She nods but her eyes are welling up. “I just. . .”
“What?”
Her voice comes out in a strained whisper. “I just don’t think I can face him so soon. I’m sorry, Niamh.”
“Hey, hey,” I try to shush her sniffles and she bites back a sob. “I get it. It’s scary. But, Jess . . . she’s my baby sister.”
“I know,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I know.”
“Hey, you two,” a voice hisses from the crooked gravestones ahead of us. “What are you doing?” Will appears from behind a tall, moss covered angel. It doesn’t have a head.
“Have you found it?” I hiss back, wrapping my fingers around Jess’s, her palm sweaty in mine.
“No, but we must be getting close.” He brushes a crooked headstone with one finger, moving clumps of moss away. “Eighteen fifty.” He points back the way we came. “The ones over there were a bit newer, and the ones further in tend to be older. They started from the inside out.” He glances at Jess. “Is she OK?”
“No. She doesn’t want to see him.”
“I don’t blame her.” He surprises me by speaking to Jess clearly and calmly, like she’s a little kid. “Hey, Jess? Why don’t you wait at the entrance?”
“What?” Her eyes refocus on him. “No, you need my help, I. . .”
“You will be helping,” he continues. “You need to go and call your mum and Detective Moran, tell them what’s happened. Can you do that for me?”
“Great idea,” I agree, spinning her gently and giving her a push towards the entrance, itching to get to my sister.
“Y-yes, OK,” she mutters, glancing back over her shoulder. “Are you sure?” Her mouth is set but her eyes are pleading with me to let her go.
“Yeah, it’s a good idea. Just don’t tell them any of the, you know, weird stuff.”
She nods. “Good idea.”
I study Will’s face before giving Jess’s retreating figure one last glance. Maybe after all this, he is working with Tommy. Luring me deeper into the graveyard. He wouldn’t send Jess for the police if he was in on it, would he? Maybe he’s pulling a double bluff though, to get me on my own and. . .
“Niamh?” He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
I have no other choice.
“This is it.”
The sky has settled even lower now, so when we reach the mausoleum it’s covered in heavy, creeping shadows. The grey stone building rears up from tangles of brambles and dead, spindly bushes. Branches reach into the grey sky like knotted, white bones and I shudder, thinking of the dead face I saw through this window. I remember the letters scored into my mind’s eye after I woke up.
N-I-A-M-H. R-U-N.
Will heads around to the other side, his trainers crunching through the loose gravel. I wince, trying my best to walk weightlessly towards the columns that arch up and support the domed roof of the crypt. It’s the largest monument in this part of the graveyard. I can see how the weeping statue above the door was once beautiful, but eighteen decades of relentless London rain have sloughed off the finely-carved features. Now there’s nothing but a blank, empty face staring down at me.
I approach the door. It’s made from heavy, greenish metal and a huge Fleur de Lis sits in the centre. A handle, I think. Small patches of orange flowers litter the ground around the doorway and my heart sinks as I think of the day Tommy taught me about flowers and their meanings. I think this is Butterfly Weed. I’ve seen it at home on Granny’s old farm.
I wonder what it means.
I turn my attention back to the door, where mottled green studs march up either side; it looks like it’s never supposed to be opened.
So, of course, I push it.
Nothing.
“Anything?” I clap my hand over a scream as Will’s voice fills my ear.
