Shared Skies

  Shared Skies

  by

  Josephine O'Brien

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright© 2014 Josephine O'Brien

  Published at Smashwords

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission.

  Dedication

  This book would never have seen the light of day if it weren’t for the support and encouragement of my wonderful daughters.

  Rachel, Heather, and Hazel.

  Three of the best things in my life.

  Chapter One

  The faces just didn't match.

  The folder lay open on the head’s desk; her eyes flicked from the photo of the beaming child with blonde curls to the sullen, shuttered face of the teenager opposite her, and back again. Gaiah watched her trying to reconcile them. The policewoman sitting across from her, watched too.

  Sunlight forced its way off the London streets through the Venetian blinds, painting the room with dull, yellow bands of dancing dust. While she waited for someone to say something, Gaiah stared at the tiny motes; she tracked the particles as they floated down onto the large, battered desk towered with files, forms, report books and copies. Mrs. Thompson, the headmistress, sat behind this desk. She pushed her lank, grey hair out of her eyes, ignored the other people in the room, and focused on the opened file.

  Gaiah sighed; it wasn't the first time she'd been called to this office, but it was the first time there had been so many other people involved. She could almost see the questions writing their way across the principal's tired face. How had all this happened? When did Gaiah's 'punk' haircut and attitude appear? The file was thick with complaints of truancy, lack of respect and intimidation. Yet it didn't contain one record of a home visit or one interview with her father, the only relative listed. Gaiah knew the file contained recommendations for home visits, made by numerous teachers. She also knew they were never going to happen. This time though, things had gotten out of hand.

  Jane Stack had a lump the size of an egg on her head, and her friends’ nose bleeds had been so severe the school nurse had sent them home. Their parents had made a complaint to the police, and they had sent Officer Bryant, a representative from their 'Police Safe School Co-ordination Scheme' to investigate. Bryant made the first move. Her voice, clear, precise and authoritative, broke the silence in the dimly lit room.

  “I have interviewed the alleged victims. There's a lot of confusion surrounding this incident. The girls can't agree on the sequence of events, not even who was attacked first. The complaints are vague. Jane said the attack was completely unprovoked, and that her friends, rushing to her rescue, had been viciously beaten by Gaiah.”

  The head opened her mouth, but Bryant held up her hand and continued, “However, I also interviewed the caretaker, who was emptying bins in the corridor at the time. He said Jane and her friends elbowed past Gaiah, knocked her sandwich from her hands and walked on it. He thought that there was some malfunction with the lights then, because he couldn't see clearly, but next thing, those girls were on the floor shouting and bleeding while Gaiah still appeared to be scraping up her lunch.” She paused.

  Gaiah looked up at her from her position on one of the mis-matched chairs around the desk, but she couldn't make eye contact. The policewoman wasn't looking at her. She was pushing her dark hair back behind her ears while reading her notes. Her hair, coming loose from a French plait, fell around a face which seemed naturally inclined to smiling, but it definitely wasn't smiling now.

  Bryant continued, “But clearly, some violent outburst occurred in this school on Monday morning. Looking through these files, the pattern developing over the last few years suggests Gaiah Hansfort could indeed be capable of this loss of control. I am amazed at the inaction of the school with regard to Gaiah, and I am personally taking charge of the situation.”As she spoke, she turned to Gaiah, and studied her.

  Gaiah really needed to make some significant eye contact. Although she had no guarantee that her plan would work, it was worth a try. Okay, now she’s going to look for some reaction from me, I’ll have her attention. Gaiah raised her eyes from the study of her finger nails and looked up at Bryant, but was distracted by the close scrutiny she was receiving.

  She suddenly saw herself through Bryant's eyes. Her savagely shorn hair and bitten nails, her deliberately blank and distant blue eyes, and her wide mouth tightened into a thin line. Gaiah didn't like the view and she had lost her opportunity to try and fix things.

  Bryant returned to her notes, and while she initialed the pages, she said,“Look, Gaiah, I would very much like to speak to your father. I'm sure he'd want to help, wouldn't he?”

  Gaiah's shrug was miniscule.

  “I'm sorry, but this has to be dealt with. You seem determined to say nothing, not even to give your side of things. Please realize I'm here to help in any way I can. You’re over eighteen, this could potentially be an assault case, let’s try and keep it within the Safe School’s remit, shall we?”

  Gaiah stared at the floor. Damn, this isn’t going right. She started biting the thumbnail of her tightly clenched fist.

  Bryant turned another page. “The school has agreed to my request that you stay at home for a day or two. So please, tell your father I'll be around at ten o’ clock tomorrow morning to discuss this with both of you. I have to warn you though, if you don't help us sort this situation out, this report,” and she waved the Manila file in her hand, “could go a lot further than my desk.”

  Gaiah lifted her head to look at the policewoman, but the pager on Bryant’s belt emitted three insistent beeps. She glanced down at it and got to her feet. “Excuse me, I have to deal with this,” she said and strode out of the room.

  Mrs. Thompson, sighed deeply, “Gaiah, dear, are you sure there's nothing you want to say, to help yourself, to help us?” Gaiah just stared silently at the floor. I can’t believe it, I can’t believe I haven’t even tried yet.

  A knock on the door forestalled any more pleas from Mrs. Thompson. The secretary opened the door enough to look in and say, “That police officer asked me to apologize for her and to tell you she'd been called away urgently. She said to confirm that she’d be seeing you,” she nodded towards Gaiah, “tomorrow at ten.”

  The click of the closing door behind her, echoed in the silence.

  Gaiah raised her head. “Can I go home now?” Her muttered question was barely audible.

  Mrs. Thompson nodded. “Yes, yes. I'll ring your father now to inform him about tomorrow.”

  “No phone,” countered Gaiah with another shrug.

  Mrs. Thompson nodded again. “Of course, I remember now, no phone. Well, in that case, yes, go straight home.” She walked around the desk and stood in front of Gaiah.

  Gaiah scraped her chair back as she stood. She was a full head taller than the principal who patted her awkwardly on the arm and said, “Don’t worry Gaiah. I'm sure things will be fine, we'll work something out.”

  Gaiah managed a small, thin-lipped smile before she slouched out of the office without another word. Her drab, brown jumper fell in loose folds from her hunched shoulders. Her hands were still fists, deep in her jeans pockets, defending and hiding herself from the world.

  Outside, on the steps of the school, Gaiah drew a deep breath. The bright September sky was high, and the trees on Notting Hill still rustled their summer greenery, yet Gaiah felt it might as well be the dullest, dampest February day. She scuffed her boots along the g
rey, gum-circled pavements. She was in no hurry to get home.

  She walked, almost obliviously, through the gushes of warm, stale air from the underground and past the ribbon of travel agencies and food shops.

  Oh, for God’s sake! Now what am I going to do?

  Automatically slowing to allow a red double decker bus to turn from Kensington Church Street, she crossed to the white brick maze of Linden Gardens. She loved this park, with its sheltering trees and reflected light. Her father had brought them here, to a huge, old house, eleven years ago. He'd knocked the top two floors into a massive, airy studio, and left the remainder of the echoing house, with its endless nooks and crannies, for Gaiah to explore alone.

  Her dark eyebrows furrowed towards each other. She’d had no chance with that woman, no moment of eye contact to 'suggest' to her, that calling tomorrow was an idea to forget. She’s going to call tomorrow and I can’t stop her. Once she meets Dad, I won’t be able to do a thing. She’ll tell him everything.

  Gaiah closed her eyes at the horror of that prospect. Anyone in her father’s vicinity was as impervious to her suggesting abilities as he was. She tugged the sleeves of her jumper down and curled her fingers into the cuffs to prevent herself from chewing her nails, while she tried to think her way out of this disaster.

  The only thing to do was to wait at the door tomorrow morning and catch that woman before she met Gaiah's father. She’d suggest to her that there had been a successful meeting and everything was satisfactorily in hand.

  She knew 'suggesting' such a major change would have been way beyond her a year ago. Ever since her seventeenth birthday, this ability was becoming stronger. What scared her was the fact that it was getting beyond her control. It’s stupid that I don’t even know if Dad has this ability too, though I suppose if he had, he’d be making people flock to buy his sculptures, and imagine if he didn’t have it and I told him about me…The thought of his panic and confusion was what always stopped her seeking his help.

  “Godamn it!” Gaiah voiced her agitation. Bloody hell, it’s always bloody Jane Stack. To think all I wanted in junior school was to be her friend, I can’t believe it. How many times did I suggest at her that she wanted to sit next to me or pick me for her team? And that time I made the teacher pick Jane and me to do a project together, God, Jane was furious. Silly cow did nothing, and got us both into trouble. And now…the police!

  Her furious reaction to the bullies on Monday and its strength had shocked Gaiah so much she had been unable to pull things together in time to smooth over the situation. Even worse, she hadn't consciously planned any of it. Nearly every day, Jane and her gang used her as the butt of their infantile jokes. She had watched them giggle and high five and her stomach clenched with a surge of fury. She’d glared at them, her eyes hot with anger and those girls slammed themselves into the walls. Despite the trouble it had caused, the memory of it gave her a dark satisfaction.

  How the hell had all that happened? All this, and it’s only the start of the year. I’m going to have to get a grip.

  Head down, she walked through the wavering puddles of sunlight created by the huge trees lining their street. God, I’m sick and tired of all this. She too, had seen the photo in the Principal’s office, and could hardly believe that once, in Scotland, and in what seemed like someone else’s life, she had been that girl, full of joy and confidence, sure of the world and of her place in it. And that hair! She remembered the feel of the silky curls.

  Her hands went unbidden to her head. Her scalp prickled and hairs tickled at her ears. The growth that always began imperceptibly mid-afternoon had started. It grew to her waist every night, every single, God damn night. Hacking it almost to the roots every day before school, and bringing scissors for the days she had extra classes, seemed to be the only way to prevent people from noticing what was happening to her.

  She could definitely trace this problem back just over a year ago, to her seventeenth birthday. The terror of that night had never left her; the night when she was woken by something soft and dry brushing slowly across her face and neck. Even walking along here in the safe sunshine, her heart sped up at that memory. How she had leapt out of bed, frantically groping for the light switch. How she had stared transfixed at her reflection. Her hair, which had been barely to her shoulders, now curled down her back.

  Despite her good intentions, she was chewing the sides of her nails at the memory of that awful, endless, torturous day. She had spent most of it, sick to her stomach with horror, sitting on her bed, watching the shining tendrils inch their way down around her. She’d been terrified it was never going to stop, making her even more of a freak. It finally stopped growing by early evening, and her hair hung to the tops of her thighs.

  Her father’s reaction, when he finally appeared, was, “hasn't it always been like that?”

  Anyway, he thought it looked so beautiful and so like her mother’s that he plunged into another bout of depression and stayed closeted in his studio for the next two weeks. She rubbed her hand across the chopped spikiness, already beginning to soften with length.

  Why on earth didn’t I just say I’d had extensions. That would have been so much easier. Because I panicked, that’s why and just wanted it gone. Then, of course, the new look kept people at bay. Which is the safest thing for me, isn’t it?She sighed and dug her hands deeper into her pockets. Her scowling reflection kept pace with her as she passed the shining windows of well-kept houses.

  Her reverie was broken by a clipboard being waved in her face and a loud voice close behind it.

  “’Ello, darlin’. We're doing a survey for No Limit Broadband, just need a minute of your-”

  Gaiah gave the man a curt, “No thank you, not now.”

  His cheesy grin faded. “Come on sweetheart, just a few questions.” His hand reached for her arm.

  Gaiah barely broke her stride, just looked in his direction and met his gaze. 'I must run.' The words seemed to leap from her head to his.

  He ran. With a small smile, Gaiah watched his pages scattering and his shirt tails flying. She'd feel guilty later, but for now it felt good.

  Pushing open the heavy, creaking front door, Gaiah listened out for music from her father’s studio. If it was Dylan, the Beatles, or any soft rock, she knew he was in the contemplative stage of work and to leave him alone. If it was the Stones or Zeppelin he was hewing and carving, and equally wanted to be left alone. Either way–left alone.

  Gaiah shrugged and headed through the large, paneled door to her right, into the kitchen. As always, the room smelled of fresh coffee, her father’s eternally brewing pot stood, still steaming, on one side of the hob. Sunlight streamed through the huge multi-paned window, warming patches on the terracotta floor.

  She flung herself into one of the small, soft armchairs at either side of a dark green Aga. This was the most comfortable room in the house, but it was here Gaiah always felt most alone. It should be alive with conversation and laughter, but instead, it just seemed way too big and very empty.

  On the few occasions they ate together, Gaiah and her father were more inclined to read than talk. This was easier for Gaiah. What could she say? “Hey, today I made the maths teacher give the whole class their homework off.” Or, “today I tried to join the chess club, but no one would pair up with me.” It was easier to tell a few lies about her life and read her book. She picked it up.

  Two pieces of hot, buttered toast, a cup of tea and three chapters later, Gaiah felt a bit better. Tomorrow could be dealt with. The music was finished. That meant work was paused. Maybe I can have a chat, a cheerful, casual chat with him. Maybe today’s a day when he’ll tell me something more about my mother.

  She ran up the curved staircase, past the huge stained glass windows, now exhibiting their abstract designs on the pale walls. Her father’s studio was never out of bounds. However, if he was involved in a piece, he would look up, distant and bewildered, and, no matter what the issue was, ask, “Don’t we have a housekee
per for this sort of thing?”

  Gaiah pushed open the heavy door. Her father was on his knees in front of a tree stump he was carving, his head in his hands. He looked up as Gaiah came into the room, and she could see his red rimmed eyes.

  “Dad, can we talk?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Gaiah… I just can’t… I don’t know what’s happening. Ten years on and I can still feel her near me. More so, these last few months...I can’t think straight. Every so often I feel I am creating something that will have her spirit in it, but...” he trailed off.

  Gaiah put her arms around his broad shoulders as he stared into space. She knew there would be no answers today.

  Later, as she chased sleep, she thought about her father and how he had never really dealt with his wife’s death. There was a girl in her class whose mother died four years ago and her father was already married again. Gaiah’s father always seemed as if he was recently bereaved. She’d looked up depression on the internet, his wasn’t the worst in the world, but it was difficult to share a house with. Although she loved him dearly and knew he loved her, she wished her father was more…normal.

  Him, normal? The thought suddenly struck her as absurd. What’s so normal about me? I’m some kind of freak of nature and he’s helpless and depressed, God knows what Mum would have been like!

  A longing for her mother squeezed her heart hard enough to make her gasp. She curled up tight, closed her eyes and, as so often before, tried to dredge her mind for any forgotten detail. Above all, she could remember the lemony smell of her mother’s shampoo, the soft feel of her cheek, but then her face seemed to blur with that of Gaiah’s grandmother, and she was never exactly sure who she was remembering.

  She swung out from under the quilt and padded in a few cold footsteps to her dressing table and pulled open the top drawer. She didn't need a light to find what she was looking for. It was where it always was, in the faded floral box that her grandmother had given her. She slid the photo from its plastic covering and held it by its edge. Faded and creased, it showed a tall, slim woman whose curly hair hung well below her waist, laughing up at a giant bear of a man whose arms were wrapped around her as if he would never let her go.