The Secrets Of Ghosts - Sarah Painter

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instinct; the right words at the right time. A kind of magic that was part psychology, part common sense. How Katie expected to have it, Gwen couldn’t understand. At twenty-one, she’d hardly been able to find her own arse with both hands, let alone give sage advice. But there was no talking to Katie, no convincing her. She radiated need, thrummed with it. Gwen wanted Katie to relax, to enjoy her life, her youth, but she knew Katie didn’t want to hear that.

      Gwen heard Cam open the door from the hallway and a moment later she felt his hands on her waist; he pulled her gently backwards, against his chest, and put his face to her neck, inhaling deeply. ‘What’s that smell?’

      ‘Foot cream,’ Gwen said. She watched Cam kiss her neck in the reflection in the window and urged her nerve endings to respond. The glass was still cracked in one corner, something else she hadn’t got around to fixing.

      ‘I don’t think so,’ Cam said, into her ear.

      It tickled and Gwen twisted away, fired with the sudden need to move. She grabbed a tea towel and began drying up the bowl.

      Cam stroked Cat, who was winding around his ankles. ‘Katie gone already?’

      Gwen slumped against the counter, hugged the bowl to her stomach. ‘She was upset. She’s not getting better — she’s actually getting worse if anything.’

      ‘Why doesn’t she do something else? I wish she’d reconsider uni—’

      Gwen interrupted him. ‘I know. Me too. Ruby and David would be over the moon, too, but there’s no budging her on it. She’s convinced she needs to train with me. She takes being a Harper really seriously and that’s good—’

      ‘It shouldn’t be everything, though,’ Cam said.

      Gwen turned away, put the bowl on the side. Cam tried, but he couldn’t really understand what it felt like. Not really. He wasn’t a Harper. He’d never woken up and found his life changed by a power that was at once external and completely part of him. He’d never felt the spark of power ignite inside his skin and watch it burn. He accepted her magic, her ability to find lost things and to make herbal remedies that were uncannily effective; he accepted that the people in their town came to the back door of End House at all hours of the day and night and that Gwen couldn’t turn them away, had to help if she could with advice, a spell or some foot cream. He accepted, he supported, but it was never going to be a part of him. Gwen felt sick. No matter how close you were to another human being, you were never truly inside them. You were always alone.

      Gwen realised that Cam had asked her something. ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Drink?’ Cam was holding up a bottle of red wine, already undoing the top. She heard the crack of the screw cap and did a calculation that had become a reflex. She’d only just had her period so there was no chance she was pregnant. She was safe to drink. Could drink herself into oblivion, if she wanted, in fact. ‘Make it a large one,’ she said and ignored Cam’s raised eyebrows, his filthy smile. She felt the press of a thousand worries pushing down on top of her head. She couldn’t even think about getting in the mood. She took the offered glass, thoroughly depressed. When had ‘getting in the mood’ become a chore?

      *

      Katie was still shivering the next morning, but she was certain it wasn’t flu. She just felt cold. As if there were an air blower right next to her at all times. That wasn’t right — it was more as if she were standing inside an air blower. If she could get used to the weird sensation, it might be quite nice. The man on the radio had already cheerfully assured her that today would be another ‘scorcher’ and she had an eight-hour shift at the hotel, starting with breakfast.

      Katie avoided the main road out of Pendleford, which was choked with cars even at this God-awful hour of the morning. Commuters heading to Swindon or Bath or Bristol, sitting in their metal boxes and trying to pretend that the olde-world charm of Pendleford made their hellish drive every morning and night worth it. Katie took an old farm lane, instead, feeling more cheerful. Slinging cooked breakfasts at MOPs wasn’t scintillating work but at least she wasn’t stuck in an office cubicle.

      The hedgerows were so lush and green that they were hanging over the narrow road. The cow parsley had been thick and white, making the rows look covered in snow, but now it was dying back, overtaken by red poppies.

      After half a mile or so, Katie realised something. It was too quiet. The birds weren’t chattering. In fact, looking around, she noticed there didn’t seem to be any birds around. No wrens or blue tits, no swallows swooping. She looked up, expecting to see a buzzard hanging motionless in the sky, frightening the little birds away. Nothing.

      Feeling spooked, Katie looked carefully around. That horrible feeling of vulnerability was back. She hated her lack of knowledge, her powerlessness. Gwen would know why the birds were silent. Maybe there was a natural reason and maybe there was a magical reason but Katie was lost no matter what. She was cast adrift, floating between the two worlds. Aware that the magical one existed, but not powerful enough or clever enough to be truly part of it. She knew enough to be frightened and not enough to feel safe.

      Then she saw it. A magpie, sitting on the wire fence a few metres ahead. It was looking straight at her.

      ‘Good morning, Mr Magpie,’ Katie said. She felt faintly ridiculous but that was the problem with superstition. It was hard to know which ones were based in fact.

      The magpie didn’t move. It continued to stare as she drew closer. Katie kept expecting it to get startled, to fly away, but it didn’t. It shifted from foot to foot, twitched a wing, but continued to watch her approach. Katie was just thinking how weird it was when she was distracted by the warmth of the morning sun flooding through her. The cloud of cold air had disappeared and Katie stopped walking from the shock of it. She’d got used to it and suddenly the heat of the day was there, on her skin. She could smell burning, too. Like a struck match. Then the magpie spoke to her. ‘Watch. My watch. My watch.’

      Katie looked at the bird. Magpies could imitate sounds, Katie knew, but those hadn’t just been sounds. Those were words. Clear words.

      Katie resisted the sudden urge to say ‘pardon?’ to the magpie. Perhaps she did have the flu after all. She put a hand on her forehead, tried to work out if she was running a temperature.

      ‘My watch. My watch,’ the bird said again. There was something urgent in its tone. Something pleading. It was staring at her as if willing her to understand something. And then she did.

      ‘Mr Cole?’

      The bird cocked its head. ‘My watch.’

      ‘What about your watch?’ Katie said.

      The magpie squawked and flew away.

      Katie slammed through the back door at End House. She’d phoned in sick to work and changed direction, heading to End House as fast as she could.

      Her mobile buzzed as she half walked, half ran, and she slowed down to answer it.

      ‘Please tell me you’re not really sick,’ Anna said. ‘I wanted to go to the pub tonight.’

      ‘I’m not really sick,’ Katie said, out of breath. ‘Sorry to leave you short-staffed for breakfast.’

      ‘That’s okay. There’s hardly anyone here,’ Anna said. ‘Are you running?’

      ‘Going to Gwen’s.’

      ‘Secret family stuff?’

      ‘Kind of,’ Katie said, feeling bad. Whatever Anna said, however accepting and chilled out she appeared to be, Katie still found it difficult to talk to her. Gwen had painted such colourful portraits of the dangers of telling people about their magic, but it was more than that: Katie was always waiting for Anna to realise that she wasn’t such good friend material, after all. That the weirdness wasn’t worth it. Katie wanted to be honest, didn’t want to live a lie, so she ended

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