Mirrorland by Carole Johnstone (books for 6 year olds to read themselves txt) 📕

sometimes dreamed of it: the snowstorm, the shrieks of the gulls and gannets, the smells of the seabed as the floats and warps emerged from the Devil’s Hole, a hundred and thirty fathoms down – salt and oil and earth. The drum stalling, the hydraulics screaming as the net snagged on the bottom and the boat tipped stern, and Grandpa and his oldest mate, Irvine, slid down the deck towards the jammed trawl doors and the sea. Grandpa’s leg snapped in two between ramp gears, but still he threw Irvine a net hook, still he held on to his friend for dear life until his friend finally let go.

Every surviving deckhand on The Relict got something, but Grandpa got more, because he was the one who’d filed report after report about those faulty trawl doors; he was the one whose friend had died and whose leg no longer worked. In the end, he got enough compensation to comfortably retire and buy this house. Folk have allus underestimated me, hen, he’d say. Ah wis that skipper’s worst fuckin’ nightmare. Unlike Mum, Grandpa had only one rule, though it was as oft repeated as it was absolute: There’s an arsehole on every boat, and if there’s no, it’s prob’ly you.

I get up, march across to the wonky beige units. I crouch down and start opening the doors, moving aside bowls and Tupperware until I find it. In the corner of the back wall of the last cupboard. A tiny swirling pool of charcoal and black Biro. The Devil’s Hole. El was fond of vandalising the insides of cupboards and drawers, small and sly, where no one was ever likely to look unless they knew it was there. She drew the Devil’s Hole here a few days after Grandpa first told us the story. I have to get down on my knees to reach in for the folded square of paper beneath it. And just as I realise that there are two squares of paper this time, someone – something – hisses:

You’re a disgusting wee bitch!

I rear back. I think I shriek. I know I snatch my hand out of the cupboard and frantically kick backwards with my feet until I’m on the other side of the kitchen again. I swallow. There’s no one here. But I can still feel that voice. The venom in it, the spite. The fury. And in some far corner of my mind, I see a woman: tall with brittle black hair. The Witch.

‘What are you doing?’ Ross says, from the kitchen doorway.

‘Slipped,’ I manage to say, affecting a laugh, rubbing my arm as I shove the two squares of paper into my pocket, let him help me back onto my feet.

I know this woman – at least, I feel like I do. The vague recollections those hissed words have provoked are more like impressions, curls of smoke. Her voice, thin and high and cruel. Brows low, eyes narrow, staring down at me like I’m just about the worst thing she’s ever had to look at. Grandpa finding me crying at the kitchen table. A wink, the cool, heavy pat of his hand. Ye’re a long time dead, lassie. Nothin’ else ever worth greetin’ over.

I go back to the Kitchener, look down at the two tiles close to my feet, the dark rusty stain running through the cracked grout between them. I shiver. Shake it off. Glance at the pasta, bendy and well on its way to inedible again. ‘I think it’s ready.’

We both eat like machines: slow, steady, efficient. Afterwards, neither of us looks any better for it. I get up, open the Smeg door, take out a bottle of wine.

‘The bottom drawer of the old fridge-freezer used to be crammed full of M and S sausage rolls, with “FOR MY FUNERAL – DO NOT TOUCH” printed on these big ugly labels,’ I say, trying to ease the tension. ‘Grandpa called them his fancy horse doovers.’ I think of his easy, quick grins. Good spread at a funeral’s rare as rockin’ horse shite these days, hen.

When I turn around, Ross’s frown is sharp, his eyes angry. And then his face relaxes, goes blank so quickly that I shiver, wonder if I imagined it.

‘Are you okay, Ross?’

I’m almost relieved when that ugly sneer returns. ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay, Cat?’

‘I’m sorry. Of course, you’re not okay. I didn’t mean—’

‘Shit. I’m sorry. Ignore me.’ He rubs a hand over his eyes, gives me a wan smile. ‘I’m just knackered. Really fucking knackered.’

I open the wine, pour it into our glasses. ‘I met Anna today. Is she always such a bitch?’

‘Anna?’

‘In Colquhoun’s. Blonde, beautiful, Russian.’

‘Yeah, Anna. Not Russian, she’s Slovakian. She can be …’ He waves a hand. ‘I dunno, nippy.’

I take a sip of wine. ‘El thinks Anna fancies you, doesn’t she?’ Because El has always been jealous. Possessive. Of Ross, at least.

When he doesn’t answer, I seek safer ground. ‘I met Marie too. She was asking if there was any news and—’

Ross gets abruptly up from the table. ‘I don’t know who that is.’

‘Well, she seemed to know you. Said she and El were friends. She lives in the Gingerbread Coop.’

‘The what?’

‘Across the road. The terrace across the road.’

He shakes his head, but his back is turned to me and I can’t see his expression. ‘I have no idea who she is.’

And what does it matter anyway? El always had secrets. She liked to keep everything – everyone – separate, apart. Even as kids, she couldn’t stand it if different foods were mixed; she’d painstakingly push them to the opposite sides of her plate, leaving only empty space in-between.

‘I didn’t know El was depressed,’ I finally say, to break the silence.

Ross turns around. ‘I’m a fucking clinical psychologist,’ he says, and there’s no longer any anger in him, just a palpable exhaustion. ‘I see a dozen clients every day who have chronic depression, bipolar, PTSD.’ He sits heavily back down, rests his head in his hands. ‘And I