Glow by Joss Stirling
Glow
Joss Stirling
Frost Wolf
Copyright © 2017 by Joss Stirling
First published 2017 by Frost Wolf
ISBN: 978-1-910426-11-1
www.jossstirling.co.uk
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For my wonderful mother, Carole Golding
With special thanks to my team of super-readers:
Regina Adamovsky, Hannah Adams, Jessica Allen, Phoebe Causton, Vicki Cawley, Lexie Chorlton, Steph Clifton, Aisling Coffey, Alana Collins, Laura de Coorebyter, Rachel Cruz, Kristin Davison, Martha Dineen, Rachel Denton, Jess Evans, Marianne Fuglsang, Darcie Gray, Maud Grefte, Mia Hoddell, Maria Hoilund, Nina Jansen, Melisa Kumas, Rachel Langford, Laura Larder, Laura Laszlo, Hannah LeBouthillier, Janely Marcial, Samera Mohammad, Lilly Moore, Nina Müller, Andrea Navarete, Sky Parsons, Gisele Presti, Hafsa Ramen, Hayley Reeve, Silvana Romero, Andréanne Roy, Amber Smith, Claudia Schnaible, Vladimir Strange, Sarah Suttling, Rebecca Thorley, An-Sofie Van Leemput, Rheeba Van Niekerk, Kirke Verstappen, Anna Williamson
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Joss Stirling
Prologue
‘So now, as skies darken, and the days end, together we glow.’
Atlantean Inscription, in Meri’s notebook
The Flood, St Ives, Cornwall, twelve years earlier
Theo Woolf hated parents’ evenings. For a start, he felt a fraud. He was a decade younger than most of the others who had come to discuss their child’s progress. The mothers in particular made him feel an idiot. They always looked so competent, able to keep charge of several children and still gossip with their friends. Here he was in a wrinkled T-shirt from a music festival five-years-old and jeans that were more rips than fabric—not a fashion choice but because they were worn out. He could feel their eyes on his back, the questions they were too polite to ask. Where is the child’s mother? Is he even the dad? What’s the story?
This school in St Ives was no different. The mother in front of him in the queue got up to go in for her consultation and everyone shuffled along a seat. Theo would swap it for a visit to the dentist any day—even to one who was blind drunk with a drill fetish. He would kill for a real coffee—or a double Scotch. He had opted to lean against the wall rather than sit but, in that way of the English, everyone knew exactly who held which position in the line. He was next.
It wasn’t his long blond hair and piercings that made him stand out from the parents. Thanks to its famous art gallery, St Ives had the reputation for welcoming alternative types. His appearance was fairly tame compared to some, especially that dad with the rings embedded in his earlobes and nostril spike, not to mention the large woman in the halter-neck top whose back was one huge tattoo of a skull amid roses. What made Theo stand out was his painful and obvious unpreparedness for parenthood.
He rubbed his forearms, hair prickling. The air felt heavy with the static build-up before the forecasted storm. He hoped they could get home before it broke as it was promising to be the kind that brought structural damage in its swirling wake of high winds and torrential rain. Everyone had been advised to be under shelter by eight but maybe it was moving quicker than they thought?
The sounds of children playing broke into his thoughts. Two girls were laughing as they did handstands, then collapsed onto crash mats. Had he made the right choice fostering Meri? What on earth was he doing here? How his friends would mock to see him among the handprint peacock paintings of the infant department. Saddiq would remind him that Theo had claimed at college that he was going to rock the world of modern art with his installations; instead he spent his days worrying about bedtimes, reading levels and affording tiny shoes, decorated with extortionately expensive unicorns. His college mates no longer knew what to make of him—and neither, to be honest, did he.
Part of him wanted to run away, admit it was all too much, throw in the hand of cards he had been dealt. Social services would understand, probably even welcome the admission. A terrorized child, a life hiding from unknown enemies, the threat of death nipping at their heels—not that social services knew about any of this—but how could he carry on as an inadequate father-substitute until Meri was old enough to look after herself? Were they even safe in this idyllic spot as far west as employment could take him in England? His eyes went to the window with its view across the rooftops of the fishing village of St Ives. The houses of the little port were stacked on the Cornish peninsula like the spice jars crammed on the shelf in his galley kitchen. Hard to believe anything bad could happen here. Beyond the slates, there was just a broad slice of grey-blue sea visible. Odd: he thought from this angle, and at this point in the tide, he should’ve been able to see the beach in the harbour and the pensioners camped out in their folding chairs. The storm must be close to have chased them away.
‘Theo, isn’t it? Meri’s dad?’ One of the mums had decided to brave a conversation. ‘We met at Kaya’s party last week?’
Theo turned his gaze from the window. ‘Rona, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
His charm engine was cold, sentences coming out in short bursts like a car struggling through low gears. What was wrong with him? ‘Nice to see you again. Thanks for inviting Meri. It’s hard being the new girl.’ He sounded like one of those hospitality robots you could find on hotel receptions and railway stations.
‘She and Kaya seem to have hit it off. You’ve a sweet little daughter there. Lovely manners.’
‘Actually, I’m not Meri’s dad. I’m her guardian. Her parents were my best friends.’ He stopped there. Rona could work out that he wasn’t going to go into what tragedy had left a child on his hands, not with Meri playing ten metres away. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation and he was tired of defending his decision. His own mother had thought he was joking when he had explained how he had inherited a child from his academic mentor, Blake Marlowe.
‘You—with a little girl, Theo?’ she had said when he’d phoned from Washington DC with the news two years ago. ‘You’re only twenty-three—still studying. You don’t just take on a child like…like an abandoned puppy!’
‘No, Mum, of course not. That’s not what I’m doing. Blake and Naia didn’t have any relatives—and they’re gone now. They asked me to look after her if anything happened to them. I can’t just leave her in some awful children’s home. I’m the only person she knows.’
None of what followed had gone like he had hoped. Naia and Blake hadn’t turned up to claim her and he’d come to the conclusion they must be dead. Nothing else would keep them from their daughter. Taking their warnings of danger seriously, he’d fled back to the UK with Meri on false travel documents. He’d half expected to be jailed for that but he’d got away with it, thanks to some connections Saddiq had on the black market through a dodgy cousin. Settling back in England, he’d felt more at ease, better able to hide in his own territory. His mum and dad, though, had been distant on th
A little hand tugged his fringed jacket. A moppet with long brown hair and green eyes too serious for her six-year-old face looked up at him, reminding him why he should think this was all worth it. Meri broke his heart with how careful she always was—and that was his fault. Under instructions from her parents, he had drummed into her that she had to be wary. It wasn’t cruelty but a question of survival.
‘Theo, can I play with Kaya in the home corner? It’s just outside in the playground.’ She and her little redheaded friend exchanged a conspiratorial look, plans for their make-believe game well developed. ‘We’re playing moving house.’
Meri had a lot of experience of that, often packing up at short notice, like when they had fled Washington. ‘Of course you can, sweetheart—if Kaya’s mummy is OK with that?’ He glanced at the woman at his side.
Rona nodded. ‘Come right back in if there’s any sign of rain.’
‘Mum,’ said Kaya, sounding sixteen rather than six, ‘we know the emergency drill and there’s a shelter outside in case we can’t run fast enough. Come on, Meri. Last one in the shelter is a slimy slug!’ Dropping her new friend’s hand, Kaya dashed outside. Meri followed, unicorn trainers flashing.
‘Watch out for that storm!’ called Theo. Parenting was a tightrope walk between being over-protective and sensibly cautious, he was discovering.
‘It’s so sad we all have to have one eye on the sky these days,’ sighed Rona. ‘Extreme weather events don’t make parenting any easier. I worry if I even let her out in the back garden.’
Theo opened his mouth to agree but the mother from the previous consultation emerged.
‘Mrs Goring said to head right in.’ She held the door for Theo, surprising him with a flirty smile.
Theo returned the smile, on reflex switching on the charm. At last he’d found top gear, a flash of female interest acting like a jump start to his cold engine. How long was it since he’d dated anyone? ‘Thank you, love.’
‘I’m Joe’s mum.’ She toyed with a strand of blonde hair then let it fall to rest on her impressive assets. ‘Maybe you could, you know, bring Meri over to play one day?’
‘Joe? I don’t think Meri’s mentioned him.’
The woman gestured to a kid kicking a cushion from the reading area into the side of the class aquarium, making the clownfish dart for cover. ‘That’s Joe.’
Theo mentally slapped down his playdate fantasy with Joe’s mother. It had only taken one look to know that he didn't want that thug near his little girl. ‘Yeah, maybe. I’d better not keep the teacher waiting.’
Mrs Goring looked up as Theo entered, giving him that pained but patient smile of the teacher in dire need of her summer holiday. A motherly lady in her mid-fifties, she made Theo instantly feel on the back foot when it came to child-rearing. She had been in teaching so long she could easily have taught him when he was Meri’s age. ‘Mr Woolf, lovely to see you.’
Theo grimaced. ‘Theo, please, Mrs Goring.’ He sat on the too small chair, knees level with his chest. In what universe had schools decided it was a great idea to make parents sit on infant-sized furniture to discuss their kids? ‘So, how’s Meri settling in?’
‘She seems to be managing reasonably well.’ Mrs Goring ran the tip of her pencil down a list of results to settle on the entry for Meredith Marlowe. ‘She’s a little behind on her maths and reading, but that’s not unusual when a child has moved around so often. I’m sure she’ll catch up because she’s a bright little button. Nothing gets past her.’
Theo relaxed in the warmth of the teacher’s tone. ‘Yes, she’s clever. I’m just sorry that my job situation hasn’t allowed her a clear run at school. Not ideal.’
A siren sounded on the roof of the village hall, then echoed by the one on the church spire. The storm was coming on fast. Wind rattled a loose fence panel. Theo’s gaze darted to the window. Meri was sensible. She’d get undercover. Kaya’s mum would make sure of that.
‘…ready to take extra classes, don’t you think?’
Theo realized he had tuned out of the teacher’s conversation, a black mark for any child’s guardian. ‘Extra classes?’
‘Yes, I recommend she has a session or two of reading support each week, and that will bring her up to speed in no time.’
‘If you think that’s a good idea?’
‘It does seem a little more difficult for her than other children her age. Any dyslexia in the family—that you know of, I mean?’
‘Er, no, not her parents. I’m afraid I don’t know much about the wider family, nothing about earlier generations, other than they are sadly all long gone and can’t be asked.’
Mrs Goring toyed with the beaded string on which her reading glasses hung. ‘It’s just that she seems to have vision problems. She said she was seeing strange colours dancing when I asked her what was distracting her from the storybook.’
Oh no. Theo’s heart sank. How much would another move cost him? It would break him financially.
‘That’s sometimes a sign of dyslexia, words not behaving, or moving so they don’t make sense. I’ve not heard about colours but I’ll look it up and see if there’s a connection.’
The last thing Theo wanted was a teacher searching ‘child who sees strange colours.’ That would send up a flag that anyone with decent computer skills could trace. He didn’t want Meri whisked away to some government laboratory to be tested. ‘Please, no need. I’ll get her eyesight checked. I’m sure it’s not dyslexia.’ It was just that Meri saw a colour no one else could see, a colour she called ‘peril’, and she had better vision than anyone Theo had ever met.
Lightning crackled. Thunder boomed. The rain came down with a monsoon force that was now commonplace in England. The barrage on the roof warned that hail had become mixed in the mess—the most dangerous kind of storm. As the sun was still shining on the horizon, Theo wondered if there was any weather sign not being deployed on the meteorological map over their spot right now.
Mrs Goring shivered. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I can’t get used to this new climate. Natural to the tropics but not Cornwall.’ A hailstone smacked the window, shattering the pane. The unflappable teacher let out a little yelp. ‘Oh my, it’s getting worse.’ She gathered her files and handbag. ‘The council hasn’t yet put emergency shutters on the school. We’d better evacuate to our safe zone—postpone this until it has passed.’
Theo was already heading out of the class. ‘I left Meri playing with Kaya outside. Need to check on her.’
He found a crowd in the designated area in the school hall which had no exterior walls. The skylights had been given metal grills to protect them. As the hail piled up on the roof, the daylight dimmed. Someone switched on the lights but these flickered every time the lightning flashed, causing the younger children to cry out.
‘Turn them off!’ shouted a mother. ‘It’s making it worse for them.’
In the semi-darkness, Theo looked for his own little brown-headed girl. He saw a soaking wet Kaya huddled in her mum’s lap but no Meri.
He grabbed Rona’s shoulder. ‘Where’s Meri?’
Rona’s face paled as she realized she’d failed to check. ‘Kaya, when you ran inside, did Meri come with you?’
Kayla pulled her thumb out of her mouth. ‘She said she had to stay in the shelter and not get wet, like the teachers told us. But I wanted to come to you so I ran inside. Look, I gotted a bruise.’ Fear making her revert to babyish behaviour, she displayed her upper arm which must’ve caught one of the smaller hailstones. She’d been lucky.
‘Oh God.’ Theo ran to the foyer. Peering out through the rain-streaked window, he at first couldn’t see anyone outside. Hailstones the size of tennis balls were bouncin
Lightning forked across the sky, one branch striking the cockerel on the church spire, another arcing over the town to hit the telegraph pole on the harbour wall.
He couldn’t leave a six-year-old out there on her own. What if she panicked and tried to run inside? His brain presented a frightening montage of images, including spilled blood and a smashed skull.
‘Is that Meri?’ asked Mrs Goring as she came to see why he was by the door.
‘Yes.’ Theo struggled with his anger. The other parents should’ve checked before going into lockdown. Rona knew he was in the consultation. Why had no-one cared to see what had become of Meri?
‘Why’s she still out there?’ Mrs Goring clutched her files to her chest.
‘She’s obeying your safety rules.’ She was very good at doing that after years of training. ‘You tell them to wait there, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but during the school day there’s always an adult on duty to evacuate them in a safe lull. I’ll call the fire service.’
‘I’m going to her. Have you something I can use to shelter me?’
‘An umbrella will be useless.’
He bit back the sharp comment that he knew that. ‘Anything? Something thick enough to withstand those hailstones?’