Before him stood a young boy with a face so pale and sad that Oliver wondered how anyone alive could live with such sorrow. It reminded him of the faces of starving African children on TV. A weariness that pleaded for either life or death, it didn’t matter which, so long as there was an end to their suffering.
He had thought of African children because the boy was black. Pale as he was, the features were unmistakable.
“What-I mean how-what are you doing here?”
The boy stared back at him with huge brown eyes. “Hello. My name is Sam. I’ve been climbing.”
“Climbing?” Had Uncle Tim left a downstairs window open? “How did you get in?”
“Mommy brought me,” he looked nervous, expectant. “She told me to wait ‘till she got back.”
This was really crazy.
“Have you seen my mom?” Sam looked round. “I keep climbing, but I can’t find her.”
Oliver’s tight grip on the torch made his fingers ache. “Your mum left you in Uncle Tim’s house? That’s mad. This is private property.”
“No -,” Sam’s brow furrowed. “I fell asleep. She went out to buy food. I think she’s lost.” In the torch’s fuzzy light Sam’s eyes glinted.
For a black kid his clothes were really un-cool. Why was he wearing a girl’s nighty? Then he remembered, his Grandad used to wear one. Not a nighty; a nightshirt, that’s what he called it. He’d never seen one on a boy. It looked old fashioned, with its grey stripes and cream buttons, and made of such thin transparent material.
Another thought crossed his mind, but he dismissed it, scared by its incredible possibilities.
“Look mate-I don’t know what you’re up to,” it was hard to make sense of what was happening. “You can’t stay here. Can I ring someone?”
“I’ve got to keep climbing,” Sam glanced at the open trap. “I got stuck after the bomb fell. The fire trapped me and I couldn’t see. There was so much dust.”
Bomb!
“What!” Oliver gulped. “You mean fireworks?” But they didn’t trap people in fire and dust. They burnt your skin if they were thrown at you. They deafened you if they exploded in your face. They frightened you for the rest of your life if that happened.
“There aren’t any bombs. Bombs are used by terrorists.” Had Al Qaeda targeted Hastings?
Sam looked confused. “I don’t know that word. Do you mean the Germans?”
This was getting really stupid. “Germans don’t bomb people. Not now. That was during the Second World War.”
Sam nodded. “The war will never end. That’s what mommy says.” He took a step forwards and his body undulated like an underwater swimmer learning to manoeuvre in a new environment.
“No stay there.” Oliver lowered the beam.
Dazzled, Sam whined. “Please don’t hurt me; I don’t know what to do.”
“You mustn’t come so close.”
Sam shielded his eyes. “Are there going to be more bombs?”
“I told you, there aren’t any bombs,” he wished his voice didn’t keep cracking. Tim wouldn’t be scared.
“That last one was really loud. Did you hear it?”
“There haven’t been any bombs for years and years.” Why was he explaining this?
“Can you help me to climb out please? I can’t reach that high.” His mouth widened into a beaming smile and his white teeth gleamed in the torch light. “I’m so happy you found me.”
Oliver slowly lowered the torch. Whatever Sam was, he knew that, physically, he was no threat. He had an image of his hand passing right through that thin little body, something remembered from story books.
He switched off the torch. “This is too weird.”
“What is-weird?”
“You-this-I don’t know.”
Sam’s pale white body shone, even without the torch light.
“I got scared when you stopped calling.”
“I wasn’t calling.” Goose bumps ran up and down Oliver’s arms and across his shoulders.
“Was it hard to find me?” Sam glanced at the rafters. “I think I might be in a different room because everything got broke and when I opened my eyes I didn’t know where I was.”
“I-I don’t know what you mean.”
“I wish mommy hadn’t left me. She’s out there,” he pointed towards the trap.
Oliver didn’t dare look. If some unknown woman appeared on the roof, he would faint.
“There’s a fire!” Sam’s brow furrowed. “Look, the sky’s all orange. Is that from the bomb?”
Oliver’s head shot up. His heart pounded. Oh Christ, the roof was on fire.
The square piece of sky, visible through the trap, throbbed with a dull orange glow. He swallowed, relieved. At last, here was something he could understand.
“It’s the bonfire,” he explained.
“It’s fire from the bomb.”
“No it’s not,” he released his grip on the ladder to relieve the tension in his shoulders. “There’s a bonfire on the beach. It’s the Bonfire Society. They do it every year in Hastings.” His words sounded hollow, inconsequential.
“I see London burning,” Sam’s eager face lit up. “Even the river was on fire.” His excited eyes darkened. “It scared mommy. That’s why she brought me to Hastings. She said we were going to stay in a nice hotel called The Lamb. But the Germans bomb everything,” his voice trailed away into a whisper.
The orange glow deepened. Cold air ruffled tufts of stray fibre on the insulation.
“Can I climb out now please?”
Oliver’s body ached with exhaustion, his numb mind jumbled with confusion. If he let Sam climb onto the roof, what then? Suppose he fell off? How to explain that to Uncle Tim? He was mad to even think it. He should take Sam downstairs and wait for mum and Tim to return. But Sam wanted to keep climbing. It felt unfair to force him to do anything else. And perhaps Sam couldn’t do anything else.
“All right-look.” Oliver chose his words with care; crazy people spoke nonsense. “See these stepladders?”
Sam nodded.
“I’m going to open them and climb onto the roof,” the words sounded right. “When I’m up there, you follow.”
Sam’s huge grin made his eyes sparkle.
“Now listen to me,” Oliver shook his finger like Tim did when he wanted something important understood. “I don’t want you running about. It’s dangerous. Stay close to the trap. Understand?”
“Thank you sir.”
Sir, again, it was touching the way Sam trusted him.
He reached for the stepladders, opened them, secured the safety catch the way Tim had shown him, and positioned them under the trap. “Be careful when you climb. You’re not used to stepladders.” Uncle Tim’s words, but their weighty tone confirmed his authority.
He placed his foot on the first tread and the legs squeaked as they took his weight.
Cold air wrapped around his body. He sat on the lip of the trap, rolled sideways onto all fours, and then stood up.
He sighed with relief, he was alone, and his warm breath steamed like mist in front of his face.
Chimney stacks and sloping gables stood silhouetted in black against the lighter night sky. Their relationship to houses and the streets below looked irrelevant, misplaced even. It was a different world up here; one rarely seen, and hardly ever explored.
He peered down into the attic. Sam’s upturned face shone expectantly.
“Take your time Sam.” He breathed deeply, and attempted to blot out all manner of forthcoming catastrophes that might or might not happen. “Up you come then.”
Then-God! No! NO! Bang! White noise and a searing flash that hit his body like a fist. Snot and tears smeared his face. He slammed his hands over his ears. Asphalt scratched his knees, grazing them as he dropped and curled over.
Coloured lights flashed through his tightly shut eyes. The explosions roared like thunder, rolling and echoing into the night.
Stop! For Christ’s sake sto
p! He drove his fingers into his ears. His drums thumped with the pressure.
“Wow!”
Sam’s voice was neither loud nor shrill, it was joyful. Its ecstasy resonated deep inside Oliver’s head, cutting through the terrible noise and his crippling fear.
“Look at that!”
He reached out, grabbing for that little voice like a drowning man clutching at floating wood. His grip was tenuous, but it was all he had if he wasn’t going to die.
“They’re fireworks! Not bombs!”
That’s right Sam, fireworks, only fireworks; on the beach, a long way off. They can’t explode in my face, they can’t burn me.
“Gee! The colours are so bright.”
Keep talking Sam, please keep talking.
“I’ve never seen so many. This is great!”
Oliver opened his eyes. White light flashed in the reflection from an attic window.
“That one looked like a shooting star!”
Oliver eased the pressure on his fingers and his ears stopped aching.
“The sea is all lit up!”
Fourteen years old. Fireworks exploded and fear kicked in, like a habit. Because once, a stray spark ignited a box of crackers and sent them whizzing and banging towards him. His remembered terror of that night cocooned him like a blanket. He was scared because it was expected of him.
“They’re even louder than the bombs!”
It wasn’t even proper fear; it was the memory of fear.
“These fireworks are the best!”
He took his fingers out of his ears. Falling sparks whistled and shrieked. Uncle Tim hadn’t laughed at him for being a wimp. He had respected his decision to stay behind. How cool to show him that he had overcome his fear when he returned; because he had found a strange little boy in the attic, and helped him onto the roof.
On second thoughts, perhaps he wouldn’t tell him about Sam. It would be enough for Tim to see him playing “Beachhead: Hell’s Kitchen,” with the volume up full.
“They’re brighter than the stars.”
And what about Sam, was he afraid of him too?
“Mommy’s watching. She likes them. Can I go now please?”
Oliver pushed himself onto his knees. The sky flashed red and green and orange and purple.
Sam stood by the trap, his luminous face lit by a wide grin. “Mommy’s so pleased you found me. She says thank you.”
The cold wind dried the tears on Oliver’s cheeks.
“She’s waiting for me.”
Oliver steeled himself not to be scared. It didn’t matter if Sam flew away, or melted in front of his eyes, or jumped off the roof. Tonight, everything was strange.
He smiled and said, “Off you go then.”
Sam beamed, stepped towards him and opened his arms.
The touch was so light, like a feather brush.
Then a rocket, white hot and trailing a thousand orange sparks, roared into the air. Oliver held his breath and his chest tightened.
In the moment before it detonated, Sam said: “Thank you for saving me.”
The explosion shattered the night. Red sparks, white sparks, blue sparks, each starburst bigger than the one before.
Oliver didn’t flinch. He didn’t cover his ears or cry with fear. He gazed in wonder. It was so cool, and he loved it.
The flickering sparks dropped into the sea. The distant crowd roared their approval. They were cheering for him too, he imagined, but they didn’t know it. He rubbed his cheeks with his sleeve.
The fireworks had finished.
And Sam had gone.
Stars and Stripes was first published in Shivers: Sussex Scary Tales.
The Mermaid’s Purse
“Off you go Emily, see if you can find a mermaid’s purse.” The pebbles crunch as mummy lies back on the cream blanket. “Make sure you look really carefully.” Her white body glistens from all the lotion smeared into her skin.
She shuts her eyes, and that means she doesn’t want to be disturbed.
I’m bored, and I feel sick. I didn’t know I could feel both. I like strawberry ice cream, but I shouldn’t have eaten all the liquorice allsorts as well. They were for the car journey home. I cross my fingers; “I wish mummy to forget she bought the allsorts.” I wriggle my fingers at her head so that the wish goes into her brain.
I shall be in trouble if she finds out. I struggle into my plimsolls. I know how to do knots, but I can’t be bothered to keep tying and untying them. I walk down the shingle with the back of my plimsolls under my heels.
I wonder what a mermaid’s purse looks like? I shield my eyes against the brightness.
In the distance, Hastings Pier looks dark and sad in the sunlight. The big building at the end is all broken and burnt. In front of it is a huge space with nothing on it at all. I would love to run along it, and pretend to be flying over the sea.
On the way to the beach, we passed an old man with a bucket walking up and down by the Happy Caterpillar rollercoaster. He said he was collecting for the pier, like they collect for old soldiers on poppy day. Mummy said she didn’t have any change and hurried me along. When the man was behind us, she muttered; “What a waste of time, collecting for a pile of old scrap.”
I don’t know what she meant, but I don’t think she likes the pier. But I do. I like the way it sticks out such a long way into the sea. I’d like to stand at the very end, just above the waves.
I crouch over the wet pebbles: there are bits of brown seaweed in a smelly heap at my feet. I pick them up, like spaghetti, but there’s nothing underneath.
What does a mermaid’s purse look like? Like mummy’s I suppose, but wet.
The sea sparkles like glitter. A big fat lady and a little boy are having a paddle. The little boy screams as each wave washes up his legs. On the pebbles are an orange towel and a bag. I think the bag must be the big fat lady’s because it’s all covered in flowers, like her dress.
I would like to say “hello” to the boy and the lady. Perhaps they would let me play in the sea too, but I feel frightened to talk to them. I kick some pebbles round the orange towel. One of them hits the bag and it falls over. The lady doesn’t notice, and the boy screams at the cold water. And then I see it.
Underneath the bag is a bright green purse with a gold clasp. A mermaid’s purse; it must be. Green is the proper colour for a purse that is used in the sea.
How did the big fat lady find it? Did she frighten the mermaid away, and they dropped their purse? I bet the mermaid was going to give some money to the man with the bucket. I expect mermaids like piers, and swimming fast round the metal posts.
I think the big fat lady is trying to hide the purse with her bag, and then she is going to take it. That’s really bad. I’m not going to let it happen.
I bend down, pick up the purse, and sprint up the beach.
When I reach mummy I stop and spin round. The lady and the boy are still in the sea. I’m pleased I’ve found a real mermaid’s purse. I squeeze the clasp until it opens with a click.
There is a folded bundle of purple notes and some silver change. I expected to see seashells and crab claws and pretty stones. I suppose the mermaid wanted to use proper money to give the man with the bucket. I expect mermaids have more than one purse, like mummy does.
Mummy is fast asleep. Her legs are going red. She will be pleased when she wakes up.
I skip to the top of the beach and the path that runs past the Crazy Golf. The man with the bucket is talking to a lot of people and pointing over their heads. I creep up behind him and when everyone is looking at the pier, I drop the mermaid’s purse into his bucket.
I run back to mummy and sit down. I don’t feel sick anymore.
I wonder if the mermaid saw me? I hope so.
One day, when the pier is mended, I will stand at the end, and the mermaid will rise to the surface and bob up and down on the waves, and she will smile and say, ‘thank you.’
The Mermaid’s Purse was first published in Driftwood:
Stories from the Sussex seaside.
The Gift
Barnaby opened his eyes. The clear early morning sky, tinged with pink from the rising sun, looked like a complicated puzzle through the web of bare overhead branches. A puzzle that was impossible to piece together.
His eyes stung, it was piercing cold. He buried his face into the sleeping bag’s slippery folds. Soon, he would have to crawl out of its warm cocoon; soon, but not yet, just a bit longer, when the puzzle-sky turned from pink to blue.
Thinking time; what was on the itinerary today? Get up; finish last nights baked beans, pack and move out. Frozen baked beans? Tough. A fire might draw attention. He had spent three nights in this copse already. Someone would spot him soon, call the police; get him moved on.
The town of Battle was close, three miles at the most, a short hike. And tonight at the back of the railway station, the travelling soup kitchen would roll into town, for one night only. Free hot food, a respite from the cold, a clean bed in the YMCA.
The local townsfolk liked to do their bit for the homeless, because it was Christmas; for one night only, because it was Christmas.
Still, mustn’t grumble, better than nothing at this time of year. He checked the sky. It was neither pink nor blue, but a sort of creamy white. And, like the puzzle he imagined it to be, still as intricate.
A crow landed on a nearby branch with a soft ‘shush’ of wings. It stared at him, black eyes glistening. Then it opened its beak and squawked loudly.
All right, all right, he’d been told, time to get up. He un-bent his stiff legs, and keeping the sleeping bag, his spare coat and the worn blanket tightly wrapped around him, he wriggled upright until he was sitting.
“Hello.”
What the -? He spun round, his palm clasping the hilt of the sheathed hunting knife that hung from his belt. He blinked hard, forcing his blurry eyes to focus.
A bright red boy stood at the edge of the coppice, watching him.
Barnaby twisted, turning and kneeling at the same time, but the sleeping bag wound itself around his ankles, and he toppled forwards onto his face.
“Dam this,” he growled.
Gifts Page 2