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

‘What do you want, Vik?’ My voice is unsteady, but I’ve already begun to feel foolish.

‘I …’ There’s a pause. A long one. ‘I heard about El, and I—’

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Thank you. I—’

‘No. You don’t understand …’ The signal breaks up, hisses and roars. ‘… something I have to tell you … I didn’t know …’ His words are swallowed up by the nearing wail of a siren, the honk of a horn.

‘Vik, I can’t hear you. Where are you?’

‘Where are you?’

I stand inside that swathe of gold light from Westeryk Road, and turn in a lethargic, dizzy circle. ‘I’m upstairs.’

‘Cat, listen to …’ His voice cuts out, comes back louder. ‘… have to leave.’

‘Why?’ I’ve stopped moving, but the walls are still turning, turning.

‘… can’t tell you. I’m sorry. I’m so … but you have to believe me.’

‘Why?’ My stomach squeezes, and I wonder – with distant concern – if I might be about to throw up.

‘Cat …’ Some shouting; the roar of another passing car. Maybe bigger. A van. ‘… hear me? You have to get out of that house.’

And then he’s gone. And I’m alone with the silence. Alone with the glass globe that hangs from the ceiling rose, the closed doors, the gold light, that narrow dark corridor. Alone with the house.

I shake my head. My voice is steady, calm. ‘Where else would I go?’

It feels physical, the sudden wrench back into Mirrorland: less of a pull than a yank. Hard and sharp and real. And painful, because my throat is hoarse from screaming, and I’m on my knees in the dark, the storm tossing us from main deck to gun deck, roaring its rage, choking El’s breath.

No.

Grandpa was on his knees. He shoved me away hard enough that I banged my head on the deck and saw stars, but I could still see El’s bulging red face, his hands tight around her neck, the sweat running off his nose. I could still hear Mum screaming, Leave them alone! Hoarse now, too, because it was the night after the Clown Café and Bluebeard’s Room, it was the last night of Mirrorland. The last night of our first life.

And when I try to yank myself away, to yank myself back – Mum lets out a scream and moves through me like a ghost. She stands behind Grandpa, her good arm raised up over her head, in her hand the Satisfaction’s stern lantern. And when Grandpa turns, looks at her with a wink and a grin – Put it doon, lassie – she doesn’t. She brings that lantern down on the crown of his head instead. Again and again. Until the sound is no longer hard and short and white, but soft and long and copper-dark.

‘God.’

I’m on my hands and knees at the top of the stairs. My breath is hot and quick as if I’ve been running. Cold sweat slides down my spine.

When I hear the hallway door creak open, snick closed, I stand up too fast – the world spins and briefly staggers before righting itself again.

‘Cat?’ Ross shouts. ‘You up there?’

I swallow, reach for the bannister. I no longer feel drunk. I feel sick, feverish, and horribly sober. Horribly awake. The vertigo comes again, and I ignore it. I can’t let it belong to me. Any more than that sound. That wet, soft, long sound.

Ross is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I step down into the hallway, and he moves forwards without warning, pulls me close. ‘Hey, Blondie.’ And when I have no choice but to let him in, to breathe him in, I feel all that heavy slowness, that brittle dread and uncertainty fall away. I hate myself for it, I’m afraid of myself for it, but it happens anyway.

He squeezes for a moment too tight, and then pulls back, his palm warm against my cheek. He’s been crying again, his eyes are bloodshot. His skin is damp. His hair has been tangled by the wind.

‘I’ve been walking,’ he says. ‘Just walking. Round and round. For hours.’

I swallow past the lump in my throat. Everything Marie and Vik said, everything I thought, suspected, tried to do my best to drown in vodka, all of it turns to dust when he’s standing in front of me, looking at me the way that no one else ever has. Even though he knows. He’s always known about everything that has happened in this house. And still, he looks at me in exactly the same way. The same good way.

I can’t believe he hurt El. The police don’t even believe it.

And I feel so much guilt and so much grief. Guilt at wanting him, having him, doubting him. Guilt at everything I’ve done in pursuit of all three. Grief for two children abused and terrorised until they couldn’t recognise it. For that melted, shiny, eaten thing under a blue surgical drape in Edinburgh City Mortuary. For the sister who used to hold my hand as we fell asleep; who always shared the same pain and the same nightmares, and the same wretched hope. For my poor, tortured, fucked-up Mum. On her knees next to Grandpa’s body. The cruel twist of her mouth, the black of her eyes, cold and calm and full of fury.

‘Are you okay?’ Ross says. He shakes his head. ‘Shit, that’s a stupid—’

‘It’s been a very bad day,’ I say. Because it has. When I think about sitting at the kitchen table and telling him about a lost tribe in South America, it feels like it happened weeks ago.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t …’ He blinks. ‘Was it – I mean, I know it was, but, I thought maybe …’ There’s hope in his eyes. A hope that could surely never be faked.

‘It was El. It was …’ I’ve reached out to grip hold of his forearms. I know I must be hurting him, but he doesn’t even wince. ‘She was—’

‘It’s okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ And the tears that