The morning after the North Tower drew me to its door, I had hockey try-outs.
By the time I woke up around half past nine, Alice was already gone, and I was relieved. I couldn’t face her after what she’d done in the Refectory – and the vitriol she’d spat my way as we stood outside. No doubt she’d be pricklier than ever today, doubling down on her actions instead of admitting fault. I didn’t know her well yet, but that seemed like the kind of approach she’d take.
How was I ever going to be able to relax around her? She was gloomy and unpredictable; a melancholy violin, strung so tightly it was always a split second away from snapping.
Then there was what had happened last night; the invisible lasso of the North Tower. It was one thing telling my dad I’d be safe, that I’d do my best to avoid anyone who seemed a bit murder-y, but what if that killer was a sentient tower whose will could not be overridden?
For now, though, my focus had to be making the hockey team and fulfilling the scholarship requirements. I’d figure out Alice and the North Tower later.
As I traipsed down to the astro, munching on a handful of fizzy strawberry laces, I found myself feeling jittery. Intellectually I had no reason to be nervous. I’d represented my county several times during sixth form, in hockey, tennis and cross-country running. The surgery I’d had on my knee had gone well, and it was pretty much fully rehabbed. Plus there was the fact that competition wouldn’t be as stiff as it would be at other universities, because there were no second, third or fourth years to compete with. And yet none of that eased the cramping in my stomach as the pitch came into view. There were already dozens of girls warming up.
The hockey pitch was my domain. It was where I felt most confident and most powerful. I just had to lean into that. I hoisted my stick bag higher up on my shoulder and picked up the pace, hearing my dad’s North London accent in my head.
‘You’re nervous because you care. That’s a good thing, kiddo.’
But from the moment I started side-stepping in the warm-up, everything felt wrong. I realised I wasn’t just nauseous from nerves – I was also nauseous from five double vodka-cranberries and a terrible night’s sleep. My feet kept tripping over themselves, and the astro blurred as I grew ever more light-headed. I made bad impact with the ball on my first few strikes, and the stinging reverberations up my arms made it hard not to yelp. The heat of the two coaches’ stares bore into me, and when I glimpsed over, they were talking behind their hands. Probably saying, ‘What the shitting hell, we gave this bitch a full-ride scholarship and now she’s playing like a concussed slug?’
There was also a strange tugging sensation just above my belly button, and my gaze kept flitting up to the shadowy outline of the North Tower. It felt as though something sentient had sunk its claws into me, and it didn’t like that my attention was elsewhere.
I remembered the flash of Salem’s ruby-red gaze with a shudder.
Supernatural pulse, indeed.
The try-outs never really improved, and while I ended up making the squad, it was as a reserve. Mortified and humbled, I tried to grab my stick bag as fast as I could and leave the pitch without having to show my reddened cheeks to anyone, but someone appeared by my shoulder.
‘Chin up, chuck,’ said a low, broad Yorkshire voice. ‘Just a bad day. We’ve all had ’em, when you feel like you can’t do owt right.’
I looked up to see a short, curvy Asian girl in a dark red top that said Springdale High. She’d played sweeper on the opposite side to me during try-outs, and as a centre forward I couldn’t get a thing past her.
I smiled brightly, even though I felt anything but. ‘Yeah. Just a shame that that day had to be today.’
She snorted as she wiggled out her gum guard and snapped it into its plastic box. ‘I played so badly at county try-outs last year that I chipped my own tooth. With my own stick. That shouldn’t be physically possible.’ She opened the silicone cap of her sports bottle and took a big gulp, then wiped her mouth on the back of her forearm. ‘I’m Jen, by the way.’
‘Lottie. Lottie Fitzwilliam.’
‘And you shall henceforth be baptised Fitzy.’ She made an invisible cross on her chest as though deep in prayer. ‘A load of us are going t’Grandstand after we’re showered. You fancy it?’
‘What’s the Grandstand?’
Jen grinned. ‘The Refectory’s demure grandfather.’
Demure grandfather turned out to be an apt description of the Grandstand Parlour. If it was possible for a bar to wear velvet slippers and smoke a pipe, this place would do it.
Situated in a far-flung corner of the old convent, it was an oak-panelled, green-carpeted room solely for the use of Carvell athletes. There were faded snooker tables with brass pendant lamps, antique dartboards with gold numbers missing, marble chessboards and intricately carved backgammon sets, and a roaring fireplace that made me want to curl up and take a catnap. The walls were adorned with old team photos from decades gone by, and a row of glass-fronted cabinets were full to bursting with trophies. The whole space smelled of woodsmoke and spiced cigars.
When I walked in, Jen and some of the other players from try-outs were dominating the Chesterfields by the fire, and Jen immediately called out, ‘Fitzy! Over here!’
I grinned from ear to ear. Maybe these were my people. My shiny Charizards.
*
The next thing I knew, I was at the bottom of the North Tower again.
Midnight darkness had descended on campus. I was on my hands and knees on the rain-slicked cobbles, clawing at the unrelenting stone with my bare hands.
Pain rocketed up my fingers and wrists like bolts of electricity. I let out an involuntary groan as I snatched them away from the curved wall.
Footsteps approached.