Page 32 of Out of the Blue
I nod in agreement and scrub at a Coke stain on the carpet. I keep expecting Shona to spin around, yell ‘J’accuse!’ and thrust her finger towards me like a lawyer in a cheesy American drama. It doesn’t happen. It genuinely doesn’t seem to have occurred to her that thestrangerwho had herspare keyis so obviously the guilty party here. She might be able to see auras, but she can’t see that.
Rani does, though. Rani sees everything.
I’ve felt her gaze following me around Shona’s flat since we arrived. I wish she would just come out and ask me something so I could deny it. I’m a shit liar, but I’m even worse at pretending nothing’s up. My guilt is in every movement, every mumbled response.
‘They could have at least put their rubbish in the bin,’ Rani says, fishing one of Allie’s KitKat wrappers from underneath the table. ‘It’s so rude.’
‘You’re no wrong, hen. Not like you two, eh? So nice of you both, helping me oot like this.’ Shona puts her hands on her hips and surveys the room. ‘Well, I think that’s us just about done. Take the cushion covers off, will you, Jaya? I’ll pop them in the wash.’
I pull them off and spot a hint of pink on orange – one of Teacake’s feathers, lodged down the back of the sofa. My heart leaps, but luckily Rani’s busy rubbing a foundation stain off the coffee table and doesn’t notice me shove it in my pocket.
This was all far, far too close.
It’s ten o’clock by the time we’re done tidying up. According to Allie’s schedule, I’m supposed to be at McEwan Hall for our turn looking after Teacake now. We say goodbye to Shona, politely declining her thank-you gift of some yerba-mate soap, and head outside. I send Allie a quick text to say I’ll be late, then tell Rani I’m going out to meet some friends, trying (and probably failing) to keep my voice light.
‘I’ll be back in a few hours,’ I say. ‘We can go to the dungeons or something after, if you like.’
This time, she doesn’t beg to come with me. She just smiles and skips up the stairs like she’s totally lost interest in whatever we’re up to.
‘OK. See you later.’
I wait until I hear the door close, then hurry downstairs and slip into the crowd. For once, I’m grateful for the mob outside; if Rani does try to follow me, it’ll be easy to lose her in the swarm of tourists and Wingdings. Just to be on the safe side, I take a detour via South Bridge and pop into Tesco to stock up on snacks. I scan the streets before I cross the road towards the university, but I don’t see Rani. Maybe she actuallyhaslost interest – maybe she figured I was just using Shona’s flat as a hangout, or maybe the Fall in South Africa or Dad’s plans were more important to her than whatever I’m up to.
It’s twenty past by the time I get to McEwan Hall, but Allie hasn’t arrived yet. Calum gave me the key to look after last night, so I undo the padlock and slip into the hall. Teacake is perching on top of the organ, posed like a cat about to leap on a mouse. She smiles, her wings twitching in greeting, then leans towards the edge. My stomach lurches.
‘Teacake, no!’
My eyes squeeze shut. In my mind, I hear a branch snapping, a faint ‘oh’ of surprise. I see rushing water and a hand grasping at thin air. I feel my breath catch in my throat, my head start to spin.
But this time, the crash doesn’t come. When I look up, Teacake is gliding smoothly through the air, her legs locked and her arms spread wide as her wings. For a few moments, she is a ship riding a wave, a bird in a sea breeze: all peace and grace, exactly where she’s supposed to be.
I sink into a wooden chair beneath the organ. My legs are shaking, and it takes a few seconds for my pulse to stop racing. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing something like that.
‘Looking good, Tea,’ I call in a shaky voice. She comes hurtling back to the floor after just a few seconds, but at least she doesn’t crash-land into the scaffolding this time. I clap, laughing at the way she beams at me. She takes off again, giving a word-perfect recital of a poem by Emily Dickinson as she flies, arching so high the edge of her right wing brushes the ceiling. It looks much better than when she first fell: stronger and straighter, even if there is still a large gap where Allie hasn’t attached the rest of the feathers yet.
My phone buzzes.Leah, I think. I pull it out of my pocket, but it’s a message from Allie telling me she’s feeling too ill to make it over. The disappointment stings. Only I can’t work out if I’m disappointed because she’s not here, or because Leah still hasn’t been in touch.
Though I still feel dizzy with confusion when I think about seeing Leah on the roof yesterday, things have started coming back to me too. There was the time Marek was making fun of the Standing Fallen, and Leah snapped at him to shut up, that ‘at least they believed in something’. Another time, when we were having a debate about where the Beings came from, she walked out without an explanation, standing up so fast she knocked her chair to the ground.
There were clues. I can’t tell whether I didn’t see them, or if I chose not to.
Part of me is itching to call Emma and tell her about what I saw yesterday, but so far I’ve held back. Emma’s got a huge mouth, and Leah might come back to her normal life one day. If she does, she probably won’t want half of Scotland knowing about the months she spent living with a cult.
Another secret I’m keeping for her.
After a few more flights, Teacake makes a wobbly landing on the wooden barrier in front of me. ‘We have Thomas from Auchtermuchty on the line. Tell us, what are your thoughts on wind farms?’
‘Nice work!’ I beam at her. ‘You’ll be home in no time.’
My heart pangs at the thought. It’s all we’ve been working for – getting her well enough to leave – but watching her go . . . that’s going to hurt. She leans against the stone pillar, and we open a packet of teacakes. She eats them the same way Allie does: biting off the chocolate shell, then licking out the marshmallow inside.
‘Listen,’ I say, wiping the chocolate from my mouth, ‘I wanted to talk to you about yesterday. About what you saw on the TV screen.’
She replies with a quote about disability benefits. I try to spell it out in shapes as I talk: a rectangle as the TV screen; my falling hands for the Beings we watched tumbling to earth; fingers drawing tears on my cheeks. Teacake’s expression doesn’t change, but she comes towards me, leaping up and balancing on the back of a chair.
‘It’s not your fault. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why they fell, or why you did,’ I say. ‘And maybe you feel guilty that you survived and they didn’t . . . But, listen, they wouldn’t have felt anything. It was over before it could hurt.’
I swallow and realize that there’s a lump in my throat. My eyes start to prickle.
