Anthony Horowitz: Necropolis

And so it was agreed. A few weeks later, Vanessa left, hugging Scarlett and promising that the two of them would see each other again very soon. And yet, somehow, Scarlett wondered just how likely that would be. She had always tried to be close to Vanessa, recognizing at the same time that they had almost nothing in common. They weren’t a real mother and daughter and so – as far as Scarlett was concerned – this wasn’t a real divorce.

Paul Adams left for Hong Kong shortly afterwards and suddenly Scarlett found herself in a new phase of life, virtually on her own. But, as she had expected, it wasn’t so very different from what she had always been used to. Mrs Murdoch was still there, cooking, cleaning and making sure she was ready for school. Her father telephoned her regularly to check up on her. Vanessa sent long e-mails. Her teachers – who had been warned what had happened – kept a close eye on her. She was surprised how quickly she got used to things.

She was happy. She had plenty of friends and Aidan was still around. The two of them saw more of each other than ever, going shopping together, listening to music, taking Aidan’s dog – a black retriever – out on Dulwich Common. She was allowed to walk home from school on her own again. In fact, as if to recognize her new status, she found herself being given a whole lot more freedom. At weekends, she went into town to the cinema. She stayed overnight with other girls from her class. She had been given a big part in the Christmas play, which meant late afternoon rehearsals and hours in the evening learning her lines. It all helped to fill the time and to make her think that her life wasn’t so very unusual after all.

Everything changed one day in November. That was when Miss Chaplin announced her great Blitz project – a visit to London’s East End.

Joan Chaplin was the art teacher at St Genevieve’s and she was famous for being younger, friendlier and more easygoing than any of the dinosaurs in the staff room. She was always finding new ways to interest the girls, organizing coach trips to exhibitions and events all over London. One class had gone to see the giant crack built into the floor of the Tate Modern. For another it had been a shark suspended in a tank, an installation by the artist, Damien Hirst. Weeks later, they had still been arguing whether it was serious art or just a dead fish.

As part of their GCSE history coursework, a lot of the girls were studying the Blitz, the bombing of London by the Germans during the Second World War. Miss Chaplin had decided that they should take an artistic as well as a historical interest in what had happened.

“I want you to capture the spirit of the Blitz,” she explained. “What’s the point of studying it if you don’t feel it too?” She paused as if waiting for someone to argue, then went on. “You can use photography, painting, collage or even clay modelling if you like. But I want you to give me an idea of what it might have been like to live in London during the winter of 1940.”

There was a mutter of agreement around the class. Walking around London had to be more fun than reading about it in books. Scarlett was particularly pleased. History and art had become two of her favourite subjects and she saw that here was an opportunity to do them both at the same time.

“Next Monday, we’re going to Shoreditch,” Miss Chaplin went on. “It was an area of London that was very heavily bombed. We’ll visit many of the streets, trying to imagine what it was like and we’ll look at some of the buildings that survived.”

She glanced outside. The art room was on the ground floor, at the back of the school, with a view over the garden, sloping down with flower-beds at the bottom and three tennis courts beyond. It was Friday and it was raining. The rain was sheeting down and the grass was sodden. It had been like that for three days.

“Of course,” she went on. “The trip won’t be possible if the weather doesn’t cheer up – and I have to warn you that the forecast hasn’t been too promising. But maybe we’ll be lucky. Either way, remember to bring a permission slip from your parents.” Then she had a sudden thought and smiled. “What do you think, Scarlett?”

It had become a sort of joke at St Genevieve’s.

Scarlett Adams always seemed to know what the weather was going to do. Nobody could remember when it had first started but everyone agreed – you could tell how the day was going to be simply by the way Scarlett dressed. If she forgot her scarf, it would be warm. If she brought in an umbrella, it would rain. After a bit, people began to ask her opinion. If there was an important tennis match or a picnic planned by the river, have a word with Scarlett. If there was any chance of a cross-country run being called off, she would know.

Of course, she wasn’t always right. But it seemed she could be relied upon about ninety per cent of the time.

Now she looked out of the window. It was horrible outside.

The clouds, grey and unbroken, were smothering the sky. She could see raindrops chasing each other across the glass. “It’ll be fine,” she said. “It’ll clear up after the weekend.”

Miss Chaplin nodded. “I do hope you’re right.”

She was. It rained all day Sunday and it was still drizzling on Sunday night. But Monday morning, when Scarlett woke up, the sky was blue. Even Mrs Murdoch was whistling as she put together the packed lunch requested by the school. It was as if a last burst of summer had decided to put in a surprise appearance.

The coach came to the school at midday. The lesson – combining art and history – was actually going to take place over two periods plus lunch and, allowing for the traffic, the girls wouldn’t be back until the end of school. As they pulled out of St Genevieve’s, Miss Chaplin talked over the intercom, explaining what they were going to do.

“We’ll be stopping for lunch at St Paul’s Cathedral,” she said. “It was very much part of the spirit of the Blitz because, despite all the bombing, it was not destroyed. The coach will then take us to Shoreditch and we’re going to walk around the area. It’s still a bit wet underfoot so I want us to go indoors and the place I’ve chosen is St Meredith’s, in Moore Street. It’s one of the oldest churches in London. In fact there was a chapel there as long ago as the thirteenth century.”

“Why are we visiting a church?” one of the girls asked.

“Because it also played an important part in the war. A lot of local people used to hide there during the bombing. They actually believed it had the power to protect them… that they’d be safe there.”

She paused. The coach had reached the River Thames, crossing over Blackfriars Bridge. Scarlett looked out of the window. The water was flowing very quickly after all the rain. In the distance, she could just make out part of the London Eye, the silver framework glinting in the sunlight. The sight of it made her sad. She had ridden on it with her parents, at the end of the summer. It had been one of the last things the three of them had done while they were still a family.

“…actually took a direct hit on October 2, 1940.” Miss Chaplin was still talking about St Meredith’s. Scarlett had allowed her thoughts to wander and she’d missed half of what the teacher had said. “It wasn’t destroyed, but it was badly damaged. Bring your sketch books with you and we can work in there. We have permission and you can go anywhere you like. See if you can feel the atmosphere. Imagine what it was like, being there with the bombs going off all around.”

Miss Chaplin flicked off the microphone and sat down again, next to the driver.

Scarlett was a few rows behind her, sitting next to a girl called Amanda, who was one of her closest friends and who lived in the same road as her. She noticed that Amanda was frowning.