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MELANIE ROSE
Could It Be Magic?
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
An earlier version of this book was first published in
Great Britain as Being Lauren by Matador, an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd in 2005
Copyright © Melanie Rose 2009
Melanie Rose asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9781847561053
Ebook Edition © MAY 2009 ISBN: 9780007320073
Version: 2018-05-31
This book is for David, with love.
It is also for all the courageous children both past and present who have been my inspiration.
Contents
Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Epilogue About the Author About the Publisher
Frankie dragged me gleefully through the dusty car park onto the short grass of the Downs, where I paused to inhale the autumn air, grateful to be outdoors at last: away from the petrol fumes of the nearby road and the confines of my small flat. Bending to unclip the lead from her collar, I straightened up to watch as my three-year-old terrier streaked exuberantly away into the distance. Smiling, I found myself wishing I could run wildly after her with equal glorious abandonment.
Contenting myself with a brisk walk, I caught up with her eventually and we continued in companionable silence along a familiar track on the Epsom Downs, Frankie leading the way on her short businesslike legs. I allowed my mind to drift while the tensions of the week gradually subsided and my muscles slowly relaxed.
As we climbed a small rise, the sun slid behind a cloud and I glanced up, noticing how still the air had become. The sight and feel of it made me check in mid-stride. The Downs were still there, rolling away on either side of me, but the dry grass and distant trees, which a moment before had been green and brown in the early afternoon sunshine, had been touched by an eerie yellowish hue. Shivering, I pulled my sheepskin coat more closely around me and quickened my stride.
Frankie darted off towards some small trees and I cursed softly under my breath, hoping she wasn’t going to vanish just as I was thinking of starting the long walk back to the car. A sudden chill had descended from nowhere and the sky was turning as purple and black as a bruised plum. The landscape seemed bathed in an unnatural silence. I realised with trepidation that even the birds had stopped singing.
A deep rumble echoed across the distant hills and a few seconds later Frankie came racing back over the cropped turf, her hind legs going so fast with each panicked bound that they seemed almost to be sticking out from under her whiskery nose. She collided with my jean-clad shins and started to whine.
Stooping down, I picked her up and held her against me, ignoring the grubby marks her paws made on my coat. The feel of her warm living body and the scent of doggy breath on my face reassured me that I hadn’t stepped inadvertently into the stillness of an artist’s landscape painting. I stood and stared at the fearsome beauty of the picture around me with a feeling of awe. The strange light had brushed the autumnal trees on the far hilltop, tipping them with gold, yet the sky was growing blacker and more minous by the second.
And then the wind started. It hit with an audible ‘whoomp’, and with such force that I staggered back under the onslaught. It whisked my brown shoulder-length
