3

They had found it unnerving how quickly Mr Armitage's attention had returned when they said they believed Ella had left. He had, for as long as they'd known him, been a man altogether elsewhere. What about Ella's departure had so gripped him while all the gory details of her conduct and speech had not?

The bacon was still in its place, untouched. Calum put it on the top shelf of the AGA to warm up while he waited for two new slices of toast. The eggs were no longer any good, so he chucked a pan on the stovetop and, a minute later, quickly fried two eggs. Ketchup and brown sauce on the plate, and a veritable 'breakfast of champions' was ready for Dad, though it was now well past midday.

They went up together with the breakfast and a tea Conor had made on a tray for him. Down the low hall with the beams, up the stairs out of the dark tradition of the old cottage, up into ever-brightening spaces and on to the annex where the ceiling moved further away, and the rooms were more glass than brickwork. The light shone in on them from a million telescopic sights, lensed through every shard of ice outside, beaming up at them. They were in the heart of a bloody diamond. They reached for the rods that pulled the tall curtains shut, and a moment later, they could see. Dad was there, eyes open, there were long black tracks down both his arms from the shoulder, right down through the hand. His head was wrong, the chin pointed too high and surrounded by too many pillows even for this ridiculous oversized bed. All the wet red that had vacated his arms had long since blackened and hardened. Ella was on the floor beside the bed, upright, gazing out the westward window toward their oak. Her hands were black too, tightly gripping a leather purse. Not quite. Conor looked more closely at her hands and back at his father. She was holding his scalp.

Calum dropped the tray and threw up. Ella didn't move. Conor stayed put - still looking at her hands. He went inward again - an immediate and automatic evacuation from this grim reality. The bus carried him as it always did, further and further from home. It was a short ride, and when he was ready to once again alight, the patient passenger entered, paid both fares, and he came flying back through the roof and onto the floor beside his dead father, attempting to rip his scalp out of his sister's hands. Her grip was tight, and it was slippery; a mess of blood, nerves and hair gel. He screamed at her to give it back. She wouldn't. She stayed still. He could hear himself screaming now at the top of his lungs. It was like listening to someone who had fallen down a well. His hands slid again, and he fell to the floor. He got up and ran at her. Punched her. He'd never done that to anyone before. Some politeness of his had resisted and thrown sand in his eyes, disoriented, he hit her on the left side of her forehead. Just then - a laugh - loud, low and painful, it was coming from far away within her.

"Come in," said Ella then. She locked those wicked eyes on him. Still holding the scalp in her right hand, she grabbed his wrist with her left and started to pull. He felt his hand slipping through the skin of hers. He looked at her, terror filling him. She let go and wrapped her arms around him. He felt his fear ease then. Until every point of connection started to move closer to her. She had him tight. He was moving into her, through her. He was a river flowing into the sea. He took a deep breath, matching hers. He slowed, then everything went white.

"Where the fuck are we, Ella? What the fuck is happening?"

"Trust me, Con."

Conor started crying now, but he was already in the river. The world was water now. The world was paint. The world was mud.

"No." His tone betrayed his boyhood, his righteous confusion.

Ella was everywhere.

"Am I in your mouth?" he asked.

"What?"

"Never mind."

Few things sober the grief-stricken mind like feeling stupid. Conor realised then that he could not see himself. He held out his hands, but there was nothing there, just blank white. He thought he turned to look behind him, then he bent over and looked backwards through his legs. But he had no way of telling whether he had really moved at all. His body was missing. All sensations of movement were present without any feedback. He drew the only sensible conclusion; the horror he'd just witnessed had sent him blind.

Ella leant over and asked from everywhere -

"Ah, you made it! Are you ready?"

He wasn't ready to reply. She continued regardless.

“You're here to help me find the three sisters".