break, sharing a pack of angel trail mix. It was almost like old times. Just being in that rat-infested house with her, munching and scribbling notes for school, not even talking that much, made me ridiculously happy.
Then suddenly Brice was lounging in the doorway smiling his twisted smile. “How’s it going?” Despite the cold he was just wearing jeans and a Bruce Lee T-shirt.
“We’re good!” Lola beamed. “As you see, we’re stuffing our faces.” She rattled the packet. “Want some?”
He shook his head. “I’ll pass, thanks. It feels much better in here, by the way. You two did a great job with the light levels.”
“Yeah, thanks for helping. Not!” I scowled. “So where’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know, checking out the sights.”
“In the dark?” I said disbelievingly.
Lola noticed him shivering. “What happened to your hoodie?”
Brice shrugged. “Must have left it somewhere.”
All around us, kids were surfacing from sleep. The younger children still looked soft-eyed and dreamy. The older ones immediately snapped into survival mode, stowing their pathetic bedding out of sight, stuffing scraps of food into their mouths.
Georgie had been using his coat for a pillow, but when he tried to put it back on, his arm got stuck in the torn lining of his sleeve. He had to rip the lining out to free himself. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t totally awake that he looked so sad and bewildered. As I watched him struggling into his super-sized patchwork coat, I felt an unbearable pity well up. I tried to laugh it off.
“So what’s up with our little Master Sunshine today?” I asked the others.
“Do you need to ask?” said Brice. “The kid’s life stinks!”
“Presumably it stank yesterday, but he was as lively as anything,” I objected.
I watched Georgie drearily fastening his buttons, wondering if this was actually true. Maybe his cheeky Cockney routine was something he put on to survive, like his badly-fitting clothes.
We followed him back into the street and were instantly engulfed by billows of snot-green cloud. I’ve never seen fog like it. This must be what they mean by a Victorian pea-souper, I thought.
“It’s been like this for hours,” said Brice.
Lollie covered her nose. “It smells rank!”
Victorian London had a really distinctive pong: a mix of bad drains, terrible Victorian cooking and leaking gas, plus the suffocating stink caused by millions of Londoners using coal fires twenty-four seven. Unfortunately the dense fog was preventing all these toxic smells from escaping into the upper atmosphere.
The Hell dimensions can’t smell worse than this, I thought. The topic of hellish smells naturally led on to thinking about Brice. He could have spent the night plotting with his old PODS cronies, I thought darkly, and we wouldn’t be any the wiser. Well, he’d better not be plotting to hurt me and Lola, or he’d be sorry.
The lonely sound of a foghorn floated out of the murk. I couldn’t believe people would take boats and barges out in this weather. The visibility was practically down to zero. If we let Georgie get so much as a few inches ahead, he totally vanished from view. We blundered past looming shapes which I guessed to be warehouses and cranes. I’d assumed Georgie was carrying out one of his normal errands, but as we trudged on and on, I started to wonder if he was just walking aimlessly.
We followed him under a dank old bridge and came out opposite a park. After a nervous look round, Georgie nipped through the gates, darted to the nearest flower bed and started picking Michaelmas daisies, those flowers that look like raggedy purple buttons, which happened to be the only plants in flower. When he had a sizeable bunch, he made a speedy exit.
“What is the boy up to?” Lola wondered aloud.
We followed him back to the medium’s house in Milkwell Yard. Georgie knocked softly on the back door and waited. He looked edgy like he was bracing himself for
Then suddenly Brice was lounging in the doorway smiling his twisted smile. “How’s it going?” Despite the cold he was just wearing jeans and a Bruce Lee T-shirt.
“We’re good!” Lola beamed. “As you see, we’re stuffing our faces.” She rattled the packet. “Want some?”
He shook his head. “I’ll pass, thanks. It feels much better in here, by the way. You two did a great job with the light levels.”
“Yeah, thanks for helping. Not!” I scowled. “So where’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know, checking out the sights.”
“In the dark?” I said disbelievingly.
Lola noticed him shivering. “What happened to your hoodie?”
Brice shrugged. “Must have left it somewhere.”
All around us, kids were surfacing from sleep. The younger children still looked soft-eyed and dreamy. The older ones immediately snapped into survival mode, stowing their pathetic bedding out of sight, stuffing scraps of food into their mouths.
Georgie had been using his coat for a pillow, but when he tried to put it back on, his arm got stuck in the torn lining of his sleeve. He had to rip the lining out to free himself. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t totally awake that he looked so sad and bewildered. As I watched him struggling into his super-sized patchwork coat, I felt an unbearable pity well up. I tried to laugh it off.
“So what’s up with our little Master Sunshine today?” I asked the others.
“Do you need to ask?” said Brice. “The kid’s life stinks!”
“Presumably it stank yesterday, but he was as lively as anything,” I objected.
I watched Georgie drearily fastening his buttons, wondering if this was actually true. Maybe his cheeky Cockney routine was something he put on to survive, like his badly-fitting clothes.
We followed him back into the street and were instantly engulfed by billows of snot-green cloud. I’ve never seen fog like it. This must be what they mean by a Victorian pea-souper, I thought.
“It’s been like this for hours,” said Brice.
Lollie covered her nose. “It smells rank!”
Victorian London had a really distinctive pong: a mix of bad drains, terrible Victorian cooking and leaking gas, plus the suffocating stink caused by millions of Londoners using coal fires twenty-four seven. Unfortunately the dense fog was preventing all these toxic smells from escaping into the upper atmosphere.
The Hell dimensions can’t smell worse than this, I thought. The topic of hellish smells naturally led on to thinking about Brice. He could have spent the night plotting with his old PODS cronies, I thought darkly, and we wouldn’t be any the wiser. Well, he’d better not be plotting to hurt me and Lola, or he’d be sorry.
The lonely sound of a foghorn floated out of the murk. I couldn’t believe people would take boats and barges out in this weather. The visibility was practically down to zero. If we let Georgie get so much as a few inches ahead, he totally vanished from view. We blundered past looming shapes which I guessed to be warehouses and cranes. I’d assumed Georgie was carrying out one of his normal errands, but as we trudged on and on, I started to wonder if he was just walking aimlessly.
We followed him under a dank old bridge and came out opposite a park. After a nervous look round, Georgie nipped through the gates, darted to the nearest flower bed and started picking Michaelmas daisies, those flowers that look like raggedy purple buttons, which happened to be the only plants in flower. When he had a sizeable bunch, he made a speedy exit.
“What is the boy up to?” Lola wondered aloud.
We followed him back to the medium’s house in Milkwell Yard. Georgie knocked softly on the back door and waited. He looked edgy like he was bracing himself for
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