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Authors: Sarah Rees Brennan
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tell himself interesting historical facts, because Nick didnât care. The spire of Big Ben and the curve of the Circle went by in a smooth line, and as Nick turned the car into less traffic-choked channels, Alan gave a happy sigh and started talking about dinosaur exhibits in the Natural History Museum.
âIâve changed my mind,â said Nick. âThe demons can have you.â
He was glad that Alan seemed so pleased. Nick had notreally remembered London, and looking around it now, with old and new buildings jostling each other at every turn and no street empty, he was feeling a distinct sense of foreboding.
Demons liked cities. Cities meant victims, and London was teeming with bodies for the taking. Nick thought he might have made the wrong decision choosing this place, but it was too late now.
Camden town opened up into a broad gray road, with a small cinema on one side, some restaurants and a gray building that said AMERICAN METHODIST CHURCH in large metal letters outside. A fine drizzle started as they drove up one of the narrow side streets and stopped in front of their new home.
The drab brown front of the house made it look as if it had been built from rusty spare parts. Someone always put lace curtains in the windows of dreary houses, and Nick was unsurprised to see the curtains making their attempts in every window of this place. There was a china garden gnome on the doorstep, wearing a desperate, crazy smile.
âItâs not so bad,â Alan said.
âYou never take me nice places anymore, baby,â said Nick, and was mildly gratified by Alanâs ring of laughter, like a living bell that had been caught by surprise when it was struck.
When he got out, he opened Mumâs door without thinking, and she shuddered away from him. Alan knelt on the wet pavement beside the car and reached out his hand to her.
âOlivia,â he coaxed. âWeâre here. Weâre home.â
âFor now,â Nick muttered, going over to the boot and getting out the first box of Alanâs books.
He hefted it in his arms and put the box down only to retrieve the keys. Someone had carelessly put a dark closet where the hall should have been, but the staircase was broad and, moreimportantly, had a sturdy-looking wooden banister for Alan to lean on. When he got up the stairs he saw there were three bedrooms, which was always good news. Nick allocated the bedroom farthest away from the other two to Mum, and when he went into the other rooms, he saw there was a bookcase built into the wall of one. That room clearly had to be Alanâs. Nick put the box down and palmed the knife from his boot to cut the packing tape. He began to shove books on the shelves. It might be a few minutes before Alan got Mum calmed down.
Nick was putting down the last book in the first row when it fell.
There was a white flutter from the yellowed pages of an old book, and then, on the tired-looking carpet, lay a picture of a girl.
The girl looked older than Nick, in her late teens or perhaps twenties, with curly blond hair and a bright smile. She was wearing a loose, flowing shirt, in the kind of retro style Alanâs girls often affected, and she looked as if someone had just told her a joke.
It occurred to Nick that this picture was what Alan had been thinking of when he was standing gazing into their car boot. As soon as he was alone heâd gone straight to it, as if being near to itâeven if he couldnât see itâwas his only possible source of comfort.
He hadnât come to Nick.
Alan was sentimental enough to keep pictures. The couple of girls whoâd actually been his girlfriends had been awarded a place of pride in his wallet. He had a school picture of Nick and the picture of Mum and Dad on their wedding day framed by his bedside.
It was keeping a secret from Nick that was different. Heâdkept only one secret from Nick before: the letters he used to rise early for and
âIâve changed my mind,â said Nick. âThe demons can have you.â
He was glad that Alan seemed so pleased. Nick had notreally remembered London, and looking around it now, with old and new buildings jostling each other at every turn and no street empty, he was feeling a distinct sense of foreboding.
Demons liked cities. Cities meant victims, and London was teeming with bodies for the taking. Nick thought he might have made the wrong decision choosing this place, but it was too late now.
Camden town opened up into a broad gray road, with a small cinema on one side, some restaurants and a gray building that said AMERICAN METHODIST CHURCH in large metal letters outside. A fine drizzle started as they drove up one of the narrow side streets and stopped in front of their new home.
The drab brown front of the house made it look as if it had been built from rusty spare parts. Someone always put lace curtains in the windows of dreary houses, and Nick was unsurprised to see the curtains making their attempts in every window of this place. There was a china garden gnome on the doorstep, wearing a desperate, crazy smile.
âItâs not so bad,â Alan said.
âYou never take me nice places anymore, baby,â said Nick, and was mildly gratified by Alanâs ring of laughter, like a living bell that had been caught by surprise when it was struck.
When he got out, he opened Mumâs door without thinking, and she shuddered away from him. Alan knelt on the wet pavement beside the car and reached out his hand to her.
âOlivia,â he coaxed. âWeâre here. Weâre home.â
âFor now,â Nick muttered, going over to the boot and getting out the first box of Alanâs books.
He hefted it in his arms and put the box down only to retrieve the keys. Someone had carelessly put a dark closet where the hall should have been, but the staircase was broad and, moreimportantly, had a sturdy-looking wooden banister for Alan to lean on. When he got up the stairs he saw there were three bedrooms, which was always good news. Nick allocated the bedroom farthest away from the other two to Mum, and when he went into the other rooms, he saw there was a bookcase built into the wall of one. That room clearly had to be Alanâs. Nick put the box down and palmed the knife from his boot to cut the packing tape. He began to shove books on the shelves. It might be a few minutes before Alan got Mum calmed down.
Nick was putting down the last book in the first row when it fell.
There was a white flutter from the yellowed pages of an old book, and then, on the tired-looking carpet, lay a picture of a girl.
The girl looked older than Nick, in her late teens or perhaps twenties, with curly blond hair and a bright smile. She was wearing a loose, flowing shirt, in the kind of retro style Alanâs girls often affected, and she looked as if someone had just told her a joke.
It occurred to Nick that this picture was what Alan had been thinking of when he was standing gazing into their car boot. As soon as he was alone heâd gone straight to it, as if being near to itâeven if he couldnât see itâwas his only possible source of comfort.
He hadnât come to Nick.
Alan was sentimental enough to keep pictures. The couple of girls whoâd actually been his girlfriends had been awarded a place of pride in his wallet. He had a school picture of Nick and the picture of Mum and Dad on their wedding day framed by his bedside.
It was keeping a secret from Nick that was different. Heâdkept only one secret from Nick before: the letters he used to rise early for and
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