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  "Yes there is, Ma, I saw. There's a man . . ." Vera turned her head on the pillow, cutting eye contact, staring with consternation at a point beyond the wall. Her mother's questions faded from her consciousness, as she closed her eyes once more.

  Vera became moody and withdrawn, sleeping for hours during the day, then wandering restlessly in the night.

  The doctor advised Mrs Flynn to keep her off school for two weeks. Her convalescence took longer than that. A pale and sickly child, Vera had been the only one in the family to have ginger hair. Her mother thanked the Lord it was the colour of bright copper, and not orange, but even so, at times other children taunted her mercilessly. Vera refused to leave the house, even when she'd recovered, and she would not say why.

  Finally, her mother lost patience with her reluctance to venture out, so one Sunday morning; she dragged her out of bed and announced she was taking her to Mass. Despite her protests, Vera dressed, but when the time came to leave, she would not go. Her mother hauled her outside, screaming and kicking all the way to the church. Once inside, she lapsed into a strange silence. They sat at the back in the only available pair of seats together. Vera shivered, her teeth chattering noisily. She made a grrrr-ing sound as she shook. Concerned, her mother looked across at her, half thinking she was faking something to get out of the service. Suddenly, Vera's leg spasmed, and her foot struck the pew in front with a dull thud.

  "Vera - what are you doing?" Her mother hissed under her breath. Both legs stiffened, stretched out taut, her backside raised off the seat as her back arched. She collapsed between the pews, trembling.

  A woman asked, "What's the matter with her?"

  "I don't know," her mother said. "She seems to have had some sort of fit."

  Two men carried her outside into the air and laid her down. A small crowd gathered around her prone body.

  "Vera? Vera love - are you all right?"

  Slowly, she turned her face towards them. It had blistered so badly that the group of people surrounding her, gasped as one.

  "Holy Mary! Fetch Doctor Robert, someone, and be quick about it!"

  Vera barely managed a whisper, "I said it wasn't safe outside."

  They took her back inside the church.

  The doctor arrived and following a brief examination, could offer no immediate diagnosis. "I believe it's an allergic reaction. Her recent illness has weakened the body. I'll prescribe something for her skin. In the meanwhile, let's take her home, I'll give you a lift."

  Inside the house, he scribbled out a prescription and handed it to Mrs Flynn. "She's to rest. Get her drinking plenty of fluids. Call me if you need me, but otherwise, I'll be back in a couple of days."

  Her newly healed skin was smooth and pink. It became clear she'd be unable go outside, whether the sun shone or not. The smallest amount of ultra-violet light would trigger severe burns. The doctor, mystified, took blood and tissue samples and sent them away for testing. No medical evidence was ever found to support any known ailment. Dr Robert suspected she'd somehow triggered a psychosomatic illness so she could avoid going out. Forbidden to leave the house until someone came up with an effective solution, Vera made sense of things from her bed. She resigned herself to a past she couldn't alter, and she looked at ways she might bring about a change in the future.

  It came to her suddenly. To do that, she would have to be outside, and in order to do that, she'd have to cover herself up completely during the day. Mostly she would go out at night while the rest of the house slept. It was on one of those nights that she wandered down to the beach. The sea was speckled, flecked with silver moonlight. It was then she saw it for the first time. Sitting amongst the millions of other stones on the foreshore, it glowed, its blackness exposing it just as surely as if it were white. Vera stooped to pick it up. At first, she thought it must be a black marble. She knew straight away that it was unlikely to be glass because although perfectly spherical, it had the heavy weight of some type of metal. Even at her tender age, she knew that the chances of such an object occurring naturally, would be almost non-existent.

  She held it up in front of her, between her thumb and forefinger, amazed that such a relatively small thing, when placed at a precise point in her line of sight, could eclipse the silvery orb. For a fleeting second, she had the feeling that the world was within her grasp. Celestial light seemed to lay a pathway across the water to where she stood. Vera remained spellbound, giddy and incredibly light on her feet, until a passing cloud broke the spell and allowed the return of her senses. In that moment of insight, she understood that by altering her perspective on life, by moving her standpoint, she could make herself bigger in the overall scheme of things.

  She'd seen a way into the future, a way to make things safe, to put things right: she'd seen the difference she could make. All she needed to do was work out how. The stone in the palm of her hand, blacker than black, held the moon in miniature, and reflected it in the curves of its own dark skies. She felt like an astronaut looking down from outer space onto a distant world. The night never felt fresher or more alive, than it did for her then.

  There's something special about this stone . . . At only thirteen years of age, she had all the time in the world to find out what it was.

  She closed her hand over it and slipping it into her pocket, turned, and started the long walk home.

  The following Thursday, Mrs Flynn announced, "We're going to Mass this Sunday, come hell or high water," she paused, expecting resistance. "So, it's the confessional for you tonight."

  "What for, Ma? I've done nothing wrong."

  "I know that child. It's just that you've not been to confession since I don't know … a long time now. I'm wondering if it might help with things, you know…" She took Vera's hands in hers. "And I want God's light to shine for you; you've spent so much time out of the light of day. I'm afraid that the darkness might take you."

  Vera didn't respond.

  "We'll go tonight. It's Father O'Malley. I always feel more cleansed when I confess to him, more so than the other one…" she snapped her fingers several times in quick succession, "What's his name, I can't for the living bejesus, think what it is … can you Vera?"

  At last, Vera answered. "It's Father Hughes."

  The church sat in the middle of a graveyard surrounded by dry-stone walling, its windows half -aglow with dim light.

  Mrs Flynn pulled the door, and it creaked open. There were already almost a dozen people lined up along the front pew awaiting their turn. For some of them, it was a chance to socialise while they waited, and they whispered among themselves in hushed tones.

  Vera sat one place from the end of the seat, leaving a space for her mother.

  On the bench, the other women had perfected the art of speaking so no one else could make out what they were saying; the odd word was recognisable, but with no context, the rest was meaningless.

  Vera's mother would go in after her, and she was already running through the little things that she'd done since she last confessed. Is it a sin to eavesdrop? It didn't matter; she'd add it to the list anyway, and the Father would tell her.

  This last thought raised concerns for Vera. At last, her turn came. She entered the booth and closed the door behind her.

  "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a while since my last confession because I haven't been very well. Since then I think I have been good, although sometimes I catch myself listening in on other people's lives, and their thoughts. Worse than that though, the other night I dreamed the doctor died, and then he did."

  "Doctor Robert? I saw him, not half an hour ago. I can safely assure you; he is not dead."

  "He does die, Father."

  The priest sighed, "My child, we all have dreams, and sometimes they are strange. Purity of thought leads to purity of vision, but you cannot control what you dream about, so how can it be a sin? You spoke what was on your mind, and through me, God has listened to you. I can't see that you've sinned at all. However, since you're
here, pray to God and our Lady, that they continue to guide you."

  She made her way up to the front row before the altar to wait for her mother so they could pray together. When she returned, they both kneeled and crossed themselves. Vera whispered her prayers aloud; her mother kept silent, keeping the number of Hail Mary's and Our Father's a secret. Vera chose not to intrude on what she'd done, although judging from the length of time her penance took, it must have been something at least a little bit bad.

  On the way home, with only the moon to keep the darkness at bay, she asked her mother, "What is contraception?"

  "Where did you hear that word?" Her mother demanded.

  She'd picked it up in the confessional, a trace of someone's guilty secret. Uneasy at the tone of her mother's voice and afraid she'd land herself in trouble, Vera lied, "I can't remember…"

  In her mind, she was at her next confession already.

  A white lie isn't a sin. Is it, Father?

  She had a feeling she would not go to Mass with her mother that Sunday.

  Chapter 8

  Bruce remembered the first time he'd visited the seaside with his parents when he was four years of age. They'd gone to escape from where he lived in the 'Smoke', a name he'd often heard London referred to in those days.

  Outside the railway station, he'd cried out in his excitement at seeing the white gulls wheeling low across the waves, screeching high and shrill, squabbling over scraps.

  Later on the beach, everyone retreated from the incoming tide to the top of the embankment. The lapping water washed the rocks with a white foamy lather, and swept up to the high watermarks left on previous days with a 'shushhh' coming up, and a 'shishhh' as the sea rushed back again. Bruce watched this gigantic, breathing creature full of fishes and monsters, thankful that it could climb no higher up the sloping wall.

  The water … something about it terrified him, even then.

  An old lady walking past with her dog stopped to talk, trying to tease him into conversation.

  Bruce didn't answer.

  She fished in her pockets and pulled out a large seashell.

  "Here, I have something for you. Would you like it?" she said. "It's a special shell, a magic shell."

  He took it in his hand, turning it over and around, feeling its smoothness. The way it fitted so neatly into his palm confirmed it for him. It was special. He was in awe of it already, and he didn't know why.

  "How is it magic?" he asked the old lady.

  She leaned down to whisper in his ear.

  "It's captured the spirit of the sea, so that wherever you goes with that shell, a part of the sea goes with you," her outstretched arm cut around in a wide arc, indicating the horizon before him. "When you get home, and you miss the seaside, hold the shell to your ear like this," she cupped a hand over her ear, "and listen . . ."

  Bruce moved the shell close to his ear.

  "Not now!" she laughed. "You're here anyway!"

  His mum smiled at the lady and thanked her.

  "Come on, boy, it's time to go," she said.

  The old lady walked away. He watched her go. She must have had a feeling he was watching her because she turned around and waved at him again before going on, her black Labrador bandily following on stiff, elderly limbs.

  He handed the shell to his mum to look after.

  That night when she came to his room to tuck him in, just before turning out the light, she took the shell from her pocket and placed it on his bedside table.

  She kissed him goodnight, "Night my little angel boy, don't let the bedbugs bite!"

  "I won't," he promised.

  After she'd gone, the two-inch gap she left between the door and frame threw a bar of light across the room. It bathed the shell, making it brilliant against the darkness surrounding it, highlighting the mysterious entrance to its cave. Bruce reached out and took it from the table, turning it to hold up to his ear as the lady with the dog had shown him.

  First, he smelled the salty tang of the sea, and then he heard its whispered whooshing from deep inside. It scared him.

  The spirit of the sea held inside the dark cavities deep within. A whole world captured in such a small thing, was magic indeed.

  It sparked a fascination in him. Although it frightened him, he carried it with him everywhere.

  During the night, he dreamed he was on an island surrounded by the sea and the tide was coming in. With no rocky walls to hold it back, he retreated until he stood on a higher piece of ground in the middle. The waves licked at his bare toes. He couldn't swim, but he was holding the shell in his hand. It occurred to him that if he could listen to it, and it was magic, then maybe it could listen to him.

  So he held it up and spoke into its cave, pleading with the spirit of the sea to save him, and holding it to his ear, he thought he heard it say, "I will carry you, but you must learn to hold your breath and swim."

  In the morning, he asked his mum if he could have swimming lessons. "It's important," he told her.

  Mrs Milowski looked at him thoughtfully; she'd never learned. Scared of the water, she'd always believed that it was far too dangerous to play around in. "We'll see, Bruce, we'll see . . . "

  For a few weeks, Bruce managed to blank out what he'd witnessed from his memory. Even at that tender age, he possessed an uncanny ability to dissociate himself, instilled in his genes perhaps as a mechanism evolved from the great capacity for survival of his ancestors.

  Tonight, he was unable to keep it out, no matter what he tried. Back then, he hadn't understood it. His mind felt an invisible force constantly pulling and re-directing it. He tired fast and stopped resisting, observing his thoughts as they flowed freely.

  He was back at the edge of the field. Mum kept calling, telling him not to go any further, and every time she did, he saw himself stop and wave to her. He managed to inch his way to the fence. A curious sensation took him above and behind himself, as he watched how he'd scrambled on his hands and knees below the barbed wire into the next field, instinctively keeping low to avoid catching his clothes.

  I did it!

  Across a silent sea of rippling ferns, there was a wood on the other side. The wind whispered as it blew, animating the mysterious feathery fronds. He walked among them, away from the sunshine, into the darkness of the woods beyond. Bruce watched himself enter the dark shadows the trees cast.

  He followed the coolness in the air, which led him to a small stream, and he felt cold as 'other Bruce' skipped on and off rocks along the bank, challenging himself to leap greater and greater gaps between the rocks, oblivious to everything.

  Even expecting it as he was, he still jumped at the sudden appearance of a man standing up, throwing the woman over his shoulder. 'Other Bruce' skidded as he landed, slipping partly into the brook. The resounding thud of his head against the rock made him hunch his shoulders as he recalled the pain. He scrambled hastily from the water, dazed and full of fear. Is this just a nightmare? Where are you, Dad?

  The man was now just a few feet away.

  He wanted to scream, but his voice wouldn't come. It was stuck in his throat. His legs felt disconnected from his body. The man was almost upon him, and he couldn't even run away.

  Something wet and warm ran down Bruce's leg. Oh, now he'll be in trouble with his mum! He checked his pyjamas and felt considerable relief at knowing it had only happened to the 'other Bruce'. Wait a minute . . . It did happen to me! Suddenly, he was travelling . . . backwards and upwards, faster than falling . . . faster than he'd ever imagined he could move - then stopped - hovering like a bird of prey, looking down . . . His father and grandfather burst through waist-high ferns, leaving a trail of flattened fronds behind them.

  Bruce cowered on the ground as the man bent over him.

  Distracted by the voices calling out, the stranger stood, stared hard at the frightened boy and locked eyes with him. He put a finger to his lips and whispered, "Shhh . . . or I'll kill them all." Then he turned and sprinted away, back to whe
re he'd left the woman, and swept her up over his shoulder with one arm. Her head came upright, balanced for a moment at the point of flopping back down. Eyes bulging; tongue stuck out of her beetroot face; she seemed to fix Bruce with an angry expression.

  He tried to look away, but failed in this version as well, the look on the woman's face burned itself into his memory.

  Then the man was gone.

  He suddenly remembered the shell! It had saved him again. In the dream, he was telling them what had actually happened, and he was afraid the man would know and come to kill them all. His father checked the bump on his head while his grandfather walked further down the slope to see if there were any sign of what Bruce had just told them he'd seen. There was none.

  They spoke together rapidly, too quickly for him to understand. What he could tell though, was that his father didn't believe him. "It is the bump he has had on his head!"

  His grandfather disagreed. "No, I feel him . . . somebody bad." Squatting next to him, looking deep into his pale blue eyes, he said, "Bruce, remember when you hear this?" His arm extended and came around in a semi-circular sweep.

  "I can't hear anything." Bruce said, confused.

  In his heavy Eastern European accent, his grandfather explained patiently. "Yes, you hear nothing. Remember, when you hear no birds in the forest . . . the birds, they warn you it is a bad place. You understand?" Bruce nodded; his brain jarred, making his head throb.

  His eyes snapped open. The room was dark. He was back in his bedroom. Closing them again, his fears subsided; it was only a dream. Something made him open his eyes once more; part of his dream was still with him.

  There was a presence in the room. He knew that it sensed him. Not moving, hardly breathing, he didn't dare cross the room to turn on the light. He wasn't sure where this thing was. It was everywhere around him; it was in his head just like when the garage-suited man was after him. His voice paralysed; he remembered what his mother had told him about the living and the dead. You don't have to worry about the dead – only the living can hurt us. Whatever it was in his room with him, it wasn't alive. He reached for the seashell that had protected him since he was four years old, and holding it tight, crossed the room to switch the light on; the urge to check under the bed quickly countered by the fear of what he might see. At last, exhausted and feeling safe with the light on, he slept.