Magrit Read online

  Magrit staggered, overcome by the sheer volume of noise, by its urgency, by the sudden understanding that the universe was panicking, there inside her head, and it was somehow all her fault. Master Puppet was at the front of it, shrieking her name, his voice a mixture of terror and more anger than she had ever heard before; the girl’s voice a shrill, staccato counterpoint, her anger and fear rising in opposition to his own.

  “You! It’s you!” Master Puppet screamed, at the same time the skeleton girl’s voice was yelling “Me! It has to be me!” Their voices were mingling together so that, for a moment, it seemed as if the skeleton girl was arguing with herself and Master Puppet had simply chosen a side, choosing to be terrified of discovery instead of demanding it. And in that instant, faced with the same decision, Magrit chose the safety of fear.

  “All right,” she screeched at them, hands over her ears. “All right!” Bugrat was lifting his fist to knock again. Magrit lurched forwards and wrapped an arm around his chest, lifting him away from the window.

  “No!” the skeleton girl screamed, as Master Puppet shrieked a “Yes!” of triumph. Bugrat struggled against Magrit’s grip, wriggled to get his limbs free of her embrace. He kicked out, and his foot struck the glass with a dull thud. Magrit froze.

  On the other side of the window, four stubby fingers were curling around the edge of the flower-patterned curtain. As Magrit watched, the curtain pulled back. Bugrat stopped kicking and lay limp in her arms, staring at the creature that appeared before them.

  A fat, pallid face scowled back at them with piggy eyes. Two teeth poked out from between slug-like lips. It was a boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old. He frowned caterpillar eyebrows straight at them. Behind him, Magrit saw the television flickering. She dimly registered the sound of a favourite tune, one that had lulled her to sleep countless times when she was younger. But there was no comfort in it. There were only the boy’s tiny black eyes and Master Puppet’s shrill voice screeching at her to “Get away! Get away!” And the girl’s voice crying “Yes!” like a long, exhausting battle had finally been won. And blood that thudded through her veins and drowned out the noise of their voices.

  The boy looked through her to the cemetery beyond, and spent half-a-dozen agonising seconds regarding the crypts and the paths in the dull light. Then his scrutiny passed across the window and discovered Bugrat. His eyes widened. His wet mouth fell open. Magrit heard his voice, thick and slow like a mole poking its head above ground.

  “Mum! Mu-uumm!”

  WITH INFINITE AGONY, MAGRIT’S FEET unfroze. She moved one backwards. Then the other. Then a full step, her eyes pinned to the boy in the window. He goggled at Bugrat, ignoring her, that single, terrible word coming from him over and over – “Mum, Mum, Mum,” – like drums keeping time to her footsteps. Something moved behind him. Something came out of a door at the far end of the room. Something huge, covered in a yellow floral dress that simply served to show up how big it was, like a field of daisies that rolled and thudded its way across the floor to stand behind the boy and stare out at Magrit and Bugrat as they fell back, and back, and back.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said Master Puppet, and was silent.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” said the girl’s voice.

  The boy’s mother dropped a meaty hand upon his shoulder and leaned down, her great potato face gaping out at the cemetery. Four eyes swept across Magrit to focus upon Bugrat. Bugrat slipped from Magrit’s grip and stood next to her.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said the girl’s voice, and even though Magrit knew that this was what she wanted, what she had always wanted, her voice held no triumph, no wicked joy. “Here we go, my beautiful girl.”

  Magrit ran. She scooped Bugrat up and dashed down the path, away from the awful window and its brightly lit faces. She burst through the door of her favourite crypt, plunged into the nest of rags in the corner, and buried them both as deeply as she could, hiding from the terrible eyes.

  “That won’t work,” said the girl. “They’ll find you.”

  “But where?” Magrit sobbed. “Where?”

  “Nowhere,” she replied. “This time they’re coming!”

  Magrit whimpered. She gathered Bugrat up again, ran to the entrance and looked out.

  The window was open. Strangers were climbing through.

  She heard voices in the cemetery. Strange voices. Alien voices. The voices of the boy and his mother.

  “Look at this!” they were saying, and “Oh, my goodness!” and “Look at this!”

  Magrit poked her head out the doorway and saw them. They were tramping across her grass, squashing it with their big, flat feet, pushing through neatly piled rubbish bags and knocking them higgledy-piggledy with thoughtless bumps of their elbows and hips.

  “Look at this!”

  “Oh, my goodness!”

  “Look at this!”

  They approached the next window down from their own. The mother raised a beefy fist and knocked on it: once, twice, three times. A face appeared; the window opened.

  “Look at this!”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Another woman, same as the first. She climbed out of the window, turned and called to invisible family members to join her.

  Magrit fled. Out the door and on to the next crypt.

  “That won’t work,” said the girl’s voice. “They’ll find you.”

  Out again and into the next crypt and the last, in a wide, panicked circle with the girl’s voice ringing in her head.

  “They’ll find you,” she cried. “They’ll find you.”

  And on Magrit ran, while the invaders lumbered from window to window, knocking until each pane was opened and more and more giant feet climbed through and thudded down into the grass. They kicked the gravel off the paths. They crushed the flowers. They bent and broke and snapped the rows of vegetable plants she had uncovered, squelched their fruits into the ground and tore their leaves, all the while calling to each other in their thick, meaty voices.

  “Look at this!”

  “Oh, my goodness!”

  “Look at this!”

  “Master Puppet!” Magrit cried out, her voice as shrill and as insubstantial as the wind. “Please, Master Puppet. Help me! Help me, please!”

  “I’m sorry.” Master Puppet’s voice was deep and low and lost in sadness. “This is what you wanted.”

  “I don’t! I don’t! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. Please!”

  There was no going back now, no reclaiming her thoughts and her actions and making it all better. She knew it, and because she knew it, so did Master Puppet.

  “You wanted to grow up,” he said.

  “I didn’t. I didn’t!”

  “Yes, you did. Whether you knew it or not. The moment you accepted Bugrat, the moment you made him your responsibility. The moment you allowed your grown-up thoughts a voice.”

  “I never did!”

  “Didn’t you?” And Magrit could hear, in and out and around Master Puppet’s voice, the skeleton girl circling.

  “You decided to grow up,” he said. “This is growing up. I’m so sorry, Magrit. Growing up has consequences.” And then he would answer her no more.

  Magrit stared in horror as the hordes invaded her private world. There was nowhere to run. There was nowhere to hide. Everything was uncovered. Everything was ruined. They came on, a wave of flesh that terrified her like nothing she had ever experienced. They leaped from jumpstone to jumpstone. They trundled into the crypts and tore apart her rag nests. They shuffled up and down the gravel paths, their heavy feet scattering small stones. They bumped against her fountains, splashed through her puddles and muddied her washing water without so much as a glance. And Magrit carried Bugrat from corner to corner, barely a step ahead of them: a silent, weeping figure, flitting through the shadows in a desperate attempt to stay hidden.

  The intruders found the corner behind the chapel. And they found the dead girl, lying in the grass.

  “Oh, my goodness.”

 
“Oh, my goodness.”

  “Look at that.”

  “Oh, my goodness.”

  “They’ve found me.” The girl’s voice echoed inside Magrit’s head. “I told you they would. They’ve found me.”

  “What do I do?” Magrit cried. “What do I do?”

  “There’s nothing you can do.” Master Puppet’s voice was quiet. “What will happen must happen.”

  “But … but …”

  She sneaked into the shadows, as the invaders gathered around the shallow grave.

  “Who is it?”

  “I dunno.”

  “It’s a girl.”

  “Mebbe.”

  “Mebbe nowt.”

  Someone pointed. “It’s a girl, it is.”

  “What do I do?” Magrit whispered.

  Two enormous bald men peeled away from the group and squeezed themselves back through a window into an apartment. They returned, shovels in hand. Soon the sound of digging echoed around the cemetery. When they were finished, two more giants appeared, carrying two short planks and a handful of tools. Magrit heard something metal strike something wood. The crowd stood back, and she saw a wooden cross standing above the grass.

  “All over now,” said a quiet voice inside her head. “All over.” The girl’s voice, at peace.

  “Don’t go.” Suddenly, Magrit couldn’t bear the thought of being without her. “Please, don’t go.”

  But the girl was going and they both knew it.

  “Goodbye,” she said, fading away. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you?” Magrit replied. “For what?”

  “For giving me a voice,” the skeleton replied. “For being me after I was gone. For showing me what I might have become.” Then she really was gone and not even a gap in the air remained to show that she had ever existed as more than the skeleton of a girl in the grass.

  “She was me,” Magrit whispered.

  “In a way.” Master Puppet’s voice still held the echo of the skeleton girl, but it was muted now, a part of him instead of a part of her that floated about his voice.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “If she’s me …”

  “Why are you still here when she has gone?”

  Magrit nodded. Master Puppet sighed, a long, sad sigh that contained too much knowledge.

  “You are your own person, Magrit. Echoes outlive the original call.”

  His voice departed, sliding back out of her head like he was leaving her alone in the dark to sleep, and there was nothing in Magrit’s mind except an absence like a deep, deep hole.

  And there was a hole in her arms, as well. Magrit blinked. While she was distracted, first by the crowd of strangers and then by the departing voice, Bugrat had wriggled from her grasp. She looked around in sudden panic.

  “Bugrat,” she hissed. “Bugrat!”

  And then she spied him. He was walking across the grass towards his favourite spot, right next to the freshly dug grave. The invaders had their backs turned to him, heads bowed. Magrit gasped.

  “Bugrat!”

  He was almost upon them. It was only a matter of seconds before they saw him. Magrit looked for some way to recapture him without being seen.

  “Bugrat!”

  “Magrit.” Master Puppet was with her again, his voice soft and gentle, and somehow, oh, so very sad. “Magrit.”

  “I’ve got to–” Magrit took a stiff step forwards, then another.

  Master Puppet spoke again. “Magrit. Let him go.”

  “He’ll be seen!”

  “Yes.” Master Puppet’s voice was heavy, like the weight of sadness was crushing it inside his throat. “He will.”

  “We’ve got to get him. We’ve got to get him back.”

  “Magrit.” Something in his tone stopped her, made her lower her arms and stand very still, watching Bugrat wander towards the knot of bodies. “You can’t stop him.”

  “But … but they’ll take him! They’ll take him away from me!”

  She darted out of the shadows and onto the sunlit lawn. Master Puppet called her name as she dashed across the open space but she ignored him, concentrating only on the little boy ahead of her.

  “Bugrat!” She bore down upon him and swooped him up in her arms, then turned to race back to the tiny safety of the dark. Bugrat struggled against her. As she reached the safety of the corner, he kicked out and threw himself away from her grip.

  She moved to recapture him but he scooted away and turned to face her. His face was blood red, his blond hair like a halo around his head. His body stiffened, as if gathering all his energy into one electric ball of defiance, ready to be thrown. He inhaled, and as Magrit’s hands moved to cover her mouth, he screamed the only word he would ever say to her.

  “No!”

  HIS SHOUT RANG OUT, BOUNCED back from the surrounding walls, and echoed over and over in the enclosed space.

  The world froze.

  The lumbering mob surrounding the grave turned around. Magrit faced them. Magrit saw the ring of faces and placed a protective hand on Bugrat’s shoulder. She backed him away: one step, then two. The strangers looked at her. She looked at the strangers.

  “Oh. My. Goodness.”

  “Look at this.”

  “Oh. My goodness.”

  The crowd surged towards them. Magrit wanted to run, to race past the corner of the chapel and throw herself into some safe bolthole where she could never be found, where she would never have to suffer the terrible scrutiny of so many tiny piggy eyes all at once. But part of her knew there were no more safe places, that there was nowhere left to hide. She stiffened, and the huge, terrible mass of bodies approached.

  “It’s a boy!” one of them cried. “A young boy!”

  A woman stepped out of the crowd and kneeled down in front of Bugrat.

  “Hello,” she said softly. “What’s your name?”

  Magrit grabbed Bugrat’s arm, but she couldn’t make him move. “Leave him alone!” she yelled, but the strange woman ignored her.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “Leave him alone!” Magrit pulled at Bugrat again. Her hands slipped off and she staggered. Just a step. Just a small step. It was enough. The invaders gathered round him, brushing past her as if she was invisible. She retreated, pushed out of the way by their great big legs and their indifference to her presence and their enormous behinds.

  “Leave him alone!” she screamed. “He’s mine! He’s mine!” Nobody heard her. They formed an impenetrable wall between her and Bugrat, cooing and murmuring. Within seconds she could not see him through the forest of meaty legs. She beat at their thick, unyielding backs, but her efforts were like a breeze on the trunks of old oak trees. Nobody so much as waved a hand to ward her off. They simply absorbed her blows as if she did not exist. Finally, she fell back, sobbing.

  “Please. Please leave him alone. Please.”

  The crowd poured towards the gap between chapel and wall, carrying Bugrat along with them, hidden from Magrit’s tear-stained face. They slipped into the greater space of the graveyard. Magrit ran after them, but something stopped her at the gap, some force that would let her go no further. She stood, legs trembling, and screamed after them.

  “Wait! Wait for me! Please! Please wait for me!”

  Nobody waited. Nobody so much as paused. One moment they were before her, a scrum of fleshy bodies and sharp sweat. Then they were gone, out of the cemetery and back through their various windows. And Bugrat was with them and Magrit had not even been able to say goodbye.

  She stood in the centre of the patch of grass that had once caused her so much unknowing fear. Now it felt like the only place she belonged, and it was the rest of the graveyard that filled her with dread. Because, for the first time, it seemed horribly large and empty and no longer hers. It belonged to the surrounding buildings and their loud, awful residents. They had invaded it and touched it and made it their own and, now, she realise
d as she turned in a whimpering circle, they had all left their windows open. Their curtains fluttered through the gaps and slapped against the bricks, calling “Ours, ours, ours,” in their soft voices. The windows were no longer barriers. They were entrances.

  The cemetery was the property of others now. It was part of their world and, in their own unthinking way, they had claimed it. They could, and would, climb back through their windows any time they wished. They would wander the grounds at will: naming it, owning it, shaping it to look and sound and feel the way they wanted their cemetery to be. She knew – had always known – somewhere deep inside her, that it had belonged to others before her arrival, that someone had dug the graves and raised the chapel and laid the paths and called it their own. Then it had, for a short time belonged to Magrit. Now it belonged to someone else again.

  And, Magrit understood, there was no place for her any more. They had not even seen her, so intent were they on their explorations and the discovery of the boy they stole away from her. They had reclaimed one of their own, and left her behind, rejected.

  She retreated from the knowledge, shuffling backwards until her feet caught upon the rough pile of dirt that marked the unknown girl’s grave and she slumped down. She leaned her head against the rough wooden cross and wrapped her arms around it as if hugging the neck of the parents she never knew. Her tears found their way down her face and fell to the ground.

  “I’m so sorry.” The voice that intruded upon her thoughts was soft and gentle. “I tried to warn you. I did not want it to come to this.”

  “Why?” Magrit opened her eyes, and saw the outline of Master Puppet, high up on his roof, away from the misery that had engulfed her.

  “Because, now …” He paused, and she heard him sigh, deep inside her. “Now there is no hiding from the truth, and I so wanted you to be able to hide away forever.”

  “What truth?” She wiped her eyes and gripped the cross even tighter.

  “Oh, my poor, poor girl, have you not worked it out?”

  Then Master Puppet did something she would never have expected, not in a million years of guessing. He uncurled his arms from the stone cross. He straightened his legs and stood up. As Magrit gaped in shock, he walked along the roof, then climbed down and stood on the grass next to her. He peeled her away from the cross. Then he folded his long cold arms around her and held her against the bones and sticks and twine of his rib cage.