The Changeling (38 page)

‘What, sweetheart?’

‘I thought I heard something.’

He glanced upwards. ‘Birds on the roof?’

‘No, maybe the wind . . .’ She turned her head towards the door. And after a long moment said, in the strangest voice, ‘James?’

‘What are you looking at?’ He turned to look as well.

For several shimmering, silent seconds, Maeve and James O’Connor stared at the vision on the landing. Their eyes enormous in white faces. Each with a steaming mug of tea in one hand.

And a moment after that, Eva tore her hand out of Aoife’s and went rushing into the room, leaping onto her parents’ bed, knocking the tea flying and screaming: ‘
Surprise!
’

Maeve was kneeling up in the bed, screaming too, crying, howling, her arms around the tiny child. ‘Oh, it’s not possible, oh, it’s not possible, James, do you see her too, have I gone mad, have I died, she’s here, oh my God, my love, where have you been –
She’s still four, James!
– are you well?
She’s not dying!
Oh my love, my love, my love, my love, my love . . .’

And James as well had his arms around the grinning four-year-old, who kept on and on shouting at the top of her healthy little lungs, ‘Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!’ And occasionally, ‘I want ice cream!’

Aoife, out on the landing beyond the door, stood watching the broken family instantly remake itself – the tight circle that had been on display in those pictures hidden in the drawer. It reminded her of the studio shot – her parents posing on the photographer’s couch, with their arms around their only child, in her blue velvet dress and beret. The picture she had thought for a short while was of herself.

Eva was shouting now, ‘She found me! Mam’s friend found me!’ and Maeve was trying to stand up now, with the little girl clinging like a monkey around her neck. ‘
Friend?
’ And James was striding towards Aoife, weeping, with his arms held wide.

‘You said you were our
friend
?’ He pulled her into a bear hug, his wet cheek pressed to hers, holding her so tight she feared her ribs would crack.

Maeve was sobbing to Eva, ‘She’s not my friend, sweetie.’

And the little girl said doubtfully, ‘But she’s very nice and this is her house.’

‘Of course it’s her house! She’s our daughter, Eva! She’s your sister!’

‘But I don’t have a sister—’

‘Yes you do, sweetie. You really absolutely do.’

‘OK. Was she away at school?’

‘That’s right, sweetie. But now she’s home.’

‘And is this her house?’

‘Yes, and yours too, sweetie. And mine. And your dad’s.’

And Aoife’s father, still with his face pressed to hers, kept on and on repeating, ‘Never leave us again. Oh God, never, ever,
ever
leave us again.’

There was so much noise, between the constant joyful shrieking, and James furiously cooking spaghetti bolognese because his girls must be starving, and Maeve unable to stop crying, and going from Eva to Aoife, and from Aoife to Eva, and Eva being more delighted with Hector than anything else, that by the time James said, ‘Maeve, phone . . .’ it had rung off.

The telephone sat silent by the coats in the hall. No caller ID.

Standing behind her, Maeve said, ‘I don’t suppose it would have been for you, sweetheart.’

‘I guess not.’ Aoife kept on staring at it.

Maeve said, gently caressing her hair, ‘I know this is going to take a bit of getting used to, but you see, everyone thinks—’

‘I know. You don’t need to tell me. Sinead spotted us walking down the road and had an absolute panic attack.’

‘Oh, the poor child.’

‘Mm.’

‘We better start making some calls about you soon. Just as soon as I can believe it isn’t a dream myself. Darling, come and eat.’

They had barely made the kitchen doorway when the phone rang again. Maeve reached it first. ‘Hello? Hello? Sorry, speak up, it’s very loud where you are . . .’ She was frowning, smiling, shaking her head, turning to Aoife with the receiver in her hand. ‘It
is
for you.’

It was very,
very
loud where he was. Music blaring, people shouting and screaming, glasses chinking. Shay said something into the receiver, but too low to make out.

‘I can’t hear you! Are you in the pub? How’s John Joe doing?’

He said more loudly, ‘Grand.’

(Someone was shouting, ‘Good on ya!’ and another, ‘Here’s a pint of the black stuff, John Joe! Drink up, there’s more on its way!’)

‘Not too much of a shock?’

‘Not too bad. Blamed it on the drink, but I think he has it straight now. Aoife, listen, there’s something I forgot to say to you before . . .’ And his voice dropped again.

‘I still can’t hear you! Move somewhere quieter!’

‘I can’t – this is the pay phone stuck to the wall. And everyone here is very excited. Just listen . . .’ Again his voice tailed off.

‘I still can’t hear you!’

‘Oh, come on . . .’

‘It’s not my fault, you keeping not saying it loud enough.’

‘All right. Grand. Fine.
I love you, Aoife O’Connor!
’ And to the background noise of absurdly drunken cheering, he shouted: ‘Now, did you hear
that
?’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For their invaluable advice and constant support: My son Jack and daughter Molly.

For being my target readership: My daughter Imogen and son Seán.

For first draft feedback: Aideen Kane, Sabine Lacey, Sinead Leonard, Una Morris, Derek O’Flaherty, Morag Prunty, Denis Quinn, Aideen Ryan, Cathy Whelan; Zoe Costello, Ming Flannelly, Dearbhla Forkan, Gemma Lacey, Katie McHale, Derry Quinn, Meabh Walsh; the girls from St Mary’s.

For their professionalism: Marianne Gunn O’Connor, Vicki Satlow, Kelly Hurst, Sophie Nelson.

For being herself: Rachel Falconer.

For being himself: Tim Lacey.

Also available
The Accident Season
by Moïra Fowley-Doyle

It’s the accident season, the same time every year.
Bones break, skin tears, bruises bloom.

The accident season has been part of seventeen-year-old Cara’s life for as long as she can remember. Towards the end of October, foreshadowed by the deaths of many relatives before them, Cara’s family becomes inexplicably accident-prone. They banish knives to locked drawers, cover sharp table edges with padding, switch off electrical items – but injuries follow wherever they go, and the accident season becomes an ever-growing obsession and fear.

Why are they so cursed?

And how can they break free?

About the Author

HELEN FALCONER was a journalist on the Guardian before becoming a full-time writer.

Helen was educated at Dartington and Oxford. She lives in north Mayo, Ireland, with her husband and has four children.

THE CHANGELING
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 19663 0

Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Penguin Random House Company

This ebook edition published 2015

Copyright © Helen Falconer, 2015
Cover imagery © Trevillion Images
Cover design and montage by Lisa Horton

First Published in Great Britain

Corgi 978 0 552 57342 9 2015

The right of Helen Falconer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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