Chapter Eleven #2
‘I mean, that’s what Lucky said to you, right? That you’re a linguist! And it clearly worked with Raz and the Noz. Maybe you’re like an extraordinary translation app.’
Frida sucked in her breath. ‘I am?’
‘Guys, come on,’ Antony shook his head. ‘This really isn’t possible.’
‘But what if it is, Ant?’ Hamish repeated. ‘Frida could talk to that invasive bulk-headed fecundi in the lizards’ habitat that you’ve been so obsessed with.’
Antony’s eyes widened. He stumbled a bit, in what she thought was his shock.
‘Babe,’ Hamish went on, spinning back to Frida, ‘I know exactly what you should say. Hey Dozy. Please try not to kill anyone, ok. We know fairies are meant to be mean, awful creatures, but I’m sure you’re just misunderstood, Dozy, happy non-decapitating fairy.’
‘Dozy?’ Frida queried.
Hamish pfffed, as if it was obvious. ‘Dozy – what else would you call a fairy who’s been asleep in a tree for years?’ Then they giggled, eyes going a bit blurry. ‘Dozy. It’s cute!’
Frida almost put her head in her hands. ‘Cute?’
But Antony was laughing too. The sound was so unexpected, so dream-like and un-Antony, that she spun on him, and her jaw dropped. She hadn’t realised that whilst Hamish had been talking, he’d gravitated towards the wood.
‘Ant, come back from there!’
But he was peering down at one of the extravagant rose bushes that had started to grow. He gave another laugh, low and wondering. ‘Fri, have you seen these roses?’
Before she could do anything, Hamish had hurried over to join Antony, letting out a pealing, hiccupping giggle that was so loud, it made Frida jump.
‘Roses, just like Frida Rose!’
At that, Antony really started to giggle. ‘That’s perfect!’
It wasn’t perfect at all. Neither was it remotely funny. A cold knot tightened in Frida’s belly as Hamish began to sing, twirling in circles.
‘Ring-a-ring o’ roses, a pocket full of posies!’ They tried to take Antony’s hand, but Antony was nose deep in the flowers, his expression reverential. He’d looked like that when they’d taken him on a birthday trip to the Chelsea Flower Show.
‘These are beautiful,’ he gasped, running his fingers over the petals.
Frida begged to differ. The roses were blood red as a wound. She tried to pull them both away, but they were having none of it.
Hamish gave a wild shriek. ‘The wood’s had a glow-up.’
Her friends were enchanted! They were fucking enchanted. She pulled out her walkie-talkie; every sound dulled in her ears. All she could hear was the growing dread. All thoughts of being fired and talking baby dragons dissolving in her terror.
‘Papa Bear!’ she shouted, trying to stay calm and failing miserably.
‘This is Swan2.’ At first, she didn’t know what to say.
Then, looking at the dizzy looks on her friends faces, she steeled herself, bracing for the uproar that would follow.
‘Cliff, there is a Code Red at the Hawthorn’s wood!
I repeat. A CODE RED.’ She’d never said those words out loud before, not over the radio.
She’d never heard anyone else say it either.
However, there was only silence in reply.
‘Cliff,’ she said again, shaking her radio, not quite computing. ‘Cliff?’
Antony looked like he wanted to dissolve into the carpet of flowers that were now curling around his boots.
Lilacs and foxgloves, daisies and snowdrops.
That was too many seasons! She was certain she could smell the hint of metallic starlight now, wafting down the hillside.
Gripping her radio in one hand, with the other she tried to grab her friends again to drag them away.
But as dreamy shafts of sunlight spilled through the canopy, dandelion seeds floating on the gentle breeze, her friends were drifting inexorably into the wood.
Suddenly, Hamish squealed. ‘Come on. Let’s go find Dozy.’ And set off at a run.
‘Mish, no!’ she cried. ‘We have to go back and find Cliff—’
Antony turned his incandescent double-dimpled smile on Frida. ‘Hurry, Fri.’ And then he, too, slipped under the emerald boughs.
Oh god. They were all going to die.
‘Ant,’ she sobbed. ‘Hamish!’
With one final desperate look over her shoulder, she sprinted after her friends.
She could hear them, giggling through the trees.
‘Come on, Fri,’ Antony called. ‘You’re missing it!’
‘Last one to the top buys the next round at the Crown!’
Frida burst through the thickets, her breath ragged. Still trying the ineffectual radio, fumbling too with her phone with her other hand, but for the first time in her life at the zoo, she had no signal. With a wail of despair, she cried out after her friends. ‘Please! Come back!’
There were so many berries and flowers, it was as if someone had scattered gems across the forest floor.
All the perfect yellow cobbles had been swallowed, turned into a jungle.
Impossibly tall ferns bit her cheeks; brambles whipped past her.
Frida heard more robins warbling, she heard the rush of tiny birds’ wings, the scuffling of small creatures.
A fluffy white rabbit hopped happily along beside her.
‘It smells of spring!’ Hamish crowed.
‘And winter and summer and autumn, all at once!’ Antony called back, distant and dreamlike.
‘Please wait!’ Frida shouted. But their voices had faded, leaving a profound and chilling silence.
The sense of the spaces between the stars bourgeoned, galactic.
Her mind raced with horrific visions: Antony and Hamish with a thousand bloody thorns through their chests, strung up from the Hawthorn with their veins slit, blood dripping into a cup as a fairy danced, singing, around their corpses.
She’d forgotten she held her phone in her hand, forgotten everything apart from this, apart from the knowledge that this was all her fault.
Please. Please no.
She pounded over the mossy ground, pushing the creepers and ivy out of the way, the brambles and thorns until finally, oh god finally, she felt the ground start to level out, and she burst out of the trees at the top of the hill with nothing but a sense of doom lodged in her throat and an ice-cold fear in her heart.