Three strange things. The girl on the horse; Vetch; the bird from the ground.
Calmly, he considered them.
It might be the strain. He was under terrible strain. If he let it, it would crush him. He knew he hid from it behind layers of defenses.
Or it might be that these things were real, and he had seen them. Everyone knew Avebury was a focus for strangeness. He should ask Mac.
But it was Vetch who came into his mind, the man’s dark look, his riddling words.
Vetch.
On the table beside him the flowers were fresh. They always were. The cut glass vase held roses today—white roses, barely out of bud, and the delicate smell of them filled the room. One perfectly round bead of water on a leaf caught his eye. It shone.
The nursing home was expensive, and fussy about details. The sunny room had pictures on its walls, calm, cool frames full of seascape, and a distant sunset over a forest. Nothing to alarm anyone. Rob had seen them so often he didn’t really see them anymore, except for the line of forestry in the small oil by the door. Forestry against the sky. It was faintly disturbing. During the long hours he had sat here his eyes would slide to it, dreaming about the earthy smell under the trees, the deep coniferous glades. He had put up one of his own pictures too: a portrait of Chloe laughing. She’d always complained he never drew her; he’d had to do it from photographs. He remembered the hours in his bedroom, having to study her cheeky grinning face. The only way he had coped was by making it just a painter’s exercise in color and technique.
His eyes moved around the room, looking for something else to rest on.
His mother’s knitting. A great pile of red wool. He had no idea what she was making; she used it to give her hands something to do. A crucifix on the wall. That new, unworn dressing gown.
Always, though, his gaze came back to the bed.
Chloe lay on a mound of pillows. Over the months her hair had grown; it was below her ears now. She wouldn’t like that. She liked her hair short, what Dad used to call her Peter Pan look, all spiky bits. Long hair made her look older, but then she was older. It would be strange for her, to wake up and find she was older.
That three months had vanished.
There were tubes to the veins in her arms, but not to her mouth and nose, because she breathed by herself. That was what puzzled the doctors. At first they’d kept her on a ventilator, but his mother had made them stop. “She can breathe. Let her breathe.”
There was brain activity too, jagged peaks on the monitor. So she just looked as if she was asleep, as if she was the princess in that story, sleeping for a hundred years while outside everything went on as normal. Buses rumbled by, school terms ended, exams happened, birthdays, summer holidays.
He frowned. Her birthday. “What a fiasco that was!” he said aloud. They were supposed to talk to her, because it would help, the nurses said. They said she heard it. Rob didn’t know if he believed that anymore.
He got up and wandered closer. “Remember the cake? Just there? Fourteen candles and the smoke alarms went off. Nearly got the place evacuated.”
He laughed harshly. “But you know Mum. Has to make a fuss.”
Everybody else, he knew, would have preferred a few cards, flowers, some music tapes in fancy paper, because what other present could you give someone who didn’t move or talk and who might not even be there anymore? But his mother had wanted a party, because she never gave up. It had been appalling. Alone with Father Mac in the car on the way home, he had curled up in the dark on the backseat and Mac had let him, not saying a word, just letting him be. They had both been silenced by it. His mother’s terrible happy chatter. By the unwrapped clothes, the new watch, the cell phone.
He rolled the bedside drawer open now and looked down at the phone.
It was kept charged. If she woke up when Mum wasn’t here, it was for her to ring home, straightaway.
“She’ll never give up waiting, Chloe. If you only knew what it’s like now, at home. She’s turning down so much work—anything in America, anything that takes her away. She’s still doing the cops series, and there was talk of a film, but they won’t do it without her.” He turned and sat down on the bed, taking his sister’s hand. It was cool, and oddly soft.
“Every time the phone rings, she jumps. She doesn’t care about the fans, or the interviews, not like it was before. It’s all acting now.”
Holding her hand. It wasn’t something he’d do if she was awake. If she stirred now he’d drop her fingers fast, because she’d be astonished and say something sarcastic. She was always saying cutting things to him, he realized. He wanted to say sorry about the picture of Callie, but that would mean telling her he’d opened her journal. She’d go mad. If she could still hear.
Abruptly, he put her hand down and stood. His hour was up. He could go with a clear conscience now, but there was something he had to say first.
He turned and looked down at her, the still girl in the pink pajamas, the new watch ticking time away on her wrist.
“I saw you. It was you at Falkner’s Circle. I know it was you, Chloe, so don’t tell me it wasn’t.” His voice was angry; he let it be. Lately he was often angry with her. “What’s happening? Are you dead and was that your ghost? Has your soul got out of your body and is wandering the downs? All sorts of odd things are starting to happen, and I don’t like it, Chloe. You’ve got to stop it! Are you listening to me? Listen to me!”
He was yelling at her. His own fury shook him, and then out of nowhere came a sudden certainty that she heard him, that she would open her eyes now, sit up, yawn. He didn’t breathe, waiting, knowing it would be now.
Now.
But she stayed the same. He unclenched his fists, breathed out. That old fantasy. It kept coming back.
The door opened and the big nurse, Mel, put her head around. “Everything okay?”
“Fine.” They had probably heard him shout.
“Time for Chloe’s bed bath.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m just going.” At the door he turned back and looked at his sister. “I know you don’t really hate me, Chloe. Do you?”
There was no answer. After a moment, he walked out.
He bought a can of Coke in a newsagent’s on the main road and leaned against the wall, drinking from it. The warmth of the sun was the best thing he had ever felt; he realized he was chilled, that sweat had dried on his back. He pulled out his sunglasses and put them on. The world went a rather crazy yellow.
“Hey. Want a lift?”
A car had stopped at the traffic lights; it was old, a little dirty. The door swung open and a girl leaned over, her red hair bright. “We’re going back to Avebury. Jump in.”
The girl from the Cauldron tribe. He emptied the can, dumped it in the bin on the lamppost, and slid into the car.
She and another girl were in the front. “Sorry about the mess.”
The car smelled of perfume. Crystals hung on the windshield, and the music coming from the speakers behind his head sounded Indian maybe. World stuff.
“My name’s Rosa.” She changed gear. “This is Megan.”
“Hi. Rob.”
She turned the music down. “Vetch said we’d see you.”
Rob stared at the back of her head. “What?”
She grinned at the girl next to her, a closed smile. “He’s such an amazing person. He said you’d be along, because you’re part of it. You pulled him into the sacred circle.”
Rob said, “Oh. Right.” He leaned back and stared out of the window, wishing she’d turn the music up again so he wouldn’t have to talk. He should have got the bus. If Dan found out, he’d never hear the end of this.
They had crossed the M4; now the road swung through Wroughton, with its pretty green and mill-stream. Passing the Three Tuns, the other girl said, “You live in Avebury?”