The Magpie Effect - The Magpie Chronicles Book 1 (#Wattys2015)

Chapter 9

It was Saturday morning, which always meant two things.

Firstly, it meant that I had to get out of bed a lot earlier than was necessary - or polite, for that matter. When I didn't get out of bed by nine, Vivian would come in and tear the sheets off my body so that I had no choice but to curl into a little ball and moan until I dragged myself up.

Secondly, it meant that a visit to number eleven Lower Cross Road was due. I wasn't sure if there was ever such a place as Upper Cross Road but its consort was pleasant, its big chamber houses and well-kept gardens designed perfectly for the middle-class families that inhabited them.

Except for number eleven. Number eleven was entirely out of place. The hanging baskets were either dead or overflowing and the lawn looked as if it hadn't met the jaws of a mower for decades. There were gnomes in there somewhere, lost to the elephantine grass that engulfed them. I remembered them from when I was a child, back when my grandmother was alive and she made sure that the place was relatively looked-after.

It reeked of desertion, of stubbornness and eccentricity, which just so happened to be the defining characteristics of its prime resident, the mice and the attic-sparrows notwithstanding.

"Let's get this over with, then," Vivian said as we climbed out of the car. "Have you got the TV guide?"

I sighed reluctantly and gave the rolled-up wad of paper a morose wave.

The look she gave me was half-tempered, as though she'd been hoping I'd forgotten and we'd have to abandon the whole expedition. "And I've got the tripe," she said, gesturing towards the covered plate in her hands. "Let's go."

We picked our way up the garden path and Vivian knocked once on the front door before pushing it open. The hallway inside was dark and gloomy, the stairs vanishing into darkness. All the rooms we passed were in a similar vein, apart from a thread of light beneath the door that lead into the living room. A dull throb of sound rattled through it; I felt as though I was stood outside a grimy rocker bar.

"Aunt Vera?" my mother called out. She opened the door to the living room open, and the noise that rushed out to greet us almost clotheslined me to the ground.

Aunt Vera was sitting in her usual armchair, a patchwork blanket thrust across her legs, and the TV set blaring before her like a bonfire. There was a troop of masked men on the screen, screaming into microphones and throwing their guitars about like they were cotton earbuds. One had a mask that had spiked tentacles sprouting from where the mouth should have been.

"Aunt Vera?" I couldn't hear her over the din, but I could see Vivian's lips forming the words. She came around the armchair and stood in front of the television, hammering at the volume button until the band were silently head-banging on the screen.

"Aunt Vera, what on earth are you watching?"

"Screamo Saturdays," the old lady grumbled, "until you came along, that was."

"Why, exactly, were you watching that?"

"Lost the remote, didn't I? I was flicking through the channels, put it down to check on my toast, and when I came back it was gone. Been watching this ever since."

Vivian shook her head and waved me over. "Saffy, darling, help me have a look for the remote before your aunt goes deaf."

"Pah! Too late for that." Aunt Vera swung around in her chair and squinted at me. "The girl is here?"

"Yes, I'm here," I said, stepping forward. I was 'girl'. Aunt Vera had never referred to me as anything otherwise. "The same as last Saturday. And the one before that, and the one before that."