‘I just don’t want them to die without names – even if they’re made up. Even if no one knows them but me,’ says Allie when I hand her notebook back. ‘I mean, it’s bad enough that the papers just call them “Being No. 1”, “Being No. 2”, but the thought of them dying anonymously, with no one to remember who they were . . .’
She trails off, quietly turning the pages of the notebook, reading the names to herself one by one. Calum’s smirk has been wiped away. Teacake looks from him to Allie, biting her lower lip. She may not be able to understand our language, but she can pick up on changes in mood and atmosphere. She is as real, as human and as complex as any of us.
‘It’s not stupid,’ I say to Allie. ‘You see them as people.’
She smiles. It’s just a quick movement of her lips, but it reaches her eyes. For a few seconds, it all fades away: Shona’s flat, the crowd of umbrellas lining the street outside . . . even Teacake. All I see is Allie. Almost too fast to catch, her gaze flits to my mouth; she shifts on the carpet, moving her knee a few millimetres towards mine.
‘You see them as people,’ Teacake says, a wobbly echo of my own voice. ‘Cromarty, south-westerly five to seven, decreasing four at times.’
Her words break the moment. I remember Calum’s still in the room and quickly get up to make some tea, my cheeks burning. Allie laughs, a nervous sound that blends into a cough. She thumbs the corners of her notebook, pauses, then stares at a page somewhere near the middle.
‘Wait a minute.’ She turns to Calum. ‘Is McEwan Hall still closed?’
‘Yeah, till September or something. They’ve stopped building while the Fringe is going on . . . Er – No.’ He looks up at Allie, his eyes wide. ‘No way.’
‘But it’s perfect!’ Allie leans over and clutches his arm. ‘It’s empty right now, it’s not far from here, plus it’s huge – Teacake would have space to practise flying!’
‘Wait, where is this place?’ I ask, as Calum shakes his head.
‘It’s one of the university buildings,’ he says. ‘Our dad’s company is working on it at the moment. There’s a problem with the roof or something; it’s been under construction for a couple of months.’
‘No one’ll even notice we’re there,’ Allie says. ‘There are tons of Fringe venues around there, so it’s always packed. You’ll be able to sing as loud as you like, Teacake.’
‘Is it safe though?’ I ask. ‘Like, the ceiling won’t fall in on us or anything, would it?’
Calum scratches the back of his neck. ‘Well, no, it’s just the exterior that needs repairs, but that’s not the point. If Dad finds out, he’d kill us.’ Allie opens her mouth to argue; Calum cuts her off, all flustered. ‘Look, Al, even if we could get the keys, how are we going to get her across town with that going on?’
He raps his knuckles against the window. The Royal Mile is chaos: performers dressed as robots or soldiers or caterpillars, musical-theatre students in matching T-shirts, and of course the Wingdings, the fake angels, the tour guides mingling with the yearly influx of show-goers. The streets won’t be quiet until four or five in the morning – I could hardly sleep last night with the racket outside. Calum’s right. We couldn’t make it across the street to Starbucks without getting caught.
We throw out a few more suggestions, but that glimmer of hope is fading fast. Sensing the change in mood, Teacake arches her back and spreads her wings. ‘Tiree Automatic, south-south-east five, twelve miles, one thousand and eleven, falling slowly.’
I smile. ‘It almost sounds like she could be talking about the Beings. A guide to the Falls.’
Suddenly, Allie’s eyes light up. ‘I’ve got it!’
She pushes herself off the sofa, runs to the kitchen and starts rummaging in the drawers again. When she comes back, she’s holding a roll of tinfoil, an old council tax bill and a black sharpie. She writes ‘ANGEL TOURS’ on the back of the letter and holds it up to Teacake’s chest.
‘We’ll pretend you’re a guide, Tea!’ she says. ‘We’ll put tinfoil over your wings so they look fake, and slap on a bit of make-up, or whatever, so it looks like face paint. You’ll look just like another tour guide!’
Teacake takes the piece of paper, her nose wrinkling in confusion. ‘You’ll look just like another tour guide,’ she repeats, staring at Allie’s makeshift sign. Calum stares at her.
‘That’s either totally stupid, or totally genius.’
‘It’s kind of brilliant, actually,’ I say. ‘No one would expect an actual Being to hide in plain sight like that.’
Allie beams and grabs my hand. ‘Ooh, we can make flyers too! You’re not doing the Fringe unless you’re bombarding people with flyers.’
‘That’s if we can nick Dad’s keys,’ Calum says. Allie opens her mouth, but he puts his hands up before she can start to argue. ‘Look, fine, I’ll try tonight. But if we get caught I don’t know anything about this. I never even saw Teacake. OK?’
‘Fine, fine. You worry too much.’ Allie gives him a light punch on the arm. ‘It’ll be fine, Cal. What’s the worst that can happen?’
SEVENTEEN
Maybe I’m imagining it, but when I go downstairs the next day, it feels like Teacake understands that her time in Shona’s cramped little flat is almost over. She’s so cheery: hopping over the furniture, echoing our sentences, quoting an entire interview with Julianne Moore she heard on the radio. Even our forcing her into leggings and a jumper can’t spoil her mood.
Allie and Calum, on the other hand, have been grouchy all morning. They keep bickering about everything: Teacake’s costume, the route we should take to McEwan Hall, the fake flyers Allie is drawing up. Eventually they explode into a full-blown argument: something about her being selfish; him being a martyr. All the shouting sets Perry off barking so loudly that I’m scared Dad and Rani will hear her through the ceiling. I slap the coffee table with my fist.
‘Guys, come on! We don’t have time for this.’
Teacake chimes in. ‘In forty-five minutes here on Radio 4, The Food Programme looks at the future of strawberry production. But, first, the news.’
Calum mumbles a reluctant apology. Allie rolls her eyes and finishes off Teacake’s costume in grumpy silence. The make-up we use to cover her shimmering skin makes her wrinkle up her nose in disgust (she keeps shouting snatches of radio quizzes: ‘Bzzz! Time’s up!’), and the tinfoil refuses to stick to the wings until we wrap an entire roll of Sellotape around it. The costume is ridiculously cheap and totally unprofessional, but that’s perfect: she looks just as inauthentic as the sprayed and feathered guides who stalk the Mile.
‘Ready?’ Calum shoves his hands into his pockets. The keys to the hall jingle beneath his fingers. ‘Let’s get this over with, then.’
We usher Teacake through the door, Allie and I on either side of her, and Calum leading Perry on the leash. It’s the first time that Teacake’s been outside since she fell. She tilts her head towards the sky, today a pale grey with darkening clouds to the south, and takes a long, deep breath. A wide smile spreads across her face. It’s not home, but it’s the closest she’s been to it for a while.
‘Sorry about all that with Calum,’ Allie says quietly, as he strides ahead with Perry. ‘He’s not always such a dick. He can actually be quite fun, when he’s not convinced I’m about to drop dead.’
‘Is that what this is about? He thinks—’
‘He thinks I’m doing too much. He thinks that I should stay at home and let you guys look after Teacake until this infection’s gone.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Our parents are worse. They treat me like I’m a house of cards. Like the slightest movement could make me crumble.’
‘It must be hard for them,’ I say. ‘Seeing you . . . you know, not well.’
‘Well, you’d think they’d be used to it by now.’