Heaven Sent, page 14
As Clemmie knew that Uncle Bill and Auntie Molly were going to be out at the Berkeley Boys Witches’ Whist Drive at the Barmy Cow, Phoebe was viewing a potential love-nest with Ben in Hazy Hassocks, and everyone else would be at Mitzi Blessings’ pumpkin party, the thought of being home alone certainly didn’t appeal.
‘No,’ Clemmie had said. ‘If you’ll trust me with the lab and Suggs on my own, I’d like to carry on.’
‘Great – and good luck. I’ve spent forever trying to sort out where the alchemy ends and the magic begins or vice versa. I reckon he was away with the fairies most of the time – or wrote the damn book back to front.’
Clemmie had laughed. ‘It should keep me entertained, then.’
‘Don’t drive yourself mad.’ Guy had grabbed the car keys. ‘Oh, and you know where everything is in the lab, don’t you? Kettle, coffee, small fridge? I’ve left a few bits and pieces in there for you and Suggs should either of you feel you’re going to die of starvation. I should be back by eight, or nine at the latest. You’ve got my mobile number if there’s an emergency.’ He’d paused. ‘And I’ll expect the magical green to be in the bag when I come back.’
And they’d laughed together, and he’d kissed Suggs but not her, and roared away in the BMW.
So, completely alone and trying not to let her imagination run away with her, Clemmie had tried to get to grips with Allbard’s Magikal Medieval Alchemy. Somehow her attention kept wandering back to Milton St John.
While she’d been delighted to meet Jemima and Charlie and help to plan their wedding fireworks – and couldn’t wait to tell Uncle Bill all about actually talking to the man who’d won him a fortune in reckless gambles on break-neck finishes in the Grand National – it was Suzy Becket who stayed uppermost in her mind.
Poor girl, Clemmie thought. Hopelessly in love with her absent Luke Delaney. Never wanting to look at another man because she knew they wouldn’t measure up to the one she’d lost. And how much more galling to know it was all her fault.
Whatever Clemmie had expected from working at The Gunpowder Plot it hadn’t included these emotional challenges. Not only was there her own romantic problem with Guy and YaYa and the unknown predatory Helen, now there was also the sad-eyed Suzy to add to her worries along with her concerns for the ever-optimistic Ellis Blissit.
‘Blimey,’ she muttered. ‘This way madness definitely lies. Stop thinking about ghosts and lost lovers and get on with it!’
With Suggs on her lap, and the radio turned up against the scream of the witching wind outside, Clemmie sat at Guy’s workbench and trailed her finger down Allbard’s index trying to concentrate on nice logical scientific problems.
Once she’d worked out that all those fffs were actually the letter s, and that the elaborate flowery writing needed to be pared and translated, she was still no further forward. No wonder Guy hadn’t been able to make head or tail of it. Everything was higgledy-piggledy, there was no order to any of the concoctions or the compounds or even the magical spells. It was all frustratingly illogical to someone geared to the spectacular technical and editorial advances of the last fifty years.
‘Green,’ Clemmie muttered. ‘Let’s try it this way, then. Let’s not work out chemicals – let’s try it by looking up the colour.’
Suggs sat up and stared at her, then gently licked her chin and cuddled down again.
‘What?’ She looked down at him. ‘You think it’s the way to go, too, do you? Fine, let’s give it a whirl. Right, let’s look at the table of contents again – oh, bugger!’
Green didn’t exist. At least, not in the sparse index. God, it was so annoying to be stymied at every turn. And no doubt Guy had already explored all these avenues a trillion times.
As the wind crashed branches against the side of the lab, Clemmie flicked through Allbard’s flimsy yellowing pages. What was this? She’d spotted the word ‘green’ somewhere among the closely-printed script. Ah yes, here … oh, sod it.
The Green Man?
She sighed. Wasn’t that a pub? Surely Allbard had better things to do than throw his favourite hostelries into the mix? Still, at least it was green.
The Green Man, she read on slowly, deciphering the words with difficulty, was, among many other things, a fire-bearer. A magical fire-bearer. The most magical fire-bearer in the history of conflagration.
Clemmie’s scalp prickled. She squinted at the page again.
In medieval times, it appeared the Green Man – who represented New Hopes and New Beginnings – would lead parades and ceremonies carrying a blazing Club of Fire, spraying sparks and flames onto the crowd, and chanting his magical verses. These verses when mixed with the sparks from his green fire, apparently, made new life possible and dreams and wishes come true.
A trickle of excitement shivered down her spine as she pulled the Magikal Medieval Alchemy closer.
Allbard, roughly translated, concluded that the Green Man represented the magic of fireworks: slightly mysterious, a little dangerous, always exciting and always new.
Wow! It sounded exactly like Guy. Clemmie blinked away from the almost-indecipherable words, and looked triumphantly at Suggs. This was a huge step nearer.
She picked up the book again, her hands shaking in her impatience.
Allbard, making reference to Gawain and the Green Knight, suggested that absolute belief in the powers of The Green Man and his magic green fire blend would tranfform the difbeliever into a believer; the unhappy knight into a joyful lionheart; the lonefome fad foul into a merryman.
The green fire waf – Allbard continued – only efficaciouf on little wifhef of the heart.
Clemmie frowned. So, sorting out the fffs and roughly translating it all into twenty-first-century speak, did that mean this Green Man mix and magic would make good things happen, then? Wishes come true? Unlikely, she thought! And clearly only on very localised wishes only – sort of one-to-ones, then – no point in imagining it could be used for world peace or global prosperity or anything huge.
And what was the magic potion anyway?
A handful of pureft fun-bleffed chlorophyll and two of powdered copper falts and a cup filled with the juice of yellow jaundy-afh …
Clemmie stopped and frowned. Chlorophyll and copper salts she understood, but what the hell was jaundy-ash? She blinked some more and continued reading.
According to the scrawly script, this recipe, when mixed with saltpetre, would produce the perfect green fire – and when ignited at the same time as the Green Man New Life verse was chanted, could make all impossible small-scale dreams possible.
Clemmie snorted in derision. She might have worked out the green-fire ingredients and translated the spell, but it didn’t mean she believed in the wishes-come-true nonsense, did it? She was a scientist through and through; and unless there was a provable method and a tangible result it was all airy-fairy rubbish as far as she was concerned.
However, the making of the green fire was something else. That was pure chemistry, wasn’t it? Medieval alchemy … Something she could make and try out and prove.
‘Jesus!’ Clemmie sat up. ‘So – does that really mean that, if I’ve read this properly, this is Allbard’s “magikal” bit for the colour green explosive then? Yay!!!’
Suggs opened his eyes and met her excited stare. She picked him up and kissed him and danced round the lab, hugging him and smiling. He made happy snuffling noises and smiled back.
Realising that dancing with a ferret was possibly one of the most stupid things she’d ever done, she sat down again. Quickly.
‘Right.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So this mumbo-jumbo at the foot of the page must be the “magikal spell” nonsense – now, do we want that? Or just the green fire recipe?’ Suggs snuffled some more and nodded. ‘Both? Sucker. Magic doesn’t exist. No way is that a magic spell – but OK, I’ll assume we have to have both to make it work.’ She dragged a notebook and pen across the bench and started to copy down the centuries-old words.
When the Green Man danceth with fire
Ember and flame overcometh ire
Light the jaundy-afh and falty mix
Fayeth the wordf to wifhef fix
‘Verdigrif and verture pure
Fparketh with naturef verdanture
Maketh wifhef fore’er endure’
And what the fadden heart defireth
Will be gifted e’re by Green Man firef
Quickly transposing the f’s for s’s Clemmie tried the three-line spell out loud.
‘“Verdigris and verture pure, Sparks with nature’s verdanture, Makes wishes forever endure.”‘ She looked at Suggs. ‘Hardly Lennon and McCartney, is it? Still, it’s easy enough to remember – not that I believe in this hocus pocus of course – worth a try when and if we can work out how the green flame is made. Oh,’ she glanced at her watch, ‘I wish Guy would hurry up. I can’t wait to tell him about this. So, if I scribble down what we’ve already worked out for building the first six stages of the Seventh Heaven multishot, then add Allbard’s final little gem.’
She started scribbling again.
One – silver stars on golden chains: easy – antimony, aluminium, and lampblack. Two – pure gold, waxing and waning: lampblack mixed with sodium compounds and a touch of calcium. Three – pink opalescence: OK, strontium carbonate, magnesium and a dash of copper carbonate. Four – white gold and silver tears: simple, aluminium, titanium, and magnesium flakes. Five – ice and fire: white hot barium oxide and strontium carbonate. Six – the red jewels – ruby and garnet: so yes, strontium again, and an equal amount of lithium. And now we have the makings of Seven.
And if Allbard was right, all they had to do was concoct his chemical mix and they just might have made the discovery that had eluded pyrotechnicians for years.
‘Holy shit!’ She stopped writing. ‘What was that?’
Suggs sat bolt upright, his eyes bright, his whiskers quivering.
Clemmie felt suddenly icy cold. Was that someone outside? A voice? A footstep?
She turned down the radio and listened again. Now she could hear nothing but the howling of the wind, the rush of the swollen river and the tapping of the bare branches against the window.
‘Get a grip,’ she muttered, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the lab’s echoing silence. ‘You don’t believe in magic and you certainly don’t believe in ghouls and ghosts and things that go bump in the night. Shit!’
Suggs jumped to the floor and ran towards the door. Holding her breath, Clemmie could swear there were footsteps outside on the cobbles.
What if it wasn’t a supernatural footstep at all? What if it was a flesh and blood intruder? Realising just how isolated she was here in the outhouse, not only from civilisation generally but also from the relative safety of the main boathouse, she began to panic. Suppose someone was prowling around outside? The doors were locked, but that surely wouldn’t stop anyone who was determined to get in?
Should she call the police? Most likely they’d just issue her with an incident number and tell her to ring again if she was murdered. What about Guy? No – not a good idea. He was too busy to be disturbed and he’d think she was being fanciful, and certainly wouldn’t want to be dragged back from planning what could be The Gunpowder Plot’s most lucrative deal of the year.
Listening again, she could hear nothing unusual now. Suggs had trotted away from the door and subsided once more into a ball on the charcoal sacks.
‘Good boy. Nothing to worry about. It was probably just the wind,’ she said cheerfully to him in an attempt at reassuring herself. ‘Right, so let’s have a cup of coffee and see what treats we’ve got in the fridge, shall we? I’m pretty hungry and I bet you wouldn’t say no, would you?’
Turning the radio up and wishing the DJ hadn’t had the bright idea to play Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”, Clemmie switched on the kettle, spooned coffee and sugar into a mug and opened the fridge for the milk.
‘Oh, Guy Devlin! You angel!’ She clapped her hands. ‘Cream slices! I love cream slices!’
All the night-terrors were forgotten as she carried the coffee and the delicious piles of cream, jam, choux pastry and icing to the workbench. There were five cakes and not even Clemmie could eat all five. However, she thought, sipping the scalding coffee, two should be easy. Which would leave two for Guy when he came home – and one for Suggs, who had slithered from the sack as soon as he’d smelled the cream and was dancing round her on his hind legs.
‘There you go.’ She broke off a chunk and placed it carefully in his front paws. ‘Oh, now you’ve got it all over your whiskers, which,’ she chuckled as she squished into a gooey mouthful, ‘probably makes two of us.’
Ooh, bliss, she thought, licking cream from her fingers. Cream slices, hot coffee, and the solution to the Seventh Heaven conundrum.
‘Jesus Christ!’
The scream outside echoed above the wind and the rush of the river. It even drowned out Michael Jackson’s spectral singing.
As the scream increased in pitch, someone was thundering on the lab door.
Suggs, still cream-covered, shot behind the charcoal sacks.
Clemmie’s heart felt as if it was going to explode and her sticky hands were clammy.
Jesus – now what should she do? Stay put and hope the maniac outside shuffled away to haunt someone else? Open the door and risk being massacred?
‘Help me!’ a thin voice trebled. ‘Help me! Open this door!’
Oh God. Clemmie slid tentatively from her stool. Was it a wounded soul seeking solace? Or some madman wielding an axe? If only Guy was here. If only YaYa wasn’t away. If only she wasn’t so bloody terrified.
‘Let me in!’ the voice screeched again. ‘Please!’
Grabbing her mobile, dry-mouthed, shaking from head to foot, Clemmie moved slowly towards the door, slid back the bolt and turned the key.
Then she pulled the door open slightly and screamed.
‘What you screaming for?’ A small glowing skeleton glared at her. ‘I were the one screaming. I fell over. Look – I’m bleeding. Where’s Guy? And what’s that mess on your hands? Is it blood? Have you killed someone?’
Mightily relieved that the small skeleton was at least human, and wondering why on earth any responsible parent had allowed a junior trick-or-treater to stray so far off the beaten track, Clemmie realised that she was still clutching her cream slice and it had oozed gorily through her fingers.
‘Oh, no – mine’s just a cake.’ Her voice was till trembling. ‘Is yours real blood?’
‘On my knee. I need it cleaned up. Now.’
‘Well, look, don’t you think that’s something your parents should do? Where do you live – hey!’
The small skeleton had pushed past her, injured knee completely forgotten, and was gazing round the lab. ‘Oh cake! Scrumpty! Get me a drink.’
‘What?’ Clemmie frowned at the small intruder who was forcing a cream slice through its skeletal mask. ‘Sorry, you can’t stay here. I don’t know how you got here—’
‘In the Jag,’ the child mumbled disdainfully. ‘And it’s last year’s.’
Shame, Clemmie thought. Clearly some yummy mummy from one of the more select Winterbrook estates had decided to go upmarket trick or treating this Halloween. ‘Now, seriously, let me take you home and – dear God!’
Two small witches and a Dracula stormed into the lab and immediately punched the skeleton until it dropped the cake.
‘Stop it!’ Clemmie yelled above the screaming. ‘Stop it at once! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Not relenting in their fist fight, the four children scuffled perilously near the lab’s workbench.
Clemmie grabbed Dracula’s cloak and tugged the bundle of biting, punching mini humanity towards the door. ‘Out! Now! God knows what your mother is thinking of—’
‘Their mother,’ a plummy voice drawled from the darkness, ‘is thinking this place is truly the pits, and wondering why on earth the house is in darkness, and why we’ve been wandering round this Godforsaken tip for what seems like hours trying to find someone to let us in. Where’s Guy?’
‘Out,’ Clemmie said sharply, awfully aware that the drawling voice belonged to the face on the kitchen wall.
Helen from the Dark Side. And Crap, Puke, Snot and Mungo.
Dear God.
‘Who are you?’ Helen stepped into the lab and peered at Clemmie. ‘Are you another one of Guy’s lost causes? Care in the community or something?’
The children had resumed their bloodbath on the floor. Helen ignored them.
Helen was even more exquisitely beautiful in the flesh than she was in the photograph, Clemmie thought miserably. And whatever YaYa had hinted about the nips and tucks, they certainly didn’t show. Helen was a fashion-plate of perfectly groomed sleek blonde hair, perfectly made-up angel’s face, perfect body perfectly dressed in country-casual designer clothes.
Helen, Clemmie realised, could only see a dishevelled, scruffy, bohemian wreck with big earrings and more cream cake on her face and fingers than had ever made it into her mouth.
‘I’m Guy’s assistant.’ She tried to lick dried cream from her lips. ‘He’s out at a business meeting. And yes, before you introduce yourself, there’s no need. I do know who you are, I’ve seen your photograph – but was he expecting you tonight?’
‘No, of course not.’ Helen shook her head. ‘God forbid that we’d actually drive from London and choose to spend more time here than necessary. However, needs must, and I do need to speak to him. Urgently. Now.’
‘He shouldn’t be long. Why don’t you wait in the main house? Do you have a key?’
‘If I had a key, you stupid girl, I wouldn’t have been wandering around outside in this freezing weather, with my poor kiddies in tow, trying to get in, would I?’
