleaming white and razor sharp. She leapt at the clown, reaching out as her hands changed to ferocious talons, claws ready to slash and tear.

The clown swung the chair and caught her in the face. Rayn fell back against the bars, squealing in pain, blood spurting from her nose. The clown moved toward her and lashed her with the whip. Rayn squealed louder. Again and again the whip tore into Rayn’s skin making her scream louder with each stroke, her talons and fangs vanishing.

Amelia knew she had to save her friend, no matter what the cost. She tried to move but somehow her ankles had become chained to a stake in the ground. She was helpless.

Her mind flipped into another gear. There was no fear, no thoughts of revenge or hatred, not even compassion for her best friend. She was focused purely on her situation. She had to find a way to resolve it, if possible without killing or dying.

A familiar weight on her back gave her the answer and reaching up and her hand closed over her sword handle. Drawing it with practised ease, she slashed down at the chains. The metal parted and she was free. She let the momentum of the swing carry her arm behind her. Up over her head and down in front of her as she moved like lightning towards the clown.

There was a scream of pain and fear. The clown’s clothes and flesh parted from sternum to pelvis. The internal organs bubbled out and stained the soft yellow sand a reddish brown. Amelia knew it was a woman.

Without giving what she had done a second thought, she grabbed the blood-covered Rayn and threw her over her shoulder as if she were a rag doll. Running for the way out, a barrier made it before she did.

You can’t go back, Amelia. You can never go back.
It was her mother’s voice. No fear, no cry for help, just a strong statement of fact. She turned and there was George.

“Granddad! Help us, please!” she pleaded, and George’s fist crashed into her face.

She lay on her back on the floor next to her bed, soaked with sweat and shaking uncontrollably. Her clock decided wisely that this was not a good time for comment.

Ignoring her own discomfort, her first thought was for her mother. Was this another call? She wondered. Rushing downstairs, she was relieved to find her sleeping quietly and comfortably. Retreating to the kitchen she splashed cold water on to her face then made herself a cup of coffee.

Thinking about this latest dream, she tried to analyse the symbolism.
Being controlled, helping Rayn, her nosebleed and the suspicions about her Granddad. Her mother’s voice had been a surprise. She was usually calling for help, not making comments like ‘you can’t go back’. Her mum said that a lot and she had always thought it was a reference to the trauma of knowing she would never walk again. But was it?

She remembered the gore from seeing the Professor’s body being ripped open and had been half expecting some sort of reaction to that eventually, but in her dream she had been detached, cold, unaffected.
Come to think of it,
she thought,
that’s what I was like at school the day it happened.

Who or what was that clown all about? She hadn’t been to a circus since she was five, so where did that come from? And who could it be?
Amelia had got the impression that she had been European from the glimpse of her eyes through the mask.
And where and why does that damned sword come into it?
She decided it was just a dream and the whole conspiracy thing was impossible, beyond credibility, and she was just getting paranoid about it.

Knowing Nigel would be here soon with the mid-week delivery, she nipped into the shower, turning the water on hot and full as if trying to wash the confusion from the turmoil of her mind. It took her a while to get dressed. She’d made the mistake of tidying up and couldn’t find anything. Returning to the kitchen, she thought
nice shower, clean knickers and socks, and this smelly old tracksuit again, Oh well.

As she went out to open the gates for Nigel, the cold wind which sliced through her reminded her of the demise of her mysterious dream clown. She smiled but was also a little worried that, even in a dream, she could attack and kill another human being and think so little of it.

Unloading Nigel’s van proved an effort in the biting wind and it took longer than usual with the baskets of flowers, bamboo, ferns and grasses and a stack of various compost bags. Running out of room they put the shrubs and plants in the shop itself and the hallway.

Nigel eventually tucked into his fried egg sandwiches, after Amelia apologised for running out of bacon. He didn’t complain.

“How’s Rayn?” he asked her.

“She’s fine, I think,” said Amelia.

“Will she come tonight, do you think?”

“I don’t know if she’ll be up to it, Nigel. You hit her pretty hard.” She didn’t tell him about their play fight in case Rayn had other ideas.

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“I think your lecture hurt her more. She’s not used to being spoken to like that,” Amelia told him.

“Well, if she can make it, I’ll be pleased to see her and I’ll go easy in future.” Nigel finished his tea and was gone.

After she helped her mum sort out the delivery, her mother disappeared into her workshop with her sealed package muttering about ‘Botanical Data Base Files’, and to create some wreaths for a funeral order. Amelia helped Molly in the shop, but her energetic chatter and cheerfulness didn’t suit Amelia’s mood. She eventually went up to her room, utterly depressed.

She thought of going over to see how Rayn was, but it was pouring with rain, which added to her depression. She sent her a text instead and got a reply asking if she’d picked up their laundry. Assuring her that she had, she slipped on her coat muttering “Oh turdles.”

When she got back from the laundrette she saw two figures huddled under an umbrella outside the shop. They both wore topcoats and back packs and were carrying what looked like a cricket bag between them.

“Bridie, Rayn. What are you doing out in this?” Amelia asked, thrilled to see them.

Rayn took in the black bag slung over Amelia’s shoulder and laughed. “Catching you out, by the looks of things. Honestly, Amelia. You can’t even lie using a text message.”

“Ah well, come on in. What’s all this? Are you moving in, maybe?”

Lucy greeted them at the door. “You shouldn’t have come out in this weather,” she reprimanded.

“What’s going on?” Amelia asked again, her depression all but forgotten. In response Bridie slipped off her pack and opened it.

She showed Amelia an array of beautifully carved and decorated belts, straps and other paraphernalia. Opening the cricket bag, she produced leather hats, all carved and decorated in the same style. Rayn proudly showed off her own handiwork. Beaded purses, necklaces and bracelets, woven handbags and shawls in the same bright colours. Amelia thought she had never seen anything so wonderful.

Before Amelia could ask her question again, Rayn put her out of her misery.

“It’s the stuff we make that I was telling you about. But as we haven’t been to any craft fairs this year, your fantastic mother has offered to let us sell some in her shop. Isn’t she great?”

“On sale or return,” added Bridie quickly.

“And I refuse to take a percentage,” said Lucy, smiling at Bridie. “These are gorgeous. It won’t take long to sell them. They’re so unusual.”

“Rayn,” said Bridie. “Pop over to George’s garage and see if Nigel has finished that display rack.”

“Um, I’ve got something to do,” said Rayn. She looked at Amelia through her mirrored sunglasses. Thinking that Rayn was nervous at meeting Nigel again, she volunteered.

“I’ll go. I’m already wet, and I won’t be a minute,” and she ducked out the door.

She returned with Nigel carrying a wrought-iron frame between them. Molly and Bridie cleared an area in one of the windows for him to put it.

“Wow!” he said, as they laid out their wares. “Did you really make all this?”