Black, p.1
Black, page 1
About the Book
Ebony Marshall is in her final year of high school. Five months, two weeks and four days … She can’t wait to leave the town where she’s known only as ‘Black’. Because of her name, of course. But for another reason, too.
Everyone says Black Marshall is cursed.
Three of her best friends have died in tragic accidents. After Oscar, the whispers started. Now she’s used to being on her own. It’s easier that way.
But when her date for the formal ends up in intensive care, something in quiet little Dainsfield starts to stir. Old secrets are revealed and terrifying new dangers emerge.
If only Black could put all the pieces together, she could work out who her real enemies are. Should she run for her life, or stay and fight?
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Risk
Praise
Copyright Notice
For David, Zoe, Tia and Eve
ONE
Home time is the noisiest time of day. I throw my bag over my shoulder, weave my way through chattering clumps of students and exit through the main building without saying goodbye to anyone, like always. I take the stairs two at a time and head towards the gate.
‘Hey, wait up.’
I turn around. It’s the new guy, Aiden Sweet. I’ve heard the other girls talking about how hot he is. He’s been here for three weeks, but other than spotting him at the canteen a couple of times, we haven’t crossed paths because we don’t share any classes. He looks me straight in the eye and thrusts his hand forward for mine.
‘Hi. I’m Aiden.’
‘Hi.’
We shake. He shifts awkwardly from side to side, nervously clamping his jaw shut.
‘I’m in English B,’ he says.
I nod, confused.
‘But you’d know that. It’s just, you know, we seem to be studying completely different subjects and English is the only one we all have to do, so if there was going to be one class the same it could have been English. But it isn’t. I mean, we don’t share the class, because you’re in A …’ He laughs, embarrassed. ‘Look, I’m new. But you know that too. Oh man, this was so much smoother in my head. I’ll jump straight to it. The formal on Friday night … I was wondering: do you already have a date?’
I’m stunned. I haven’t been asked out in three years. Not since Oscar –
I hear someone laugh, a hushed hiss from the seats behind the hedge. Two more follow. Their sniggers are a familiar sound and I know instantly it’s the three guys I call the Knuckleheads: Nigel Parks, George Trimble and Jake Holland. They bully anyone they see as an easy target. That includes me. They think I’m odd, a little scary: a freak.
Aiden’s face flushes red. He’s heard them, too, and realises he’s being played. I’m seething. For years I’ve put up with their taunts. And now they’re using the new guy in their stupid games. I feel like storming over and screaming at them. Or throwing something at them. Something sharp and heavy. An axe comes to mind.
I step in closer and speak so that only Aiden can hear. ‘The idiots behind you – they told you to ask me out?’
He smiles. ‘Kind of.’ His voice is low and deep. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I realise you must already have a date … As if you wouldn’t …’
I almost forget the sniggers as I bite down a grin. Sweet Aiden thinks they put him up to it because I already have a date. Cute, but wrong. The Knuckle heads assume I’ll say no because I never go to anything. I open my mouth to tell Aiden I don’t go to school stuff, but then he meets my eye. I see desperation. Desperation to fit in, to be spared the humiliation of rejection in front of the Knuckleheads. I feel for him. Being new must be a tough gig.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t have a date.’
He stares at me. The silence is awkward. Now the embarrassment is mine. He no longer wants to be my date. He’s probably wondering what’s wrong with me, why I’m the target of the prank. If I was popular – normal, even – I’d already be going. After all, it’s the year twelve formal, the biggest event of the year, and it’s in two days.
‘Would you like to go with me?’ he says finally.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Sure. Why not?’
His smile is uncertain.
‘I’ve got to get to work,’ I say as I turn.
He throws his bag over his shoulder and falls into stride alongside me. ‘Where do you work?’
‘At the water plant.’
‘That’s cool.’ He pauses. ‘Not what I expected. I thought you would say at the servo or the supermarket.’
‘Nope. I collect and analyse water samples from the dams that supply the town. We treat the water and make sure it’s okay for people to drink.’
‘Right. That’s different … Kinda like you.’ He laughs. ‘You’re not what I expected at all. I can’t quite work you out.’
I stop walking and face him. ‘Look, I said I’d go to the formal with you to stick it up the three douche-bags hiding behind the hedge. I don’t go to school functions. Or any functions. And I don’t date.’
A smile spreads across his face. ‘Ahhh, now it makes sense. Hey, I have no issues with gays. I’ve got friends who are gay. I’ll still go to the formal with you.’
‘How charitable.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I want to go with you, even though it’s not –’
‘I’m not gay.’ I peel away from him, through the school gate and onto the footpath.
He catches up. ‘Okay, this isn’t going as planned. I was much funnier, more charming and quicker witted when I rehearsed. And you weren’t so –’
I stop and wait for it, challenging him with my glare. ‘Weird? Psycho? Scary?’ Anger creeps into my voice.
A smile plays on his lips. ‘No. Intriguing. Beautiful,’ he whispers, holding my gaze. ‘Sexy.’ He blushes. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Nothing’s coming out right.’
I’m thrown by this guy. I don’t know if he’s joking, stirring or serious.
‘I’m such an idiot sometimes,’ he says.
I turn away from him.
‘Black?’
What now? I stop and slowly turn to face him.
‘Will you still go to the formal with me?’
‘So you can get your prize?’
‘No, it’s not like that.’
‘Do you think I don’t know what they say about me? Do you think I don’t know asking me was a dare?’
‘No. Yes. That’s too many questions. You’re right. I mean, you’re called Black, right? You must have done something to earn that name. I’m curious.’ He moves forward as he talks, closing the gap between us. ‘At first I thought you might be a weekend goth. Your hair is black; you could carry it off if you wanted to. But goth doesn’t quite fit. I’ve heard those three guys call you Black Magic, so I thought maybe you do séances or practise voodoo, but hocus-pocus doesn’t fit either. I mean, you analyse water samples so you must be a science-head, right? And then I thought maybe you have a kooky, black sense of humour, yet you don’t seem –’
‘Do you analyse everyone you meet like this?’
‘Yes … Mostly … I try to.’
‘Psychology?’
‘Media studies. I write screenplays, create characters.’ He laughs. ‘God, listen to me. “I write screenplays.” It’s not like I’m some kind of Hollywood hotshot or anything. I want to be a screenwriter. I’m trying to write a movie … another movie. I’ve attempted a few … You know, still learning –’
‘So you’re profiling me, like a character in a script?’
He stares at me. It seems the rambler has run out of things to say.
‘I burnt down the local church when I was ten,’ I say, keeping a straight face.
‘You did not,’ he says, his eyes popping.
‘Yes, I did. Then I went on a rampage in the cemetery. I dug up the graves and ate the bones of dead people.’
He laughs. We both do, unguarded, together, before we realise it’s a genuine moment. His lips come together, perfect in shape and colour. My gaze brushes over them before reaching his eyes. Hazel. Warm. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing, of how his shirt is pulled tight across his chest under the weight of his bag, of how his chest rises with every breath.
‘I’d better go,’ I say, a bit off balance.
‘Right,’ he says, his voice thick. The moment drags into an awkward awareness but he doesn’t pull back. He’s confronting, intense, like Oscar was.
His interest won ’t last. He’ll soon hear the full story about me, if not from the Knuckleheads, from Ged. She’ll waste no time.
I turn to cross the street. Before I step off the kerb onto the road, I look back. Aiden doesn’t look away. He doesn’t pretend indifference.
I look him straight in the eye. ‘My name is Ebony,’ I say. ‘Ebony Marshall.’
His face shows no recognition that ‘ebony’ means ‘black’. For one brief moment he’s forgotten to wonder why they call me Black. One beautiful, brief moment. Maybe this guy won’t listen to what they say. Maybe Aiden Sweet won’t believe in the curse of Black Marshall.
I leave Aiden staring after me and start in the direction of the church at the end of our street. Cars congest the road, parked close on both sides. The further I walk from Aiden, the more the heat in my face fades and the easier my breathing becomes. I can’t stop my lips from curling into a smile.
Organ music pulls the warmth from my thoughts. A black hearse sits close to the church door, waiting for a coffin. A ghastly tune plays as people file outside.
Father Ratchet leads the pallbearers. Goose-bumps crawl over my arms and up the back of my neck at the sight of him. Though he stands out in his robes, even when he’s in civilian clothing he’s conspicuous in a crowd. He’s a head taller than most, his hair is shock white and his eyes are milky grey. It’s his eyes that freak me out the most. They make me think of vampires.
His lips move with the whisper of prayer, but his eyes are on me. A shudder passes through my shoulders and I walk faster. When I look back, he’s looking over the top of the mourners and down the street.
Directly at me.
Like he always does.
TWO
In the safe confines of my bedroom, my mind floats back to Aiden Sweet. A smile takes over my lips as I lie on my side and hug my pillow. I’m overwhelmed. I didn’t expect to feel like this about anyone for a long time yet … Definitely not today, here in this town. But there it was, a few fleeting seconds of it. Connection. I know it exists. I once had it, wasn’t scared of it. When people weren’t scared of me.
I’ve grown so used to shutting myself off from the world that it’s become normal. After Oscar, it was me building a wall around myself, shutting out the looks, the whispers, creating a safe zone of untouchable numbness. But I did it for too long. People stayed away. Things never returned to normal and now the wall – self-made or not – is just how it is. That’s why I can’t wait to leave Dainsfield at the end of the year. I’ll be able to do what I want with no one watching. I plan to let go. Be normal. Take risks with my heart, out of view from those who do care about me, those who sit on the sidelines with worried faces, hoping I don’t crack.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and exhale slowly to stop myself choking up. I’m surprised at how emotional I feel. I didn’t know I missed the closeness of others so much – that unguarded laughter, and having someone totally get you.
I reach under my bed, disturbing the thin layer of dust on the lid of the case I drag out. Inside are three photos in frames, which once sat on my bedside table. I put them away because it’s easier not to see them every day. I line them up on my bed. These are my friends who have died: Jess, Louis and Oscar.
Three young, smiling faces. Three beautiful people.
Their only connection is me.
That’s how the Whisperers see it, anyway.
The Whisperers’ real name is the Pure Apostles, or the PA’s. Dad found out about the group from an old colleague, Kevin Barrett, who went to a few of their meetings after his wife died. Father Ratchet told Kevin that the Pure Apostles could help him deal with his loss, and Kevin hoped they could, but he couldn’t get past the whispering chants they did during the meetings. Ever since Kevin told Dad about it, Dad called them the Whisperers. Kevin’s also how we know the group is led by Father Ratchet. The followers aren’t the usual Sunday-morning churchgoers. These guys have extra meetings a few nights a week, and everything about them is kept secret. Kevin even said he had to sit behind a screen and wasn’t allowed to see or join the others until he became a full member. He never got to that stage. He said it was all a bit weird and wasn’t his thing.
But it seems to work for some people. Especially troubled, gullible people like Ged – Geraldine.
Before, Ged and I were actually friends. But everything changed when Ged’s father bashed up her mother. Ged and her older brother were okay, but their mum ended up in hospital with a massive head injury, and she never really recovered.
Like with Kevin, Father Ratchet didn’t miss the opportunity to recruit. Dad and I happened to be walking past Ged’s house the morning after it had happened. I remember seeing the blue and white crime-scene tape draped over the front gate so no one would enter. Cole’s police car was parked on an angle in the front yard, which was littered with empty beer bottles and broken furniture. A half-closed suitcase lay on the lawn, clothes strewn across the grass. With the air caught in my throat at the shock of the whole scene, I stopped and wondered what may have happened. Then I saw a flash of white retreat deeper into the shadows at the side of the house. It was Father Ratchet. I remember the chill that went down my spine at the sight of him lurking around like that. There was something really disturbing – sinister, almost – about seeing him there that day. Something unsettling about the fact that he clearly didn’t want to be seen.
Since then, Ged’s father’s been in jail – for what happened that day and for other things, too. And after that, although it’s not openly spoken about, Ged turned into a devoted follower of the PA’s and Father Ratchet. It’s funny how some secrets are known by everyone, yet everyone pretends not to know.
Once Ged became a Whisperer, she became convinced that I was cursed, that I caused my friends to die, and she’ll tell anyone who’ll listen to stay away from me.
I place the photos back into the case, close the lid and push it under my bed. I don’t open the case often, but sometimes I just need to see them. I need to remember that I was capable of sharing close friendship, capable of connection.
I glance at my watch and realise I’ve lost track of time and don’t have long to get to work. I quickly change into layers of clothing for the ride and grab my windbreaker and bike helmet on the way out the door. The air is crisp – the fog is moving in already, dimming the afternoon sunlight. Icy air bites my face and cools my lungs but I heat up with the work of the ride. It’s all uphill. I pass the main dam on the way. Fog sits low over the water. I’m seventeen and should be learning to drive, but after what happened to Jess and Oscar, the thought of getting behind the wheel of a car terrifies me. I refuse to learn. I’m not a nervous passenger, it’s only the idea of driving that bothers me. The responsibility is huge. I couldn’t live with myself if I crashed the car and killed someone.
Dad says my fear is irrational and that I need counselling. He says I am allowing the past to dictate my future. From a work perspective, he wants me to get my licence as soon as I turn eighteen, but I’ve convinced him I can do the job on my bike. This means I can never complain about going out in bad weather or in winter when it gets dark early. It’s not always enjoyable but I’ll keep doing it. It will always be better than driving.
The office is a large fibro box that was built in a neighbouring town and then transported here in sections. It’s a total eyesore. Clearly nothing was spent on design or aesthetics to make it blend into the environment, but it’s well situated and extremely well insulated. The moment I get inside I’m boiling, and I start stripping off my layers.
‘I’ve never seen this before,’ Ed is saying, as he removes papers from the lower pockets of his cargos. He wears khaki shorts, a white t-shirt, a navy polar fleece vest and work boots every day of the year, even if it’s freezing.
