‘Well, a smart kid like you will have heard of spirit animals?’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard of those.’
‘And you’ve always felt close to cats, right?’
‘How do you know that?’
Chevie realized that the truth about how she knew that was way weirder than the lie she was about to spin.
I know that because I remember our little cat, Tinder, and how much we loved him, you and I.
‘I know that because the spirit warriors are part animal,’ said Old Chevie, and with that she pulled off her sunglasses to reveal the tawny cat’s eyes beneath.
If she was expecting Little Chevie to be shocked or frightened, then she was disappointed.
‘Wow,’ the kid said again. ‘That is cool. Cat’s eyes. Can I touch them?’
‘No, you can’t touch them. What kind of question is that?’
‘Yeah, well, maybe I can’t touch them because they’re really contact lenses.’
Chevie sighed. This was exhausting. ‘ OK, kid. Come as close as you like, but zero touching, got it?’
Little Chevie nodded, but dialled up her scowl again, to show how unsatisfied she was with this compromise.
And so they drew close, the two Chevies, separated by mere inches and yet centuries, gazing deep into each other’s eyes. Old Chevie could have cried at the innocence and hope she saw in her younger self. So much pain had already been endured and there was so much more to go.
But not if I can help it.
‘We need to talk, kid,’ she said.
‘Oh my God, those eyes are real,’ blurted Little Chevie. ‘You’ve come to recruit me, that’s it, isn’t it? I’m gonna be a spirit warrior. Cool.’
Chevie held the child’s stare. ‘Not so fast, kid. You gotta prove yourself first.’
‘Yeah, and how do I prove myself to an old grandma like you? Climb a tree? Open a soda can?’
Old Chevie was feeling less guilty by the second about the whole spirit-warrior thing.
‘You prove it by saving your father. He’s in deadly danger.’
Chevie saw something glint in the corner of her cat’s eye and realized Little Chevie had raised her knife.
‘Danger from who? You, grandma?’
‘No, not me, kid. Haven’t you been paying attention? I bear the mark. I am tribe.’
The knife was slowly lowered. ‘Yeah, OK. We’re on the same side, right?’
Chevie blinked and moved a few inches back from the kid’s intense stare.
‘That’s right. I see what is to come with my cat’s eyes. And I see your father on his motorcycle this afternoon in a terrible accident.’
‘I hate that motorcycle!’ said Little Chevie vehemently.
Old Chevie was surprised to remember that this was true. She had somehow made the motorcycle a symbol of her dad’s sense of freedom, but now she recalled that she had always feared the bike would take him away from her, leaving her alone entirely.
‘I am gonna stick this knife into his tank,’ vowed Little Chevie. And the older version did not doubt that this plucky kid would find the strength to do it.
Hey, she thought. I like myself.
‘No!’ she said hurriedly. ‘Too obvious. You gotta be under the radar. Something stealthy.’
‘Why don’t you do it? Give Dad the whole weird-eyes thing?’
This was a fair question.
‘This is a test, kid. I’m giving you a task, like Hercules or one of those guys. You do this and you’re in the spirit warriors.’
Little Chevie tapped the blade’s tip with her index finger. ‘Stealthy, huh?’
‘Yeah. You think you can manage that?’
Little Chevie thought some more. ‘I could tell Dad about this dream I’ve been having.’
‘Which dream is that?’
The blade’s reflection twinkled in Chevie’s eyes, or maybe the twinkle was all her own. ‘The one where my mom who has passed to the spirit world comes to me and warns me about that motorcycle. Every night she comes and says if he doesn’t sell the bike then there will be a tragic accident.’
‘And he’ll be killed?’
Little Chevie grinned a crafty grin. ‘No, he won’t be killed. I will.’
The older version returned a similar grin. ‘You, my young friend, were born to be a spirit warrior.’
‘Really? You’re not just blowing smoke?’
Chevie felt herself relax. This kid would manipulate her dad until he had no idea which way was up. Using a vision of his departed wife to save his daughter? That was some kind of demented genius.
‘No, kid. No smoke signals of any kind.’
Little Chevie frowned. ‘Was that a Native American joke?’
‘No. I was trying to bond. Spirit-warrior stuff.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘You better get inside. Dad … your dad … will be making his run soon and you can’t let that happen.’
Little Chevie tutted, which was not a sound made very often in real life. And the delicate noise made Old Chevie feel a little sorry for her father.
He has no idea.
‘That will not be happening,’ said Little Chevie. ‘Not today, or any other day for that matter. Take my word for it, grandma. That motorcycle is history.’
Chevie believed it. She had been quite some piece of work in her day.
&nbs
p; I still am, she thought, remembering the two bouncers she had KO’d the week before.
A voice floated through the trees. ‘Chevron? Hey, baby. I’m gonna take a run down for some groceries. Hold the fort, OK?’
Old Chevie peered through the trees and saw her own dear daddy squinting into the forest. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt her eyes well up.
‘I better go,’ said Little Chevie, then made a sad face. ‘How do I look?’
‘Haunted,’ said the older version. ‘Haunted and terrified.’
‘Perfect,’ said the kid, and then she was off and running, dodging round the oak trunks.
Chevie watched the kid and saw she had worked herself into semi-hysteria by the time she reached the cottage, and she knew in her heart that her father was safe.
What will the consequences of that be? If Dad lives, I never go to London, never meet Riley.
But she didn’t know, and nobody did. Charles Smart had never managed to unravel the wormhole; if he couldn’t do it, then what hope was there for lesser brains?
It’s all butterfly effects and paradoxes with these guys, she thought. All shooting in the dark.
She had met Riley and nothing could change that. She had lived a long and most eventful life.
And I have scars and aches to prove it.
Chevie stayed where she was on the stump for another couple of hours, mostly to make sure her dad didn’t set so much as a finger on the motorcycle’s throttle, but also to give her aching muscles time to recover from the climb up here.
I am tired, she realized. So tired of fighting the tunnel.
It followed her everywhere, the magic, never more than a layer of quicksilver away, singing its siren song to her, and now as her father stayed inside the cottage she felt the lure of this timeline slip away from her.
What would happen? she wondered. If I just let go. If I let the sparks take me.
No sooner was the question in her mind than Chevron Savano began stripping off the eleven pounds of silver that adorned her person. Off came the Santa Monica hippy bracelets and the Arabic name chain she had bought in a Moroccan medina and the etched earrings from Kenya and the Scottish circlet and the Kundan toe rings and the five Claddagh rings. And even the silver filling that she had worked loose with her tongue over the years was dislodged with a toothpick and spat into the scrub.