Nicking Time

by T. Traynor

  “Years passed and the house turned into a ruin. The trees and bushes became overgrown, cutting the house off from the world. By then the story had been forgotten. People sneaked in and took away what they could use. He heard them picking their way through the broken glass and rotten wood, talking and laughing, but he couldn’t make them see him. He watched the other houses being built around him, bits of his family’s land being stolen. But no one built on this part because he was here. They couldn’t see him but they sensed it and they left it alone.

  “And he has never left this place. He’s still here, still waiting…”

  “Aw, magic story, Lemur!”

  “Yeah – really exciting.”

  “Really creepy!”

  “Lemur, when you say it happened here – it wasn’t that actual tree, was it?”

  “That actual tree, Skoosh. The brothers died right there… about where you’re sitting. Why do you think it’s never been built on?”

  Skooshie is open-mouthed. “He’s not still here, is he?” he asks.

  “Christy? Here in our den?” says Lemur.

  “Yes – Christy – the ghost of the boy. Not still waiting here?”

  “Wooooo, Skoooooshie! I’m coming for yoooooo!” Bru is on him before Skooshie can escape. The rest of us don’t hesitate to join in. It’s a lot of fun spooking Skoosh and to be honest we’re in need of something to relieve the tension.

  Skooshie wrestles, pushes us off.

  “Does anybody want some chips?” he says. “I’m starving.”

  14

  We don’t have any money for chips, so we head for my house. Only my dad’s in.

  “Where’s Mum?”

  “She’s away into town with Kit.”

  You hear how Kit is always Kit? I used to be Jamie at home, but since I got into the Grammar, I’ve been “James”. I still look behind me to see who they’re talking to. My dad keeps forgetting and so I get the occasional “Jamie” from him, but my mum gives him a Look. So he’s taken to saying “James” like he’s using quotation marks, which makes it sound a bit sarcastic or like he suspects I’m not who I claim to be. It’s disturbing.

  We stand, looking hopeful. Skooshie’s belly rumbles right on cue.

  “Do you lot need feeding?” says my dad, putting his paper down. “We’ve got some beans and sausages – I could rustle you up a cowboy lunch.”

  “Aw, thanks, Mr Laird!”

  “Your mums know you’re here? They’ll not be worrying about where you are?”

  “She’s not in,” says Skooshie. “I’d just have to make my own lunch. I’m definitely up for sausages.”

  “Mine said, ‘See you when I see you!’,” says Hector.

  “And mine’ll know that if I’m not at home, I’m here,” says Bru.

  “Good. What about you, Lemur?”

  “Mine won’t mind at all,” says Lemur.

  “Good. Beans and sausages it is! Midge, you sort out some juice.”

  We sit on the floor in the living room eating our beans and sausages and rolls that my dad’s found and buttered. There’s too many of us to fit in the kitchen. My dad’s in his chair. He says if he sat on the floor, we’d never get him up again.

  “Dad,” I ask, as we’re eating, “d’you know why this area is called Mount Florida?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” says my dad.

  My dad’s always reading the newspaper and he can talk on any subject under the sun (for a long time). But I’ve never seen him with an actual book. Even though he’s always on at me to study (another example of irony). His allergy to books is a family joke. “Did you find out from a book?” I ask.

  “Better than that,” he says. “I talked to a man in the pub.”

  “Had he read a book?” I ask, spearing another sausage.

  “Better than that. He was local – his family’s lived here for donkey’s years. See, that’s how you learn things. A book’s just one person’s point of view. You talk to a lot of people, you get a lot of viewpoints.”

  “Yeah, Dad. I’ll try that one at school. What was he saying, this guy in the pub?”

  “He said there used to be a big house here – a long time ago, before Cathkin, before Hampden, before any of the houses that are here now were built. Mount Florida was named after the house.”

  Lemur shoots Hector a triumphant look.

  “He remembered his dad showing him a map of the area with the house marked on it as a ruin.”

  “Lemur,” I say, “can we tell my dad your story?”

  We all chip in, so it loses a lot of its dramatic effect but we’re too excited to let Lemur tell it on his own. We keep the details vague so we don’t give away the location of our den. My dad doesn’t ask awkward questions.

  “Aw, that’s a good story,” he says when we’ve finished. “Did you think it all up yourself, Lemur?”

  “It’s actually true, Mr Laird.”

  “Is that right?” says my dad.

  “So who told you it?” asks Hector.

  “It’s a family story,” says Lemur.

  “It’s great how stories get passed on,” says my dad. “Right, are you all finished?”

  “Thanks for that, Mr Laird,” says Skooshie, licking the last of the bean sauce off his plate. “You’re a great cook!” He actually means it.

  “Yeah, Dad,” I say. “Nobody can heat up beans quite like you.”

  “Well, they don’t call me Gordon Blue for nothing,” says my dad. “Are you done licking, Skooshie? You maybe better stop before you take the pattern off the plate.”

  He collects up all the plates and takes them into the kitchen. He brings back the biscuit tin with him.

  “Now, here’s what I’m wondering,” he says. “D’you think Christy did it on purpose? Made himself fall from the tree?”

  Hector thinks yes: it’s too much of a coincidence. Bru and Skooshie think definitely not: from what they’ve heard about Christy, they don’t see him as the type to give up that easily.

  “I think it might be more complicated than that,” I say. “I mean, I don’t think he wanted to kill himself but I think he knew he was taking a big risk. Maybe he thought it was worth it.”

  “That’s what I think,” says Lemur. “That he loved doing it too much to give it up.”

  “And you say his ghost’s still in the den?” says my dad.

  “Well, Lemur’s saying that,” says Skooshie. “I don’t see how it can be true.”

  “Really, Skoosh?” says Bru. “You’ve never noticed that funny noise – the branches above us creaking like there’s somebody up there, sitting and watching us?”

  My dad laughs as Skooshie tightens his hand into a fist and makes a silent gesture to Bru that means “Just you wait till we get outside…”

  “Well,” Dad says, “if he is there, I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. As ghosts go, he sounds exactly your type: clever, loyal, adventurous. He’ll fit in perfectly.”

  ***

  We’re back in the den. For once, things are quiet, maybe too quiet… It’s because of the Wagon Wheels that we picked up at Hector’s on the way here. Wagon Wheels present a particular biscuit-eating challenge, if you’re determined to enjoy them in the time-honoured traditional way. That involves dealing with the top layer first to expose the creamy, marshmallowy centre, which is at its most delicious if you eat it in its pure state. With, say, a Bourbon or a Jammie Dodger it’s pretty straightforward, because you can get a good grip on the bottom. Not so with Wagon Wheels. It’s definitely a huge part of their attraction that they’re totally covered in chocolate, but it makes the task trickier. You need to start by creating a handhold. I like to go all the way round the circumference – some people lick the edge clean of chocolate, but I prefer the nibbling approach. It’s more satisfying. Once that’s done, that’s when I start licking. It’s the best way to eat the chocolate covering the top layer. Then you prise the biscuit off in big crunchy bites. Now for the marshmallow. It
collects in sweet, claggy lumps in your mouth as you drag your teeth across the surface. Fantastic… In a perfect world you’d be able to eat everything but the filling, leaving it to the very last. But it’s not humanly possible. Yet.

  “Did you know,” says Hector, simultaneously swallowing his last mouthful of Wagon Wheel, “that there’s no word in Gaelic for yes?” His biscuit-eating technique clearly needs work: he’s always finished ages before anybody else.

  “So how do you answer the question ‘Do you want a Wagon Wheel?’”

  “I don’t think they have Wagon Wheels in the wilds up north,” says Skooshie, munching thoughtfully.

  “Did you know,” says Bru, “that there’s no word in any language for that smell Hector just produced?”

  “That’ll be the beans…”

  “AAAAAH! It’s getting worse.”

  “Evacuate! Evacuate!”

  ***

  Kit’s sitting up in her bed in the dark, cross-legged like a pixie. She’s desperate to know what happens. So desperate that she doesn’t say anything at all until I’ve got to the very end. (That’s a first.)

  “So why did Christy stay and Robert didn’t?” she asks then.

  “Good question,” I say. “Why’s he restless? Maybe he feels guilty about Robert dying?”

  “And he’s doomed to roam the earth in punishment?”

  “Wouldn’t there be more howling and rattling of chains if that was true?” I ask. We watched A Christmas Carol on telly last year, so I’m something of an expert on restless ghosts.

  “D’you think the story’s true, Midge?” Kit asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Really?”

  My first instinct is to go for it, to play up the scariness of our haunted den, because it’s always fun to frighten Kit. But in my heart I know she’s not as gullible as Skoosh.

  “It might have actually happened, I suppose,” I say. “It’s a great story and I want it to be true. But I don’t really think there’s a ghost in our den. And I’m pretty sure Bru and Hector think the same way. Skooshie – well, he’s practically weeing himself with fear, so I guess he believes it!” Kit giggles. “Lemur’s enjoying winding Skooshie up so much – he’s saying it’s all completely true and that the ghost is right there… ‘Ooooh, Skooshie, mind out behind you!’ I don’t think he’s had this much fun in ages!”

  “Poor Skooshie!”

  “Ha! Like you won’t mention it next time you see him!”

  More giggles. “Well, I might. So Lemur’s a good storyteller?”

  “Yeah – loads of drama and tension. And pure dead brilliant details – my favourite is the bit about Christy watching his own coffin being lowered into the ground…”

  “Spooky… and weird. Though Lemur is, isn’t he? Weird, I mean.”

  “You always say that. It’s just because he lives in a big house.”

  “No, I don’t mean that. It’s all the stuff you don’t know about him.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, what school is he going to at the end of the summer?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What primary school did he go to? He wasn’t at ours.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, what colour was his uniform?”

  I have no picture in my head of Lemur in his school uniform. He must always have changed out of it. Or did I just not notice? Does anybody notice that kind of thing, apart from girls?

  “I’m not sure. This is what you’re basing your accusation of weirdness on – that we don’t know what colour his school tie is?”

  “Did you never ask? You spend your entire time together! What do boys actually talk about?”

  “Loads of different stuff. Big, important stuff! Not school.”

  She sighs and lies down. “Maybe it’s just boys in general that are weird.”

  The truth is I’ve avoided asking Lemur about school. I would definitely feel less worried about secondary if Lemur was going to be there. But to find that out, we’d need to discuss it and that’s the last thing I want to do. School’s something we’ve all agreed – without ever mentioning the subject at all – not to talk about. As far as I know, I’m the only one going to the Grammar. So I’ll be cutting past Cathkin on my own every morning. And Bru, Skooshie and Hector will be getting the bus in the opposite direction without me. Lemur never talks about school – he says it’s irrelevant. (He told Skooshie that wasn’t the actual name of his school. Skooshie punched him.)

  So we don’t talk about what will happen in August. I know I’m abandoning them all and I really don’t deserve to have Lemur coming with me. It wouldn’t be fair. Thing is, if I don’t ask and Lemur is there, then I haven’t caused that – that’s just chance. So then that would be OK. I think.

  15

  It’s the next day and it’s still raining. Kit and I stare out the window but watching the rain and willing it to stop doesn’t seem to be working. We entertain ourselves for a while by breathing on the cold glass to fog it up and using our fingernails to draw mist pictures. My best one shows Kit looking like a pig. She adds a speech bubble to it that says OINK!, so I think she quite likes it. Then we’re spotted and told off and all our artwork is erased in one sweep of a window cloth. We retreat to our bedroom with nothing to do. What is it about wet weather that clears all the good ideas out of your brain?

  “Tell me a story,” Kit says.

  “I don’t know any.” That’s not of course true. I just haven’t got the oomph.

  “Tell me Lemur’s story,” she insists.

  “I’ve told you that already. Loads of times.”

  “Twice!” she protests. “I really like it. That’s why I want to hear it again. You’re good at the bit where he’s falling, falling, falling – CRASH! Dead!”

  “I am quite good at that bit,” I admit. But I’m not flattered enough to tell the story for the 932nd time.

  “I wonder if Lemur knew the story and went looking for the place to make his den? Or whether he made his den first and then made up the story to go with it?”

  “It is not Lemur’s den – it’s our den! In fact, I found it, so if it’s anybody’s, it’s mine. Well, actually, Bru’s and mine – we found it together.”

  “Really? I always thought it was Lemur’s first, because he and it turned up about the same time.”

  “You’re right, they did,” I say. “I found them both on the same day – well, I met Lemur, and then I – I mean we – found the den.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were playing at spies – Bru, Hector, Skooshie and me. They were trying to hunt me down. I had concealed about my person some incredibly TOP-SECRET plans – plans to do with… Well, if I told you, I’d have to kill you. Let’s just say the safety of Scotland depended on me not getting caught and you’re better off not knowing.” I’ve got this far before I realise Kit’s managed to trick me into telling her a story. Annoying, but by now it’s too late, so I keep going.

  “So, I was bombing it down May Terrace, looking over my shoulder to see if they were on my tail and – thump! Straight into something hard. Next thing I knew I was on the ground and so was this other boy. Totally my fault. He was rubbing his shoulder and – surprisingly – not looking too annoyed.

  “‘I’m really sorry,’ I said, helping him up. ‘It’s just I’m on the run.’

  “‘I know – I saw them earlier. They’re not far from here.’

  “‘Is there anywhere I can hide?’

  “‘Quick, in here!’ We ducked behind a bush by the side of a house. ‘Breathe more quietly!’ he said. ‘They’ll hear you!’ We stood in complete silence, me holding my breath until I was ready to burst. Hector, Skooshie and Bru came panting up the road, stopped right in front of the bush and looked round in all directions.

  “‘No sign of him,’ said Bru. ‘Aw, I think we’ve lost him.’

  “‘OK,’ said Hector. ‘Back to base.’

  “They cleared off. I couldn’t
believe my luck. ‘That means I’ve won! I better go and tell them how hopeless they are. Thanks for giving me somewhere to hide – it was brilliant.’ As the boy turned to go back down May Terrace, I had a better idea. ‘If you’ve nothing else to do,’ I said, ‘you could come and hang about with us?’

  “And the boy-who-wasn’t-yet-Lemur grinned and said, ‘OK.’

  “Hector, Skooshie and Bru wouldn’t believe they’d been two feet away from me and hadn’t caught me.

  “‘Not possible!’ said Skooshie. ‘We’re too highly trained.’

  “‘Show them,’ said Lemur. And so we went back to May Terrace and showed them the bush. They took turns to investigate and admit I was right.

  “‘Hey,’ said Bru from behind the bush. ‘It goes deeper, you know.’

  “We slipped in after him, one by one. We fought our way along the path, pushing away the leaves and branches that sprang back in our faces. It was a tight fit with us all and there was some shoving – and the next thing you know I’d fallen through the undergrowth into the space that was to become our den.”

  “Oh,” says Kit when I’ve finished.

  “Oh what?”

  “Just funny they both happened at the same time. Meeting Lemur and finding the den.”

  “I know! It is very rare that two brilliant things happen in one day.”

  “Unless it wasn’t an accident.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “Maybe Lemur got in your way on purpose when you were running? Maybe he meant you to find the den and just made it look like you were the one to discover it?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  She doesn’t get a chance to answer because the door goes. It’s Bru, which is what I call timely. He bounces himself into a comfortable position on my bed and listens as I bring him up to speed on what Kit and I have been talking about. Bru chips in with extra details of the den discovery. “Great day,” he says, when we’ve finished.