Blue Moon (Book One in The Blue Crystal Trilogy) (2 page)

I felt someone shake my
shoulders gently.

“What time is it?” I rubbed my
eyes, trying to see the red digital figures on the alarm clock.

“Time for you to get up if you
don’t want to miss the bus,” came my mother’s voice.

There was an edge to her voice
that said, ‘If you don’t respond now, I will get very annoyed,’ and
I sat upright, noticing with horror that it was already 7.30am.

“Mum, have you seen the time?”
I shouted. “I’ve only got half an hour before the bus goes. Why
didn’t you wake me sooner?”

‘Better get a move on, then,
hadn’t you?” she retorted. “Your breakfast is ready, all you have
to do is eat it and put some clothes on.”

I quickly pulled on a pair of
old grey jeans, ripped at the knee, a black T-shirt and my new grey
SuperDry jacket, a recent purchase on eBay. Converse trainers and a
black leather rucksack completed the look. Yes, that worked. I
might be late, but I still had an image to keep up.

Running into the bathroom, I
splashed cold water on my face and took a good look in the mirror.
Yuk. Dark circles under my eyes made me look ancient. I searched
through the various pots and potions on the shelf until I found my
mother’s Instant-Action Anti-Fatigue Eye Gel.

‘
Refreshes skin, reduces
puffiness, regenerates appearance. Proven formula. Instant
results….
’

Great, just what I needed. My
mother swore by this. I applied it liberally and was instantly
disappointed. If anything, it accentuated the dark circles, which
now glistened brightly. Sighing impatiently, I attempted to wipe it
off and applied eyeliner to my now greasy eyes, usually my best
feature. Why did these disasters always occur when you were late? I
quickly dragged a brush through my tangled blond hair and tied it
up in a high ponytail. That would have to do. One day I would find
the time to have a proper beauty routine. Grabbing my rucksack, I
ran to the top of the stairs, and letting my hand slide down the
stair rail, took the steps two at a time, rushing into the
breakfast room, breathless and flushed.

Granddad was already there,
wearing his brown cardigan and eating his usual boiled egg and
toast. Mum was in the kitchen, stacking up the dishwasher.

This was my family: Mum, blond,
pretty, a young-looking forty year old, who worked as a wages clerk
for a local timber company, and Granddad, aged somewhere in his
70’s. Mum had divorced my dad when I was just two and had never
remarried despite various offers. He lived in America and worked in
sound production, but I didn’t have much to do with him. There’d
been sporadic contact over the years, when he’d visited the UK on
business, but when I was ten, he’d remarried and started a new
family.

After that, there’d never been
room in his new life for me and, to be honest, it didn’t much
bother me. I’d been too young when he left to have established a
relationship with him, and on the few occasions I had seen him
there’d been such a distance and awkwardness between us I was
always glad when the visit came to an end. Enforced trips to
McDonalds and the cinema were hardly my idea of a laugh, and I
dreaded the obligatory questions about school and family. Over the
years, he’d sent me a few photos of my new half-siblings, twin
girls and a boy, but they looked nothing like me. They were
thickset and dark, and I could never relate to them as family. It
would be quite interesting to meet them, I suppose, but there
again, you don’t miss what you’ve never had. So I didn’t give them
much thought and was actually quite relieved when dad stopped
visiting. And, of course, we had Granddad.

We’d lived with Granddad for
fourteen years now, ever since my gran had died and the house had
got too big for him. It was an arrangement that suited us all. Mum
and I had exchanged our small, rented flat in the city for a nice
house in a village, in the right catchment area for the best local
schools. Granddad had company and we had security. Mum had a
permanent baby-sitter and I had a surrogate father figure, albeit a
granddad. Although, mum did get a bit miffed when people
occasionally mistook him for her elderly husband, which was always
a source of amusement for me. I mean, who in their right mind could
think my mum and granddad were an item? He looked just like a
granddad: snowy white hair, twinkly bright eyes and a kind,
friendly face that was always smiling. There again, by implication
those same people must have thought he was my dad, which is a bit
embarrassing now I think about it, although it’s hardly something
I’d lose any sleep over. He was just my Granddad and he was there
when I needed him. I didn’t think much beyond that. His nose was
permanently in a book, and when not reading, he’d be listening to
jazz records - most of my formative years had been spent listening
to Acker Bilk, Kenny Ball and his Jazz Men, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy
Gillespie and other notable greats. He also had a predilection for
wearing carpet slippers and brown cardigans, despite mum’s best
efforts to smarten him up. As you can see, not exactly the kind of
husband you’d automatically place with a well-presented,
fit-looking, forty year old woman.

“Morning Gramps,” I shouted at
him, making him jump, then grinning widely at him.

“Morning, Emily,” he said,
neatly cracking open his egg. “Ooh, good, a nice dippy yolk.
Yours’ll be hard. It’s been standing there for ten minutes.” He
looked up. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“Nothing. I shouldn’t have
watched the late film, that’s all. It didn’t finish till 1.30 this
morning. Don’t tell mum,” I added quickly.

“Don’t tell me what?” asked my
mother, coming out of the breakfast room.

“That your Instant Action
Anti-Fatigue Eye Gel is complete rubbish,” I said. “I’ve just tried
it. Doesn’t work.”

“You have to give it time. You
know, that thing you don’t have much of…” she answered.

“Then why is it called
‘Instant-Action’?” I pointed out, “Honestly, I think most of these
potions are a complete waste of time. And I bet it wasn’t
cheap.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she answered
sharply. “So don’t waste it. Anyway, you don’t need potions and
lotions just yet. You’re only seventeen. Make the most of your
youthful skin while you can. You’ll be on the anti-ageing treadmill
all too soon.”

“Not me, I’m going to stay
young and beautiful for ever,” I told her, confidently.

She raised her eyes to the
ceiling. “Yes, we all thought that when we were in our teens.”

Granddad gave me a knowing wink
over the top of his spectacles. Then with intense concentration, he
carried on mopping up the yolk that spilled out of his egg. He was
right, mine was rock solid and so I quickly peeled it and put the
whole egg in my mouth at once.

“Emily, that’s disgusting,”
said my mother.

I pointed at my watch and
raised my eyebrows, momentarily unable to speak.

“Gotta go,” I managed to
splutter, grabbing my school bag from under the breakfast table
with one hand and taking the piece of buttered toast Gramps held
out for me with the other.

“If you got your car sorted
out, you wouldn’t need to set out so early on the bus,” I heard my
mum calling out behind me, “and wipe that stuff off your
eyes...”

I let myself out of the front
door and walked past my old mini, fondly known as Martha, standing
sadly on the driveway. Its failed MOT meant I couldn’t drive it and
since I’d left my part time job at the local Garden Centre, I
couldn’t afford the new tyres, exhaust, spark plugs and various
other items it required. I set off at a brisk walk, eating my toast
rapidly.

I glanced at my watch. 7.55am.
I would just make the bus if I hurried. Further up the road I saw
Seth, my next door neighbour, walking with Tash, who lived just
down the hill. We all attended Hartsdown College.

Tash was my best friend in the
whole world. We’d met at Tiny Tots when we were both three years
old and had bonded instantly. Since that point onwards, we’d been
inseparable, through infant school, juniors and senior school. We’d
laughed and cried together, fallen out, made up and knew just about
everything there was to know about each other. I shared my
innermost secrets with Tash and trusted her like no one else.

Seth was literally the boy next
door. Funny, annoying, bit of a smartass, just your average boy.
I’d known him since I was five years old, when he moved in, and it
seemed like he’d always been around. I suppose I’d always had a bit
of a crush on him, but that was something I barely admitted to
myself, let alone anyone else. Even Tash.

“Tash, Seth,” I called, “wait
for me.”

They both turned and looked,
shielding their eyes against the early morning sun.

“Hi, Em,” shouted Tash, her
long red hair glinting vividly in the sunshine.

She reminded me of a
Pre-Raphaelite painting, that one of Ophelia lying in the lake.
Slim, pale and interesting, with big green eyes and hair to die
for.

“Come on,” called Seth. “Run!
The bus is coming.”

Seth, on the other hand, was
olive-skinned and dark. Good looking, with a permanent
‘who-gives-a-damn’ slouch, lazy manner and unruly black hair that
flopped over his face. He sometimes rode into college on a moped,
but generally preferred the bus as it took less effort.

They both started walking
quickly up the hill and I reached them just as they reached the bus
stop.

“What’s happened to your eyes?”
asked Tash, peering at me. “They look odd.”

“Nothing,” I replied, “it’s
just this gel I put on. It’s supposed to refresh you but it
obviously hasn’t.”

“You can say that again,” said
Seth. “You look like you’ve gone ten rounds…”

“Just ignore him,” advised
Tash. “If you want to tighten your skin up, I’ve got this amazing
beer face-pack you can use. I’ll bring it in, if you like.”

“Yeah, and you’ll end up
looking like this,” said Seth, pulling back the skin on his face
with his fingers, so his eyes and mouth stretched widely, and
staggering around. “Drunk and tight.”

“Stop it, Seth, that looks
horrible.”

Within seconds the bus pulled
up and we climbed inside along with the office workers, village
school kids and other Hartsdown students. Seth, Tash and I went to
the back of the bus and, unusually for us, got the rear seat. This
prized place was usually taken by the Meriton Mob, a bunch of
sixteen-year olds from the next village, but today the back of the
bus was strangely empty.

“Where are the usual suspects?”
I asked, sitting in the centre, with Tash and Seth either side of
me.

“Geography field trip,” said
Seth. “They’ve gone to the Blythe Sewage Works. Had to leave
early.”

“Let’s hope we lose a few of
them,” said Tash. “I can’t think of a better place for Sarah. Or
Imogen.”

“Or Micky,” I added. “Mind you,
you couldn’t really tell if he fell in. He already looks like the
Creature from the Swamp. And his breath certainly smells like it.
He’ll probably feel quite at home there.”

“Heard Micky had a bit of a
thing for you,” said Seth, looking at me and grinning.

“Don’t even go there,” I
warned. “He’s young, spotty and obnoxious. I’d rather wash out my
mouth with hydrochloric acid than get anywhere near him!”

“That’s not what he says about
you,” persisted Seth.

“Get lost, Seth.”

“Hey, have you heard the latest
about Hartswell Hall?” asked Tash, changing the subject, as the bus
passed the private road leading up to the village’s Victorian
mansion, its imposing gate posts guarding its mysterious entrance
like huge stone sentries.

The bus came to a halt at the
stop just past the hall entrance and the school kids from the other
end of the village clambered aboard. Seth, Tash and I peered
through the side windows of the bus, trying to catch a glimpse of
the old house, but it remained tantalisingly hidden behind a mass
of overgrown vegetation.

“Go on, what’s the story?’
asked Seth.

There’d been a great deal of
speculation about Hartswell Hall ever since it came on the market.
First it was going to be a care home, then trendy apartments, there
was even a rumour it was going to be an animal sanctuary. For
years, an old man had lived there as a recluse, allowing the house
to fall into disrepair and the grounds to grow wild. As kids, we
used to think it was haunted and would dare each other to run up
the driveway and look through its small panelled windows, thick
with grime, into its crumbling interior. Then the old man had died,
adding a further element of scariness to the stories. A midnight
raid on the property by a gang of local daredevils ended in terror,
when they swore they’d seen something moving on the first floor.
They hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out what it was.

“I heard Dizzy Detroit wants to
buy it,” said Tash conspiratorially. “You know he used to live in
Birmingham? Well, apparently, he wants to come back to this area
and is looking for an old place to do up.”

“Could be true, I suppose,”
said Seth.

“But how do you know?” I
asked.

“The man in the corner shop
told my mum,” explained Tash. “He said the other day a long, black
limousine with darkened windows drove up the High Street and into
Hartswell Hall entrance. Someone told him they saw Dizzy Detroit
get out.”

“Cool beanz,” said Seth.
“Imagine having a rock star in the village. That’d shake things up
a bit….”

“Just what this village needs,
shaking up a bit,” I murmured, gazing back through the rear window,
as the bus resumed its journey and the grounds of Hartswell Hall
gradually disappeared from view.

Hartswell-on-the-Hill was a
typical middle class village. True, it had history, as you could
see from the High Street with its pretty black and white fronted
cottages, quaint old pub and medieval stone church. But a
combination of picture postcard appeal and a wide selection of
large properties, dating from Victorian times to the present day,
along with the addition of a new housing estate of luxury detached
homes on the edge of the village, had given it an affluent,
commuter-belt appeal.