‘Shall I go and lock myself in the cellar now?’ I ask.
Deborah takes the parchment and reads it again. ‘Removing all contact? What does that mean?’
Gran looks uncertain.
‘They can’t mean removing contact with us?’ Deborah looks from Gran to Arran. ‘Can they?’
I’m amazed at Deborah; she still doesn’t get it. It can mean whatever the Council wants it to mean.
‘I’ll just make sure that we keep a list of witches Nathan has contact with. It’s easy enough. Nathan hardly meets anyone and certainly not many White Witches.’
‘When he starts at Thomas Dawes, there’ll be the O’Briens,’ Arran reminds her.
‘Yes, but that’s all. It’ll be a small list. We just have to make sure we follow the rules.’
Gran is right; the list is small. The only witches I come into contact with are my direct family and those I meet at the Council Offices when I go for Assessment. I never go to any festivals, parties or weddings as my name is always missing from the invitations that arrive on our doormat. Gran stays at home with me and sends Jessica, and, when they are old enough, Deborah and Arran as well. I hear about the celebrations from the others but I never go.
White Witches from anywhere in the world are welcomed into witches’ homes, but visitors to our house are thin on the ground. When anyone does stay with us for a night or two they treat me as either a curiosity or a leper and I quickly learn to keep out of sight.
When Gran and I travelled to London for my first Assessment we turned up late in the evening on the doorstep of a family near Wimbledon and I was left staring at the red paint of the front door while Gran was taken inside. When she reappeared a minute later, white in the face and shaking with anger, she grabbed my hand and dragged me away, saying, ‘We’ll stay in a hotel.’ I was more relieved than angry.
Before going to Thomas Dawes High School I attend the small village school. I’m the slow, dumb kid at the back, the one with no friends. Like most fains the world over, the kids and teachers there don’t believe in witches; they don’t understand that we live among them. They don’t see me as special – just especially slow. I can barely read or write and am not quick enough to fool Gran when I skip school. The only thing I learn is that sitting in class bored stiff is better than sitting anywhere else with the effects of Gran’s punishment potions. From the start of each day all I do is wait until it’s over. I suspect high school is not going to be any better.
I’m right. On my first day at Thomas Dawes I’m wearing Arran’s cast-off too-long grey trousers, a white shirt with a frayed collar, a stained blue-gold-black striped tie and a dark blue blazer that is absurdly oversized, although Gran has shortened the arms. The one item I have been given that is not a cast-off is a cheap phone. I have it ‘in case’. Arran has only just been allowed one, so I know that Gran expects there will be an ‘in case’ situation.
I put the phone to my ear and my head is filled with static. Just carrying it around makes me irritable. Before I leave for school I put the phone behind the TV in the lounge, which seems a good place as that too has recently started to set off a faint hissing in my head.
Arran and Deborah make the journey to school and back bearable. Thankfully Jessica has left home to train as a Hunter. Hunters are the elite group of White Witches employed by the Council to hunt down Black Witches in Britain. Gran says they are employed by other Councils in Europe more and more as there are so few Blacks left in Britain. Hunters are mainly women but include a few talented male witches. They are all ruthless and efficient, which means Jessica is bound to fit right in.
Jessica’s departure means I can relax at home for the first time in my life, but now I have high school to worry about. I plead with Gran that I shouldn’t go, that it is bound to be a disaster. She says that witches must ‘blend in’ to fain society and should ‘learn how to conform’ and it is important for me to do the same and that I ‘will be fine’. None of those phrases seem to describe my life.
Phrases that come to mind, phrases that I’m expecting to hear, to describe me are ‘nasty and dirty’, ‘pond life’ and the old favourite ‘dumb ass’. I’m prepared to be teased about being stupid, dirty or poor and some idiot is bound to pick on me because I’m small, but I don’t mind too much. They’ll only ever do it once.
I’m prepared for all that, but what I’m not prepared for is the noise. The school bus is a cauldron of shouting and jeering, simmering with the hiss of mobile phones. The classroom isn’t much better as it is lined with computers, all emitting a high-pitched whistle that gets into my skull and is not reduced one bit by sticking my fingers in my ears.