The Boy in the Book

By Alan McCluskey

How would you feel if someone told you what you saw as your life, in which you felt free to act, was in fact dictated by a story written in a book? Denial? Self justification? Panic? Certainly not acceptance. There’s a catch, though. To be able to break the bad news, the person would need to enter the story without being trapped by it. Plunging into a story and influencing it with her thoughts is what Bea discovers she can do when she tries to counter the antics of the boy in the book. You’d think such an ability would bring a heady rush at the taste of power, but for Bea it is alarming. Where does her influence stop? Stories are not limited to books, but weave their way through every aspect of daily life. Potentially, any wayward thought could change the course of events... To make things worse, her ability fans the greed of those for whom being all-powerful is the ultimate goal. What could be more powerful than controlling the stories people live?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan McCluskey
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9782940553556

Alan McCluskey

Alan McCluskey lives amid the vineyards in a small Swiss village between three lakes and a range of mountains. Nearby, several thousands of years earlier, lakeside villages housed a thriving Celtic community. The ever-present heart-beat of that world continues to fuel his long-standing fascination for magic and fantasy.All Alan McCluskey’s books are about the self-empowerment of the young, girls in particular, in a world that tends to curtail their opportunities, belittle their abilities and discourage them from doing great things. His books also explore the difficulties of those whose gender and sexuality lie beyond the dominant binary divide between boy and girl. His goal in writing fiction is to imagine inspiring ways forward, despite the difficulties thrown in the way of these young people.

Book preview

Other books by the author

The In-Between

Bursting with Life!

The Cloud Catcher

Chimera

Stories People Tell

Local Voices

Boy & Girl Saga

Boy & Girl - Book One

In Search of Lost Girls - Book Two

We Girls - Book Three

Colourful People - Book Four

The Storyteller’s Quest

The Reaches - Book One

The Keeper’s Daughter - Book Two

The Starless Square - Book Three

1.

Bea removed the bookmark and began reading, only to replace it and snap the book shut. Weird! she exclaimed, upsetting Ginger that lay sprawled in her lap. Sorry, pussy, she said, gently rubbing behind its ears. I could have sworn that sneaky brat was not in the room. Now he’s lurking in an alcove.

She turned the hardback over and stared at the spine, checking the author’s name. Brenton Haynes. It was him all right. How odd. She’d read several of his novels - they were good - although this one was new to her. She’d stumbled on it that morning amongst her books. She hadn’t known she had it.

Her thoughts returned to the boy. His unexpected behaviour was like an ill-fitting addition. Never had she come across such clumsy writing. Even she could do better. Could writers have off days? She certainly did. The sort of day you’d have been better staying in bed.

She chuckled, wondering if she thumbed through the rest of the book whether she’d find blank pages because the author hadn’t got up that day. Skimming books was not her thing. She had no wish to glimpse the remainder of the story. Talk about ruining the suspense!

A girl in her class had once confided she always read the last page first. Bea could never do that. It’d be an assassination. The story was everything. When she’d asked the girl why, the idiot had retorted she couldn’t bear the suspense. It made her ill. The revelation had Bea looking down her nose at the idiot. Why ever did the half-wit read at all? People were strange.

Letting the book fall open somewhere near the middle, she was startled to find the facing pages blank. So were the next pages and all the others to the end of the book. Returning to the bookmark, she turned to the next page. Blank. She groaned. Just her luck to get engrossed in an unfinished book.

Her mind instinctively sought an explanation. Anything to let her continue reading. Maybe it was some new-fangled safety mechanism to prevent readers jumping forward in the story. Come off it, she scolded the cat, not that it knew anything about stories. That’s too far-fetched, even for me. Or could it be the book punishing her for skipping pages? As if books had a mind of their own, she berated the cat. The animal returned her stare, its look quizzical.

Just to be sure, she turned back. No. The printed words were still there, just as she remembered. The doctor was alone at Aine’s bedside. That nasty boy was nowhere to be seen. She read to the bottom of the page. Aine had been taken ill all of a sudden, which explained the doctor’s visit.

Bea suspected the boy had poisoned her - she’d caught sight of him dabbling in weird concoctions - but she had no proof. In the few pages she’d read, she’d taken an intense dislike to him. The self-centred fool didn’t give a damn about anyone, least of all Aine, his governess. At fifteen he was surely too old to have a governess. But his parents had left abruptly, driven away by a mounting scandal about his mother. Before they fled, they had Aine, his young aunt, travel from Ireland to watch over him. Despite the young woman’s well-intentioned efforts, Liam - that was his name - could be singularly unpleasant. It was almost as if he were bent on making her pay for him being abandoned. It wasn’t Aine’s fault. She was just doing her duty.

Bea’s parents were away too. They frequently were. On scientific missions. But, contrary to the boy’s parents, she was sure they’d come back. What’s more, they saw her as quite capable of looking after herself. Misguidedly so perhaps. Had she been saddled with someone a little older lording over her, she’d probably have been head-strong too. As it was, Manuela, a middle-aged woman, came in every day to clean up and cook. She was Portuguese and although she smiled at Bea - a smile that made her feel warm inside - Manuela rarely spoke. Bea suspected the woman only knew a few words of English.

Bea sighed, absentmindedly stroking the cat. She could have gone with her parents, but they were understandably unwilling to cater for a teenage daughter when their focus was debating quantum mechanics with colleagues. That said, the main reason she hadn’t wanted to travel was school. She glanced at the pile of science homework on her desk and groaned. She had big exams coming up and was behind with her revision. They were an important stepping stone to university and freedom.

Holding her breath, she turned the page, hoping against all odds the story would go on. It did. She let out a squeal of delight that resonated around the empty first floor and sent the cat scurrying for cover. She fought against the desire to turn another page to check if there was more - that would be tempting providence - and pursued her reading.

Bea hadn’t been mistaken. The boy was there, sneaking out of the alcove and into a half-concealed doorframe unbeknown to the doctor and Aine. Getting wearily to his feet, the doctor called out, Liam!, but the boy slipped unseen into a neighbouring room, pulling the door silently closed behind him. The man called out again. When he got no answer, he swore. Damn boy! He’s beyond hope. Just like his mother.

Don’t be too harsh, Aine said, her voice croaky. He’s been thrust into this through no fault of his own. It’s not easy to get by without your parents, especially when everyone is being so beastly.

Let’s not exaggerate, the doctor replied, cautiously folding the stethoscope into his bag.

Is it exaggerating to say the folk in these parts are bent on driving him out like they did my poor sister.

Well, there were rumours… the doctor began, unable to conceal his disgust.

We all know my brother-in-law was clumsy in his dealings with the folks hereabouts. He made more enemies than friends. But that was no reason to take it out on my sister, accusing her of witchcraft. Ciara did what wise-women have done for aeons, use age-old lore passed from mother to daughter to help fellow women and their children with their health. You doctors might believe you have a god-given monopoly of healthcare, but that was never the case and never will be.

The doctor seemed unmoved by her feisty response - apparently they’d had the conversation before - he simply shrugged and headed for the door. Have the boy fetch those pills - if he’s as angelic as you say, let him show it - and get some rest. Lots of rest. Halting in doorway, he added, Call me if you need me. I’ll show myself out.

Aine pulled a shawl round her shoulders and struggled to her feet, gripping the couch for support. You can come out now Liam, she croaked. He’s gone.

Bea was intrigued to see if the boy reappeared - he could be so contrary with his young aunt that he might well not respond out of spite - but she could hear Manuela calling her down to lunch, so she reluctantly closed the book and slid it in the sacoche she wore slung over her shoulder. The story would have to wait. She had to chuckle at the thought of the characters frozen in their positions, dependent on her to resume their activities. Ah! The power of the reader.

It was left-overs for lunch. Manuela had reheated yesterday evening’s paella. The woman was not one to waste food. Her parents, in comparaison, would have been less careful. The two sat across from each other at the kitchen table, munching in appreciative silence. That she didn’t need to engage in conversation suited Bea. She was free to meander aimlessly through her thoughts. She didn’t get far. Manuela tapped on the table to get her attention, then pointed to the calendar hanging on the wall and to the clock. Two. Singing. Blast. She’d forgotten her lesson. The door bell rang.

Bea loved singing. Not in a choir. It was hard to hear yourself with so many others singing. But improvising. On her own. Discovering new sounds. Exploring her voice. For that, Danuta was an excellent teacher. The old Polish woman who’d been coming to the house once a week for years, was demanding, but that didn’t stop them having a laugh. How could they not? Some of the sounds she had Bea make were outrageous. Thank heavens no one could hear.

Your head is not in your singing, today, Danuta told her. Where have you left it?

Over the years, the two had talked about many subjects. Bea had got into the habit of confiding in the woman. That said, she felt strangely reticent about evoking the book. Yes. I know. I keep thinking about a book I’m reading.

Books can be fascinating, the woman said, a glint in her eye, but they are not life. You should get out more. There’s a dance down at the church hall tonight. Why don’t you go?

Bea had a hard time dissimulating her disgust. She knew exactly what those dances were. Danuta must have known too. They were a hunting ground for local louts who slobbered over every girl they could get their hands on. She caught herself wondering if Liam would act that way. Probably. I’ll give it some thought, she replied as she shouldered her bag, but I’ve got a lot of schoolwork to do. The old woman didn’t press the matter. If anything she looked satisfied, almost as if she’d prefer her to continue reading. Bea accompanied the woman to the door. Not because Danuta didn’t know the way. After so many years, she knew it well enough. It was that the front door was always locked. Part of her parents’ obsession with security.

Back in her room Bea was torn between labouring through more homework and plunging back into the book. In her indecision, she toyed with a paper that lay on her desk. Her father had written it. He’d been eager to explain the basics of quantum mechanics, hoping his daughter would develop an interest for his pet subject. And he’d succeeded. He’d opened a door on some fascinating vistas. Like, nothing was fixed until someone observed it. At least, that’s how she’d understood it. Every possible state co-existed until one of them emerged and all the others fell away the moment an observer came on stage.

She wondered if a novel might be like that. At any moment all was possible, but the second the reader read, one story emerged victorious. The other storylines were relegated to the sidelines as mere possibilities. She knew it wasn’t feasible - everyone read the same book, at least she supposed they did - but it was an exciting prospect. With a shudder she thought of the blank pages. Maybe there was some truth in her crazy idea after all. If the rest of story existed solely as infinite possibilities - surely the blur of so many possibilities coexisting might appear as a white page - then the story would only emerge as it was read. Which was exactly what had happened.

She sank into the armchair by the window, her head in her hands, overwhelmed by the idea. Could she be making the story materialise by reading it? That would grant her immense power. If so, what was left for the writer? Had she just done away with the author? And what did that mean for her as an aspiring novelist? Somewhat numbed at the thought that she might just have assassinated her future and her dreams with it, she reached out like a sleepwalker, rummaged in her sacoche till she felt the book and pulled it out. Reading it was then.

Liam lent over a wooden workbench, an air of intense concentration, measuring liquids with a pipette before adding them to a bubbling mixture. The smell given off was intoxicating. Flowers. Herbs. Honey. And some alcohol. He had to make an effort to remember what he was doing as the reek began to muddle his thoughts.

How many times do I have to tell you not to make simples without a cloth over your mouth and nose? Aine said, startling him. You’ll make yourself ill. She pulled a handkerchief from one of the many pockets in her skirt and handed it to him. It smelt deliciously of her. How had he not noticed she smelt so good?

Wrapping her shawl around the lower part of her face, Aine studied the mixture. It needs a little more thyme I think. Despite the protective shawl, the fumes must have had an effect because she swayed. Grasping his arm, she held on tight, her hand hot on his skin. She must be running a fever.

You should go to bed, he said. I’ll bring this once it’s cooled.

It was kind of you to make it. The remedy is exactly what I would have prescribed. Her praise had the boy glowing with satisfaction as he helped her to the door.

Bea had imagined their relationship to be more antagonistic. Wrong again! The kinship between them verged on tenderness. To make a point, Aine brushed a lock of hair out of the boy’s eyes as they reached the doorway. You need to be more careful with the doctor, she advised. He’s an influential man and we need all the allies we can get. Shame they were family, Bea thought. Theirs would make an intriguing love affair…

2.

Love affair! She shuddered. What was she thinking? It’d be a tragedy. She slammed the door on that line of thought and slid a thousand bolts in place. What if her wild imaginings influenced the book? Surely that wasn’t so fanciful. Hadn’t her father taught her that being able to influence events across the immensity of time and space was not only feasible but necessary? Another of his quantum gems.

She got to her feet, crossed the room and buried the book deep amongst others on the bookshelf. It was time to do some homework. Half an hour later she pushed aside her work. She’d barely read a page of chemistry. Visions of Liam entwined in Aine’s arms haunted her. Or, if it wasn’t that, it was Liam chasing a squealing Aine through the orchard. She’d got it all wrong. It wasn’t her influencing the book, but the book influencing her.

It was too early for tea but she went down in the hope of scrounging a snack. Maybe a change of scenery would lessen the book’s hold. Ginger followed her down. Manuela was preparing the evening meal. The woman greeted her with a smile and slid an apple across the table as if reading the girl’s thoughts. Bea hiked herself onto a stool by the table and bit into the fruit. After a few minutes silent munching, she placed the apple core on the table next to her and began, Can a book bewitch someone?

Manuela’s only answer was a quizzical look which seemed to say, ‘What do you mean by bewitched?’

I mean, force me to think about it all the time, making it impossible for me to do my homework.

Manuela grinned.

I know. I know. I’d much rather be reading a book or, even better, writing my own instead of swotting boring chemistry. But I have to study if I’m to get to university and be free to write. Manuela was the only person she’d confided in about her plan to switch from the sciences to creative writing at university and become a writer. Instead, I keep dreaming up paths for this silly book to follow. Not all of them tasteful.

Manuela handed her a bowl of potatoes and a peeler. Bea set about peeling. If the woman thought manual work would calm her, she’d got it wrong. Bea’s mind went into overdrive. Could the book be evil? Evil? Her father had once expounded at length on the concepts of good and evil, saying they were quite relative. She hadn’t been able to follow much, but she’d retained that good called up evil and vice versa. They fed on each other. So the idea of good fighting evil was misguided. Fighting only made it’s would-be opponent stronger.

No. The struggle she was having with the book was just that, a struggle. And she needed to win. I have it, she said, handing the peeled potatoes to Manuela. I’ve got to fight back.

The woman looked perplexed.

If the book’s trying to influence me, she said, scooping up the peelings and dumping them into the compost bin. I have to beat it by influencing it back, ten-fold.

Manuela’s smile was that knowing sort which was difficult to interpret. Bea imagined it said something like, ‘You’ll see.’ As if the woman were privy to things Bea wasn’t. She probably was. But it was frustrating. Asking questions was futile. Having thanked Manuela, she returned to her room to prepare her riposte.

Ginger joined her with a discontented meow. I know, she told it I’ve been neglecting you for that book. She bent down to stroke it, but the cat hissed and swaggered away haughtily refusing any caresses.

Bea picked up a pen, opened her notebook and sat down to write, only to discover that drafting a counterattack was no easier than chemistry revision. She hadn’t the slightest idea what to do. After what seemed like ages of doodling, she decided to try influencing the book in small ways. As a start. Recovering it from its hiding place, she chased the cat from the armchair where it lay splayed and settled in its place, shifting several times till she got comfortable. Drawing in a deep breath, she opened the book and began.

Liam’s heart was pounding and his breath came in short, sharp bursts as he struggled to contain his emotions. Aine was gasping too as she lay sprawled on top of him, pinning him to the settee. The way she nibbled his earlobe and raked her nails through his hair was sending excruciating shivers down his spine. Never had he been in such a state of confused rapture. His whole body was on fire, as if her fever had rubbed off on him.

The situation was worse than Bea had feared. She had to put a stop to it at once. Especially as she suspected her rogue thoughts had sparked it. She willed the doorbell to ring. Nothing happened. The two continued to cling to each other like shipwrecked wretches. She tried imagining the Bible that lay on the table tumbling noisily to the floor. The good book refused to be an accomplice.

Bea pulled herself back into the armchair, having slithered half to the floor only to be rewarded by a loose spring jabbing her in the back. Of course. It was obvious. A spring would do the trick. She wafted the idea in the direction of the book, casually, as if it didn’t matter. A kind of side-ways, sneaky shot at the target. It worked. Aine sprang to her feet, crying out in pain. Cursed spring, she swore, rubbing her knee. Bea was triumphant. She’d done it. As for Liam, he scratched his head as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Aine re-buttoned her blouse which was hanging open and straightened her skirt. Her hair - which she invariably wore in a ponytail - had come loose and floated in joyous curls around her face. The moment of passion was over. She ducked her head in shame. Not so Liam. He was staring greedily at her, his mouth fallen open. She was unquestionably the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Oh no! Now Bea had a smitten boy to deal with. What a mess! It was then that Aine held up a hand to halt the boy who was inching closer and said, It’s true I care for you, Liam. Affection you might call it. Love, even. After all, you are my nephew. But not that. Her lips curled in disgust. That can never be. She shook her head. It was my fault. I got carried away. The fever clouded my mind… Her voice trailed off as tears sprang to her eyes. She hid her face in her hands and sobbed, muttering over and over, I failed her.

When Liam moved to take his aunt in his arms to console her, she pushed him away. No, she said, her tone firm. What we were about to do would have been a terrible sin. That must never happen.

Liam was heartbroken. He’d tasted of the forbidden fruit only to be cast out of the garden before he could sink his teeth into it. All that remained was a bitter longing and a deep sense of frustration. He turned away and shuffled towards the door leaving it wide open as he went out.

Outside, beyond the orchard, across the fields, Liam staggered on, oblivious to his surroundings. The world was downright mean. He’d finally found someone he loved and who clearly loved him, yet he couldn’t have her. He kicked a clod of earth sending it skittering into a hedge and stepped out onto the lane. He was a long way from home, somewhere above the village, in one of those many winding tracks used only by farmers. It was late and the sun was nearing the horizon casting somber shadows over the lane. A scene that suited his mood.

The sound of footfalls had him spinning round in alarm to find a gang of youths from the village sauntering along behind him, their hands shoved deep in their pockets, their expressions grim. Look what we have here, the eldest exclaimed. The witch’s spawn.

Liam turned to face them. No point in running. They’d outrun him any day. Fighting was out of the question. Even the smallest looked stronger than him. He braced himself for a thrashing.

I wouldn’t mess with him, the youngest said. He’ll turn you into frog spawn.

I was thinking more of a slug, Liam said, trying, but failing, to sound sure of himself. It was a dangerous game. But did he have a choice?

Nah! the leader said. Look at him. He’s pissing himself with fear. He’s not going to cast a spell on anyone. Let’s teach him a lesson. In one fluid movement he sprang forward and grabbed Liam by the collar, raising him into the air.

A strident whistle nearby had the youth relaxing his hold. Liam, whose legs refused to hold his weight, sagged to the ground. The youth gave him a farewell kick in the stomach and turned and ran, followed by the others. Liam lay where he’d fallen, rubbing his belly. If that had been a police whistle, he’d do well to scarper too. The police would be no friendlier than the youths. But he couldn’t bring himself to move. His terror took a long time to subside, but no inquisitive policeman emerged to question him.

Struggling to his feet, he looked around. Night had finally fallen and sinister shadows masked almost everything. As far as he could see, no dark silhouette lurked in the night ready to arrest him. Who had blown the whistle? He didn’t believe in ghosts or guardian angels, but he could find no other explanation. Whoever it was, it had saved him. Spooked at the idea of being in the presence of ghosts, he began a fearsome trek home.

The whistle had been Bea’s idea. She’d tried several other things first. None had worked. Then she thought of the whistle. For the second time she’d been able to intervene. The trick seemed to be to approach the book sideways, catching it off guard. When she tried to confront it face on, it was as if her intentions bounced off. Desperately wanting something to happen didn’t work either. What was required was some sort of benevolent indifference.

She was eager to know if Liam made it safely home. What if he stumbled on those thugs again? Then there was Aime. What if he pestered the young woman and it started all over again. Bea forced herself to set the book aside, much to her regret. For her own mental health she decided to ration its use, although whether she’d comply with her good intentions was another question.

She planned to do more chemistry revision, but it was already time for tea. Manuela was not one to stand on ceremony, but she did insist on punctuality. Tea was served in the kitchen. Crumpets oozing with butter, judging from the smell. Bea’s mouth watered in anticipation. The woman greeted her with the habitual smile and gestured to a chair.

As usual they ate in silence. Once the plate was empty, Bea was about to gather up the dishes and carry them to the sink when Manuela leant across the table and laid a hand on her arm. There was an urgent question in her eyes. Bea was sure it was about the book. Yes, she replied. I managed. But it wasn’t easy. I might have learnt how to influence the book, but there’s no knowing how it will react. She related the event with the spring, omitting much of the dodgy details. I managed to avert a catastrophe, but I could well have caused another, depending on how the boy reacted. As it was, he stormed off and almost got beaten up by a band of yobs.

Manuela shrugged and, picking up an unpeeled potato that must have escaped her earlier efforts, rolled it across the table towards Bea. Instead of moving in a straight line, it cavorted right and left finally ending up on the other side of the table and promptly fell to floor.

Nodding in understanding, Bea got up to recuperate the potato which had rolled under the table where Ginger had decided it would make a good plaything. Bea was obliged to get down on all fours to snatch it from the cat’s claws and hit her head under the table as she moved to dodge a swipe of the cat’s paw. When she emerged clutching the wayward potato in one hand and rubbing her head with the other, Manuela gifted her a cheeky grin.

3.

Liam stirred the ingredients till they were thoroughly blended and the mixture had the right consistency, then, hiking up his shirt, he applied the warm salve to the bruise. He winced. The whole area was turning blue and hurt like hell. He cursed the boy who’d kicked him and dreamt of revenge. Had he known how, he’d gladly have cast a spell. A withering sickness. Disgust for life. Impotency…

He hadn’t seen Aine since he got back. She’d shut herself in her room, pinning a note to the door bearing the message, ‘Do not disturb’. He didn’t regret what he’d done. Why should he? It had opened his eyes to a valuable insight. He’d got it into his head he was unattractive. That Aine had jumped him proved the contrary. To his delight, he inspired desire in women.

Bea snapped the book shut with a groan. The idiot. How could he get it so wrong? Didn’t boys have sudden uncontrollable impulses from time to time? Of course they did. The only difference was they saw satisfying such urges as a birthright, not a momentary hunger to be kept under control in case it led to serious consequences.

She glanced at the clock over her desk. Seven. Time for the evening meal. Down in the kitchen, the potatoes she’d peeled had been transformed into shepherd’s pie. Manuela might often make food from her home country, but she also knew all the traditional English recipes.

Why are boys so stupid? Bea asked by way of greeting.

Manuela’s answer was a steaming helping of shepherd’s pie that covered a good part of her plate and smelt delicious. Bea savoured the meal while wondering if there was some hidden meaning in the way the woman had served up food. If there was, she couldn’t figure it out. She toyed with the idea of a new law on human interactions: You can’t use the same vegetable twice to get your message across. She chuckled. Doing so earned her a quizzical look from Manuela. Bea just shrugged and continued eating.

She’d only eaten half her shepherd’s pie when Manuela abruptly pulled the plate away. Bea let out an indignant squeal and reached out to grab it back. Manuela shook her head. With the lingering taste of meat and potatoes in her mouth, the frustration of being refused filled her with an all consuming rage tinged with a desperate longing. It had been her helping. It was in her plate. She had every right to it. Hey! she shouted. Give it back.

She was going to say more when it struck her that Liam must have felt like that, only it wasn’t a feelingless meal he’d been refused, but a fully grown woman with a swathe of emotions and a will of her own. Of course, Manuela knew about Liam and Aine. Bea had told her. She gave the woman a sheepish grin, saying, Okay. I get it. At which the woman handed back the plate. Bea sighed. She’d have to revisit her newly minted law on potatoes and human interactions.

Bea couldn’t sleep. She’d tried to continue revision before going to bed, but her mind kept harping back to the book. A part of her was eager to push on with experimenting. Another part was wary, reminding her of the book’s unpredictable reactions. Now in bed, she lay wrapped in the covers, the book propped open at her side, lit by a small bedside lamp.

Liam couldn’t sleep either. He was troubled. It was the whistle. If no one had blown it, where had it come from? There’d been no wind. And anyway whistling in the trees never sounded like that. They were too far from any houses for it to have been a casual passer-by. And surely the person would have come to his aid, injured as he was.

No. The most satisfactory explanation was a guardian angel, someone who watched over him. It was a hard one to swallow. Religion was not his thing. His parents only went to church to get married and even then reluctantly. He never went. As for angels, they were for fairy tales and far-fetched books. Yet for all his scepticism, he wasn’t immune to superstition. It might be wise to say thank you. But he was afraid he’d sound silly. What if Aine overheard him. She’d think him nuts.

He cracked open the door and peered out. The corridor was empty. Retreating to his room, he muttered Thank you. That wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. If someone had thanked him like that, he’d have been annoyed. It was surely not wise to upset your guardian angel. He absently wondered if a guardian angel could turn against you. Surely not. Thank you, he repeated with more conviction. Thank you.

Returning to bed, he continued to think of the angel. Was it a man or a woman? He’d heard there was a debate about the sex of angels. But he preferred to think his angel was a woman, or rather a girl. When he tried to imagine her, he saw Aine, her face flushed with desire, her lips moist... He would willingly have lingered with that image, but he reckoned the guardian angel might be upset. Surely she wouldn’t want to be associated with such ‘base’ desires. So he tried to shut out Aine, but she kept creeping back.

His obsession with his aunt annoyed Bea. What had the young woman ever done to earn such adoration? All she’d done was taunt him with her body. She hadn’t even saved him when he was being attacked. To be fair, she’d been unaware of his plight. But she’d driven him out and was ultimately responsible for him bumping into those thugs. No. It was Bea the guardian angel. Had she not watched over him and blown that whistle?

She climbed out of bed and stood before the mirror scrutinising her face. Green eyes stared back, wary but intelligent, set in a freckled face. In no way did she resemble Aine. The young woman was pale skinned and had dark, almost black eyes that matched her black hair which she wore tied in a ponytail. Bea’s hair, in comparaison, was ginger and short and crinkly. Her mind was made up. She’d show the boy who the real guardian angel was.

Liam awoke abruptly, sitting up in bed, all senses alert. What could have happened? His eyes probed the dark in search of an intruder. He found none. Then he remembered. A face. A girl’s face, her green eyes inquisitive, teasing almost. She’d looked at him with such intensity, it was as if she could see right through him. She might only have been a dream, but she’d seemed so real.

What irked Bea, who’d stayed awake to read the impact of her efforts, was that it never crossed the idiot’s mind she might be his guardian angel. What did she have to do? Stamp ‘guardian angel’ across her forehead? She wondered if he might be a bit thick, although she’d spotted no warning signs of mental deficiency. Imagining ways to shake sense into the boy she finally drifted off to sleep.

It seemed only minutes later she was torn from slumber by Manuela shaking her. Blast! It was Saturday and she was to accompany the woman to the market. Just a few more minutes, she mumbled. But Manuela was having nothing of it. The woman’s wordless insistence got the better of Bea’s fatigue. Half an hour later she was washed and dressed and down in the kitchen staring bleary-eyed at a plate of bacon and eggs.

Have you seen Ginger? she asked, toying