Darkisle, p.1
DarkIsle, page 1
DarkIsle
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
With Thanks To
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
About the Author
Copyright
for
Ian, Emma, Xander and Robbie
xxx
WITH THANKS TO:
Ian, for his never-ending support;
Natalie, for being my first reader;
Jonathan, for his encouragement;
my dad, for his editing skills;
my mum, for her enthusiasm;
the rest of the family and all my friends;
Alison McAllister and Melanie West at North
Ayrshire Council for all their help and ideas;
and Keith, Graham and Alison at Strident
for taking a chance on me.
1
The dragon stared out over a menacing gray sea, the dark waters swelling below the raggedness of three miles of sandy hilltops that had been her home these past thirty years. An angry black sky warned of a storm brewing, and the dragon shivered at the thought of enduring yet another winter. She had seen many such squalls lying there on the hill overlooking Irvine Beach, but this one was going to be a beauty. The clouds sagged, heavy with rain, and it looked like it would only be a matter of time before the sky opened up and a tempest rained down on her. She worried that the bricks of her body would not hold up to this latest squall; after all this time she was feeling old and worn out. The wind lashed against her cold stone flanks, whipping sand into her unblinking eyes. Oh, what she would give to be real again; to stretch her stiff and aching legs, to rise up again. To be free.
And so it began to rain. Cold, harsh raindrops fell like tiny arrows against the dragon’s unmoving stone hide. She braced herself against the terrible weather that was to come, forever alone and miserable.
A few miles down the coast in a ramshackle guesthouse overlooking a large sewage pipe on the beach, a small ten-year-old girl was watching the approaching storm from the window of her attic bedroom. A solitary, sad little figure, the girl often knelt up against the headboard of her bed beneath the window and gazed out the dirty glass. She liked being up here, hidden from view where no one could see her. She could forget who she really was and fantasize about the lives of the people who often walked by.
In the summer, she would watch as the shiny cars filed into the empty field nearby, turning it into a makeshift car park. The car doors would burst open and out would spill excited children running with spades and balls toward the sea. They were always on the beach before anyone else, daring each other to go into the cold water first. Their parents brought up the rear, laden down with striped umbrellas and wicker picnic baskets, multicolored sun hats and sun cream. From her vantage point, Morag (for that was the girl’s name) saw everything. There was the joy radiating from the children, the togetherness of their parents and the love of the family. How she wanted to be one of those children getting hugs and kisses from a mother or father. How she yearned for a family of her very own.
The beach was hardly used in winter. Only dog walkers braved the cold, cold sea air, their faces set hard against the stinging wind and salty spray, the fur of their dogs dancing wildly in the gale. Morag loved to watch the dogs; she had always wanted a dog to look after and love, but Jermy and Moira wouldn’t allow it. They’re too dirty, they said. Costs money, they said.
She sighed long and hard. There were no dogs or holidaymakers playing on the sand on this wild October morning. The beach was deserted. There weren’t even any sea birds trotting along the shoreline. Morag turned away from the window and got down from her bed. She supposed she’d better start her chores before breakfast. She didn’t want to get locked in the cellar again.
Her foster parents, Moira and Jermy Stoker, were still snoring loudly in their bedroom on the floor below. She could hear them above the rumbling of the storm, snorting and snuffling away in their bed, oblivious to the gale outside. Thunder grumbled over the little house, rain lashed at the windows, and the wind tugged at the doors and shutters. Morag shivered. There was no central heating in the house and it was freezing. Barefoot and wearing her too-xssmall pajamas and frayed pink housecoat, she grabbed hold of her special book and stuffed it into one of her pockets. This was all she had left of her real parents. It was a red leather-bound book of ancient poetry, about the size of a prayer book, and inside on the first page was the inscription that made her heart sing every time she read it. They were simple words, but they meant a lot to her:
To Morag,
Until we meet again . . .
Lots of love, Mum and Dad xxx.
There was a marker tucked away on page thirteen, held tight against a short poem. It was a little piece of pink cardboard, just big enough to sit snugly in the palm of her hand. It appeared to be an old-fashioned train ticket, and marked on it, in faded black letters, was the name of a station that, despite her best efforts, Morag had never been able to decipher. There was an M and an r, but she couldn’t read the rest.
The book felt reassuringly weighty in her housecoat pocket as she slipped out of her room and crept out of the attic and down the creaking, cracking stairs to the kitchen, where she could get warm beside the stove.
Stoker’s Seaview Guesthouse was always really creepy in the morning, and Morag hated being the first one up. The house was dark and shadowy on the brightest of days, and every room was in desperate need of some care and attention. Neglected paint peeled off the woodwork, strips of wallpaper were missing in patches from the walls, and the carpets were stained and threadbare. There were six rooms in the tall narrow house near the beach, not counting Morag’s bedroom in the attic. On the ground floor was a living room full of burst sofas and chairs, a dining room with no furniture in it other than Jermy’s locked desk with its computer, and a large, dirty kitchen that was dominated by an old stove. One of the three unloved bedrooms on the first floor was Jermy and Moira’s untidy room and the other two were permanently unwanted and unopened guest bedrooms. Morag often asked if she could move down to one of the proper bedrooms, but Jermy and Moira always refused, telling her the rooms were needed for guests. But no one ever came.
“Besides,” Jermy would say with a sneer. “You’re better up in the attic out of our way.”
Morag’s feet were freezing by the time she reached the kitchen. It didn’t help that the floor was covered with torn linoleum that was always icy underfoot, even in summer. She wished she had put her socks on before she had come down, but it was too late to run back upstairs—those two might hear her go past as she went up, and she didn’t want to wake them. She tiptoed over to the kitchen table and dragged one of the rickety chairs over to the stove. Quietly, she sat down and savored the lovely heat coming from it. Lifting both feet, she placed them within an inch of the old cooker’s body. Ah, that was better. The stove never went off, as she made sure it was well stocked with driftwood, and its flaking red body was always hot: too hot to touch, but just perfect to be near. She felt its heat slowly restore the feeling to her numb feet. It was bliss.
Although the house could be cold and creepy, this was the only time of the day when Morag felt she had it completely to herself. With Jermy and Moira still in bed, she had time to daydream about what life would be like if she was a princess or a famous film star, or just someone else’s child. She thought about the pair upstairs, her parents, or so they called themselves. They weren’t really her parents—they had adopted her when she was a baby—but they liked to pretend they were. They didn’t act like real parents; there were no hugs, no kisses and certainly no love. There was only their coldness and anger. Jermy usually ignored her, and Moira just screamed orders and accusations at her. And then there were all the things they expected her to do around the guesthouse: the dusting and wiping and scrubbing and ironing and washing and shopping and cooking. Most of the time she wished she had a different life, or at least a different mum and dad. She couldn’t remember her real parents and didn’t know what had happened to them. Jermy had said they had run away and abandoned her, but Morag didn’t believe that for a minute. They were lost, she told herself, and one day they would find her again, she was positive of that.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday teatime. She glanced at the clock above the sink. It was nearly seven o’clock. She just had time to eat a jam sandwich before she had to start the day’s round of chores. The dishes were still piled high in the sink, the pots and pans encrusted with the burnt debris of last night’s dinner. It would take forever to get through them. And she still had to start Jermy and Moira’s breakfast. She sighed.
Suddenly a snarling voice jolted her to attention.
“What’s to eat, you lazy brat?”
Morag jumped. She spun around. There was Moira in all her glory, swaying slightly in the doorway. Although Moira’s hair started off ash gray at the scalp, it was mostly flaming red and in such disarray that it looked like an abandoned bird’s nest. More like an abandoned bird’s nest on fire. Morag smiled to herself. Here and there, rollers dangled from stray crimson wisps like corks on bits of string. “Argh! What’s this?” Moira suddenly shrieked, tugging at one with her stubby fingers. It wasn’t a roller—it was a small foil-covered chocolate roll she’d used by mistake. She raised her badly drawn eyebrows, cracking her thick coating of white makeup. Her eyebrows are almost the same size this morning, Morag thought, but she ought to stop drawing round a cup with a marker pen to make them.
“I suppose I’ll have to have this until you eventually get that frying pan going!” she said, wagging the chocolate roll at Morag.
Under Moira’s tatty white nightdress, the one singed with burns, were her clothes from the night before: a dress covered in violent green, brown and black swirls and a necklace that looked like a grinning row of dog’s teeth. She lifted her smoldering cigar to her lips and blew the bitter-smelling smoke out through her nostrils. From where she was sitting, Morag started to cough and waved it away.
“Well?” Moira hiccupped. She and Jermy hadn’t got in until four that morning. At least, that was the time on Morag’s electric alarm clock when she had glanced at it after being woken up by them crashing through the front door.
“Sorry, Moira,” said Morag as she jumped up. “I didn’t think you would want breakfast this early. I thought you might like a lie in.” She walked over to the cupboard where the food was kept, and began to root inside for the cooking fat.
“Well, you’re not here to think. Leave that to me! While we ’re at it, I think you should be calling me Mum,” Moira drawled. She took a drag of her cigar. “Is that too much to ask? ‘Mum.’ Is it such a hard word to say?” She stumbled over to the little wooden table and clumsily threw herself down on a chair. “Eh? Is it?”
Morag looked up at her, this cruel, lazy woman. She wasn’t her mother and never would be. No one deserved to have Moira as a mother. Morag knew it would only be a matter of time before her real mother came to take her away. And when she told her how badly she had been treated, Jermy and Moira would be in serious trouble. They might even go to jail. This was a thought that often comforted her, and made life more bearable, but she didn’t dare show it.
“No . . . Moir—I mean, Mum,” she said meekly. She knew better than to rile Moira, whose temper would be worse this morning after her late night and lack of sleep. Morag reached into the fridge and pulled out the cold wet bacon, the lumpy greasy sausages and a few feather-covered eggs. But when she opened another cupboard, which housed plates and bowls, her heart sank. There were no clean ones left. She looked at the sink and then at Moira, who had been watching her intently. Realization quickly dawned on Moira’s face. Her thickly powdered brow furrowed. Her little piggy eyes darkened. Her ragged pink-smeared lips curled into a snarl to reveal brownish teeth. Morag shuddered and took a step back.
“Did you go to bed last night without doing the washing up?” Moira growled. “Weren’t you always told that your chores had to be finished before you could go to bed? You spoilt, good-for-nothing girl!”
“I didn’t have time, Moira—I mean, Mum,” pleaded Morag, suddenly feeling very sick.
“Didn’t have time?” Moira scoffed. “Oh, it must be hard to fit us in when you’ve got so many friends to entertain—no, wait. You don’t have any friends, remember?” she screeched. She stood up and stomped over to Morag, who was cowering beside the cupboard. She bent down so that they were nose to nose. Her breath was so overpowering that Morag turned away in disgust.
“So what were you doing all last night when you weren’t doing your work?” Moira demanded. “You couldn’t have been playing with anyone.” She snorted. “I don’t know how many times I’ve told Jermy you’re a useless lump. Your parents must’ve thought the same or they wouldn’t have left you behind. I bet you were having a good laugh at us, weren’t you? Bet you thought it was funny to leave the mess.”
“No, no, I wasn’t, honestly.” Morag took a step back from her. “I finished the rest of the jobs and then I had to do my homework and I was going to do the dishes, but I fell asleep on my bed. I’m sorry! Look, I’m doing them right now,” she said, terrified of what might happen next. Unconsciously, her hand felt for the comforting form of the book in her pocket and she held it as she willed Moira not to get any angrier.
“Too right, you are,” screamed Moira. “But not until you’ve made my breakfast. And hurry up, I’m starving.”
She took another draw of her cigar and blew the smoke at Morag as if this would make the girl work harder.
“What’s all the racket?” The stern face of Jermy appeared at the door. Tufts of his greasy hair stuck up at strange angles, as if he had received a massive electric shock. “Can’t a man get a decent night’s kip without you screaming like a banshee, woman?” he barked.
“She,” said Moira, pointing a podgy finger at Morag, “didn’t finish the housework last night.” She folded her arms in front of her chest, a look of vile smugness on her face.
“What do you mean she didn’t finish them?” roared Jermy with a sneer, looking around. He spied the dirty dishes in the sink and strode forward, a menacing frown etched on his haggard face. Morag’s heart started to race. She knew what was coming next. Jermy crouched right in front of her, his blotchy angular face just a couple of inches from her nose. She shrank back, screwed her eyes closed and held her breath.
“Get. Them. Done,” he snarled deliberately. “Or you’ll get a piece of what for, you hear?” He was so close that she could feel the spit flying from his lips. “Look at me! Do you hear me?” His gruff voice was scarier than normal.
Morag peeked from under her eyelids and nodded dumbly.
“But get my breakfast first!” piped Moira from the corner. She had returned to sit at the table. “Tell her, Jermy.”
Jermy rolled his bloodshot eyes and stood. “And get the fry-up ready for your mother.” He lowered his hand and then turned his back on her. Relieved, Morag felt she could breathe again. She watched as Jermy walked away from her to join Moira at the table. She looked at them both, her heart once more filling with fear.
“She’s not my mother,” she said quietly through trembling lips. Her words stopped Jermy in his tracks and he spun around, eyes glinting with malice.
“What did you say?” he demanded. Once again, he strutted toward Morag, his eyes narrowed, like a cat stalking its prey.
Morag was terrified. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest now, and she began to wish she had kept her mouth shut. But she still told him again. “I said she ’s not my mother.” She even managed to speak more steadily than before.
“Not your mother? Of course Moira’s your mother—she’s the only mother you’ll ever have!” screamed Jermy. “Your own mother didn’t want you. She gave up on you when she knew what she was in for. No wonder your mum and dad ran off. They couldn’t stomach being saddled with you. If it wasn’t for us you’d be dead. We’ve given you everything—a good home, food in the fridge, a roof over your head—and this is how you repay us! You’re an ungrateful little good-for-nothing!” His face was purple with rage.
“She’s a disgrace, Jermy,” goaded Moira from her corner as she emptied the previous day’s cigar ash into a half-full mug of cold tea.
Morag said nothing. She knew there was no point, as it would only make matters worse. She waited for Jermy to punish her, but something odd happened. Instead of threatening her again, he just gave up. His face relaxed; he sighed and turned away.
“Oh, what’s the use?” he said. “Just get on and make Moira her breakfast. And get me a cup of tea. Right now. I need one after last night.” He walked away from the little girl and grabbed the chair which, up until five minutes ago, Morag herself had been sitting on. He dragged it over to the table and sat down beside his wife.
“I told you we should have taken her to an orphanage and changed her for a boy,” he told Moira more quietly. “A boy would have been much better than that little madam. They’re stronger, more reliable. She’s totally useless. You can see now why they left her behind.”
“Do you blame them?” laughed Moira. “If we weren’t so nice, Jermy my love, we’d have abandoned her as well. Just look at her.”
