The Name I Call Myself (20 page)

The outline of his skull pressed stark against ghostly green skin. A sharp contrast to his hair, spread out like oil against the pillow.

I shuffled the plastic chair up as close as possible, leaning forwards and laying my head as gently as I could upon his chest. Wrapping his hand in both of mine, I felt the rise and fall of his lungs, the thump of his heart, still beating despite his violent attempt to destroy it.

“You came back.”

“Yes.” My voice was as weak as my brother's.

“Will you stay?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

“So you bloomin' well should be. Don't ever do that to me again.”

He didn't answer. For once, my brother didn't choose the easy lie.

Over the next few days, Sam failed to improve. The mental health nurse visited, and assessed him for risk of self-harm. The results made me want to crawl into the back of my wardrobe and curl into a ball. I stuffed my pride in there instead, and called Perry.

Sam cried with relief when I asked if he wanted to go back to the private hospital. With a squillion-pound security system designed to keep patients safely inside, it would also keep vengeful murderers safely out. If we'd offered, I think he'd have moved in permanently at that point.

With Sam readmitted, I suddenly found myself with a lot more time on my hands. The end of February offered little in the way of work, and having missed choir practice, the following Sunday I decided to go along to Grace Chapel to thank Dylan properly for skiving church.

I walked to Brooksby. The buses ran intermittently on Sundays, and I had done nothing about the absurd red car sitting in front of my house yet. It took longer than I thought, so by the time I ducked into the back row, the singing had already started.

Hester led from the front, a keyboard player, guitarist, and a teenage girl playing a violin behind her. The style sounded quite folksy – a bit Irish – but it worked, and the congregation sang along with a gusto that more than made up for any lack of musicality. I spotted Rowan with her daughter Callie, to my surprise, and Melody. I knew Janice and Millie would be there, but hadn't
expected to see most of the other choir members. No one had ever invited me to the services, and they weren't exactly stereotypical Christians – even Hester. I didn't know churches could include so many mixed-up, non-religious-type people. I had expected to stick out like a sore thumb. Instead, it felt strange I'd never been before.

After a couple more songs, the band sat down. Hester strode to the back row, and took the chair next to mine. I braced myself for the glower, and the reprimand about missing rehearsal so near to the competition. Instead, I felt her rough hand take mine. She lifted it up and gently kissed it, before letting go again.

Listening to those songs about forgiveness, and not being ashamed any more, and hope and peace and God's love never letting go had been bad enough. In the church where my mum had found something worth believing in, this simple gesture was like a tap opening up my tear ducts again. Hester handed me a tissue, and hissed, “Pay attention, Faith. Crack open your heart and mind, and you might be surprised.”

No might about it. Mags –
Mags
– spoke for twenty-odd minutes about a kick-butt woman in the Bible called Esther, who although a poor orphan, won the king's heart to become queen, and then by her beauty and bravery and brains managed to save the whole of the Jewish people from genocide, and got the baddie caught red-handed committing sexual assault.

It was a fascinating story. I sort of related to some of it. I thought I might like to read the Bible if it was full of stories about incredible women committing daring deeds, rather than a million lists of don't-you-dares and no-you-can'ts.

We sang one more song before finishing. Afterwards, when I chatted to the choir women over hot drinks and boring biscuits while trying to spot Dylan across the room without staring at him, random lines of the music kept playing, over and over, in the back of my head.

I had been orphaned twice – once when my mother died, and again when I lost Grandma. God hadn't saved me from Snake. Or
everything else. He hadn't saved Sam. He hadn't stopped Kane killing my mum.

And yet. I was here. And doing okay for myself. Sam and I survived Kane, and escaped Snake. I had somehow met an unusually generous man, who also happened to be a millionaire and had fallen in love with me, meaning Sam could get help.

I was making friends at this strange little hotchpotch church. Having fun. Finding strength. Proper, in-your-guts, not-faking-it strength. Hmmm.

As the crowd thinned, I managed to collar Dylan.

I filled him in on Sam, briefly, before bringing up my real reason for walking six miles cross-country on a freezing cold winter morning.

“I wanted to say thanks, again, for last week.”

“It's cool. I accepted your thanks the first time.” He grinned.

I crossed and uncrossed my arms, suddenly not quite sure where they were meant to go.

“Did you miss the service last week, to be with Sam?”

His face went very still for a microsecond. Then he laughed. “I did. But we had a family service, and it was my turn to end up in the gunge tank again. I really didn't mind missing that.”

“But it's your job.”

“Taking care of people in crisis is also my job. Our family worker led the service that morning. Apparently it all went smoothly. And Hester quite enjoyed getting gunged.”

“Why didn't you say something?”

Dylan looked at me, blue eyes serious now. Something unidentifiable flickered in that look.

“I wanted to help.” He shrugged. “It's what friends do. Now, if you'll excuse me I need to speak to that guy over there before he leaves.”

After a particularly gruelling choir practice – “Stop lolling! Use your diaphragm to breathe! It's why God gave you one. FOCUS! If you can't make me believe you actually care if I stand by you or not, there is no point entering this competition. Rowan! Is that
gum
in your mouth?” – Rosa asked for another dress fitting.

“I'll text the bridesmaids and see when they're free. When were you thinking?”

“My goodness. When were
you
thinking? Are all brides in England like this? You don't care about your dresses, or what they are looking like. Not even your own dress! What about rest of plans? Cake? Flowers? Decorations for tables? Have you written invitations or will you be sending a text?”

“Larissa has it all under control.”

“What, she chooses and you say yes? Why don't you care about your wedding, Faith? It less than six months away.” Rosa shook her head in disbelief.

“Last week she phoned me about wedding favours. Did I want the heart soaps to read ‘Peregrine and Faith love everlasting', ‘Perry and Faith to have and to hold', or ‘Mr and Mrs Upperton til death do us part'? How can I plan a wedding with someone who thinks there are people on this earth who would enjoy washing themselves with any of those options? It's being married I'm bothered about, not getting married.”

“So you been getting ready for becoming a wife? That's good. What you been doing? Learning how to look after a man?”

“No! Perry can take care of himself. I've been going to the marriage course here on Tuesday nights.”

“Ah! So you and Perry learn together.”

“Yes.”

Yes. When Perry finally turned up. Usually somewhere about halfway through the class. But to be honest, I didn't think Perry was the one who was going to need help making this marriage work.

Saturday afternoon, my bridesmaids gathered. Marilyn brought Rosa and the dresses in her car: four dresses carefully folded in supermarket carrier bags and one zipped inside a professional moth-resistant, polycotton dress cover.

“Marilyn first,” Rosa commanded. “You are causing me a lot of trouble with this personal trainer. I going to waste a lot of material if this continues.”

Marilyn stripped off her tunic and leggings, squirming. She quickly stepped into her dress. This time, no longer a sample, the fabric shone a deep blue tulle, with delicately embroidered butterflies along the bottom third of the skirt in silver, bottle green, and three shades of purple. Some of the butterflies looked as though they had broken free from the rest, and were flying up the skirt. Marilyn held the dress up while Rosa fastened the row of tiny buttons, in colours to match the butterflies. As it swished slightly, the dress shimmered, giving the impression the butterflies were flying.

“A-may-zing,” Natasha breathed. “Like, totally, utterly brilliant. It's the most gorgeous dress I have ever seen. Like, ever. Better than anything at New York fashion week by miles. You look like the queen.”

“Pardon?” Marilyn's smile dimmed somewhat.

“No,
a
queen. Not
the
Queen. A queen from a film about an amazing queen who is massively beautiful, and wise and strong and married to a gnarled old king obsessed with power and money who doesn't see the real her, but then she meets a hunksome knight with humble beginnings who rescues her from a terrifying beast and at the start they, like, argue all the time because he thinks she's dead proud and used to people obeying her every command. But really she's just lonely and miserable, and she thinks he's a rough brute with no respect for women. But they fall in love, and the king dies so they're free to be together. Only it's too late. The knight has gone on a quest leading to certain death. But then she goes after him and…”

“Okay! I get it. I think I know how it ends.”

“You can't!” Natasha shook her head vigorously. “I haven't made up the ending yet.”

“Well, as enjoyable as it was, and complimentary, shall we carry on with the fitting? Leona's babysitting for me. I don't want to leave her alone for too long with Nancy and Pete. It might put her off having them again.”

Rosa shuffled Marilyn in front of the mirror I'd carried downstairs. Marilyn gasped at the incredible reflection, letting go of the top of the dress to get a proper look. As she did, the dress slipped right off her to the floor. She carried on staring into the mirror, for once dumbfounded.

“Looks like those training sessions have been paying off,” I grinned. “It almost makes six hours a week with the torture twins worth it.”

“I thought my scales had gone doolally.”

“How much have you lost?”

“Nearly three stone. I didn't believe it, but it must be true. Look at me. I have muscles. And a waist. And look, a bone!”

“You look fabulous.”

“But you must have seen in the mirror?” Catherine asked. “Or noticed that your clothes didn't fit?”

“If you got four hours' sleep a night, were five stone overweight, covered in stretch marks, and brushed your hair once a week you wouldn't look in a mirror, either. And I've spent the past year in leggings and tracksuit bottoms. I knew I'd lost something. Even if it was just the gallons of sweat Anton wrings out of me. But. I look…” She sniffed. “Hooten tooten. I look almost
normal.
”

“Normal?” Rosa shook her head in indignation. “You are extraordinary.”

“Your dress is extraordinary.” Marilyn pulled it back up. “You'd better get measuring. And be prepared. Who knows how skinny I'll be by August?”

Natasha and Catherine's dresses were perfect fits. Both “dusty aqua” as planned. On the bottom seam of Natasha's, Rosa had
embroidered tiny shells, some pointy, some curled like snails, others in a fan shape, all in a mix of palest pink, mother of pearl, vanilla, and coral. Catherine's shimmered with starfish, each only a few centimetres long. Deep red, gold, slate grey, and copper, they swam along the bottom of her skirt and the edges of her capped sleeves.

Rosa's creations were like nothing I'd seen before. Striking. Magnificent. Alluring and innocent at the same time.

I looked at those stunning girls, hair sleek and shiny, fresh-faced and glowing, the dress fabric flowing over every curve like water. Steeling my senses, I unzipped the climate-control garment bag in one swift movement, releasing the repaired Ghost Web. Only it wasn't the Ghost Web. Soft, light fabric spilled out of the opening, an antique cream in the sense of antique being beautiful and timeless, not your mother-in-law's horrible old dress.

“It is Nottingham Lace,” Rosa said, lifting the dress out of the bag. “I get it cheap from a woman in the paper.”

“Where's the Ghost Web?”

She sniffed, jerking her head in the direction of the last carrier bag.

“Is it repaired?”

“Yes. And altered to fit. I took some material off the bottom and inserted it into the bodice. It is still the ugliest item of clothing I ever saw. I disinfect my hands after touching that dress. Then I had big glass of vodka and sewed many butterflies to clean up my brain. But here, you try this dress first. Then decide.”