I trace a finger over the page and try to decipher the writing, but it’s old-fashioned and pretty hard going and my head is still killing me, so I look at the images instead.
Just for once, I’d love to stumble across something cute, like a picture of puppies frolicking or that one of two otters holding hands, so they don’t drift away from each other.
But no. Crudely drawn illustrations of a grotesque figure stare up at me and I shudder as I recognize the world’s creepiest puppet, Mr Punch. His large, hooked nose is unmistakable, curving to meet a prominent chin on his roughly hewn face. He’s holding a bat in his tiny T-Rex arms and has a huge, manic smile.
There is another figure in the picture too, a creature with two curled horns, a small pitchfork and a billowing, black cape, drawn to appear like a bat’s wings. He’s smiling too, but it’s way more sinister, the twist of his mouth so sharp it almost splits his face in two. I try my best to focus on the handwritten caption below and a memory resurfaces from earlier in the week, from the lecture about theatrical history in London. The other character must be the Devil.
“What are you doing?” The voice in my ear is quiet but gravelly, harsh.
“Nothing!” I spin around and bump into the figure behind me, sending an explosion of books through the air. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”
I go to help him pick up the books, try to gather them back, but the boy who works in the library – Will, I remember – glares at me so hard I back away. He snatches them up quickly and holds them to his chest.
“You should be careful, Niamh,” he says.
I didn’t realize he knew my name. And why do I have a horrible feeling he’s not just talking about being careful with the manuscripts?
The books he is carrying are similar to the one on the table; old, leather-bound, gold writing engraved on to the spines. I see some of the titles:A History of the Penny Dreadful, Victorian Mourning Rituals.
One more book still lies on the floor and I stoop to pick it up.The Story of Spring Heeled Jack.
“Hey.” For a second I forget that this dude completely freaks me out.That’swhy I remembered the lecture; the Devil character in Punch and Judy was replaced by Spring Heeled Jack for a while. Spring Heeled Jack was some kind of Victorian super villain, who stalked women through London, wearing metal nails and. . .
“Give me that.” I wince as Will rips the book from my hand. He ducks quickly away, his skinny body vanishing around the stacks, holding his books tight.
But not before I see his hands. A clear, angry line of crescent moons are carved into the flesh on the back of them.
As though someone has been clawing at him.
Between the air-conditioning in the open plan café and the chills still licking at my spine, I can’t seem to get warm. I clasp the paper cup of tea in my hands, steam rising lazily, little curls and wisps of heat that are fleeting and gone.Sugar for shock, Derek had said.
I think I’m going mad. Everything that has happened, not to mention the sleep deprivation, would be enough to send anyone loopy, surely. I lift the cup to my mouth but I don’t drink. Instead I close my eyes, inhale the comforting aroma of a good cup of tea and let my eyes fill with tears.
I want to go home.
“Hey.” Jess plonks down on the bench in front of me. “I wondered where you’d gone.” Her voice softens as I open my eyes and a lone tear spills down my cheek. “Hey, don’t cry. Is your head still bad?”
I nod. It’s easier to let her think that my headache has caused this second meltdown. God, she must think I’m high maintenance.
“Here.” She hands me a white packet. “Mum gave me them for your headache. Take two,” she instructs. I pop two little pink pills out on to my palm, toss them into my mouth without question and hand the packet back.
“Thanks,” I mumble. Sugar coats my tongue as the shell begins to melt on contact and I wash the tablets down with a mouthful of scalding tea.
“Ready to go? You still want to stay over, right? I mean, you don’t have to. I’dlikeyou to, but if you’d rather not. . .”
“Jess,” I interrupt. “I can’t think of anything worse than going back to a room on my own right now.” I attempt a watery smile. “If you don’t mind hosting a snivelling wreck I’d love to sleep over.”
She grins. “Cool.”
There’s a stretch of comfortable silence before I give in and start to talk. I think about my encounter in the library. “How well do you know Will?” I say.
“Not very, thank God.” She picks up my abandoned plastic lid and swirls it around on the table with one finger. “Why?”
“I dunno, I just get a bad vibe from him or something.”
Jess nods slowly, as if considering my words, but then shakes her head, nose scrunching.
“Nah, I think he’s pretty harmless. He keeps to himself, really.”
