Half Bad

Three Teabags in the Life of Nathan Marcusovich

I’ve been free for ten days. I’m okay. I’m in a house in the countryside, just having a cup of tea. I come in here most days but sleep in the woods a mile away. The woods are okay. They’re warm and I can hear if anything approaches. Nothing human ever does. It’s good not to be in the cage. I slept better in the cage, though. I’m having constant nightmares now. The nightmares don’t sound that scary—I’m just running and running in the alley by the Council building.

Food was a problem before I found this place. It’s a holiday home and hardly used. I managed to break in just by messing with the lock with a bit of wire. I shower in here most days, and sometimes I lie on one of the beds upstairs, like Goldilocks, only I never sleep. The beds are all really soft, and there’s porridge too, which is sort of funny.

There’s pasta and cereal in the cupboard, as well as the oats, so mainly I’m living off that. There’s no milk, of course, so I make porridge with water. No lumps in my porridge, but I’ve used up all the honey, jam, and raisins so there’s not much else in it either.

I try to have one meal a day, whatever time feels right. I don’t eat much; there isn’t much here to eat. Rice with salt is my favorite. There was a tin of tuna, but that went on day one and the can of beans on day two. I slip half a Weetabix into my pocket and suck on it slowly in the evening when I’m tucked up in the woods.

A family came and stayed here for two days. I guess it was the weekend. Mum, dad, two kids, and a dog, the perfect fain family. They didn’t seem to notice that I’d been in the house and taken stuff. I always make sure everything is clean and tidy. When they left there was more pasta but no more oats. I was hoping for another can of tuna, but no luck.

I thought I heard something outside. Nothing there.

I’ve started biting my nails again. I used to do this when I was little, but I stopped because of Annalise. I’ve started again. I try not to think about Annalise too much.

It’s raining. Drizzle.

I’d better check outside again.

I’m heading back to the woods. I think they are watching me. I can feel it sometimes. My skin crawls with it.

My escape was too easy. It’s unbelievable that the Council took so much trouble to keep me under strict control all my life, all those assessments and notifications, keeping me prisoner with Celia, tattooing me—and yet they’ve allowed me to escape. It can only be some new plan of theirs.

They followed me before, when I was living with Gran and going to Wales. I didn’t know it then but I know it now.

That family that stayed in the house looked like fains, but I’m not sure. Maybe Hunters can disguise themselves as fains. And the first man I hitched with kept looking at me and asking me questions and stuff, though he was all right in the end ’cause he let me out, but I was shouting at him at that point and he looked scared.

These tattoos are some kind of tracking device. That can be the only explanation. I’m probably some blip on a screen. I saw that in a film once. Blip . . . blip . . . blip. And they’re sitting in a van watching the screen and can see that I’m cutting down the side of the field and heading back to the woods.

My shelter’s okay. It keeps the rain out and the ground dry. It’s well hidden, half buried under the roots of a tree near a stream.

I sit here a lot.

And sometimes when I’m sitting here I think that I’m not being followed and I really have escaped and I say to myself, “I’ve escaped. I’ve escaped. I’m free.”

But I don’t feel free.

I cry sometimes. I don’t know why, but it keeps happening. I’m just looking at the stream, say, which runs through the dark brown mud and yet is clear and bright and soundless, when I realize that I can taste tears. There are so many they run into my mouth.

I’ve had a nap and even with the blanket and some newspapers I brought from the holiday home I’m shivering. How does that work? It’s April and it’s not even cold. I’ve spent nearly two years living in a cage in the coldest, wettest bit of Scotland—which must be virtually the coldest, wettest bit of the planet; I’ve lived through snow, ice, and storms, and then I come down here to a nice warm place and I’m shivering all the time. A few sheepskins would be good here.

I think about Scotland quite a bit, about the cage, doing the outer circuit and cleaning the range, making porridge and digging the potatoes, killing and plucking the chickens. And I think about Celia and the book she was reading with me.

In the book the main character, Ivan Denisovich, is a prisoner. He’s serving ten years, but even when he’s served his time he won’t be allowed home, because people like him are exiled when they are released. I thought that exile meant you had to leave your country and you could go anywhere—somewhere in the sun, a tropical island, say, or America. But exile doesn’t mean that; it means you are banished to a specific place, and guess what, that place isn’t in the sun and is no paradise, it’s not even America. It’s some cold, miserable place like Siberia, where you don’t know anyone and you can barely survive. It’s another prison.

And now I’m free. I don’t want to be exiled.

And I want to see Arran so much.

So much.

I know if I go there, they’ll catch me and maybe hurt Arran too. But I want to see him, and I keep thinking that if I sneak up to Gran’s house in the night or leave a message for him somewhere and arrange to meet him it might work. But I know it won’t. I know they’ll catch me, and it’ll be even worse than before, and I should never try to go back to Arran, never, but then I feel like a coward for not trying.

Ivan Denisovich’s full name is Ivan Denisovich Shukhov, which is a killer name, though Denisovich means son of Denis, which spoils it a bit but shows he’s just an ordinary guy, I suppose.

If you speak to a person in Russia, you wouldn’t call them by their first name alone. You would use their first name and their patronym, so you would say, “Ivan Denisovich, pass the salt, please.” And he would say, “You certainly like a lot of salt on your rice, Nathan Marcusovich.”

I think of Marcus Axelovich quite a bit. I think he probably likes a lot of salt on his rice too. And then today I realized something amazing. I like thinking of my father, and I know I’d think of my son if I had one. I’d think of my son a lot. So I know Marcus is thinking of me.

The woods are a good place: quiet, no dog walkers, no people at all. It’s interesting just sitting still and listening to what goes on. There are few sounds, the occasional bird not calling but sorting through the leaves, stuff like that, but this wood has deep pockets of nothing when there are no sounds at all, and I love sitting in those pockets.

My head is clear of noise here, like it was with Celia. No hissing at all. No electrical equipment buzzing in my head.

And sitting in those pockets I begin to believe it . . . I have escaped.

I started running again today. Celia would be pleased with me, though I’m slow so she’d probably not be that pleased. And I’m doing push-ups. Can’t even manage seventy, though. I don’t know how I’ve got so out of condition in a few weeks. I wonder if it’s the tattoos doing something to me, but maybe it’s just that I need more food. My ribs are sticking out.

It’s getting dark now. Another day nearly over.

When I was with Celia the days flew by, yet the years crawled. I was up at dawn, then exercising, doing chores—never enough time for the chores—and answering her damn questions, and more running and fighting and cooking and cleaning and learning witch names and Gifts and times and places and then back in the cage before I knew it. Now it’s the opposite. The hours won’t budge. And yet the time I’ve got before I’m seventeen seems to be slipping through my fingers, and I’m just sitting here watching it dribble away.

Another day dawns. I used to like dawns, but now they are just the start of another slow, shivery day. I’ve just remembered Ivan starts his day all shivery. I’d like to have that Ivan Denisovich book. I know I wouldn’t be able to read it by myself or anything, but I’d like to hold it in my hands or put it inside my shirt against my chest.

I do have a book, though. It’s an A to Z that I stole when I was leaving London.

What a great book! A book I can read. I look at maps and they make sense.

I stole it ’cause I knew I’d have to find the address of Bob, the man Mary told me about. The man who can help me find Mercury.

Muggy and rainy again. I’m watching telly and drinking tea. Well, not really watching telly, but it’s on and I’m trying to analyze the sound in my head. There’s a hissing in my skull, that’s the nearest I can describe it as. It’s not a sound in my ears, it’s in my head, to the right upper side.

This is the same as the hiss from mobile phones, but much quieter. I never got any hissing with Celia. She didn’t have a mobile. But when the Hunters came I could hear them hissing.

There is no hissing in the woodland here.

Just had a shower. There’s a load of shampoo, soap, and stuff in the bathroom. And there’s an electric razor, which is a nightmare and hacks bits off my chin, but I can heal quick enough so I use it.

I check the tattoo on my neck. It’s just the same.

I check all my tattoos every day and they are all just the same as the first day. I scraped the skin off the one on my ankle to see what would happen and Mr. Wallend was right: the tattoo reappeared. It even showed through on the scab as a fluorescent blue.

I look in the mirror at my eyes, my father’s eyes. I wonder if he looks in the mirror and wonders about my eyes. I want to see my father for real one day, just once, just meet him once, talk to him. But maybe it’s best for us both if we never meet. If he believes the vision he won’t want to meet me. I wish I knew more about the vision. Was it of me stabbing him with the Fairborn? Stabbing him through the heart? I want to tell my father that I would never do that. I couldn’t.

My eyes look so black now, the triangular hollows are hardly moving.

I’m back in the kitchen, the last teabag and me.

I’ve got to go. I’ve got to find the way to Mercury and get my three gifts. And I’m running out of time. It’s just over two months to my birthday.

And that means I’ve got to go to Bob’s place, the place in the A to Z. Only that leads me back to my problem. It leads me back to the alley.

When I stepped through the door from the courtyard of the Council building into the alleyway and I started running, I went at a good pace, a hard pace. I was still running three or four minutes later and I still wasn’t at the end of the alley. It was like running on a conveyor belt that was going the wrong way, like they were drawing me back in. And I was panicking and almost screaming by the end of it but I kept at it and somehow I got to the end, where the alley turned. I held on to the corner of the wall, and a woman walked past and stared at me. Then I walked round the corner but I didn’t let go of the wall, not for ages did I let go of that wall.

And now I have to go back there, past that corner and up the alley. The address of Bob, the man I need to see, is Cobalt Alley. That alley.

Nikita

The Council building is across the road on my left. I wasn’t sure it was the right building at first. I was expecting it to be gothic with spires and leaded windows like it is inside, but it’s different on the outside. It’s a seventies office block, all big and square and concrete, dark gray and stained black in places. I know it’s the right building because of the alleyway next to it. Also, I’ve walked round the block and found the entrance Gran and I used to use. It’s at the back through a little gatehouse that’s still there. That’s the only old bit of building that can be seen from the outside.

I’ve been standing in a doorway for a while watching the building. It’s sunny today, but this side of the road is in the shade and the shadows stretch across to halfway up the street frontage opposite. The Council building has rows and rows of regularly placed square windows, most of which reflect the sunlight in a blue-black shimmer, though tatty vertical blinds can be seen hanging unevenly at the lower ones in the shade, unwatered potted plants standing on the sills. It looks like an unloved, uncared-for office building. There’s no movement inside. I’ve seen two people go in, two women. They might have been witches, but I couldn’t see their eyes from here.

Nothing and no one has gone up or down the alley.

I told myself I would watch for an hour or two, but it feels like the office windows are watching me. I need to get this over with.

Feeling a bit shaky.

Couldn’t do it. I got close but I couldn’t go up there.

I will do it though. I’ve got to do it.

Just not yet.

Nothing happening at all. I was hoping to see the bloke, Bob, walk down the alley, but he hasn’t appeared.

He has to come out at some stage though. The best idea is to keep well back and watch.

He might be having the day off or be away on holiday for all I know.

It’s only one day gone. Only one day less.

Day two.

Okay. Day one was not a success. Nobody went up or down the alley (including me). A few people went in and out of the Council building.

But I’m here early now. Slept in a different doorway half a mile away.

And success already. A few people have gone into the Council building, but, more importantly, a van drove up the alley. It drove up, the gates to the courtyard opened, in the van went, and the gates shut. It all looked normal.

Nobody has walked up or down the alley yet. I’m waiting for my man to do that.

And waiting.

And waiting.

But everyone just walks on past the end of the alley, not even looking up there, like they don’t even notice it. There’s a dead-end sign and a brick wall at the far end, so no one’s likely to go up there. But still it’s like it’s invisible to passersby.

And what if he never comes? Mary told me about him years ago. Maybe he’s not here anymore. Maybe the Council has caught him.

Of course just when I’m not really paying attention, someone steps off the street and walks up the alley. A man. But is it Bob?

And now he has his back to me.

He’s gray haired, thin, wearing beige trousers and a navy blue jacket, and carrying a holdall. He walks fast, not looking to the door on the left that I escaped out of, not looking at the gates that the van went through, and he carries on to the end where he turns to the door on his right and unlocks it. As he turns the handle and steps inside he looks toward me. Then he’s gone.

So, if that is Bob, do I wait for him to come out again? He might stay in there for a few days. I’ve got to see him. Must stop being so pathetic. I’m crossing the road.

Now what?

A girl is walking up the alley ahead of me; she’s moving fast and is already at the end and knocking on the man’s door and going in.

What?

Do I do the same? Or wait?

A horn blasts. I’m in the middle of the road. I scuttle back to my side of the street and my doorway.

Was the girl watching too? Is she seeking help, or is she his assistant . . . daughter . . . friend?

She’s coming out already. She’s a kid, younger than me.

She’s walking fast, jogging across the road through a gap in the traffic, turning to her right and glancing at me.

Beckoning me.

I look at the alley.

It will still be here later.

I swivel round in time to see the girl turn down another street and I jog to catch up.

She cuts down another side street and then another and out into a major road with people and shops. Busy, barging people and I can’t see the girl. She could be in any of the shops. Clothes. Phones. Music. Books.

I turn round and she’s standing right in front of me.

“Hi,” she says and grabs my arm. “You look like you need a drink.”

She’s chosen a table at the back of the coffee shop. We’re sitting opposite each other. She bought the hot chocolates and asked for extra mini-marshmallows, then told me to carry the tray, and now she has the cup to her lips and is staring at me over its pink and white mountain. Her eyes are definitely fain: green, pretty but lacking that witch thing . . . the sparks. Definitely fain. And yet they’re weird; they have a liquid quality. There’s another color in there, a turquoise that’s sometimes there and sometimes not. Like a tropical ocean.

“You want to see Bob?” She flicks her long brown hair over her shoulder.

I nod and attempt to sip my drink but can’t get at it for the pile of marshmallows. I eat all the marshmallows to get rid of them.

“I can help you.” She picks at her marshmallows, waves a pink one in the air as she says, “What’s your name?”

“Um, Ivan.”

“Unusual name.” She picks up another marshmallow and adds, “Well, not in Russia, I suppose.”

She takes a sip of her hot chocolate. “I’m Nikita.”

I don’t think so.

“Do you work for Bob?” I ask.

She looks about fourteen, fifteen tops. She should be in school.

“Do the odd job for him. A bit of this. A bit of that. Run errands for him. You know.”

Not really.

She finishes her hot chocolate, getting everything out with a spoon. After a lot of scraping she puts it down, and says, “Want a cookie?” She’s up and gone before I can answer.

She comes back with two huge chocolate cookies and passes one over to me. I have to concentrate on not stuffing the whole thing in my mouth at once.

“You shouldn’t hang around in front of the Council Building,” she says.

“I was being careful.”

“I spotted you.”

I was being careful.

“You need to get some sunglasses to hide your eyes. And I’ve no idea what those are”—she points to my tattoos— “but I’d get some gloves.”

I have a scarf round my neck that I took from the holiday home, but there weren’t any gloves.

She leans over. “Cobalt Alley is protected.”

“Yeah, how?”

She waves her hands around. “Magically, of course. Fains don’t see the alleyway. Only witches see it.”

So she is a witch. But her eyes are different.

“Once you’re in the alley you won’t get out of it unless you look at where you’re going and think about where you’re going. And I mean look hard and think hard. On the way in only look at Bob’s door, think about the door and nothing else and you’ll get to it. On your way out stare at the buildings on the street at the end. Don’t look down. Never look down. If you look at the gates to the Council building, if you think about the Council building, that’s where you’ll end up.”

“Right . . . Thanks.”

“Your homeless disguise is good, by the way.” And she gives me a smile, so I’m not sure if she’s joking or not. Before I can reply, she gets up and walks out of the coffee shop.

My stomach gurgles, and I get that taste in my mouth and have to run for the toilet. I throw up into the bowl, a coffee-colored mix of little floating marshmallows and sludge.

I wait, and nothing more comes up, so I swing around to drink water from the tap. The face looking back in the mirror is pale with bloodshot eyes weighted down by black sacks. I do my best to heal, but decent food and water are the only solution. I look at the state of my old jeans, worn thin at the butt and knees. My shirt has holes on the arms and around some of the buttons. My T-shirt underneath is gray and frayed around the neck.

I head out of the shop but the woman behind the counter runs after me.

“Your friend just left you something,” she says, handing me a large paper bag.

Inside the bag are two packs of sandwiches—ham and cheese and BLT—a bottle of water, a bottle of fresh orange juice, and a napkin with writing on it. It takes me five minutes to figure out what it says.

Cobalt Alley

I’ve eaten the BLT, drunk all the water, and I’m looking at Cobalt Alley. It can’t be that hard. Can it? I’ve got to get on with it. Bob and Nikita kept to the narrow pavement on the righthand side. Bob’s building stretches back from the corner to the wall at the dead end. It’s a rundown low building, one story with a slate roof, and its one door and one window are way up the far end of the alley.

I keep a steady confident-looking but not rushed pace and have my head slightly angled away from the Council side. My eyes are staring at the entrance to Bob’s place. I’m thinking, Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

I know I don’t look casual, and I have to make myself slow down in case anyone from the Council building can see. But then I feel a pull toward the Council building and I think, Shit! Bob’s place. Bob’s place. And I keep my eyes locked on his door.

I get there. Thank you.

Bob’s place.

I knock.

Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

I stare at the door. I’m muttering now, “Please hurry. Bob’s place. Bob’s place.”

Nothing.

Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

I knock again. Louder. “Hurry up. Hurry up! Bob’s place. Bob’s place.”

What do I do if guards come out of the Council building now? I’m trapped. The whole thing could be a Council trap. And I feel my body being pulled again toward the Council building.

BOB’S PLACE! BOB’S PLACE! I can’t wait this long. Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

The door clicks and opens a fraction.

Nothing else happens.

I step into the room, turn and push the door firmly shut.

“Bloody hell! Bob’s place.”

“Yes, do come in. Glad you made it, but I’ll have to kill you if you even glance at the painting.” Far from being a threat, the words sound like a desperate plea for attention.

I turn to see a grubby room. Even the air tastes grubby. Against the far wall, which isn’t that far, as the room is narrow, is a wooden table with a bowl of fruit on it. There are a few apples and pears scattered across the table. To my right there’s a wooden chair and an easel and beyond them an open door through which the voice called. The position of the easel indicates the painting will be a still life of fruit. I go toward the next room, stopping to look at the work in progress on the way. It’s good, traditional and detailed. Oil on canvas.

In the next room I see a man’s hunched back. He’s stirring something in a small, dented saucepan. There’s a smell of tomato soup.

I wait in the doorway. The room has the chilly feel of a cave. It seems even smaller than the painting studio, but that’s because against two walls are stacks of large canvas frames, all with their bare, pale backs to the room. The only light comes through two small skylights. There is a small black leatherette sofa, a low Formica coffee table with three legs, a wooden chair like the one in the first room, a row of kitchen cupboards with a stained worktop, on which stands a kettle and a single electric ring. On the drainer by the sink are a large number of mugs and an opened can of soup.

“I’m making lunch.”

When I don’t reply he stops stirring the soup and turns to look at me, straightening up as he smiles. He holds the wooden spoon in the air as he might hold a paintbrush and a reddish-orange blob drops onto the lino. “I’d like to paint you.”

I don’t think he’d get my eyes.

The man inclines his head. “Probably not. It would be a challenge.”

I don’t reply. Did I say that about my eyes aloud?

“You look like you could do with some.” He holds the saucepan up and raises his eyebrows in a question.

“Thanks.”

The man pours the soup into two of the mugs on the drainer and puts the pan in the sink. Then he picks up the mugs and offers me one, saying, “I’m afraid I’m out of croutons.”

He sits on the leatherette sofa, which is small and narrow.

“I’ve no idea what croutons are.”

“What is the world coming to?”

I sit on the chair and hold the mug to warm my hands. The room is remarkably cold, and the soup only just warm.

The man sits with his legs crossed, revealing how incredibly thin his legs are beneath his baggy trousers, and also one red sock. He twirls his foot around and around and sips his soup.

I swallow most of mine in one gulp.

His foot stops. “It’s the dampness that’s the problem in here. Even on a summer’s day it never gets any sun, and there’s damp coming up from underneath. It must be the river.” He sips his soup, pursing his lips after each taste, and then puts the mug on the table, saying, “And the electric ring’s on the blink and not giving out much heat.”

I savor the last mouthful of soup. It’s not as good as the BLT, but it’s good. And I realize I’m relaxed. I know it is him. He is definitely no Hunter. He is Bob.

“I’m serious, I’d love to paint you. Like that.” He waves a hand at me. “Sitting on the simple wooden chair, half starved and young. So, so young. And with those eyes.” He stops waving his hand and leans forward to stare into my face. “Those eyes.” He leans back again. “One day maybe you’ll let me paint you. However, that is not for today. Today is for business of a different nature.”

I’m about to open my mouth to speak and he puts his finger to his lips. “No need for that.”

I smile. I like this guy. I’m fairly sure his magic is mind-reading, which is incredibly rare and—

“I have a certain skill, but a bit like my painting it’s competent and practiced—workmanlike you might say, rather than . . .” He stops and gazes at me. “I’m no Cézanne. For example, I have to concentrate hard to pull the key thoughts from the scrambled egg that is your mind. But still it is obvious why you are here.” And now he taps the side of his nose.

I think loudly, I have to find Mercury.

“Now that I got clear as a bell.”

Can you help me?

“I can put you in touch with the next person in the chain. Nothing more.”

So it’s not going to be straight to Mercury from here. But I’ve got a deadline to work to. Two months away.

“Time enough. But you must understand, and I’m sure you understand better than most, that caution is vital for all concerned.”

Does he know who I am? Why would I understand better than most?

“I heard a rumor that a prisoner escaped from the Council. An important prisoner. The son of Marcus.”

Oh.

“Hunters are out hunting him. And they are very good at that.”

He stares at me.

I realize I have let a thought out of the bag.

“May I see them?”

I extend my hand toward him, but he gets up and goes into the far room. I hear a switch flick and the lightbulb above me dithers about coming to life. Bob returns and stands in front of me. He takes my hand in both of his. His hands are cool and thin and his bony fingers pull my skin so that the tattoo is distorted.

“They really are hateful, aren’t they?”

I’m not sure if he means the tattoos or White Witches.

“Both, my darling, both.”

He lets go of my hand. “May I see the others?”

I show him.

“Well, well, well . . .” Bob returns to his seat on the sofa and his foot starts to twirl round again. “We need to see if you are right, if these are some way of tracking you. If they are, well, my fate is sealed already.”

He holds his hands up. “No, no. No apologies necessary . . . Indeed I think I may have to apologize to you, because we are going to have to get someone to look at those. I suspect it won’t be a quick procedure, and I know it won’t be pleasant. The man I’m thinking of is a philistine.”

Bob gets up and takes the mugs to the sink.

“I don’t think I’ll bother clearing up. Time to move on. You know, I’ve always thought I should paint in France, search for Cézanne’s spirit in the hills. I can do better than this.”

Yes.

“Should I take the paintings?”

I shrug.

“You’re right, a clean start is best. You know, I feel better already.”

He disappears again into the far room and comes back with a piece of paper and a pencil. Leaning on the kitchen worktop, he sketches. It’s good to watch him. His sketch is better than his oil.

“You’re very kind. I thought a picture would make more sense to you than some ugly words.”

The sketch is of me reaching up to feel on top of a locker, in what looks to be a railway station. There is a sign, but I don’t try to read it now. I’ll spell it out later.

He hands the drawing to me, saying, “You know you are beautiful, don’t you? Don’t let them catch you.”

I look at him and can’t help but smile. He reminds me of Arran, his soft gray eyes filled with the same silvery light, though Bob’s whole face looks gray and lined.

“No need to rub it in about my appearance. Oh, there’s something else. You will need money.”

I realize I haven’t given Bob anything.

“You have given me the chance of a new life and a little inspiration. You are my muse and, alas, I will have to make do with this merest fleeting glimpse of you. But others are less interested in life’s aesthetics and more in its grubbily begotten gains.”

How much will they charge?

Now Bob spreads his arms and looks around the room, “As you can see I am not an expert with money myself. I’ve really no idea about it at all.”

I now remember to ask about Nikita.

The girl who helped me—is she a witch?

“My dear boy, I hope you realize that if, twenty minutes after you leave here, I get a knock on the door from a man asking questions about you, it would be terribly rude of me to answer them. I would hate to talk about you behind your back and I would never dream of being that discourteous about anyone who comes here. Whether the knock comes in twenty minutes or twenty years, the same rules of conduct must always apply.”

I nod.

Thank you for sending her to help me. And for the sandwiches.

“I didn’t ask her to give you any food.” He smiles. “She’s a tough cookie with a bit of a soft center.”

I grin at him and turn to leave.

He calls, “Adieu, mon cher,” as the door closes behind me.

I walk quickly down the alley, sticking close to the wall on my left, eyes fixed on the far buildings, thinking, The end of the alley. The end of the alley.

Money

Bob’s warning about the Hunters has really got to me. I knew they’d be after me, but now my adrenaline spikes every time I see a person dressed in black. I find a park a few miles away and pace around. A dog walker helps me read the sign in the drawing, which says Earls Court. Also in the drawing is a man sitting on a bench reading The Sunday Times. The dog walker tells me that today is Wednesday, so I’ve got four days to get as much cash together as possible.

I’ve no idea where to begin but I know getting a job isn’t going to be the answer. I remember Liam, whom I did community service with, giving advice about stealing. “Find someone stupid and rich—there’s loads of ’em—and rob ’em.”

I’m near St. Paul’s Cathedral. It’s all quiet. The few people I’ve seen have come out of a bar and got straight into a taxi. I’m waiting farther along the street.

It’s late when a lone City gent appears, walking carefully and cursing the lack of cabs. He has really fancy clothes, shoes with no holes in them, and a waistline that indicates lack of food is not a problem for him. I’m not really sure how to do this, but I walk up to him from across the road. He is pretending he hasn’t seen me and speeds up. I move into his path and he stops. He must weigh over twice what I do, and he’s not short, but he’s weak and knows it.

“Look, mate,” I say, “I really don’t want to hurt you, but I need all your cash.”

He’s looking around and I realize he’s going to start shouting.

I step up close and push him into the wall. He’s heavy, but as he hits the bricks the air sort of flobbers out of him like a balloon deflating. “I really don’t want to hurt you, but I need all your cash.” I have my arm at his neck, pushing his head to the side. His eyes are staring at me, though.

He slides out a long, slim, black leather wallet from his jacket. His hand is shaking.

“Thank you,” I say.

I take the notes, flip the wallet closed, hand it back to the man and then I’m off.

Later, when I’m curled up in a shop entrance, I think about the man. He’s probably lying in a nice warm bed, and he definitely doesn’t have a pack of Hunters after him, but he could have ended up in hospital with a heart attack. I don’t want to kill people. I just need their money.

The next day I suss out Earls Court station. It takes me a while to find the platform and the place that matches Bob’s picture, but the bench, the sign, and the locker are there. I’ve just got to come back in three days and get whatever is on top of it. I go and sweep my hand over it now but find only grime.

Now I need some rich, healthy young men to rob.

Liam should come down to London. He’d love it. The place is full of stupid rich people. A few struggle, and some try to hit me, but basically it’s all over before it’s started.

I’ve bought a suit and had my hair cut so that I blend in with the fains. But it’s dead in Canary Wharf on Saturday, and I’m glad because stealing from these guys is pretty low and they are all pretty hopeless. I’ve got over three thousand pounds and a reasonably clear conscience, but it’s no fun doing anything just for the money.

On Sunday I get the tube to Earls Court and walk around the station, checking for Hunters. No one is even looking at me; everyone is looking blankly ahead or at their phones. I walk to the end of the platform and back to the locker and reach up.

A piece of paper is there. I slide it to the edge with my fingertips, stuff it straight into my pocket, and carry on with hardly a break in my stride.

In a cafe I befriend a woman. She goes through the instructions. They are similar to the ones Mary gave me but not as precise. They are for Thursday.

Jim and Trev (Part One)

I’ve followed the instructions carefully. They have taken me to the outskirts of London, to a grotty house at the grottier end of the sprawl. I’m standing in someone’s front room. It is dark in here. Jim is sitting on the stairs. Whereas Bob is a struggling artist, Jim appears to be a struggling criminal, a White Witch of the lowest ability. He’s no Hunter, that’s for sure.

The house is small, owned by fains who, Jim assures me, “don’t know nuffin’ ’bout nuffin’.” The front door opens into a lounge area that leads to the kitchen. There are stairs in one corner and a large flat-screen TV on the wall, but no chairs for some reason. Jim has closed the curtains and the air inside is heavy. There’s a smell of onions and garlic, which I think is coming from Jim.

Jim hasn’t told me how to get to Mercury but has told me how important a good passport is, how I will actually need two passports, how his passports are quality passports, that they are in fact real passports, and on and on . . .

He wipes his nose on the back of his hand before sniffing a large amount of snot back into his chest.

“There’s more work in these than a bespoke suit, more skill, more everythin’. These passports will get you through the strictest checks. These passports may save your life.”

I don’t even want a passport. I just want the directions to Mercury. But I’m guessing I shouldn’t fall out with him. “Well, I’m sure you’re right, Jim.”

“You’ll see I’m right, Ivan. You’ll see.”

“So that’s two thousand then, for two passports and the directions to Mercury.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Ivan, if I’ve not been clear. It’ll all come to three thousand pounds.” He wipes his nose again, this time with the palm of his hand.

“Look, you said a thousand for one passport.”

“Oh, Ivan, you’re new to this, aren’t you? Let me explain. It’s the problem of the foreigners. I’ll get you a British passport at a thousand, but it’s best to get one from somewhere foreign as well. The States is a possibility, but I favor New Zealand these days. A lot of people got grudges against the Yanks for one reason or another, but no one’s got a grudge against a Kiwi, ’cept maybe a few sheep . . .” And he sniffs and swallows deeply. “Course, foreign stuff is dearer.”

I don’t know. I’ve no idea if a thousand pounds is a good price or not. It sounds a lot to me. Two thousand sounds ridiculous.

“Mercury will want to know that you’re being careful. She likes people to take all the precautions.”

And I’ve no idea if he knows the first thing about Mercury, but . . . “Fine. When?”

“Great, Ivan. Lovely to do business with you. Lovely.”

“When?”

“Okay, son. I know you’re keen. Two weeks should see us right, but let’s say three to be on the safe side.”

“Let’s say two weeks, one passport and a thousand pounds.”

“Two weeks, two passports, three thousand.”

I nod and back away from him.

“Brill . . . Half now, of course.”

I can’t be bothered to argue more so I pull out three wads that I have made up of five hundred each. I saw that in a film and I’m pleased I’ve done it. Everything with Jim feels like a cheap gangster movie.

“Pick the directions up at the same time in two weeks and follow them. It’ll be a different meeting place. Never use the same place twice. You bring the money etc. etc.”

“Are the instructions part of a spell, Jim?”

“A spell?”

“The instructions to get to the meeting point. A spell to ensure Hunters can’t follow.”

Jim smiles. “Nah. Though I do always check out my customers as they wait for buses and trains and if I saw a Hunter I’d be long gone.”

“Oh.”

“But mainly they’re directions. Don’t want a customer getting lost. You wouldn’t believe how thick some people are.”

Jim goes to the door and switches the light on. “Blimey.” We both blink and shield our eyes in the glare. “Just need a photo of you.”

While he’s doing that I wonder what Gift he has. It’s considered rude to ask, but this is Jim so I do.

He says, “The usual. Potions. I hate ’em.”

He continues, “And I thought . . . we all thought that I was goin’ to have a strong Gift. From childhood I had this special talent, and my mother, bless her, said, ‘My son will have a strong Gift.’ See, already from age three or four, I could tell witches from fains. Could tell it easy, and that’s rare, that is.”

“Yes. Rare, for sure. So how do you do it, Jim?”

“Well, you’re not going to believe this but it’s all in the eyes . . . I see little glints of silver in White Witches’ eyes.”

My mouth must have dropped open.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Jim, I’m just . . . amazed. What exactly are these glints of silver like?”

“Oh well, like nothing else, really. The nearest I can say is that they are thin slices of silver and they move around, twistin’ and turnin’, like bits in one o’ them snow-shaker toys. That’s what it’s like.”

“You see it in your own eyes when you look in the mirror?”

“I do. I do.”

“Amazing.”

“Yes, it is. Beautiful, really. Witches have beautiful eyes.”

“And what do you see in my eyes, Jim?”

“Oh well, your eyes . . . you’ve got interestin’ eyes for sure.”

“Do you see silvery sparks?”

“Ivan, if I’m honest, I’d have to say, not so much silvery . . .”

I sit on the floor and lean back against the wall.

“Do all White Witches have silvery bits in them?”

“As far as I’ve seen they do.”

“Have you ever met any Black Witches?”

“A few. Their eyes is different.” He looks worried. “Not silvery.”

“Like mine?”

“No. I’d say yours are unique, Ivan.”

No. They’re like my father’s.

Jim gives a huge sniff and swallow then sits next to me.

“I can tell Half Bloods as well.”

“You can?” I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a Half Blood, someone who is half witch and half fain. They are despised by witches.

“They’ve got real pretty eyes. Weird, though . . . like flowing water.”

There’s a knock on the door and I’m on my feet behind it, looking at Jim. He’s smiling at me.

“All right, Ivan, all right. It’s just Trev.” Jim looks at his watch. “He’s late, though. He’s always late, is Trev.”

“Who’s Trev?” I whisper.

Jim gets up and stretches his back before wandering to the door.

“Trev’s the brains. He’s got skills, has Trev”—and here Jim lowers his voice to a whisper—“not a lot of magic but a lot of skills. He’s goin’ to take a look at them tattoos for you.”

Trev looks like an expert, but I’m not sure in what. He is exceptionally tall, balding, with wispy gray hair growing from below the level of the top of his ears to his shoulders. He’s wearing a worn brown suit, thick beige shirt, and rust-red knitted waistcoat. Trev is expressionless in every way. His body seems to float along with hardly any arm or even leg movement. His voice when he says, “Hello, Jim,” is flat and toneless. He shows minimal interest in me and hardly looks at my face, which is fine. He is, however, brought to life by my tattoos.

“I’ll have to take samples,” he says, peering at me and pulling my skin around and moving from my neck to my hand and then my leg. “Of the skin and bone.”

“The bone?”

“I’ll take it from your ankle.”

“How?”

Trev doesn’t answer but kneels on the floor and opens a scuffed, black leather bag. It looks like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag.

I notice that Jim is grinning.

“Are you a doctor, Trev?” I ask.

Trev possibly hasn’t heard as he doesn’t reply. Jim sniggers and sniffs heartily.

Trev pulls out a plastic bag, rips it open, and lays a blue surgical sheet on the floor. Next out of the bag is a scalpel; it too is in a plastic bag that is quickly ripped open and thrown to one side. Soon there is a glinting row of surgical implements, most worryingly a small hacksaw.

By this stage Jim is hopping around with glee.

Trev lays another blue sheet beneath my leg and then starts to clean my ankle with a surgical wipe, saying, “It’s better if I don’t use anesthetic.”

“What?”

“Except the patient usually jerks around too much. Think you can hold still?”

“Probably not.” My voice has gone higher.

“Shame.” And he turns to his bag and removes a hypodermic needle and some clear liquid. “I need to analyze the skin, tissue, and bone. If there’s some anesthetic in there it may skew the results.”

I don’t know if he’s making this up and just wants to make Jim’s day.

Jim looks expectant.

“Okay. I’ll hold still.” And I wonder at what stage I can change my mind.

“Jim can help . . .”

“No, I don’t need him.” I don’t want his snotty fingers anywhere near me. They’re more terrifying than the hacksaw.

“Don’t do any healing until I say I’ve finished. I’ll be quick.”

To give Trev his due, he doesn’t hang around.

I don’t jerk. I’m rigid, watching it all. I don’t make a sound either, no screaming or moaning, though my jaw and teeth ache, I’m clenching them so tightly. I’m drenched in sweat by the end of it.

Jim watches me heal and says, “Blimey! You’re quick.”

Trev then asks how the tattoos were applied and while I talk he pops lids onto the four small, round plastic trays that contain the bits of skin, blood, flesh, and bone. Then he stacks the trays and puts a large elastic band round them, holding them together. He carefully places them in the corner of his bag. Next he rolls up the bloodied plastic sheet with the surgical tools into a large bundle, gets Jim to hold open a bin liner, and slides the lot in, then screws up the sheet that was under my leg and tosses that in as well.

He peers at my ankle and nods. “I took the ‘0,’ but you can see it’s already reappeared on the scab. That’s very clever. It’s all very clever. I’ll take a few photos.” He gets out his phone and clicks away.

“Interesting scars,” he says, looking at my hand. “Acid?”

“You’re studying the tattoos,” I say.

“Just professional interest.”

“How soon will you be able to tell me the results?”

Trev looks at me totally blankly. “I need to analyze what chemicals are in the tattoos. That should be straightforward, but there’ll be magic involved, which makes it a thousand times more complicated.”

“How soon will you know if they’re tracking me?”

Trev doesn’t answer. He snaps the lock on his bag and stands up to go. He says to Jim, “The tattoos are unlikely to be used to track him.” And Trev picks up his bag and walks out.

Jim shuts the door. “No manners. That’s ’cause he’s too bright for ’em. Still wouldn’t do ’im any ’arm to try.” He sniffs, swallows a mouthful, and then says, “He never rushes neither. Never. I’ll give you the latest when I see you in two weeks.”

“He didn’t mention money.”

“A sad failin’ of our Trev, that is. Thinks he’s above all that. ’Course he’s got to eat, ain’t ’e? Like anyone.”

“I’m guessing he isn’t cheap.”

“He’s an expert, Ivan. Experts ain’t cheap. Experts in passports, experts in tattoos, experts in anythin’ ain’t cheap. He charges by the hour. I’ll let you know what sort of region he’s goin’ to be in when I see you next time.”

Jim and Trev (Part Two)

Early one morning two weeks later Jim and I are in the changing rooms of a village tennis club. I’m not sure if the odor is Jim or the changing room, but I can’t imagine the tennis-club members would put up with this smell for long.

“You’re looking a lot better, Ivan. A bit fuller round the ol’ cheeks. Gaunt, that’s what you were, gaunt.” He is glancing to the door behind me all the time as he speaks.

“Is there a problem, Jim?”

“There shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t be. You did follow the instructions all right?”

“Of course.”

“It gives me the willies this place. Let’s make it quick, eh?”

I take the passports and look through them. They seem fine to me. I have two different names and dates of birth, but I’m eighteen in both, which is plausible.

“That’s it then,” Jim says as he finishes counting the money. He puts it in his jacket pocket and I grab his arm.

“The directions to Mercury, please, Jim.”

Jim shakes his head sadly, but is still smiling, professional that he is. “Ivan, me ol’ mate, I’m real sorry but I can’t divulge any details till we have the results in from Trev. I’d love to help, course I would. Course I would.”

“And how is Trev doing?”

“Oh, Trev’s havin’ a great time, Trev is. I went round to see him the other day and he’s lovin’ it. A giant puzzle he said. A big, giant puzzle.”

“And how soon will he have the answer to the big, giant puzzle?”

“He didn’t know. He hardly spoke. Quiet even for Trev. But he did say he’d leave directions in the usual spot on a Tuesday at ten in the mornin’. You’ve just gotta check every Tuesday.”

“I’m guessing it won’t be this Tuesday from the size of the puzzle.”

“You never know, Ivan. Our Trev is a genius. He might be having his ’reeka moment right now. You just check every week and one Tuesday it’ll be there.”

“And money?”

Jim’s face sours so much that his mouth puckers and seems unable to form words for a few seconds before he shakes it off to say, “He says he’ll discuss things with you and only you.” Jim wipes his nose with his fingers and then rubs them on his trousers.

The first week I don’t expect anything to appear on the locker. I’ve got a decent stash of money now and I can’t face stealing any more. I buy some new boots and clothes. I keep training. A hundred push-ups are easy now. But I need to get out of the city. I’ve not seen any Hunters, and I’m moving around every night to sleep in a different doorway, but I’m on edge all the time. I decide that after I check the locker on the following Tuesday I’ll go to Wales or maybe Scotland, somewhere remote, and come back the following Monday.

But the next Tuesday I find an envelope on top of the locker. I walk away slowly, looking around. A young boy no more than five years old is holding his mother’s hand and staring at me. I freeze and look around again and then clock him again. He is still staring at me. I don’t know why, but I run.

I’ve been way too complacent. But even if they aren’t tracking me—and I’m beginning to believe that they aren’t—then they are looking for me. They could get lucky and see me wandering around the streets. They underestimated me and I escaped, but I mustn’t underestimate the Hunters. As Mary said, “The clue is in the name.”

In the envelope there is a train ticket and a note. With a bit of help I discover that the ticket is for tomorrow, leaving at six a.m. The journey to Liverpool can’t be more than a few hours, so it will leave me time to find my way to the meeting point which is indicated on the note:

11 o’clock

42 Mill Hill Lane

Liverpool is a place with few witches, because there’s a gang of fains there that are on to them and don’t like them one bit. Gran told me White Witches try never to go there because there’s a sort of agreement: the Scouse fains won’t out the witches as long as the witches keep away from Liverpool.

I tell myself that this is a good plan. Jim is looking after me, sending me to a place with no White Witches, no Hunters, but later in the day I get jittery and can’t keep still. It bothers me that this is a change to the plan. Jim never mentioned train tickets. He only ever talked about instructions.

I’m walking back to Cobalt Alley. I think Bob will have left weeks ago—I hope so, but something makes me want to check. If the train ticket is because the Hunters are on to Bob—or worse, if they have captured him—I want to know.

Before I reach my previous vantage point across from the Council building I can see that something is happening in the alley so I keep moving slowly along the opposite side of the road. There’s a large white van parked outside Bob’s place and another vehicle to the far side of it that I can’t quite see, but I think it’s the same 4x4 that came to Scotland for me. I risk one last look and see a man come out of Bob’s door holding a painting. The man is Clay.

I don’t sleep that night. I go to the train station only a few minutes before the train is due to leave and find my reserved seat.

The carriage is less than half full; it’s an early train. I try to see each person’s eyes as they come past me. I see no Hunters.

I’m dog-tired and doze on the journey. There’s a judder and an announcement. We are arriving in Liverpool.

It’s 11:15 and Mill Hill Lane feels increasingly unwelcoming with every minute that passes. The street is empty of people. Number 42 is a derelict house in a terrace of derelict houses. Broken glass and graffiti seem to be the norm, but inside it’s relatively untouched: the floorboards are bare and the only broken window is the one I broke to get in.

I’ve stashed my rucksack in a back alley half a mile away. My passports and money are in the zipped pockets of my jacket. I am wearing an Arab scarf and sunglasses, though it’s not sunny. Fingerless gloves are more practical than ordinary gloves and they hide the tattoo and the scars on my hand, but not the tattoos on my finger, which I’ve taped over.

I tell myself that at the first sign of anything odd I’ll go. But I’m kidding myself; the whole thing is odd, and I need to see Trev.

I’m standing upstairs looking up the street when Trev turns the far corner, walking quickly and carrying a thin plastic shopping bag. I stay still, a little back from the window, and watch. There’s a kid on a bike at the far end of the street, and he’s watching Trev too.

I go downstairs as Trev comes to the front door and I pull him inside, telling him that this is not a good place to meet.

“I normally leave all the directions to Jim. That’s what he’s good at.” Trev looks out of the window and then back at me. “Jim’s gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Abroad, I think . . . I hope. I don’t think the Council got him, but they’re on to us. That’s why I moved up here. Jim told me that even Hunters don’t like coming here.”

I don’t tell him about seeing Clay at Bob’s place but ask, “Are you going abroad too, Trev?”

He tries to smile but looks sick as he pats his breast pocket. “Got the tickets and I’m off this evening.”

“Good. And what about me?”

“Ah yes, glad you asked. The tattoos on your little finger are the clue. As soon as I saw them I had an idea what they were up to. You see, the three little tattoos mirror the tattoos on your body. The one by your nail reflects the one on your neck, the middle one is the one on your hand, and the lower one the tattoo on your ankle. They planned to make some sort of witch’s bottle.”

I look at my finger.

“Witch’s bottles are extremely hard to control. I think they’re working on a sophisticated version. A very sophisticated version. So instead of putting some of your hair or skin or blood in the bottle, I think they were going to amputate your finger and use that. They would probably cut your finger into the three sections and make three witch’s bottles. They would do something to the tattoo on your finger and you would feel it, suffer the pain, on the larger tattoo on your neck, hand, or ankle.”

“To force me to do things for them?”

“That’s what I’ve been wondering. Not sure how it would work. They could inflict so much pain you’d want to comply.”

“Comply or die.”

“Comply or suffer. Suffering is their speciality.”

“But they could use it to kill me?”

“Well, yes.”

I rip the tape off my finger and look at the three tiny tattoos. They all go through to the bone. I take out my penknife and prick the tattoo by my nail, wondering if I will feel anything in my neck.

“Nothing?” Trev asks.

I shake my head.

“It has to be in a bottle, with the correct spell.”

“How soon would they have amputated?”

“I would think they would want to check the tattoos were deep and had healed fully. A few days, no more than a week. Then they would test it. And, of course, if it didn’t quite work, you’ve got nine other fingers.”

“They could still do it? I mean if they caught me, chopped off my finger?”

“Oh, yes. It’s permanent. A permanent problem. You can’t remove them.”

“I thought they were some sort of brand or a tracking device.”

“They aren’t for tracking,” Trev says. “But, yes, they are a brand. I think that the tattoo will show whatever you become . . . I mean if you have the Gift to transform, the brand will still be there.”

“And there’s definitely no way to remove them?”

“You could cut off your leg and your finger, but you’d still be left with the problem of your neck.”

There’s shouting from outside. Fains.

Trev glances to the window and pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and stuffs it in my hand. “How to get to Mercury is on there.”

I push the paper deep into my pocket saying, “Thank you, Trev. Thank you for everything.”

Trev holds the shopping bag out to me, saying, “These are all your skin and bone samples. You must destroy them. Burn them. If the Council get them they could make a witch’s bottle with them. A crude one . . . but still.”

I peer into the bag. There are the plastic dishes with bits of blood in them.

He adds, “Just so there’s no doubt. Ever. From anyone . . . that I kept anything of you.”

I think he’s worried about my father.

Glass smashes in the room above.

We drop low and freeze.

Another smash . . . but farther away, from a different house. Shouts.

I peer out the window.

“Shit!” I duck down and tell Trev, “Hunters.”

I raise my head again to look. A Hunter is walking down the street, and there’s a gang of three fains throwing stones at her. She doesn’t look that bothered. They only work in pairs, though, so there’ll be another in the backstreets somewhere.

I drop down again, saying, “We’ve got to go.”

We run to the back of the house. The door is locked and bolted. The bolts won’t budge. I smash the window with my elbow and kick through the glass and we’re climbing out. At the back wall I give Trev a lift over the gate, which is nailed shut, and I scramble after him, looking left and right at the top.

Nothing. No one.

We run.

A few roads away we slow down, though I keep checking behind.

Trev looks like he’s going to be sick. He’s beyond caring what I owe him, so I give him most of my cash and say, “Thanks, Trev. If you ever need anything . . . I mean . . . you know . . .”

We shake hands and he leaves in one direction and I go in the other.

I feel for the piece of paper in my pocket. It’s still there.

Then I realize I haven’t got the plastic bag.

I can hardly believe that I have been that stupid, but I have. I’m sure I didn’t drop it. I think I put it down when I was giving Trev a lift over the wall.

Hunters

I could leave without the plastic bag, hope that it just looks like rubbish, but . . . but, but, but. Never underestimate the enemy. If White Witches get that stuff, the bits of me, they won’t need my finger; they might be able to make a witch’s bottle with my skin and blood and bone.

I retrace my steps to the house. There’s no plastic bag in the alley, in the backyard of the house or in the house itself. There is no sign of the Hunters either.

Shit!

From the front room of the house I can see both ways up the street. It’s empty. I sit on the floor to try to work out my next move.

The Hunters were on to Bob, and now Jim and Trev, but I’m not being tracked. If they knew that I was here there’d be twenty Hunters, not two. They probably don’t know what’s in the bag, but they might know that Trev had been carrying it.

There’s shouting outside. I scramble over to the window to peer out, and duck down a second later to get my breath and to get my head into gear. The Hunter is back, as are the three stone-throwing fains. The Hunter is carrying the plastic shopping bag. She must still be looking for Trev.

I scoot upstairs to get a better view of the Hunter. She’s slim and tall and picking up stones to throw back.

“She a friend of yours?”

I turn round.

A big girl in a hoodie is standing at the back of the room.

“No, but she will have a friend. She won’t be alone. There’s bound—”

“Her mate’s around the back. Seen her already.” The girl folds her arms and looks me up and down. “I thought you were one of them, but you’re different. What are you?”

“Different.”

“Well, I don’t like them and I don’t like you.”

The shouting has stopped and I turn back to the window. One of the fains is on the ground, flat out, unconscious or dead. The big girl is next to me, and she’s looking too.

“Is she here because of you?”

I’m looking at the Hunter. She’s backed up to the house opposite and whistling a signal for her partner.

“No.” That is technically true, as I think they must have been following Trev. “Look, I’m leaving . . . soon. I just need to get that plastic bag back.”

“So, it is you they’re after? Should I give you to them?”

I keep watching the Hunter, and I grin but don’t turn round. “You could try.”

The other Hunter appears and more stones are thrown.

I shake my head. “Throwing stones won’t get rid of them.”

“My brother’s on his way. He’s got a gun.”

“They’ve got guns.”

The fain lad is lying in the street, not moving. I say, “Do you think you should call an ambulance for your friend?”

“If I thought it’d turn up I might.”

Two more fains have appeared, but they are all hanging back. Both Hunters are standing close to the kid on the ground. They actually look quite nervous. They won’t want a lot of fain attention. If anyone gets a phone out to film them, they’ll be out of there. I can’t let them run off with my stuff.

I pull my scarf on tight and am out of the front door in seconds. I grab two bricks as I march toward the Hunters. The Hunters are by the prone fain. I hope I look like his pissed-off friend.

“What’ve you done to my mate?” I add a few swear words.

The Hunters stand still, watching me, like they can’t believe I’m going to do anything serious. But I keep on coming. The farthest one pulls her gun and I speed up as she shouts, “Stop!”

As if that’s going to stop me.

I hit the first one with a brick on the side of her face and use her body to shield me as I charge the other one.

A shot, another, and then I’m kicking the gun out of her hand and it’s sliding across the road. The bricked Hunter is out of it on the ground. I’m in a crouch. The other Hunter is too, and now she has a knife in her hand.

It’s only now that I realize how good Celia is. This girl is a Hunter, a top fighter, but she seems slow, and I can read what she’s going to do, easy. I get the knife out of her hand on my second move.

I don’t stab her but break both her arms, like Celia has taught me. I’ve got her on the ground, my knee in her back and could break her neck easy enough. I pull her head round. I hate Hunters. I’m breathing hard, but her hair is silky in my hands and I don’t want to kill anyone.

“Nice moves!” The big girl is holding the plastic shopping bag in one hand and the gun in the other. She’s pointing the gun at me.

I stand, arms out in surrender. There are fains all around me, and none of them look friendly. “They’re yours.” I nudge the Hunter on the floor with the toe of my boot and glance over at the other one who’s still unconscious.

There’s two fains bent over the lad who’s sitting up now with a cut on his forehead. There are seven fains around me, ranging from a skinny teenage kid to two big, tattooed blokes. Another is coming up the road with two white bull terriers straining at their leads. The girl’s brother with his gun is probably not far away.

“That’s my stuff.” I nod at the plastic bag.

She hesitates but holds the bag out to me. “You’ve no reason to stay, no reason to come back.”

I take the bag, saying, “Not now.”

I wonder what will happen to the Hunters, but I’ll leave that up to the fains. I have to push past the gang that have gathered round. I head in the opposite direction to the lad with the dogs, walking fast and then breaking into a jog.

I don’t stop until I get back to the train station. That’s where I’d left Nikita.

Arran

Nikita had been watching Bob’s place when Clay was there. She saw me and followed me. I didn’t notice her until she was standing in front of me. I bought her a hot chocolate.

Nikita’s real name is Ellen. Her eyes are amazing, like a sea, a clear, turquoise sea, currents of blue and green moving through them. She’s a Half Blood. Her mother was a White Witch and her father is a fain. Since her mother died, Ellen has been outside the witch community and pretty much ostracized by them. Her nearest relative on the witch side is her grandmother, who pretends she doesn’t exist. She lives with her father in London and says she goes to school “half the time.” She also says she’s sixteen, but I’m not sure, she looks younger.

She told me that Jim went to France and that she wanted to go with him but he said no. I told her a bit about myself. And about Arran, Deborah, and Gran, and Annalise. She agreed to help me get a message to Arran.

Ellen is waiting for me as we agreed. While I was meeting Trev she has searched the internet for information about Arran. There isn’t much, but his old school website has a small article about him winning a prize and going on to study medicine at Cambridge. We get the first train out of Liverpool that’s heading in that direction. It’s late by the time we arrive in Cambridge, and I tell Ellen she has to stay in a B&B for the night. She doesn’t look too happy when she realizes I’ll be sleeping rough, but the good thing about Ellen is that she quickly gets that there are some arguments she’s not going to win.

The next morning we meet up at nine. The B&B landlady has given Ellen a leaflet about Cambridge and a small map. Ellen says she’s going to suss the college out and see how many Hunters are around. She’s convinced there will be some watching Arran. We agree to meet up again in the evening.

“I saw one Hunter. She swapped over with her partner at four o’clock, so it looks like they’re watching Arran twenty-four seven, doing a twelve-hour shift each. If they believed you’d try to see him they’d have many more than that.”

I nod. I’m not going to try. I don’t want to give him any more trouble than I already have.

Ellen thinks the best time for her to see Arran is in the college dining room at breakfast. She thinks she’ll be able to sneak in and sit with him as his guest. The Hunters hang around outside the building, and Arran isn’t in their sight most of the time.

I give her a small picture that I’ve drawn. “He’ll know it’s from me.”

“Okay. But I’m going to take a photo of you as well.”

Oh.

“I’ll just show it to him on my phone. So he can see you. What you look like now. We could do a video.”

I shake my head. “A photo.”

“You could speak to him on the phone.”

I shake my head. I couldn’t.

I wait in a park where we have arranged to meet. I feel sick.

Ellen’s bright. She won’t mess up.

But I still feel sick.

It’s midday when I see her walking toward me. She’s smiling. A big smile.

“It worked fine. He looked a bit confused at first, but then I showed him your drawing and he was so happy. He kept smoothing his hand over it. He wanted me to send the photo of you to his phone but I said that was too dangerous. So he looked at it while we talked.

“He’s enjoying studying. He’s found his Gift, which is healing, but it’s not very strong. He misses home and Deborah. Deborah is living in Gran’s house. She has a boyfriend called David. They want to get married.”

“Married!”

“She wants children. Arran says David is great. He’s nothing to do with the Council or Hunters. He’s a White Witch, from Wales. He works as a carpenter. Arran said that you’d like him. Deborah has an office job in town. Arran says she’s happy there. He says to tell you that she has an amazing Gift.”

“What is it?”

“Well, I don’t really get it but it’s something to do with being good at paperwork. I’m not sure if he was joking.”

I don’t think he’d joke, but paperwork doesn’t make any sense.

“He said that your gran died three months ago, when Arran was home for the holidays. He said she went to bed saying that she was tired. She died in the night.”

“You asked him, didn’t you? Was it suicide?”

“I asked him. And he said he didn’t know. He said Deborah thought she might have taken one of her own potions.”

I know Deborah is right.

“Arran said that after you were taken the Council often called your gran down to London for questioning. He said she refused to answer anything.”

“They never questioned Arran?”

“He said not, but he’s not very good at lying.”

“And Deborah?”

Ellen nods.

“He said Hunters searched the house a few months ago. Deborah overheard them saying something about the ‘incompetents at the Council.’ They had a feeling that you had escaped.

“He asked what they did to you and where you were kept. I told him that I didn’t know. I told him you were well.”

“Thank you. You didn’t tell him about the tattoos?”

“No. You said not to.” She takes a breath and tries to smile. “I asked about Annalise too.” Ellen’s tone isn’t promising. “He’s never spoken to her since you left. Even at parties and weddings, he and Deborah aren’t allowed near her. He heard that she had a small Giving ceremony.”

She was seventeen last September. “She still goes to school, doesn’t she?”

“I didn’t ask that. I got the feeling he didn’t like talking about her.”

“Yeah, well. He disapproves of me and her.”

“Why?”

“He thinks I’m asking for trouble. Her family are very White, brilliant White. Pure as they come. Involved with the Council . . . Hunters.”

“She doesn’t sound your type.”

“She’s not like them.”

And she is my type, very much my type.

“You’re not thinking of going back to see her?”

I think about it a lot, though I know it would be stupid.

Ellen says, “I told Arran where I live in London. He said we should meet up, maybe. I thought that I could get messages to him for you. I’d be like the go-between.”

I don’t know. It might be better if I never contact them again. But if anyone could do it Ellen could.

I say, “Ellen, I don’t want to get you into trouble with the Council.”

“Ha! Too late for that.”

She gets out her mobile phone. “I took a photo of Arran. And a short video.”

I tell myself I’m not going to cry, not in front of Ellen, and I’m okay at first. Arran looks a little older, but his hair is the same. He’s pale, but he looks good. He tries to smile and doesn’t quite manage it. He tells me a little about what he’s doing at university, and about Deborah and David, and then he tells me how he’s missed me and wants to see me but knows it’s impossible. He hopes I’m well, really well, not just physically but inside myself too, and says he’s always believed in me and knows I’m a good person, and he hopes I can get away, that I must be careful whom I trust and that I must leave them all behind, how he and Deborah will be fine and will be happy knowing I am free and that is how he’ll think of me, happy and free, always.

I have to walk away for a bit after watching it. And I so want to see Arran for real and be with him, and I know I can’t. I can’t ever do that.

Later I thank Ellen for helping me. I’m not sure what else to do. I offer her some money, but she doesn’t want any, so we have fish and chips and sit in the park eating them. I tell her she has to go back to her dad, and she complains, but not much.

She selects a chip and asks me what I’m going to do next.

“Get three gifts.”

“You’re going to find Mercury, then.”

And I wonder about Ellen. “What do Half Bloods do, Ellen? Do they have Givings? Do they have Gifts?”

“They don’t have Givings unless the Council allows it, which only happens rarely and also means working for them in exchange for them allowing the ceremony. I’ll never work for the Council; they despise us. All witches do. But I’ve heard of a few Half Bloods in the past who have had Givings from their witch parent and have found their Gift. My gran’s too terrified of the Council to even see me; she’ll never help me.”

“So? What are you going to do? If you can’t get three gifts from your gran or the Council?”

“I don’t know yet. There’s always Mercury. But she’s the absolute last resort.”

“What do you know about her?”

“She’s a nasty piece of work. You shouldn’t trust her. Rumor has it she makes slaves of little girls. So I’m not racing over for her help just yet. You shouldn’t trust her.” Ellen picks a fat chip.

“I’m not a little girl.”

“She doesn’t make slaves of little boys, she eats them.” Ellen pops the chip into her mouth.

“You serious?”

Ellen nods and swallows. “That’s what I heard.” She selects another chip and looks up at me. “Not raw. She cooks them first.”