The Magpie Effect - The Magpie Chronicles Book 1 (#Wattys2015)

Chapter 22

"I just don't understand where she could be," Vivian was saying. We'd been driving through the tempest for the best part of an hour, the windscreen-wipers furiously working to give us a clear view. "I should have seen this coming. Your father has been saying for months that she needs more attention, and he was right. This is all my fault."

"Will you be quiet?" I snapped. Vivian silenced, her lips pulled into a tight line. "This isn't your fault. It's nobody's fault. It's a wake-up call. When we find her, we can decide what to do. Maybe we needed something like this to happen all along."

Vivian nodded and carried on driving. I turned back to scouting out the windows. Neither of us spoke, but neither of us needed to. We were both thinking exactly the same thing: if we find her. Not when, but if.

After another twenty minutes of fruitless hunting, Vivian spoke up. "It's useless," she said. She'd taken the storm from outside into her eyes. "She could be anywhere. I'm going to phone the police."

"Wait!" I cried, leaning forward so that my nose was practically pressed flat against the window. Vivian slammed her foot on the brakes.

"What? What is it?"

"Look, over there!" I pointed.

A familiar building loomed out of the rain, like the bulk of a mountain through the mist. The Ritz. It looked even more eerie against the stormy backdrop, its formerly canary walls inked to a dark, primitive yellow. The boarded up windows and entry-ways gaped like the mouth of a watery vortex, ready to swallow us whole if we dared get any closer. Mona was nowhere to be seen, but the building itself seemed alive, pulsating with invisible energy.

And crouched in front of it, her walking stick stabbing at the air like a wizard's staff, was Aunt Vera. I could see her entire frame quivering from the confines of the car. I swung the door open and leapt into the open even before Vivian had brought the vehicle to a complete standstill. A click, a bang and a chorus of yelling told me that she was only seconds behind.

"Aunt Vera! What do you think you're doing?"

We reached her, our shoes sinking deep into the puddle-turned-lake that flooded the car-park area in which Aunt Vera stood. I noticed now that she was still in her nightgown, the light fabric sticking to her skin and the angular curves and juts of her bones. Her feet were bare and riddled with cuts and bruises, so much so that the water between her toes was clouded pink. On her face was an expression of such rage, such demented passion, that I half expected her to turn on us with her walking stick.

"Leave me alone!" she cried. The thunder dwarfed her voice.

"Aunt Vera, come on! Get back in the car!" Vivian winced through the rain. "Get back in the car!"

"I need her to hear me! I know she's in there!"

"I tried to coax the old lady into turning, but she felt so brittle that I was afraid to exert any force on her. A flash of lightning, and Aunt Vera cackled hysterically.

"I know you're in there!" She was screaming now, her stick batting at the rain. "Give me my Winnie back! What did you do to her?"

"Saffy, get her back to the car!" Vivian shouted over the tumult. She was pushing against Aunt Vera as lightly as possible without toppling her over. Even so, she stumbled.

"Aunt Vera, come on!"

"I want my Winnie back, you bitch!" Both Vivian and I were so taken aback by this exclamation that we let go of her. My mother's eyes were wide, framed around pools of undisguised fear. Aunt Vera staggered forward, relishing in her new-found emancipation. Profanity after profanity jumped from her mouth, words that I'd never imagined an old lady to speak.