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  TWIN SPIRIT

  MATTHEW THOMPSON

  TWIN SPIRIT

  by Matthew Thompson

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Domino Galaxy

  Copyright 2011 by Matthew Thompson

  This Ebook Edition First Published 2017

   

   

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Dedicated to my family

  CHAPTER ONE

  Remember, Remember

  Maybe today you’ll slip and drown in the stream, or fall from a tree. Maybe you’ll get hit by a firework – a fatal hit. That would make my–

  “Serving soon!” shouted a faint, manly voice through the vibrant autumn forest of Hampshire, England.

  “Okay!” yelped Rose, without seeing her father.

  Yeah, don’t be late to stuff your face.

  Rose picked up a cluster of tree branches and placed them into a wheelbarrow. She reached for more. “Eww!” she gasped, watching the biggest, fattest and no doubt deadliest spider ever crawling over the branch. “You can have it.”

  In a hurry, Rose pushed the barrow away from the monster. The wheel bumped over the damp, leafy ground as she trundled towards home.

  The sun shone low and bright through the trees, causing the leaves to glow, though barely warming the birds that tweeted, whooped and whistled.

  Rose attempted to whistle a tune she had heard on the radio. But her technique was more breezy than tuneful, so she broke into a hum instead while crossing over a small bridge, listening to the chuckling stream. She passed a dying tree house, infected with rot and covered in a blanket of moss, then climbed a steep hill, making good use of her green wellies. She soon arrived at the fence that divided the Ashworths’ home from the forest. The fence was also in a sorry state, it too tainted with rot.

  Rose’s father knelt at the bottom of the garden, arranging a pile of branches. His hair was a shade darker than the bark he held in his hands. He was clean-shaven, and Rose thought he looked younger since removing his facial bristle.

  “Dad,” said Rose, breathing heavily as she stood behind the rickety fence.

  “Be right with you, sweetheart.” He stood and turned. “Wow! Look at that lot. You needn’t have cut down half the forest, love.”

  Rose brimmed with a smile and let out a squeaky giggle. “There’s more if you want.”

  “More? It’ll be burning till next November with any more.” He placed his large earthy hands onto the wheelbarrow and lifted it along with Rose. The wheel bounced on the ground with a thump. “Careful over the fence.”

  Please fall.

  “And, sweetie, you’re sprouting leaves in your hair.”

  “Oh.” She raked her fingers through her tangled blonde tresses and discovered a leaf, followed by another.

  “Take your wellies off outside,” he said, clutching two large handfuls of timber and placing them neatly amongst the six-foot pyramid of branches. The structure was far taller than Rose, but not her father, who stood the same height.

  Sitting on the porch step, she watched excitedly as he worked, imagining the blaze and fireworks. “Looks really good, Dad.”

  He’s a carpenter, you muppet, it should be. (Sigh) If only you could hear me – I’d call you worse than a muppet.

  “Better be, being a carpenter and all,” he said.

  Rose smiled, then wriggled out of her wellies. She then noticed a man sitting with his head slumped over his chest, and reached towards his newspaper-stuffed head to give Guy Fawkes a better view of his deathbed.

  * * *

  Three o’clock struck while Rose waited patiently at the finely crafted dining table. She and her father ate their Sunday roast, chatting about fireworks, Guy Fawkes, red squirrels and the biggest, fattest, deadliest spider Rose had ever seen.

  Sophie, their pet fleabag puss, curled up next to the house fire, occasionally flicking her paws, ears and whiskers – in cat land.

  “Oh, I spoke to Mary’s father earlier. He’s bringing her and Lynn over, ’round seven-ish,” said Rose’s father as he prepared a forkful of roast potato. “He told me he’s got a new motor; the one from the new James Bond film. Must be doing well for himself. More gravy, love?”

  “Hum-hum.” Rose nodded, unable to speak due to her full chops and enjoying every chew. “Lynn’s grandma isn’t well, so (gulp) they’re not having a bonfire this year,” she said, finally.

  “Ah, I see. Well, the more the merrier. Lynn, she’s the youngest out of you three?”

  “Yeah, she’s ten in January.”

  “Double figures for you soon.”

  Ugh… die already.

  Rose thought of her coming birthday. She gave her father a gentle smile, before glancing towards the darkening garden. “Should be dry tonight, I heard on the radio this morning, and a full moon.”

  “That’s good, we don’t want soggy fireworks, now do we?” He followed her gaze to the descending sun. “Yes, we’ll have a night to remember. Maybe that spider friend of yours will come visit.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  * * *

  With her belly stuffed, Rose lay on the settee while her father clanged and clattered in the kitchen.

  As the night swamped the house, Rose’s eyes became heavy. Wearily, she watched the black and white television screen. The programme featured four musicians from Liverpool. Rose was intrigued by what they called themselves. Three of them stood and one sat, waiting with their instruments at the ready.

  “Please, everybody, raise your hands,” said the presenter, “for The Beatles!”

  The band played a catchy tune about holding hands. Rose realised it was the song she’d been humming earlier. She made another connection with The Beatles. Rose was born in a car called a Beetle, on 9 December 1954: a fateful day for the Ashworths; a day she refused to celebrate.

  Rose made a mental note to ask her father about the band later as her laden belly impaired her from even sitting up.

  “You watching this, love?” said her father, carrying a newspaper into the living room.

  “No…” she said, barely awake.

  “Right-o.” He turned off the television and sank into his armchair, ruffling the paper.

  Rose opened and closed her eyes, watching the white dot in the centre of the screen slowly fade from sight. Slowly fade away.

  * * *

  An unmistakable sound disrupted Rose’s dreamy thoughts. Two beams of light shone through the window, illuminating the living room. Raising her sleepy head, she noticed her father’s absence and stood stretched onto her tiptoes, observing the impressive vehicle beyond the blossom tree.

  A quick time check revealed eight fifty-six. They’re late to arrive, she thought. “Dad – Dad!”

  No response.

  The sound of the Aston Martin DB5 came to a throbbing halt as Rose searched for her father. Inside the kitchen, she caught a glimpse of flickering light in the window, dancing in the darkness. The bonfire was full of life.

  She scrambled to the porch and slipped on her flip-flops, dashing outside. “Dad, you started without me!” she complained, unable to hide her excitement.

  “Only just got it going, love,” he said. “Didn’t want to wake my sleeping princess, now, did I?” He gave Rose a smile, placed his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

  “Oh, they’re here,” she said.

  Two girls hurried down the side of the cottage, followed by Mary’s parents. Mary bellowed with laughter as Lynn skid on something slippery.

  “Rosey… Oh wow, great fire!” shouted Mary, the loudest of the girls: not just in her tone of voice either, but in everyt
hing – clothes, toys, even perfume. With long, sleek, blonde hair, a well-maintained face and the latest fashion accessories, Mary had it all. She lived with her parents on a wealthy estate, surrounded by three acres of land: an eight-minute car journey to Rose’s house, or roughly the same time on foot through the forest.

  “Hi, Rose, looks fab,” said a far more soothing voice. Lynn lived with her parents, a family known for looking after their pennies. A girl never spoilt with gifts, though as with Rose, that didn’t matter. Her shoulder-length mousey-brown hair looked well groomed, held in perfect position with a white hair-band. She looked thoughtful, displaying signs of concern for her ill grandmother.

  “Evening, George,” said Mary’s father. A well-built man, though slightly the shorter of the two fathers, he wore a long trench coat and glossy shoes that reflected the flames.

  “Evening all, glad you could make it,” said Rose’s father. “Brilliant night, eh?”

  No…

  “Oh, it is. And how are you, keeping busy?” asked Mary’s mother, adjusting her fur coat and sidestepping a slug.

  “Fine thanks, Ruth, you know, plodding on. How about yourselves?”

  “Very well,” said Mary’s father. “Not long now, three or so weeks until she pops!” He grinned and placed his hand over his wife’s large round belly.

  “You thought of a name yet?” asked Rose’s father.

  “Ruth has many, haven’t you, darling. What have you narrowed it down to now – twenty or so?”

  “Shut up. No, we haven’t decided yet. I think I’ll know when I see her. Did you know what you were calling Rose?”

  “Well, Violet had already covered that. Probably some ten years before Rose was even born.” He looked to his daughter and chuckled.

  “When are the fireworks going off, Rose?” asked Mary. “We’ve brought our own, really big ones.”

  “When George is ready, sweetheart – ah, cheers,” said Mary’s father, taking hold of a chilled beverage. “I don’t suppose you have red wine?”

  “Erm… sorry, Pete, all out.”

  “Not to worry,” he said, turning to his wife, who stared at the beer-can with wanting eyes. “No drink for you, darling. Do you have any orange juice, George?”

  “I do. Rose, can you pour Ruth an orange?”

  “Okay,” she said, and skipped away.

  Inside the kitchen Rose closed the fridge door, then noticed her chums enter with mischievous expressions.

  “Hey,” whispered Mary, “me and Lynn are going out later, when everyone’s in bed. I have this book my Grandpa gave me for Halloween – well, I kinda took it. A book of spells, like what witches use and that!” she said, with great enthusiasm but trying not to raise her voice. “Isn’t that right?”

  Lynn nodded. “Yeah, but you can’t let anyone know, okay?”

  Rose looked at the glass and began to pour the orange juice. “But we have school tomorrow,” she said, realising she sounded like a true teacher’s pet and party-pooper, all rolled into one.

  “We’ll not be out all night,” said Lynn. “But it’s a full moon tonight, and we looked at the spells and a lot say it must be a full moon to work, like.”

  “Really…?” said Rose, looking less than convinced. “Well, okay, for an hour or so, I guess.”

  “We were thinking midnight. We’ll head into the forest, down to the lake. I’ve got a torch, do you have one?” asked Mary.

  “The lake, at that time? I don’t know…”

  “Awwww… you afraid of the lake monsters?”

  Yeah, she’s a wuss.

  “No… just prefer not to go there, that’s all.”

  “All right, the Bowl then?”

  Rose bit her lower lip. “Okay,” she said, finally.

  “So you got a torch or what?”

  “My dad has, he’s got it outside.”

  Mary smiled. “Great, we’ll–”

  “What’s great?” said a male voice by the door.

  Mary glanced at the window, then looked her father directly in the eye. “Rose’s bonfire,” she said, thinking quickly, which came easily to her as she lied about many things.

  “Yes, you’ve done a grand job there, Rose, you and your father. I’m just popping to your loo. Where is it again?”

  “Upstairs, the first door on your left.”

  “Gotcha. Erm, how’s that orange coming along?”

  “Oh yeah, sorry, I was talking too much,” she said, pouring the rest of the juice.

  “Ta, love. Take it out to Ruth. George said he’d light the first firework soon; you don’t want to miss it.”

  “One of ours!” exclaimed Mary. “The Star Blaster, or the Thunder – thingy.”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart – we’ll see them all eventually, won’t we. Right, I’m off.”

  * * *

  When Mary’s father returned to the fire, the awaiting crowd were watching the first firework being prepared. Once lit, they all stood back with exposed teeth. The rocket, “Stunner” emblazoned along the side, shot out like a bullet, screeching into the sky, and finished its journey with a flash and mighty bang! However, very little else.

  “Try one from our box, the Star Blaster! Please,” said Mary.

  “All right. Sorry, George, we’d better get this one up,” said Mary’s father.

  They all stood back in immense anticipation. Within five seconds, the rocket roared towards the stars and blasted amongst them; at least, it appeared to. One after another, reds, greens, blues and violet sparks lit the sky, accompanied by cries of “Whoa…!”, “Wow…!” and “Amazing…!”.

  “That was a good one, eh?” said Mary’s father.

  “I told you,” said Mary. “Let’s have another from our box.”

  The fireworks blasted, squawked, fizzled, sparked and banged for a good hour or so. The bonfire kept burning all evening, tended by Rose’s father with occasional help from Rose, and Guy Fawkes made his contribution.

  They retreated into the cottage, all smelling of smoke. Mary’s parents wished to stay longer, but her mother’s back begged for a bed. They said their thanks and goodbyes, and they left. But Mary was clearly still excited as she climbed into the back of the Aston Martin; she knew the night had only started.

  Rose sat on the stairs thinking about promises, and breaking them. With that thought, she slipped into the porch and grabbed the torch. Keeping it up her pyjama sleeve, she said goodnight to her father, brushed her teeth and went to bed.

  Sophie was woken as she slid under the duvet. With all paws stretched at once, the fleabag gave a quick scratch, curled up and returned to her nap.

  Rose knew her father would check up on her, to see she was asleep. Sure enough, twenty minutes later he arrived. She lay still, eyes closed, and breathed heavily.

  Light in the room diminished, followed by the landing light. The household was brought to a close by a light click of his door.

  Surrounded by darkness and silence, she looked towards another cat, which beamed with a smile while its eyes and tail waved from side to side. According to Tickey, it was sixteen minutes past eleven. Rose sighed with sleepy thoughts while her eyes begged to surrender to the night.

  If you don’t go, you’re an even bigger wuss than the wussiest of wussies.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Awaken

  At first, Rose didn’t know what to think. Although her dream had been interrupted, she wasn’t sure why, until she heard a sharp tap, and then rat-at-tap-tap, as a small stone hit the window and bounced down the porch roof.

  Rose realised what was happening. A sudden glance at Tickey revealed it was five minutes past midnight. She pushed off the duvet and crept to the window.

  Mary was about to throw another “wake-up stone” when Rose pulled back the curtains, revealing the vibrant full moon. She gently opened the window, feeling the chilly air brush her skin.

  “You fell asleep, didn’t you!” Mary complained in a whisper. “I told Lynn you would – hurry up.”


  “I’ll be right down,” Rose whispered back, and then slipped on her chequered navy and white school uniform, as her other clothes were either in the wash or still drying. She was determined not to get mucky; the sight of dirt would no doubt give away her mischievous night-time escapade.

  The window opened as far as it would go. Rose peered down to see her wellies by the porch door. She stepped through the window, leaving it ajar, and carefully placed her foot onto the joining brackets of the drainpipe, easing herself down.

  As Rose touched the cold paving stone she was greeted by Mary’s face, lit from below by her torch. “I knew you’d fall asleep,” said Mary, turning towards Lynn. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  Lynn held a dictionary-sized book with both hands. She raised her eyebrows and walked towards Rose. “I could have fallen asleep too, had she not been with me.”

  “You two are useless. Let’s go before the sun rises, yeah?”

  Rose squeezed into her wellies, shivering, and followed the girls down the garden. She stopped to spread her hands over the dying bonfire. Slight heat rose from the glow; she absorbed all the warmth she could.

  “Where’s your torch?” asked Mary, half over the fence.

  “Ummm… Oh, I forgot,” she said, looking back to her window.

  Mary sighed. “For God’s sake! Fine, we’ll have to share. Here, have mine. I’ll take the book.”

  The three girls reached the Bowl in six minutes. There, they found a small pool of damp leaves, with log seats protruding from beneath. They had named it the Bowl because the ground was sculptured into a crater-like shape, the length and depth of a family car. Some opined a forest troll had made it for bathing. Others said a tiny asteroid had created it; but Rose had seen The Sky at Night and knew otherwise.

  “All right,” said Mary. “Take a seat, and hold this.”

  Rose took the bulky black witch book; at four inches thick, it was even heavier than it looked. The cover was fashioned of real leather, and Rose could smell the aroma of the hide. An embroidered symbol of three polished spirals adorned the front.

  They sat on the damp timber, the moonlight piercing through the tree branches, and Mary began flipping through the pages. She arrived at spell that intrigued her: Lies to Loss. The spell she read aloud, would cause any being who lied to lose a vowel from his or her speech.