The Firehills Read Free

was back to the car and a long, dull
crawl through the traffic jams on the outskirts of Eastbourne. As the afternoon
wore on, Charly finally succumbed to boredom and drifted off to sleep. Sam
carried his small traveling bag out to the car and dropped it into the open
trunk. As he turned to go back into the house, he noticed a group of figures
across the street, loitering by a phone booth. They were dressed all in black,
long coats and leather jackets, dark hair, pale faces, nose rings, and pierced
eyebrows. Sam paused. He had seen groups of Goths and bikers hanging around in
town, but it was unusual to see them out here in the quiet suburbs. They were
standing in silence, staring sullenly at the ground or out into space. But as
Sam was about to turn away, one looked up, and their eyes met for a moment. Sam
felt a shudder start at the base of his neck and run down through his
shoulders. Turning quickly, he headed back into the house.
    Ten minutes later, his father eased the car out of the
driveway and turned left into the road, passing the phone booth. Slumped in the
back seat, Sam gazed out of the window with a feeling of mild anxiety, but the
group had vanished. He settled back and closed his eyes. As the car pulled away
smoothly, a handful of dry leaves, ragged survivors of the previous autumn,
swirled briefly into the air and danced along the pavement. As quickly as it
had arisen, the vortex of air collapsed, and the leaves whispered to the ground
once more.
    ‡‡
    Charly awoke to find that they had arrived in Hastings.
The car had slowed to a crawl in the holiday traffic pouring down into the town
from the high ground to the north. Twisting her head from side to side to
loosen the stiffness in her neck, she peered out of the window. The streets
were teeming with holiday visitors, brightly colored hordes in T-shirts and
shorts despite the weak spring sun. Tour buses were pouring out more of them
every minute. The car reached the bottom of the long hill and crept around the
corner onto the seafront. To her left, along a side street, Charly saw the
cluster of strange buildings, narrow and dark, that loomed above the crowds.
They looked like wooden sheds, painted a somber black, but they were three
stories high, as if a collection of garden sheds had stretched upward to find
the sun.
    Megan, tired and irritable after the long journey, swerved
out from behind a tour bus that had stopped to drop off its passengers and sped
off along the seafront. Soon after, however, she turned inland again and slowed
as the streets became narrow and choked with parked cars. The engine began to
labor as they climbed back up the hill. Rounding the squat bulk of the church
of Saint Clement, patron saint of fisherfolk, Megan turned into a tiny side
street and pulled to a halt. Above them, sheltering under the bulk of West
Hill, towered the faded paintwork of the Aphrodite Guest House. Leaving Amergin
and Charly to struggle with their bags, Megan strode inside to find the
landlady, Mrs. Powell.
    “My dear!” cried Mrs. Powell as Megan entered.
    “Hello, Mrs. P.” replied Megan with a tired smile,
bending slightly to embrace the old woman.
    “You look dreadful. Come on in. I’ll put the kettle
on.”
    Mrs. Powell bustled off to the kitchen at the rear of the
building, and Megan could hear the comforting clinks and clatters of tea being
prepared.
    As she wandered through to the kitchen in Mrs. Powell’s
wake, she heard the front door open and Amergin and Charly shuffle in with the
luggage. She shouted, “This way!” over her shoulder and made her way to a
battered old chair by the stove, where she collapsed with a sigh. Charly burst
in moments later and ran over to Mrs. Powell. Grabbing her in a boisterous bear
hug, she shouted, “Hi, Mrs. P.” and stepped back.
    Mrs. Powell turned and fixed her with a penetrating stare
from the palest of blue eyes, then broke into a grin. “My dear,” she said,
“I swear you’re prettier than ever!