𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Twenty Six - Facing The Dark

Nola knew it was bad when she couldn't tell if her eyes were open or not. When it was so pitch-black, she might have been dead or dreaming. Oh, and when she could't seem to move any part of her body, so it felt like she was floating as a ghost might float. Yeah, that was bad too.

Utter silence didn't help much either.

She laid there. Nothing happened for a time. Inwardly, she was playing catch-up, still running through a screaming storm of broken glass and wood and whirling clothes... Then, like a switch had been touched, her sense of smell suddenly flicked on. She got mould and dirt and the bitter tang of blood, as if someone had shoved it all violently up her nose. It made her sneeze, and with that sneeze came shooting darts of pain that acted like signposts in the dark. All at once, Nola could tell where her body was, twisted out awkwardly, lying on rough ground. She was bent on her side, one of her arms pressed beneath her, the other flung out like she was one of those discus throwers you get on old Greek pots. It seemed to her that her head was lower than her body, and pressed against soft cold mud. When she breathed, she could feel her hair shifting against her face.

Rather to her surprise, when Nola tried to move, her limbs responded without too much searing agony. Everything was sore, in fact she was practically one big bruise, but nothing seemed broken. She half rolled, half slid her body sideways, wincing as it collided with unknown objects. She curled her legs in close, pushed herself up, and sat there in the dark.

She put tentative fingers to her brow. One whole region of her hair was matted and sticky, presumably with blood. She'd suffered a bad blow to the head. How long she'd been unconscious was impossible to say.

Next, she felt around at her side. Rapier: gone. Rucksack: gone. The skull, with all its unnecessary and inappropriate comments: gone. Stupidly, she kind of missed it. There was an empty space in her head where she felt its voice should be.

Part of Nola wanted to curl up again and just go back to sleep. She felt woozy, uncoordinated, and oddly disconnected from her predicament. But her agent's training kicked in. Slowly, carefully, she put her hands to her belt.

It was still there, the pockets packed and full. So she wasn't helpless yet. She crossed her legs stiffly. Then, she ran her fingers among the canisters and straps until she came to the little waterproof pouch beside the rapier loop. The matches pouch. Always carry matches. As rules go, it's up there with the best. It's probably somewhere around rule seven. Nola wouldn't put it as high as the biscuit rule, but it was definitely top ten.

Rule seven (b), obviously, is to keep your matchbox well stocked. In the past, Nola had sometimes let that slide, but Holly, with her attention to detail, had always made sure it was stuffed full. Nola could feel how crammed it was as she got it out, and felt a flush of gratitude, which immediately morphed into guilt.

Holly...

She thought of their argument, the way they'd bickered. Yes, what she had said was true; she did feel inferior to Holly and she did feel pushed aside. However, her anger and stupidity had stirred the Poltergeist to life. It gave her a dull, sick feeling. She thought of Holly leaping over the gap, and then of Lockwood reaching out for Nola – and the sick sensation in her belly deepened like an ocean trench.

The Poltergeist had caught him up and flung him away.

Was he all right? Was he even alive?

Nola gave a sob of self pity, and at once swallowed it back down. She didn't like the hollow echo. She also didn't like the way that her skin prickled at the sound. No more displays of emotion it was! Wherever it was that she had ended up, she could already tell that she wasn't alone.