her in a magazine my mum reads,” Mary explains. “I think the headline was, ‘The horror producer chick who beats the boys at their own game’.”
They’re nearly as excited as I am. Most of my friends don’t know what to make of Dervish. In a way he’s cool, the adult who rides a motorbike, dresses in denim, lets me do pretty much what I like. On the other hand he sometimes comes across as a complete nutter. Plus they know he was a veg for more than a year.
But now that he’s in talks with the slickest, sickest producer of recent horror movies, his cred rises like a helium balloon. They want to know how she knows about him, when she’s coming, what the new movie’s about. I act mysterious and secretive, giving nothing away, but dropping hints that I’m fully clued-in. In truth, I know no more than they do. Dervish wasn’t able to get through to her last night. He left a message and was waiting for her to phone back when I left this morning.
***
→“Did she call?”
“Who?”
I groan, wishing Dervish wasn’t a complete airhead. “David A Haym, of course! Did she –”
“Oh, yeah, she rang.”
“And?” I practically shriek, as Dervish focuses on getting dinner ready.
“She’ll drop by within the next week.”
“Here?” I gasp. “Carcery Vale?”
“No,” he smirks. “Here—this house. I told her she could stay the night if she wanted, though I don’t know if –”
“David A Haym’s going to stay in our house?” I shout.
“Davida,” Dervish corrects me.
“Dervish… the terrible things I’ve said about you… the awful names I’ve called you… I take them all back!”
“Thanks,” Dervish laughs. Stops and frowns. “What awful names?”
→Everyone wants David A Haym’s autograph. They want to meet her, have dinner with us, maybe snag a part in her next movie. Loch auditions for me several times a day, moaning and screaming, pretending bits of his body have been chopped off, quoting lines from Zombie Zest and Night Mayors—“We elected a devil!” “That’s not my hand on your knee!” “Mustard or mayo with your brains?” Draws curious stares from teachers and kids who haven’t heard the big news.
Bill-E talks up script ideas. Reckons he can pitch to her and become the brains behind her next five movies. “Writers are getting younger all the time,” he insists. “Producers want fresh talent, original ideas, guys who can think outside the box.”
“You’re about as far outside the box as they come,” Loch laughs.
“I wouldn’t have to write the whole script myself,” Bill-E says, ignoring the jibe. “I could collaborate. I’m a team player.”
“Yeah,” Loch snorts. “Trouble is, you’re a substitute!”
I let them scheme and dream. Smile smugly, as if they’re just crazy, dreamy kids. Of course, I’m as full of wild notions as they are—I just prefer to play it cool.
→Days pass—no sign of Davida Haym. The weekend comes and goes. I bug Dervish constantly, asking if there’s been any further contact. Sometimes he pretends he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, just to wind me up.
By Tuesday I’m starting to wonder if it’s a gag, if Dervish never spoke to David A Haym at all. It would be a weird, unfunny joke—but Dervish is into weird and unfunny. I’ll look a right dope in school if she never shows. I’ll have to invent a story, pretend she was called away on an emergency.
Thinking about excuses I could use as I’m walking home. Nothing too simple, like a sick relative or having to pick up an award. Needs to be more dramatic. Her house burnt to the ground? She caught bubonic plague and had to go into isolation?
Warming to the plague theory – can people still get it these days? – when a car pulls up beside me. A window rolls down. A thin, black-haired woman leans across. “Excuse me,” she says. “Do you know where Dervish Grady lives?”
“Yeah.” I bend down, excitement building. “I’m his nephew, Grubitsch. I mean, Grubbs. Grubbs Grady. That’s me.” Can’t remember the last time I called myself Grubitsch. What a dork!
“Grubbs,” the woman says, nodding shortly. “Yes. I know about you.”
“You do?” Unable to hide my delight. “Dervish told you about me? Wow, that’s great! Uh, I mean, yeah, cool. I know about you too, of course.”
“Really?” She sounds surprised.
“Sure. I’ve been waiting all week for you.”
“You knew I was coming?” Sharp this time.
“Yeah. Dervish told me.”
She taps the steering wheel with her fingernails. They’re cut short, down to the flesh. “Well, may I give you a lift home, Grubbs? That way you can direct me as we go.”
“Sure!” I open the door and slide in. Put my seat belt on. Smile wide at David A—I mean, Davida Haym. She smiles back thinly. A narrow, pale face. Moody, if not downright gloomy. Exactly the way I expected a horror producer to look. “Just go straight,” I tell her. “The road runs by our house. You can’t miss it—only mansion in the neighbourhood.”
Silence. Davida is focused on the road. I’m trying to think of something to say that’s casual and witty. But my mind’s a blank. So I check her out. Thin all over, a long neck, bony hands, straight black hair, dark eyes. Dull white shirt and skirt. Flat, plain shoes. No jewellery, except one ring on her left hand with a large gold ‘L’ in the middle of a circle of flat silver.
“How have you been, Grubbs?” she asks suddenly.
“Fine.”
“I know something of your past. What happened last year with Billy Spleen.”
“What do you know about me and Bill-E?” I ask suspiciously, guard rising.
“I know about the lycanthropy. How you fought it.”
“Dervish told you that?” I cry, astonished.
“How has Billy been? Any recurrences of his old patterns?”
“Of course not! We cured him! He’s normal now!”
“And you?” she says quietly, and her eyes flick across, cold and calculating.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask, a tremble in my voice.
“Who do you think I am?” she replies.
“I thought you were David A Haym. But you’re not… are you?”
In answer she raises a finger and points. “That must be the mansion.”
She pulls into our drive. I have a bad feeling in my gut, not sure who this woman is or how she knows about Bill-E. She kills the engine and looks at me calmly. Her eyes are really dark. A robot-like expression. No make-up. Thin lips, almost invisible. A small nose with a wartish mole on the right nostril.
“Shall we go in together, or do you want to go on ahead and tell your uncle I’m here?” she asks.
“That depends. What’s your name?” She only smiles in reply. She looks more normal when she smiles, like a teacher—stern, but human. I relax slightly. “You can come with me,” I decide, not wanting to leave her here in case she’s an old friend of Dervish’s and I appear rude.
“Thank you,” she says and gets out of the car. She’s smoothing her skirt down and studying the mansion when I step out. “Nice place,” she comments, then raises a thin eyebrow, the signal for