Rebecca
The racket died down at about 6 that evening. It had been dark for an hour already, and cold even for January, so nobody had bothered to hang about outside to watch the show. I went out at seven to escape the stifling warmth that my ever shivering mother claimed she need to survive the long winters. The frost was already settling on the grass out front, and it crunched underfoot as I walked to the low brick wall that surrounded most of the house. I leaned against the wall, and closed my eyes, enjoying the relative silence and the biting cold on my skin, pretending for a few moments that the houses and all the people on this crowded island had vanished, and that I was utterly alone, breathing the icy air and hearing my heartbeat rushing in my ears.
"Rebecca?" My mother. She never called me Becky or Bex, and I was grateful for that. I did prefer the long version of my name, but I wasn't fussy. I'd answer to anything, really.
"I'm out here."
"Come in, baby. You'll catch a cold out there." My mother firmly believed that getting cold caused all manner of illnesses. I'd explained to her about viruses and bacteria and all that. Made no difference. It always amazed me that someone who hated and feared the cold so much insisted on staying in a country renowned for its rubbish weather. I'd asked her about it before, and she'd said that she didn't want to uproot us all just because of the weather. It seemed as good a reason as any other to me. And my "roots" were pretty weak, as roots go. I didn't have any close friends; just acquaintances that I made conversation with at school to keep up appearances. The only ties I had were to my family. They were all I needed, I guess.
Angus
Marcus phoned late Sunday night to let me know that he'd confirmed the match with the blood sample that he'd somehow managed to acquire. Deception, probably. Marcus and Fergus could both get the biggest sceptics, the most narrow-minded bureaucrats, to glug down any story they chose to feed them. You could call it a kind of vocal charisma. Or long distance hypnosis. I was admittedly fairly good at convincing people to do what I wanted, but those two were devastating. Especially face to face. It occurred to me that they would probably be able to persuade Rebecca Harding to abandon everything she knew here and go with them just by looking at her. A small part of me suppressed that thought with what could have been jealousy or possessiveness, or maybe a bit of both. I wasn't sure. These feelings were alien to me, so I ignored them. I'd already decided that I'd approach this rationally, explain the whole situation to the girl, hoping that she would understand and accept what I had to tell her. Give her a chance to come to terms with everything under her own steam. But if she said "No," there was always plan B.