CHAPTER 5

Fynn stood at the station, waiting for Fran. Oddly, whenever he thought of Fran, Poppy's face floated into his mental view. There were spookily similar, after all. They'd agreed to go out soon, specifically down to a little pub Fynn knew by repute but hadn't had the nerve to try yet on his own.
It had never occurred to him to ask Fran along.
Hence the sudden burst of boyfriendly obligation that had him waiting patiently at the platform, awaiting the train from Cardiff. Fran had teleported to the interview, but that was only because she was running late. She really hated teleporting, while Fynn rather enjoyed it as his particular talent, and could teleport into a room lined with solid silver if he had to.
So, tired after an eventful day, Fran had decided to take the train.
The train in question was about quarter of an hour late, and a request stop at that, so Fynn found himself getting impatient, and then oddly nervous, as though he was once again sitting an exam, one he hadn't a chance to study for.
Then someone was tapping Fynn's shoulder, and as he looked around he realised Fran had teleported a little bit ahead of the train.
"Hi," she said tiredly.
"Hi," he replied softly. "How'd it go?"
"It went. I start on Monday."
Fynn felt his face fall, and tried to ignore the little flicker of relief in the back of his spine. "Oh… well, well done."
"Hmm." Fran shook herself awake. "I say we go out and celebrate. I've never had a full time job before. Come on, let's go down the Chinese."
Shyly, Fynn held out his arm, and, leaving just enough of a pause to worry him, Fran accepted it, and then basked in his relieved smile.
"Good idea."

It was hard, thought Fran three weeks later.
It was hard to pretend that she believed the badly-thought out excuses, to smile and play at forgiveness, when every kiss he shared with Poppy flickered across the backcloth of Fran's mind. The first time it had happened, she'd stopped dead in the middle of the room, her thoughts suddenly full of the familiar touch of his lips.
Fran hugged herself. Suddenly she wasn't so sure that creating Poppy had been such a wonderful idea. Especially not tonight.
Fran sat quietly on the hillside overlooking the house. The hardest thing was to get rid of Hannah for the evening, but Hannah sometimes sloped off on her own business anyway, so Fran had simply told her that they'd look after Amanda tonight, and that Hannah deserved a night off.
There was nothing to mark out Fran's presence, among all the sheep-studded hills- polka dot mountains, as she'd once affectionately referred to them- except for a tiny candle, no more than a stub of waxy white nestled in the grass. Fran watched the little orange flame, trying to keep Poppy from her mind.
Tonight, Fynn seduced Poppy.
Eventually, Fran couldn't bear it any more. She'd meant to catch them just afterwards, if only to spare herself the sight of them together, but the way she saw it, the sooner this was over, the better for all concerned.
The walk back to the cottage took too long, made worse by Fran's continued stumbling over rocks, because she was too distracted to pick her feet up properly. She wanted to run, but right now all she had in her own eyes was her self-respect, and she had a vague idea of what a sight she looked when she ran.
There was a flickering light in the bedroom, and for a moment she paused, telling herself that she really wasn't going to be sick. Mercifully, her stomach believed her. Now all she needed was for to stop her imagination picturing all the things they could be doing together, all the things she and Fynn had learnt from and taught to one another…
Fran couldn't make herself move again. She did not want to see. Not ever. What made it worse was that she had done this to herself. She had even provided Fynn with the lover he was now in bed with.
No, that wasn't quite true. Granted, she had created Poppy, but everything else that had happened since had been Fynn's choice. And if it hadn't have been Poppy, what was to say it wouldn't be someone else? In a way, this was proof that there would have been someone else, and Fran was just grateful she'd contained the problem.
It took all the courage she had to stalk forward. She'd thought, back when she'd formed this plan, that anger would have been enough, but Fran couldn't hang onto the kind of ever-boiling anger that this work really needed. Icy anger, usually in the form of a grudge, was far more her forte.
She had a brief debate as to how best to enter the house. Did she go in loudly, as was her right, but giving Poppy time to hide, or quietly, the better to catch the lovebirds? In the event, she opened and closed the door normally, but clouded herself from Fynn's attention- and tonight, that wasn't particularly difficult- so that when she entered the bedroom, it was the first he knew of her approach.
"Fran," said Fynn weakly. At least he made no attempt to pretend that the naked woman beside him was there for any innocent reason.
"Fynn," replied Fran coolly. "And company. Perhaps company would like to introduce herself?"
Poppy looked too terrified to speak, and Fynn merely mumbled "Poppy Watson" before subsiding. It had been Fran's little joke, of course. Holmes and Watson, investigating wrongdoers.
Surprisingly, the anger was back, as boiling and pure as when Fran had learnt about Esme. For a moment, she had an overwhelming mental image of paper burning, of the edges catching, and then the whole page turning black, and then grey, light and flaking into ash. She pushed the image away, but not before she saw Poppy's face. The fear was genuine.
Fynn got right to the point. "What will you do to me?"
Suddenly the anger was pushed aside. Fran realised that Gregor hadn't overstated the case one bit. Right now, if she ordered the oath breaker to fall upon her bread knife, he'd be rattling around the kitchen drawer before she finished the sentence.
"Nothing, Fynn. I won't bind you. I'm leaving, see. I've got the job in Cardiff, and I've just got myself a flat down there. I plan to take Amanda- and Hannah if she's willing- and leave you to it. You can screw your way through the village for all it'll matter."
A single tear fell down Fynn's cheek. "Fran- please don't. Please don't-"
"Don't what? Get bloody furious? Right now, I hate you, I hate you so hard it scares me. I'd like to think that someday… I know it sounds crap, but I want to be your friend someday. Only it's not today, and not while we live under the same roof."
To her amazement, Fynn's features hardened. Fynn, who lived all his life so open to the world. Perhaps that was the other thing he'd learnt from her.
"What I was going to say was, 'Please don't take Amanda away from me'. You can't look after her in a city, and you're hardly the most maternal of souls, are you now?"
"Amanda was given to me," said Fran calmly, but her voice was less than totally convinced. She had no idea how she was going to fit Amanda into her working life. Fynn sniffed.
"She'll be better off here, and you know it."
"Yeah," sniped Fran, "if she doesn't mind living through a neverending porn movie!"
"Get out," said Fynn, suddenly calm. "Just get out. You've hated it here from day one, and now you've finally got an excuse to run. Some of us will stay here, take our responsibilities seriously, and make of it what we can."
Fran lost her temper. "Well, you shan't be doing it with her." She pointed a finger at Poppy. "Unfold, you bitch, and may you give him every paper cut in Creation!"
Poppy sighed, very slightly, and then suddenly she was nothing more than a paper model, and that slowly uncrinkled while Fynn desperately tried to grab at some still-human looking portion until there was nothing more than a neat pile of fresh, uncreased and unmarked paper on the bed. Then a stray wind seemed to catch at the pile, and the pile fell towards the floor, each sheet fading from existence before it reached the stone floor.
Fynn stared. "You killed her."
"No. She was never alive." Fran checked her own mental state, and was relieved to find that she was alone in her own skull again. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I got some packing to do."

© Naomi Claydon, 2000