Read Online The Secret Prophecy by Herbie Brennan - Free Book Online
Authors: Herbie Brennan
Tags: General, thriller, Suspense, adventure, Fantasy, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Mystery, Young Adult, Horror & Ghost Stories
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especially if he was using narcotic herbs.”
Em stared into the empty room imagining the bearded, dark-eyed figure of the prophet as he crouched over his great brass bowl. He could almost hear the mutterings of the approaching spirits as they swirled stealthily from the depths of the water. He could almost see a luminous figure that towered above Nostradamus, then bend nearly double to whisper in his ear.
It was a vision that remained with him, on and off, throughout the remainder of his trip to southern France. He was even thinking about it vaguely as he opened the door of his home, having waved good-bye to Tom and Charlotte on the doorstep.
“Mum!” he called. “I’m back!!” He hefted his suitcase to the foot of the stairs but decided to take it up a little later. He was tired and excited from the trip, still undecided about whether to tell his mother about the man who’d followed him. “Mum,” he called again, “Tom’s coming over later with Charlotte—is that all right? We had a great time. We saw the house where Nostradamus lived and Tom got big applause at his symposium and Charlotte bought a top that cost over sixty quid. Tom paid—she has him wrapped around her little finger. Any chance of a cup of tea? I’m parched. I have a little present for you in my case. All the way from Paris. Mum?”
But it wasn’t his mother who came out of the kitchen. It was his mother’s brother, and he looked serious.
Chapter 13
“H ello, Uncle Harold,” Em said. “Where’s Mum?” He glanced around vaguely, as if she might be hiding under the stairs.
Harold said, “Come into the kitchen, Em. I’ve something to tell you.”
“What’s happened?” Em asked at once. But Harold only turned and walked back into the kitchen. After a moment, Em followed him.
Harold Beasley looked nothing like Em’s mother. He was fat and colorless and wore round, rimless granny glasses to correct his short sight. But that was only on the outside. Inside his head, Uncle Harold looked heroic. He’d once been a fairly useless policeman, but that hadn’t stopped him from writing to his sister: “Last week we had seven robberies, two murders, and eighteen assaults in the precinct AND SOMEHOW WE HAVE TO STOP THIS!” Now he sold life insurance but retained the urge toward self-dramatization. “Sit down, Em,” he said in something close to a sepulchral tone. “I have something very serious to tell you.”
“What?” Em demanded. “What’s happened?” A feeling of pure dread was crawling up his spine, made all the more unpleasant for having nothing to focus on. Something had happened to his mum—it had to be that. Maybe she was ill. Maybe she’d fallen, broken a bone of something. “Is it Mum?” Em added.
But Uncle Harold insisted on his little games. He gave Em a sorrowful, pitying look. “I think it best you sit down,” he said again.
You could sometimes stop Uncle Harold’s nonsense if you tried hard enough, but it was far quicker just to give in. Em sat down on a kitchen chair, suppressed the urge to ask questions, and looked at him expectantly.
“Your mother is in the hospital,” Uncle Harold said.
She’d fallen down. Em was certain of it. She’d had one drink too many and fallen down.
“They took her into Saint Brendan’s while you were in France,” Harold said.
Their local hospital was the Costa General. Em had never heard of Saint Brendan’s.
“They sectioned her,” Uncle Harold said. He hesitated, then added guiltily, “There was nothing I could do about it. I did try.”
Sectioned? Some sort of operation? They were opening up sections of his mother? Sounded horrible, but if it was for her own good, why would Uncle Harold try to stop—?
The memory fell on him like some terrible cascade. Sectioned wasn’t any kind of surgery. It was the name for the legal procedure that committed you to a lunatic asylum! The person who made a sectioning application had to be your nearest relative—he
Em stared into the empty room imagining the bearded, dark-eyed figure of the prophet as he crouched over his great brass bowl. He could almost hear the mutterings of the approaching spirits as they swirled stealthily from the depths of the water. He could almost see a luminous figure that towered above Nostradamus, then bend nearly double to whisper in his ear.
It was a vision that remained with him, on and off, throughout the remainder of his trip to southern France. He was even thinking about it vaguely as he opened the door of his home, having waved good-bye to Tom and Charlotte on the doorstep.
“Mum!” he called. “I’m back!!” He hefted his suitcase to the foot of the stairs but decided to take it up a little later. He was tired and excited from the trip, still undecided about whether to tell his mother about the man who’d followed him. “Mum,” he called again, “Tom’s coming over later with Charlotte—is that all right? We had a great time. We saw the house where Nostradamus lived and Tom got big applause at his symposium and Charlotte bought a top that cost over sixty quid. Tom paid—she has him wrapped around her little finger. Any chance of a cup of tea? I’m parched. I have a little present for you in my case. All the way from Paris. Mum?”
But it wasn’t his mother who came out of the kitchen. It was his mother’s brother, and he looked serious.
Chapter 13
“H ello, Uncle Harold,” Em said. “Where’s Mum?” He glanced around vaguely, as if she might be hiding under the stairs.
Harold said, “Come into the kitchen, Em. I’ve something to tell you.”
“What’s happened?” Em asked at once. But Harold only turned and walked back into the kitchen. After a moment, Em followed him.
Harold Beasley looked nothing like Em’s mother. He was fat and colorless and wore round, rimless granny glasses to correct his short sight. But that was only on the outside. Inside his head, Uncle Harold looked heroic. He’d once been a fairly useless policeman, but that hadn’t stopped him from writing to his sister: “Last week we had seven robberies, two murders, and eighteen assaults in the precinct AND SOMEHOW WE HAVE TO STOP THIS!” Now he sold life insurance but retained the urge toward self-dramatization. “Sit down, Em,” he said in something close to a sepulchral tone. “I have something very serious to tell you.”
“What?” Em demanded. “What’s happened?” A feeling of pure dread was crawling up his spine, made all the more unpleasant for having nothing to focus on. Something had happened to his mum—it had to be that. Maybe she was ill. Maybe she’d fallen, broken a bone of something. “Is it Mum?” Em added.
But Uncle Harold insisted on his little games. He gave Em a sorrowful, pitying look. “I think it best you sit down,” he said again.
You could sometimes stop Uncle Harold’s nonsense if you tried hard enough, but it was far quicker just to give in. Em sat down on a kitchen chair, suppressed the urge to ask questions, and looked at him expectantly.
“Your mother is in the hospital,” Uncle Harold said.
She’d fallen down. Em was certain of it. She’d had one drink too many and fallen down.
“They took her into Saint Brendan’s while you were in France,” Harold said.
Their local hospital was the Costa General. Em had never heard of Saint Brendan’s.
“They sectioned her,” Uncle Harold said. He hesitated, then added guiltily, “There was nothing I could do about it. I did try.”
Sectioned? Some sort of operation? They were opening up sections of his mother? Sounded horrible, but if it was for her own good, why would Uncle Harold try to stop—?
The memory fell on him like some terrible cascade. Sectioned wasn’t any kind of surgery. It was the name for the legal procedure that committed you to a lunatic asylum! The person who made a sectioning application had to be your nearest relative—he
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