The Curse of Thelonious [✓]

eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lera sighed to herself as her fingers tapped rhythmically on the keyboard. She had faked sickness in the middle of Biology to be able to leave the class, not being able to bare seeing Anya’s empty seat. She didn’t want to go home either though – her parents had almost forgotten her existence. She had always suspected they had loved her exciting twin sister more and now, in the weeks following Anya’s death, she had found it was true.

She didn’t want to face an empty house with an empty heart.

Instead, she had snuck away to the school library in order to use the computers. The sooner she figured out what the hell was happening in Clearford, the better. Not only was it pure agony not knowing how her sister really died but Atlas was being treated worse than ever. Ian and Owen had punched him in the hallway first thing in the morning and it had sparked a chain reaction. Once everyone realised that Atlas wouldn’t respond to any pain – being used to it due to his drunkard father – almost everyone joined in. Taunting and harassing him, they hadn’t stopped and the teachers cast a blind eye, some of them clearly believing the nonsense about him spreading through school.

Lera was absolutely furious but knew she couldn’t do anything about it other than continue working to uncover the truth in order to prove his innocence. It was easier said than done however as she only had one clue to go on – Walho. And even that, she wasn’t sure if she could trust some creepy future-telling woman of Atlas’s dreams but she had to start somewhere.

Taking a quick look around to ensure nobody was close enough to watch what she was doing, Lera went through Google pages of ‘walho’ in order to find something to go on. Just as she was about to give up and bang her head on the desk, a website from the seventh page of the search results caught her eye. It was an ancestry website and its extensive records looked promising.

The layout was rather messy but she managed to navigate to a list of memorable people throughout history with the name Walho. A lot of them were from random countries and seemed rather pointless until she spotted one with England written next to it in brackets. Clicking on it, she began to read the dense paragraph which seemed to be an extract from a newspaper article published in 1943. Although it was rather irrelevant – something about house dealerships – she spotted what she was looking for at the very bottom.

Harriet Emelda Wakelin, believed to be the last living descendant of the royal Walho family, refused to comment on the matter. 

Lera copied and pasted the text, along with the website link, and sent it in an empty email to herself. She was about to research who Harriet Wakelin was when the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. Quickly grabbing hold of her worn black leather rucksack, she bid goodbye to the kind librarian and headed outside.

Sure enough, Atlas was stood under a tree in the courtyard, waiting for her. His hair was standing up on edge and there was a series of new bruises on his face – from classmates instead of his father for a change. She didn’t comment on them, knowing Atlas would take it as pity and get defensive. ‘Boys and their dumb male egos,’ she thought with a shake of her head. The two teenagers began walking towards Lera’s house, ignoring all the harsh whispers thrown around them. They didn’t speak a word until they got to her house and she gestured to him to wait in the back garden.

“I’ve left a ladder there, when I get to my room I’ll open the window. I know it’s awkward but I dunno, I can’t have my parents finding out you’ve been staying with me or else they’ll freak!”

Atlas nodded and stood leaning against the back of the house as she fiddled with her key and began climbing the stairs.

“Lerato?” she heard the unmistakable sound of her mother’s voice calling her. She stood balancing on the stairs for a few seconds in shock until she came to her senses and headed into the living room. “Yes mama?” she answered, fully aware that her mum hadn’t spoken a word to her since Anya’s funeral. Hope spread through her body when her mother acknowledged her for the first time since then with a small smile.