Free Angel's Fury by Bryony Pearce Page B

didn’t match his words.
    He expects me to get better, not call him in the middle of the night.
    I stared at a spot on the floor. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine. If you want to be home by dark, you should go.’
    Dad nodded but Mum opened her handbag. ‘Here. I noticed you didn’t pack him . . . but . . .’
    She’s brought Bunny!
I hesitated before holding out my hand.
I thought it’d be embarrassing to have a cuddly toy with me, but . . . maybe it’ll be good to have him tonight.
    ‘Th-thanks, Mum.’ I seized my old toy and my stomach unfurled a little.
    After they’d gone I went to the desk and flipped the plastic folder open. I had a booking-in appointment with the Doctor at four p.m. A stainless steel clock ticked quietly on the wall. I had an hour.
    Pandra’s door swung open when I knocked. The girl lounged on the bed, one leg up, graceful as a model. She was reading Stephen King’s
The Stand
.
    I paused awkwardly in the doorway. ‘How can you read that stuff?’
    Pandra shrugged. ‘I get the dreams either way.’ She bent the spine to mark her place and discarded the book. ‘The olds have gone?’
    I nodded and stared. The room was a mirror image of mine, but Pandra had obviously been in hers a lot longer. The wall was completely papered with drawings. They were mostly violent and disturbing and many featured the same cast of characters.
    One portrait stood out above the others: the pencil strokes, which ranged from near invisibility to angry slashes of black, created a woman so lifelike she seemed three-dimensional. The paper cut her off at the chest, but one hand was in frame because she held a gun to the underside of her chin. The torment in her eyes was so real her hand seemed to shake.
    Mesmerised, I drifted towards the picture but didn’t touch the paper, afraid of smudging it. I cut my eyes to Pandra. ‘Did you draw this?’
    She shrugged as if indifferent, but a glimmer in her eyes told me she was pleased by my reaction. ‘She doesn’t do it.’
    I was drawn back to the image. The woman had been battered. Her old-fashioned hairstyle was dishevelled and bruises shadowed her face and chest. Squinting closer I thought I could see what looked like bite marks on her shoulder. The hairs stiffened on the back of my neck. ‘Who was she?’
    Pandra frowned. ‘Her name was Madge . . . Madge . . . something.’
    My fingers curled. ‘She doesn’t shoot herself?’
    Pandra shook her head. ‘I stopped her.’
    My eyes went back to the picture and I rubbed the goose bumps that had appeared on my arms. ‘You stopped her.’
    ‘In my last life.’ The other girl curled her long legs under her and toyed with the bar pinned through her eyebrow. ‘You know, everyone we dream about is dead. Not one of them can be hurt any more. Sometimes knowing that is all that gets me through the night.’ She gestured at the macabre wallpaper. ‘When I wake up and all I can see is this stuff I remember they’re long gone . . . so there’s no point torturing myself.’
    I sank on to her mattress, eyes still on the portrait. ‘Do you really believe the people we dream about don’t matter because they’re dead?’ I looked at her.
    She twisted the rings on her left hand as she answered. ‘Course. The Doctor’s really big on helping us let go of guilt that doesn’t belong to us.’
    Mention of the Doctor made me check Pandra’s clock. It was almost buried by the sheets of paper that were crammed on to every available space. An image of a dragon covered the twelve. Oddly out of place, it was painted with acrylics so bright it appeared to writhe on the paper.
    ‘I’ve got an appointment at four.’ My head throbbed with a full-blown tension headache and I winced. ‘Have you got any paracetamol?’
    Pandra’s leg nudged mine. ‘We aren’t allowed to “self-medicate” here.’ Her eyes flicked to the door and her hand slid under her mattress. ‘I haven’t got anything to give you.’ Her wrist moved back and