“Then the joke’s on Barnes Old Cemetery because I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Maybe they believe in you, Arden.”
I shivered, though mostly because it was chilly in the shade. The leaf cover was so thick it gave the light a heavy, greenish tint. Even the wintery sun dapple had a tarnished quality, speckling the stonework with circles the colour of old coins. “What are we doing here?”
“I like it.” She sat down on the steps of a monument, its crumbling cross casting misshapen shadows over her face.
“You would,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
“It’s where the legend of Spring-heeled Jack began.”
“You mean the guy who jumped on people? It’s not exactly up there with the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, is it?”
At that moment, something touched my shoulder. Which I handled with great poise by screaming the place down until I realised it had only been a leaf.
When I’d chilled the fuck out, and Ellery had finished laughing at me, she asked, “Do you want to hear a song about a man who murdered his wife?”
“What? Now? Isn’t it disrespectful or something?”
She gave me a look. “To dead people? Who are dead?”
I guess she had a point. “To their families?”
“Oh, come on. Does it look like anyone gives a fuck about what happens here?”
“But”—I shuffled awkwardly, the movement turning over several layers of leaf gunge and sending the scent of decay rushing up my nose—“that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t either.”
Ellery was already dragging her violin out of its case. “Who says I don’t. Are you listening or fucking off?”
“I’m listening. But why are these things always about men who murder their wives?”
“That’s not true. Sometimes they’re about men who murder their wivesandtheir children.”
I looked around for somewhere to sit but it was dead people or bust. So I leaned against a tree instead.
“Okay so,” said Ellery, “out of respect for your feelings, this is about a man who murders his wife, but he does it with his wife’s sister because they’re banging.”
“His wife is banging her own sister? They lezed up hard-core in Victorian times.”
“No, he’s banging the sister. Hence the murder.”
“Oh.” My face fell. “That’s way less interesting.”
An Ellery shrug. “I’m not really into dating, but I hear it’s good to have interests in common.”
“Yeah, but ice-skating or playing board games. Not killing people.”
“But what if”—she gave me a flat stare—“you don’t like ice-skating or playing board games?”
“Stop being a creeper and play your damn music.”
She ducked her head to hide her expression, but I’m pretty sure she was smiling. “You have to help with the chorus. You know I’m not into singing.”
This was a trap. This was totally a trap. “What’s the chorus?”
“‘Oh, what thousands are approaching / Our unhappy fate to see / Elias Lucas, Mary Reeder / Die in Cambridge on a tree.’”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. And then said, “I’m not even going to ask about the verses.”
