Last Bus to Everland, page 2
I’ve got to go to Calton Hill tomorrow. Somehow. I have to.
As I go to shut the cutlery drawer, something catches my eye: Mam’s rota for the care home where she works, stuck to the fridge with a magnet my auntie Rhona brought back from her holiday in Tenerife. Her hours for Thursday are written in purple ink: 5 p.m.–1 a.m.
My heart leaps. Sneaking past Mam would be like dodging a Rottweiler. In comparison, Dad’s a lazy old beagle – he might even be asleep before eleven if I’m lucky. I can easily slip out without him noticing, and if I’m back by one o’clock, Mam won’t even know I was gone. I can hardly stop the stupid grin from spreading across my face as I go to set the table.
Mam comes out of Keira’s room, rubbing at a green smudge on her thumb.
‘You’re on night shift tomorrow?’ I ask, just to make sure.
It’s a blatant clue that I’m up to something – I never normally ask when she’s working – but only Jake seems to notice. He looks up from the computer, stares at me for a second, then goes back to his homework. Jake’s hoping to go to Cambridge next year. Right now he’s basically incapable of concentrating on anything other than schoolwork for more than five seconds at a time.
‘Unfortunately so,’ Mam says, pushing her hair out of her face. ‘Still, can’t complain. Some of the others haven’t got any shifts at all this week.’
She shouts everyone for tea, even though we’re all in the same room – a hangover from when we lived in a bigger flat – then tosses an almost-empty bag of grated cheddar on to the table. I pick out a few bits to save for Tink. I owe him one: if he hadn’t gotten himself kidnapped, I never would have met Nico. Tomorrow would be just another Thursday, and not . . . whatever tomorrow is going to be.
Something out of the ordinary.
I need a costume. Even if the boy with the blue wings said it wasn’t necessary, I want to dress up. Whatever this thing on Calton Hill is, wherever I might end up tonight, I want to feel like I belong. And I get the impression it might be the sort of place where you need to stand out to fit in.
When I get home from school on Thursday, I head straight to the room I share with Jake. I say hi to Tink (he gives me an evil look and goes back to staring out of the window – still in a crappy mood after his trip across Leith) and pull open the wardrobe. Rows of faded T-shirts and school jumpers greet me. Not exactly fancy-dress material. Other than a kilt that Jake’s friend lent him for their school ceilidh, there’s nothing even halfway fancy.
Still, there must be something I can use for a costume. Rummaging through a pile of trainers at the bottom of the wardrobe, I find a plastic box full of relics from when we were wee: toy cars, a deflated football, rainy-day drawings. After a bit of digging, I find a papier mâché skull mask that I made in Art back in S2. And on Jake’s side of the shelves, there’s the perfect thing to go with it: a black T-shirt with the torso of a skeleton drawn on. It’s very un-Jake – maybe one of his pal’s, or something he had for a Halloween party. I lay it out on my bed and place the mask above it. It’s not exactly Damien Hirst, but with a bit of colour, it might look all right. (Plus, it’ll cover up my stupid acne.)
There are only three biros and two dried-out highlighters in my school bag, so I head to Keira’s room to nick some of her pens. She’s upstairs at Amanda’s, Mam’s already gone to work, Jake’s at a rugby game or orchestra practice or whatever Oxbridge-friendly activity is on the schedule for today, but Dad’s at home. Dad’s always at home.
‘All right, Brodes. Good day?’ He leans through the bathroom door, yellow rubber gloves on his hands, and points to a DVD on the sofa. ‘Just giving the bath a scrub, and then I was gonnae stick that on. Fancy it?’
I pick up the case: Jiro Dreams of Sushi, with a label proclaiming it property of Jake’s school library beneath the title. I do usually watch Dad’s documentaries with him when Jake and Keira aren’t around. Some of them are pretty interesting, especially the ones about cults and conspiracy theories. And sad as it sounds, it’s sort of nice having my parents to myself sometimes; Keira sucks up attention like a Dyson, and Jake has this way of making everything I say or do seem stupid. I think Dad likes having someone to watch with, too. Someone to share his small slice of the world.
I don’t have time for Jiro and his sushi right now, though.
‘I cannae, Dad. I’ve got Spanish homework. Just need to borrow a pen off Keira.’
An embarrassingly bad accent calls out from behind the bathroom door. ‘Muy bien. Excelente. Dos cervezas, por favor.’
I slip into my sister’s room and scan the mess for those glitter pens she used to like. There’s nothing except a few blunt pencils, but she’s got a collection of nail varnishes lined up on her windowsill. Tiny bottles with matching black caps, all pinks and purples and greens.
That feeling starts. It’s that same creeping sense of shame I used to get when I was seven or eight, when I’d watch My Little Pony or look at Barbies in the Argos catalogue. Like I was doing something I shouldn’t.
I wrestle the feeling away and drop a few bottles into my pockets. It’s just paint, I tell myself, as I hurry back to my room. Just paint in tiny tubs with fancy names. I unscrew a bottle of something called Poison Apple, wrinkling my nose at the smell, and outline the skull’s mouth with deep green. I spread clear glitter across the cheeks, paint on Indigo Night eyelashes, then add a Red For Filth rose on the left side of its forehead. I hold it up to show Tink.
‘What d’you think? No bad, right?’
He yawns and starts licking his butt. I try not to take that personally.
I touch up the rose, then add some more flowers and leaves over the skull’s chin and cheeks. Part of me wants to go all out and do my nails as well, like Nico. I could paint them green to match the mask’s lips, or maybe red. If I hide them under my sleeves, nobody will—
The bedroom door opens. Jake comes in, pausing when he sees me sprawled out on the floor. The nail polishes are scattered across the carpet, guilty as spray-paint cans beneath a wall of graffiti.
His eyebrows rise. ‘What’s all this?’
‘It’s for Art.’ I dropped Art after second year, but Jake won’t remember that. ‘We’re doing Día de las Muertos.’
He smirks. That smirk is the reason I prefer to do my homework at school or at Megan’s rather than in here, surrounded by all his awards and piles of library books. That smirk makes me feel like I’m thicker than cement.
When Jake was nine, his primary five teacher referred him to a psychologist for an IQ test. I can’t remember the exact score, but it was high enough for the headmistress to call Mam and Dad in for a meeting after school. It wasn’t the first time they’d been brought in to talk about Jake – he was constantly in trouble, always interrupting or throwing things or wandering off in the middle of class. But this time, when they walked across the playground to collect us from the swings, something was different: Mam’s eyes were all shiny, and Dad kept looking at Jake like he’d just realized his son had a second head he’d never noticed before.
A few months later, Jake sat the entrance exams for some private schools up in town. He was accepted to three of them. Full scholarships.
Everything changed after that. Before, Jake and Keira and me had been three equal weights on a perfectly balanced scale; when he started at his new school, everything tipped in his favour. ‘Get off the computer, Brody. Jake needs it for his homework.’ ‘Turn down your music, Keira. Jake’s trying to study.’ Even now, Mam just about bursts with pride every time he puts on that dumb navy blazer.
Part of me used to hope for the same – that some day I’d get my own ‘You’re a wizard, Harry’ moment and turn out to be a genius, too. But nobody ever suggested I might be able to get a scholarship. I asked if I could sit the exams, and they let me, but I didn’t pass. I didn’t even come close. When I looked the fees up online, I thought I was seeing double – one term was almost as much as Mam’s entire salary.
I didn’t bring it up again after that.
‘Día de los Muertos,’ Jake says now. Of course he does. ‘Want help doing your nails?’
My cheeks flare. ‘Piss off, Jake.’
He throws his hands into the air, all mock innocence. ‘God, Brody, I was just asking.’
He dumps his bag on his bed and goes straight back to the computer, shutting the door behind him. The mask stares up at me, its friendly grin suddenly more like a leer. It feels like it’s mocking me, too.
* * *
By quarter to eleven, the nerves are making it hard for me to sit still. No one’s going to physically stop me going out – Dad hardly ever goes past the front door, and Jake wouldn’t give up precious minutes of study time to come after me – but even so, I’m all fidgety and jittery. It’s not like I usually tell my parents my every move or anything. They’d probably be surprised at how many times I’ve been drunk, and Mam would skin me alive if she knew I’d even thought about smoking weed. But I dunno – this feels different.
‘Good God, Brody. Get a grip,’ I mutter to myself. ‘You’re just going up town, you loser.’
I take a deep breath, tuck the mask inside my hoody, and step out of my room. Dad’s fallen asleep in front of Question Time, and Keira finally went to bed fifteen minutes ago. There’s just Jake left, hunched over the keyboard, surrounded by skyscrapers of library books. He’s typing so loud, he doesn’t even hear me walking past.
Holding my breath, I tiptoe towards the door and slip outside. I take the stairs three at a time, not caring if my clunky steps wake up Mrs McAskill in 8B; not thinking about what might happen when ten minutes turns into an hour and I’m still not home. All that matters is making it on to the next bus into town and getting to Calton Hill before 11.21 p.m. I’ll deal with the fallout later.
I get to the bus stop just as the number 22 pulls up. I hop on, flash the pass Jake uses to get to school (we look alike enough for me to get away with borrowing it), and then hurry up to the top deck. It’s only when I sit down, panting slightly, that a huge, stupid grin breaks across my face. Nico’s smile swims in front of my eyes, making my stomach flutter. This is actually happening. I’m actually going to see him again.
There’s not much traffic at this time of night, but the bus feels slower than evolution as it crawls up Leith Walk. I get off just before Princes Street, hurry along Waterloo Place, and run up the steps to Calton Hill. I follow the path towards the National Monument, a row of Greek-style columns at the top of the hill, scanning the area for some sign of an event.
There’s nothing. No music. No people setting up for a party. A pair of tourists have braved the cold to take photos of the skyline, but there’s nobody else around. No sign of a boy with blue wings.
The rain is heavier now; when I take out the invitation to check the time, thick drops soak through the paper and blur Nico’s letters. It’s still just about legible: 11.21 p.m. – two minutes to go. Down on Princes Street, the big hand of the Balmoral Hotel’s clock edges forward. Maybe he’s running late. Maybe they called off the party because of the weather.
Or . . . maybe there never was a party.
A sickly feeling crawls up my throat. That must be it. This was obviously just some joke. He must have been taking the piss out of me: for chasing after my cat like a moron, for not being able to stand up to two girls. ‘Shit,’ I whisper. I’m such an idiot. Of course he wouldn’t invite me to come out with him. Why would a guy like him have any interest in hanging out with an awkward, spotty loser like me?
A lump swells in my throat. It’s stupid, but . . . it really felt real. The look on his face when he told Leanne and Michelle to piss off. The stuff he’d said about sticking up to his own tormentors, and the way he’d grinned when he called me—
‘Fairy!’
I turn around and see a group of shadowy figures moving over the hill, one of them wearing wings and waving. And for the first time in years, I’m happy to hear that word.
‘You made it!’ Nico smiles, a slice of moon in the darkness. ‘Get ready for the best night of your life.’
For a moment, all I can do is stare at him. His hair is dappled with raindrops, and a faint streak of blue eyeliner glimmers under his lower eyelashes. The wings sprout from his denim jacket, each one protected by a thick black bin bag. Just behind him, two more figures come into view: a werewolf in a NASA T-shirt, and a small, chubby Sailor Moon fiddling with the bow on her costume.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ Nico says. ‘Kasia’s tail fell off, and I couldn’t find one of my boots, and then we missed the bus.’
The werewolf looks me up and down and throws its paws into the air. ‘Another one of Nico’s Lost Boys. Brilliant.’ Its voice is low and muffled behind the werewolf mask. ‘Just what we need.’
Nico rolls his eyes. ‘Ignore Kasia. She gets grumpy around the full moon.’ The werewolf starts to protest, but he laughs and steps to the side so his left wing is blocking her face. ‘How are you doing? Has your cat recovered from yesterday?’
Before I can answer, Sailor Moon claps her hands. It’s the girl who threw down the origami flower yesterday, Zahra, now wearing a long blue skirt, a red bow and a bright yellow headscarf twisted into the character’s blonde buns.
‘Small talk later, Nico. We’ve got about thirty seconds to get inside.’
She strides past us; the werewolf shakes its head at me then hurries after her. When I turn around to follow them, my jaw drops.
The National Monument has changed. In the gaps between the stone pillars, where just a few seconds ago were slices of smoky sky, there are now colours. Greens, blues and purples, shimmering and swirling – as if the Northern Lights had been cut into strips and draped like flags from the stone. Pictures emerge from the swirls, blurry faces outlined in thick black strokes; between the two central pillars, the haze solidifies into a deep green. I finally remember to blink, and when I open my eyes, I find myself staring at a row of stained-glass windows and an enormous green door, with a golden knocker shaped like the head of a unicorn at hand height.
It takes a moment to find my voice again.
‘What. The hell. Was that?’
Nico laughs. ‘I always forget how weird it seems the first time. Quick, we don’t have long.’
Though the steps leading to the monument are almost as tall as she is, Zahra climbs on to a stack of bricks at the base and smoothly pulls herself up. Nico vaults on to the lower step, then holds out his hand to help me. I scramble up after him, bumping my knees on the edge of the stone, and follow him to the pillars.
The werewolf twists the unicorn’s horn anti-clockwise and pushes the door open. My brain is fumbling for sense in what I’ve just seen. They must have a projector somewhere . . . Someone must have propped up the door while I wasn’t looking. Disorientated, I stumble through it, Nico just behind me. The door closes behind us with a loud sucking sound.
‘That was close,’ Zahra says. ‘We’ve got to stop cutting it so fine.’
‘We’d have been all right if Nico hadn’t spent ages fiddling with my tail,’ the werewolf mutters.
Nico snorts. ‘That sounds so wrong.’
They keep bickering, but the words soon fall out of focus. Something about this place feels weird. I look down: the stone base of the monument has been replaced by a long, sloping stretch of grass. Above us, the cloudy grey sky has cleared into a deep navy, filled with stars – millions of them. More than I’ve ever seen before. And as I follow Nico and his friends, I see something that makes my heart stop.
Edinburgh has disappeared.
Instead of streets and cars and blurry neon, I’m looking down at a vast green valley. Three rivers spill down the pine-clad hillsides and snake across the basin; at the point where they meet is a sprawl of bright golden light, trickling out into little pockets of life dotted across the grass. In the distance, a row of mountains is half hidden behind low-hanging clouds. I can see more lights behind them, then a slick black that could be the sea. But there’s no Leith Walk, no Firth of Forth, no lights of Fife in the distance. The entire city has vanished.
I turn around. The green door is still behind us, but the pillars of the National Monument have gone. So have all the other buildings on Calton Hill. My heart is pounding. There are no trees like this up here, and definitely no rivers. This must be an illusion, some sort of trick – a really bloody impressive one, too.
Before I can ask how they’ve done it, I realize Nico is introducing his friends. As casually as if we’d just walked into McDonald’s and not . . . wherever this place is.
‘This is Kasia,’ he says, tugging on the werewolf’s ears, ‘and you kind of met Zahra yesterday. Guys, this is – it’s Brady, right?’
I can still hardly speak. ‘Um, B-Brody.’
‘What?’ Kasia pulls the mask off. Long, wispy blonde hair flutters around a pale, narrow face; her eyes are grey-blue and furious. ‘You didn’t even get his name? For God’s sake, Nico. Is there anyone else you’d like to invite? How about the girl who works in the Co-op around the corner? Or maybe that skinhead with the pit bull we saw at the bus stop?’
‘Maybe I will. He seemed friendly. Loved the neck tattoos.’ Nico pulls the bin bags from his wings; they drop off like cocoon husks, revealing the swirl of blues underneath. ‘I don’t know why you get so pissed off about this, Kash.’
‘Because it’s not supposed to work like this!’ she snaps. ‘You’re supposed to let people find this place themselves, not invite every random you come across.’
‘I’ve invited three people. Three. My friend Privashni, Mark from my art course, and now Brody. It’s not like I put a billboard up on the A9.’ Nico shoves the bin bags into a museum tote bag, rolling his eyes. ‘Besides, you don’t even know that’s true. There are no rules to this place. It’s not up to you to decide what’s allowed and what’s not.’
