The Song From Somewhere Else Read online

  (Frank realised later that she should have just told him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so that they could’ve had one of those funny moments you see in films, where the kid says, ‘I defeated dark forces and saved the world,’ and the parent, not really listening, just says, ‘Jolly good.’ But things like that rarely happen in real life.)

  ‘Jolly good,’ her dad said, taking some garlic bread out of the oven. ‘Smell that,’ he said. ‘Beautiful. I made it all myself.’

  She picked up a wrapper from the side and read, ‘“Six minutes at –”’

  ‘You should go next door,’ he interrupted. He meant into the living room.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s someone there you might want to see.’

  That was odd, Frank thought. Had Jess come back from holiday early or something?

  She went through to the lounge. Hector was sitting in the middle of the floor with his Lego spread out around him. And there, sat on the arm of the sofa, watching him carefully, was Quintilius Minimus.

  ‘He just turned up about ten minutes ago,’ her dad called from the kitchen. ‘Strolled in bold as brass as if nothing had happened.’

  The cat looked up at her, its odd coloured eyes blinking slowly as though pleased with the way everything had turned out.

  When they’d first spoken, the cat had called the window ‘a problem’, and now the problem had been dealt with. Frank had done what the cat had wanted, like people always seem to do with cats.

  Her heart beat loudly in her ears as she tried to hug him and he tried to escape.

  ‘You came home,’ she said, stating the obvious.

  When Frank went to bed that night she lay awake with her head buzzing.

  It wasn’t fear that was keeping her awake though.

  After what she had been through, after what she had seen and done, she couldn’t imagine any possible world out there in which Neil Noble would be a problem.

  ‘Maybe, maybe,’ her stomach said, not entirely getting into the spirit of things.

  Her thin curtains did little to keep out the last of the sunshine, and through the open window she could hear the muffled sounds of voices from a party a few gardens away.

  ‘Francesca?’ It was her mum, home late from work. ‘You asleep?’

  ‘No, Mum,’ Frank said.

  ‘Did you have a good day? Been busy?’

  ‘Yes. Nick and I saved the world.’

  ‘Really? How did you do that?’

  She sat down on the edge of the bed, right where Quintilius Minimus would curl up later on.

  And so Frank told her mum the story of the last few days (leaving out most of the Neil Noble bits, because it was her story and why shouldn’t she?) and her mum laughed and gasped and finally said, ‘Goodness, darling, after all that you ought to sleep well.’

  It was only when her mum had gone that Frank remembered the paperwork she’d signed, the promises she’d made to Special Agent Jofolofski and the king and the government. She hoped her mum hadn’t taken her story too seriously.

  FRIDAY AND ONWARDS

  The following morning Frank met Nick over at the rec.

  They sat on the swings and for a while swayed gently back and forth.

  There was no sign of Neil Noble or his goons.

  Frank said what had been on her mind, what her stomach had been telling her.

  ‘It was all my fault.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everything. It was me who told Noble about your mum, about the cellar.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Nick. ‘Who else could it have been? It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What? Of course it matters,’ she said.

  ‘Why? Did you tell them on purpose?’

  ‘No! Of course not. They made –’

  ‘Then how could it matter? We both knew they were unpleasant idiots to begin with. They did something unpleasant. Well, there’s no surprise there, is there?’

  ‘But if I hadn’t told them, then the window would never have been shut, and …’

  ‘I’d still have my mum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hugged her, Frank,’ he said slowly, not looking at her. ‘I got to touch her, and even though it was only a moment, only a few seconds, she held me. I never imagined that would happen. Never in my most unlikely dreams. And it was good. She was cool and soft, Frank. And she knew who I was. I was always afraid she didn’t know. But she knew.’

  He stopped talking and sighed. Frank didn’t look at him in case he was crying.

  Then he went on. ‘I hugged my mum, Frank, after all these years. For the first time. And I’ve got you to thank for that.’

  She laughed. Nervously, shyly.

  ‘But the window’s shut,’ she said, after a moment.

  ‘Oh, but I’ve still got her, Frank.’ He tapped his chest like someone in a schmaltzy Hollywood movie who says, ‘She’ll always be in my heart.’ He didn’t say that though. Instead he just said, ‘I can remember the music. I can remember her. It’s not ended.’

  They swung in silence for a few moments.

  There were still things that bothered Frank.

  ‘Your dad told me,’ she said, ‘that Special Agent Jofolofski had told him that if the window was shut that you … you might not …’ She didn’t want to say the word.

  ‘We’re talking about other worlds, about weird and spooky stuff, Frank,’ Nick said. ‘I guess no one knows exactly how it all works.’

  ‘So you knew you’d be OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. He paused. ‘I don’t know though. I think I feel different now. It’s hard to say, but since the window was shut, I’ve felt different. Maybe something’s changed.’

  Frank wondered if that meant he’d stopped growing, or stopped growing like a troll. Life would be awfully awkward if he ended up as tall as his mum.

  ‘I’ve made a promise,’ Nick said. ‘I haven’t told anyone, but I’ll tell you.’

  Frank looked at him.

  ‘There was a window in my cellar, wasn’t there? And that stick-creature thing was looking for these windows. Well, when I grow up, or grow up a bit more – you know, after we’re done with school, or maybe in the holidays – I’m going to look for them too. If there was one window, there must be more out there somewhere. I’ll find her. One day, I’ll see her again, Frank. If I can I’ll get back across to her. Somehow. I promise.’

  Frank was witness to this promise and she knew that he meant it.

  She heaved herself forward in the seat and started swinging higher.

  Time went on.

  Jess came back from her holiday and was shocked when Frank told her she’d made friends with Nick Underbridge. They didn’t talk for days, but Frank didn’t mind. Jess wasn’t a bad sort. She’d come round, given time.

  She hardly saw Neil Noble. He didn’t seem to go out much any more. By the time term started it didn’t matter anyway because he was up at the secondary school on the other side of town. Frank had no reason to be afraid in the playground and began to enjoy herself.

  She stuck up for Nick, got teased by some kids for hanging around with him, but that was to be expected. A lot of them had grown up during the holidays and there seemed less will in the air to be mean to him. School was OK, occasionally even fun.

  She laughed. Was happy, mostly.

  She never heard the music again.

  Sometimes though, she thought she caught an echo of it, faint and barely there, in music on the radio, and sometimes something like it peeked out of someone’s voice, but these times were few and far between.

  And although she couldn’t remember exactly how it had gone, couldn’t hum it, she never forgot it. It wasn’t that whenever she was sad (because sometimes things were still sad or frustrating or upsetting) she could take the memory of the music out and put it to her ear like a shell and become happy again. It wasn’t that, but it was a little like that.

  Nowadays she was happy to wake up in th
e morning. That was enough.

  That autumn she tried to learn the recorder again.

  She gave it up before Bonfire Night.

  A week before they broke up for the Christmas holidays, in one of the last sunny and surprisingly warm days of the year, she was walking home across the park, past the playground, when she saw Roy and Rob over by the swings. It looked like they were playing catch. They were throwing something back and forth between them. And then she saw a kid called Peanut kneeling on the floor.

  She wasn’t sure of his real name. He was in Year Four, two years below her.

  It looked like they had his pencil case.

  As she watched, she saw Rob throw it at Roy and Roy catch it and pretend to fumble it. It flew out of his hands into the brambles that had grown up where the nettles had been back in the summer.

  They laughed like great fat idiots and, knocking him to the ground as they went past, strode off out of the rec.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ her stomach said. ‘No need to get involved.’

  ‘Oi!’ she shouted.

  Rob and Roy turned at the noise and, seeing it was her, went quiet, but they didn’t stop walking.

  As they left she went over to the crying kid.

  ‘You all right?’ she asked.

  He wiped a snotty nose on his sleeve and said, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you know what?’ she said.

  He looked up at her with big, wet, red eyes.

  ‘Them two are the biggest idiots I’ve ever met. They’re daft as donkeys.’

  She held a hand out and pulled the little kid to his feet. He almost smiled.

  ‘OK,’ her stomach said. ‘Good deed all done. Let’s go have tea.’

  But Frank, without thinking too hard about it, waded out into the brambles, her school skirt flapping round her knees, the thorns tearing through her thick tights, snagging and pricking her.

  She bent down and lifted his pencil case up.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said, chucking it into his waiting hands.

  He caught it, fumbled it, dropped it.

  She looked down at her ragged legs.

  Tiny beads of blood were dripping on to her shoes.

  ‘Oi, Peanut,’ she said. ‘You got a hanky or something?’

  The kid pulled a snotty piece of once-white cloth from his pocket.

  ‘H-h-here you go,’ he said.

  Frank looked at his hand, small and pale and wobbling. Smiled at how simple it looked in the clear afternoon light. Just a little boy’s hand. Just a square of cotton fluttering.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You keep it. I’ll clean up when I get home.’

  Praise for The Imaginary

  ‘By turns scary and funny, touching without being sentimental, and beautifully illustrated by Emily Gravett, The Imaginary is a delight from start to finish’

  Financial Times

  ‘A moving read about loyalty and belief in the extraordinary’

  Guardian

  ‘The kind of children’s book that’s the reason why adults should never stop reading children’s books. Touching, exciting and wonderful to look at (Emily Gravett’s illustrations are incredible), I absolutely adored this. And I cried a little bit’

  Robin Stevens

  ‘A glorious delight … Loved it!’

  Jeremy Strong

  ‘Packed full of heart’

  Phil Earle, Guardian

  ‘This is young fiction of the very best quality, showcasing inspiration, inventiveness and an intoxicating passion for storytelling. The Imaginary has the potential to be a family favourite and a future classic’

  Booktrust

  ‘A richly visualised story which explores imaginary friends and the very special role they play in children’s lives. Emily Gravett’s illustrations capture the hazy world of the imaginaries brilliantly’

  Julia Eccleshare, Love Reading For Kids

  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Oxford, New York, New Delhi and Sydney

  First published in Great Britain in November 2016 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

  www.bloomsbury.com

  This electronic edition published in 2016 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  BLOOMSBURY is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Text copyright © A.F. Harrold 2016

  Illustrations copyright © Levi Pinfold 2016

  The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-4088-5336-8 (HB)

  Export ISBN: 978-1-4088-7933-7

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