The man ignored her and went to complain to the waitress.
Davy had a sudden thought. ‘Plants,’ he said. ‘Every winter they seem to die, every spring, they’re alive again.’
‘I am no Greek goddess. I am not Persephone, Mr David. Oh good.’ The overworked waitress was making a hasty round of the booths, refilling coffee cups. ‘I need coffee in the worst way,’ said Miss Flint. ‘I’ve been trying to catch your eye for ages, miss, but you didn’t seem to –’
The waitress slapped their bill on the table as she passed with her coffee pot, completely ignoring Miss Flint.
‘Well! Did you see that? Such rudeness.’ Miss Flint frowned at the flickering lights overhead. ‘And these lights are most vexing. They ought to get them seen to. Take note, Mr David, these are the marks of a low establishment.’
‘Why do you need to know why you’re getting younger?’ Davy said.
‘Have you practised alchemy on me? Voodoo?’ Miss Flint demanded. He shook his head. ‘This goes against natural law. I’m an educated woman. I believe in scientific method. There’s an explanation. We just have to find it.’
She pulled a purse from her jacket and as she began to count out coins for the bill, muttering to herself, Davy pinched his arm. It hurt. He tasted the dab of ketchup on his plate. Salty sweet. He didn’t think he was dreaming. He looked around the tinsel-draped diner. It smelt of fried bacon and coffee. He heard the clank of cutlery, the sound of laughter, the tinkle of the bell above the door as people came in and went out. The waitress rang up a sale on the cash register. As the drawer popped open, the bell rang.
Bells again. Bells.
‘Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.’
Davy suddenly sat up straight. There were bells everywhere they went. Here. At the drugstore earlier. And all the bells back at the New Inn. The call-bell in Miss Flint’s room. The surly barman ringing his cash register over and over while Nick the movie barman did the same on the TV overhead. They were a message, a sign of something. They had to be. He thought hard for a moment. Then, ‘Maybe it’s a miracle,’ he said.
‘Hmm?’ Miss Flint looked up from calculating the tip.
‘This,’ said Davy. ‘You. What if it’s a miracle?’
She positively glared at him. ‘Your mind is sloppy. That’s what you get for sweeping angels. There is a rational explanation for everything.’
The toaster at the counter suddenly flung six slices of white into the air. The waitress batted at them, shrieking.
‘I know how to find out,’ Davy said.
He grabbed her briefcase and was gone before she could ask where to. She put money on top of the bill and hurried out after him, calling, ‘I’ve left it on the table,’ to the waitress.
If Miss Flint hadn’t moved so quickly now she was so much younger, she might have noticed the jukebox. How, as she passed, it lit up, vomited a clanking stream of coins to the floor and began blaring out The Delta Rhythm Boys.
‘Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk around.
Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk around.
Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk around
Now hear the word of the Lord.’
And a few minutes later, she might have seen the consternation of the waitress when she discovered that the boy on his own who’d been talking to himself had left without paying his bill.
‘Keep looking,’ whispered Miss Flint. She blew another page over.
‘Why do you keep doing that?’ said Davy.
Miss Flint frowned and flapped a dismissive hand.
Surrounding them on the library study table were piles of books. Volumes of medical reference, chemistry and biology, along with branches of science that Davy had never heard of. The unfamiliar words blurred into each other as he turned page after page. It would take several lifetimes to learn everything in them.
He looked around, wishing Mr Timm could see this place. It was bustling with cheerful borrowers. Books crowded the well-stocked shelves. Where the Brownvale study tables bore the criss-cross scars of schoolboy penknives, these tables were smug with gleaming polish. Mr Timm would surely be cheered by this library’s walls, too, with its paint that hadn’t scabbed off in flakes.
Davy fiddled with the flickering reading lamp for a bit. He stared up at the ceiling. Then he got up and headed into the stacks. George, stationed under Davy’s chair, went with him.
They found a girl in a Christmas elf hat shelving books from a tinsel-trimmed cart. Its wheels squeaked as she pushed it along. She had a friendly round face. The name tag pinned to the front of her fluffy sweater said Donna, Library Volunteer. She’d made the ‘o’s into little smiling faces. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said. ‘May I help you?’
‘Where are the books about miracles?’ said Davy.
‘Oh, and this one, Mysteries of the Hindu Faith . . .’ Donna piled another book into Davy’s arms. ‘Hindus are very spiritual people.’
Davy had found his girl. She’d given an excited hop and tiny clap of delight at his request and dashed without hesitation to the very shelf. She ran a finger along the books, most of which she appeared to have read, giving Davy a whispered commentary on their contents. He had no idea so many miracles had been going on for so long. The ancient Egyptians, Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists and more, they all had their miracles down the ages.
Donna slipped bits of paper into the books where she found references to raising the dead. ‘Leave them there for reshelving when you’re done.’ She hesitated. Gazing at George with tragic eyes she said, ‘It’s not me, I love dogs, it’s just that Mrs Proot’s very strict. Library rules.’ George, hearing trouble in her tone, raised a paw. ‘Oh, how adorable, he’s asking to stay.’ She checked no one was in earshot. ‘You know what, though, guide dogs are allowed by law. I don’t suppose . . . ?’
The two of them considered George. ‘I think he could be,’ Davy said.
As Donna squeaked her cart away, they sat on the floor and Davy began working through the pile. The books were rich with drawings and paintings. He discarded one book after another with their visions, healing the sick and saints hovering above the ground. None of them were what he was looking for, though he wouldn’t have been able to say exactly what that was. Sighing, he stood for a last scan of the shelf. The Lost World of Celtic Belief and Tradition. Donna had passed that one by.
He sat down with it on his lap. It was satisfyingly heavy with plenty of colour pictures. Six pages in, he stopped in disbelief. It was the painting. The very one that had appeared in Renaissance Angels and then not been there when he’d shown it to Mr Timm. The night-time forest scene with the warrior and the hound keeping watch over the dead man laid out on the rock.
‘I didn’t imagine it,’ he said to George. Just as he remembered, the hound and the warrior stared out from the page directly at him. Their eyes followed him as he moved.
There was a paragraph below the painting. ‘Listen to this, George.’ Davy read aloud, feeling his heart quicken as he did. ‘In Celtic belief, the soul made a three-day passage between the worlds of the living and the dead. During this time, the body was guarded to ensure the soul’s safe arrival in the afterlife. A three-day passage,’ he whispered. Could this be it? Quashing his conscience, he took hold of the page and, with a cough to cover the noise, ripped it from the book.
Heading back to Miss Flint, a thought sent him to the front desk. He could test out his theory right away. The ‘o’s on the name badge of Mrs M. Proot, Head Librarian, had not been made into little smiling faces. Her frown deepened at the sight of Davy. ‘Yes?’ she said sharply.
He pointed to the table where, surrounded by open books, Miss Flint was vainly, and with rising irritation, trying to click the switch of the flickering reading lamp. ‘Excuse me, can you see anyone at that table?’ he said.
Mrs Proot looked. She pursed her lips. ‘All I see is you wasting my time. When you’re done, return the books for reshelving. No dogs allowed.’ She stared pointedly at
George.
‘He’s a guide dog,’ Davy said.
Her gaze narrowed in suspicion. ‘Hmph,’ she said.
Could it really be? Could she not see Miss Flint? Donna was squeaking along the stacks with her cart. Davy hurried over and, again, pointed at Miss Flint. ‘That table,’ he said. ‘Do you see a woman sitting there?’
Donna craned her neck, smiling. ‘Nope. Plenty of seats. You find what you were after?’
‘I think so.’ Davy’s voice was faint.
Donna patted George Bailey and went off down a row. She couldn’t see Miss Flint either. They couldn’t see her.
Miss Flint was engrossed in her reading. She barely glanced up as he approached, saying, ‘Do you know about quantum physics? Most extraordinary.’
‘The librarian can’t see you.’ Davy didn’t look at her as he took his bag from the back of the chair.
‘There’s this one experiment,’ she said, reading, ‘they shone light through slits and I just wonder –’
‘She can’t see you,’ Davy said again.
‘She ought to get her eyes checked.’ Miss Flint looked up and saw his face. ‘Good grief, Mr David, what’s wrong?’
He walked towards the exit. He had to get away. George followed anxiously.
‘Wait,’ she called. ‘Where are you going? Mr David, get back here! Come back!’
Miss Flint couldn’t be seen. But Davy could see her. And so could George.
Was she a ghost? Dead? Or maybe . . . not quite? A three-day passage of the soul. Maybe somewhere between alive and dead. The forest painting, appearing and disappearing in that strange way. Surely that couldn’t be a coincidence. He couldn’t think. He had to be alone and think. Her sunken weakness last night. The shallow gasps of her breath. Was it possible? Could she be dead?
Davy hurried down the block with George. As they turned the corner, he stifled a cry.
Miss Flint stood there.
‘What possessed you?’ she said. ‘Running off like that? Goodness, you’re pale. Are you all right? Mr David? Are you ill?’
‘At the library,’ he whispered. ‘They couldn’t see you.’
‘You’re developing a tendency to repeat yourself. And to whisper. Speak up.’
‘I asked, they said no. The waitress at breakfast. She wasn’t ignoring you. She couldn’t see you. The man at the jukebox. He couldn’t either.’
His heart thundered in his chest. With shivers chasing over his skin, Davy began to circle her slowly. Miss Flint’s puzzled gaze followed him around. She appeared to be solid. He knew she felt solid. His hands had brushed her in passing throughout the day.
‘Just now,’ he said. ‘You were blowing the pages. You couldn’t turn them, could you?’
‘Nonsense,’ she said, ‘I simply –’
‘And the lamp. You couldn’t work it, could you? Just like you couldn’t work the switches in the police car. They shorted out, remember? I wonder why?’
Then, greatly daring, very gently, Davy reached out and felt her shoulder blades. One, then the other. Through her tweed jacket, he could feel how thin she was, the delicacy of her bones.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, uneasily.
‘No wings,’ he said to himself.
‘Wings? I should think not. As if I were a bird or –’
‘Or what?’ he breathed. ‘Or what?’ He gazed at Miss Flint. Was it his imagination or was she looking even younger? Was her skin smoother? Were her eyes clearer?
‘Why are you staring so? What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Davy. ‘Something strange.’ He pulled the folded book page from his pocket. When she went to take it, she could not. He had to hold it for her to see. ‘Read it,’ he told her. ‘Read it aloud.’
She sighed. Then she read, impatiently, ‘In Celtic belief, the soul made a three-day passage between the worlds of the living and the dead. During this time, the body was guarded to ensure the soul’s safe arrival in the afterlife. A fanciful notion,’ she said. ‘So?’
‘So, look at the picture,’ Davy said.
Miss Flint stared at the forest painting. She frowned at Davy. ‘You think I’m – dead?’ She said the word delicately, as if trying it out.
‘I think you might be . . . almost dead. Becoming dead.’
‘Becoming dead? You’re either dead or you’re not.’ But then, thought by thought, her eyes began to widen. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Last night. Did I . . . pass in my sleep?’
‘I think so.’
‘But I can see myself in the mirror. And you can see me. You and George.’
He took her hand. It felt as fragile as a baby sparrow. The skin was dry and tissue-thin. ‘I can feel you,’ he said. She touched George’s head and the dog looked up at her. ‘George too. But no one else, Miss Flint. Just us.’
‘Why?’ she said.
Davy shrugged, helpless. ‘I don’t know.’ He held the book page in front of her again.
She read silently once more. Then she raised her eyes to his. ‘Let me understand this,’ she said slowly. ‘You believe that your purpose is to escort my soul to its embarkation point to the great beyond. A boy of thirteen and a stray dog.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Davy. ‘Maybe. Yes. I think so.’
‘That’s completely ridiculous,’ said Miss Flint.
‘Well, you explain it,’ Davy said. He and George were following Miss Flint down the street. They kept a little distance to allow for her erratic pacing and doubling back.
‘I can’t!’ she cried.
Miss Flint was in state of high agitation, so much so that the street lights in her vicinity were flashing. Davy suddenly understood. The flickering lights in the diner, the toaster and jukebox, the police radio and siren, the library reading light, they were all down to her. She must be giving off some kind of electrical interference.
‘But I’ll tell you this, Mr David. There’s a rational explanation for everything.’
The town was in full Christmas bustle. It appeared far more prosperous than Brownvale. To the mournful accompaniment of a Salvation Army brass band, honest citizens and petty villains alike went about their business. Emptying pockets, diving in and out of shops, hurrying along hoping not to be hailed, having to stop to exchange greetings with friends and enemies.
Not one of them took the least bit of notice of Miss Flint. But Davy saw how they flowed around her, as if they sensed an invisible obstruction in their path.
Invisible to all, that is, but the dogs and cats. Like the boxer on a leash, who cowered as his puzzled owner dragged him past. Or the big Alsatian on his own, who skittered across the road to avoid her. And the slinking cat, who arched and hissed and ran away. It seemed that George was rare in not fearing her.
‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ Miss Flint continued. ‘I can get where I’m going without you. Escorts to the embarkation point, indeed. I’ve never heard such guff. You’re fired. Both of you. Pardon me.’ She spoke to a passing woman. ‘Where might I hire a taxi?’
The woman, not seeing her, made no reply and carried on.
Davy sat on a bench with George. Surreptitiously, he counted the money Miss Flint had given him. Half his wages in advance, more money than he’d ever dreamed of having. She’d fired him. He was under no obligation. He could take George and find some other place to call home, with a movie house and a library. Plenty of people moved from place to place. Maybe the city, they could go there and find Mr Timm. So long as Davy could still make his pictures.
He looked up. Miss Flint’s attempts to stop someone, to get anyone to see her were becoming ever more frantic. Her reaching hands went unfelt. Her beseeching voice went unheard. Though the explanation for her predicament was beyond him, one thing was clear. She really was invisible to everyone but Davy and animals.
However, people were starting to notice her electrical agitations. The town’s Christmas lights, drooping dimly along both sides of the street, had begun to flash madly, as currents chased up
and down them. The animated window display of a nearby toy store was speeding up, going faster and faster, to comic effect. Passers-by crowded around to watch and laugh.
‘I’m a self-determining human being. I’m an atheist,’ cried Miss Flint. ‘When we die, we’re gone and that’s it. We do not run around looking for taxis. And by the way, if I’m dead, where’s my body?’
‘Your body.’ Davy had completely forgotten. ‘We must have left it in your room. Do you need it?’
A man who’d stopped to light a cigarette gave him a peculiar look and hurried off.
‘It’s not a suit of clothes.’ Miss Flint suddenly stopped. ‘The New Inn,’ she said. ‘There was something – no, it’s gone. I’ll tell you what, Mr David, I’m beginning to think that you’re the problem.’ She pointed at him accusingly. ‘Everything was fine till you came along. I had a schedule, a plan. You probably drove us off the road and I’m in a coma, dreaming all of this. Or wait – yes, that’s it. Quantum physics! We’re stuck in a quantum anomaly!’ She pronounced it with conviction, her eyes blazing.
‘What’s that?’ said Davy.
She threw up her hands. ‘How should I know? No one understands quantum physics!’
She stood there, surrounded by the light storm she was causing, that she was charging ever higher with her frustration. Cars were stopping, people were coming out of shops.
‘Miss Flint,’ Davy said. ‘Please. Just look around you.’
She did. She looked in wide-eyed wonder, turning this way and that. Davy saw the moment she understood she was the cause. He watched her face change. He saw the fright that seized her.
At that moment, a bus pulled up to a stop nearby. The door opened, passengers got off and a few began to get on. Miss Flint ran and climbed aboard. Davy could see her pay her fare. But when the bus pulled away, there she stood. In the street, holding her change purse, looking lost. She looked lost and alone and afraid.
And Davy realized. He suddenly knew. ‘She can’t leave,’ he said. ‘She can’t go anywhere, not without us. You and me, George. I don’t know why, but we’re the only ones who can get her where she needs to go.’