The Last Siege

by Jonathan Stroud

  She groaned to herself and with some difficulty unzipped one side of the sleeping bag. Then she sat up clumsily and took in a depressing scene. The once pristine room, all sunlight and whitewash, was no more. The floor was stained with ashes and charred fragments of wood, which had been blown out of the fireplace at some stage of the night by a gust down the chimney. Alongside this was another layer of detritus, comprising three sleeping bags, sundry boots and other items of discarded clothing, an open book and (worst of all) a hideous array of half-eaten foodstuffs: torn crisp packets, small chunks of cheese, scattered orange peel, an opened mustard pot, dirty knives and a clingfilm wrapper with a mangled piece of turkey. Adding to the unpleasant picture were the two tufted heads half-poking out of their respective bags. Marcus had his mouth open; Simon’s mouth could not be seen, but it was probably responsible for the gasping snores.

  Emily rubbed her eyes and looked at her watch. It was 9.20. A certain muffled feeling in her head suggested that a cold might be coming her way. She felt lousy with lack of sleep, having remained awake for at least an hour after the other two had dozed off. It was Marcus’s last story that was to blame for this: it had buzzed endlessly to and fro like a hornet in her head, populating the darkness with ghosts.

  Something nagged in her mind. Something about Marcus . . . not the story exactly, though that still disturbed her. She wasn’t sure quite what.

  Stiffly, she got to her feet and began to search blearily amongst her scattered belongings for an extra pair of socks to warm her toes. In the short time it took to locate one she managed to stand on at least one piece of cheese, which ingrained itself squidgily into the fibres of the socks she was wearing. After that she collided with a tin of peaches hiding under an empty plastic bag. She swore and hopped a bit, clutching her foot.

  Marcus stirred, opened an unseeing eye.

  ‘Time to get up,’ she said.

  As she sat to force the new pair of socks on over the cheesy originals, something caught her eye. It spilled half out of Marcus’s rucksack. An alarm clock.

  Then it came flooding back to her: Marcus’s dad, Marcus’s deadline.

  ‘Marcus!’ she said loudly. ‘Get up! We’ve overslept.’

  ‘Whuh?’ His eyes, grey-rimmed, remained stubbornly shut.

  ‘We’re late. You’re late.’

  His eyes half opened. ‘What . . . what’s the time?’

  ‘It’s past nine.’

  ‘What! Oh my God!’ With a frantic flurry of kicks, Marcus propelled his way out of his sleeping bag and the last vestiges of sleep. In a moment he was upright, tottering slightly and grasping at his hair. He looked at Emily with hollow eyes.

  ‘I forgot to set the alarm! Oh no . . . How much past nine is it?’

  ‘Twenty . . . no, twenty-five past.’

  ‘Oh no.’ He gripped his hair as if he was about to rip it out. ‘He’ll be back by now. What am I going to do?’

  ‘Don’t panic. How long will it take you to get home?’

  ‘Almost an hour once I get out of this sodding castle. He’ll kill me.’

  Marcus’s first cry had interrupted Simon in mid-snore. Now a rather cracked and peevish query issued from the end of his sleeping bag.

  ‘Keep it down, can’t you?’

  ‘No I can’t!’ Marcus’s snarl dissolved immediately into anxiety. ‘He’ll kill me, Em. What am I going to do?’

  ‘There’s got to be a way round it.’ Emily sat with one boot on, one off.

  ‘Just tell a story,’ Simon said, his face emerging.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Tell a story. It’s what you’re good at. Make something up.’

  ‘I can’t, he’ll see through it. What could I possibly say?’

  Emily sat forwards. ‘Well, he doesn’t have to know you’ve been out all night, does he? I know! You had to go off early to get food for his breakfast. You’d run out. Eggs, bacon, bread, something like that.’

  Marcus whacked his forehead with his open palms. ‘No! That won’t work! The shops are just round the corner. I’d only be gone five minutes. And we’ve got masses of stuff in anyway!’

  ‘Calm down. Look, let’s get things cleared up and keep thinking while we’re doing it. Come on, Simon, shift your bum. We need to get moving. You never know – Harris might be about soon.’

  In a desultory manner they began the great clear-up. Simon reluctantly emerged from his cocoon, complaining loudly about the cold. Emily put on her boots and began rolling up her bag. Between the two of them they quickly gathered up the noisome remnants of the evening’s feast, but Marcus remained where he stood, largely useless, caught fast in the grip of terror.

  At last Emily forcibly thrust his rucksack into his arms. ‘Tidy your stuff up! You’ll be even later if you don’t get on with it!’

  ‘So what? It won’t make any difference.’ Nevertheless, moving with the unseeing jerkiness of an automaton, he stuffed his sleeping bag into his rucksack and collected his remaining things.

  When they had finished, Emily stood back and considered the room. Even without their clutter, it looked unwholesomely lived in. Ash, food fragments and – now that daylight was petering in through the window – plenty of obvious scuffs on the floor marked their habitation.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Maybe we should clean this up.’

  ‘How?’ Simon said harshly. ‘Got a broom in your bag, have you?’ He looked very much the worse for his night on the floor.

  ‘We shouldn’t leave it – ’

  ‘Who cares? Let’s give Harris some work to do. Serve him right! In fact let’s leave more litter around while we’re at it. Really mess the place up.’

  This roused Emily to real anger. She knew it was partly simple weariness that did it, but there was also something palpably wrong in the idea of wilfully harming the castle.

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ she said sharply. ‘Shut up and let’s go.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Simon grinned at her. ‘The more I think about it the better I like it. We could write on the walls with charcoal. Something funny. Maybe a bit rude too. That would really give Harris a heart attack. Yeah, and I need a pee. Might as well go here as anywhere. We all could. Choose our corners.’

  Emily lost it. ‘Don’t be such a thug!’ she shouted. ‘You sound like one of your stupid brothers! Carl would think of doing something like that!’

  ‘Well, maybe Carl has some good ideas sometimes!’

  ‘Yeah, right. He hasn’t had one in his life. He’s an ape!’

  ‘That’s my brother you’re talking about – ’

  ‘So who were you slagging off last night? Somebody else? Give me a break!’

  More insults flew. Simon looked red-faced and ugly. Emily felt the same. Marcus stood by, looking away. Suddenly he stamped his foot and shouted, shocking the others into silence.

  ‘Shut up! Both of you! Of course we shouldn’t mess up the room – it’s our castle, are you forgetting that? Who else has stayed here overnight? No one for three hundred and fifty years. Who else cares about it? No one – they just use it for making money. It’s ours, and we’re not going to treat it like some tatty ruin like everyone else does.’

  They looked at him.

  ‘Simon’s right,’ he went on in a quieter tone. ‘We can’t clear this up now. But there’s time for that.’

  Emily said: ‘No there isn’t. We’re finished. We’re going. And you’re late.’

  She said it like a dagger-thrust. Marcus flinched. The confidence drained out of him.

  ‘I’m not going back,’ he said. ‘I’m stopping here.’

  Simon shook his head and blinked as if he didn’t believe his ears. ‘Get real,’ he said. ‘Who are you trying to impress?’

  ‘I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m not going home.’

  ‘Just because your dad’s going to be mad?’

  ‘You don’t know my dad.’

  ‘Marcus.’ Emily cut to the point. ‘There are lots of reason
s why you can’t stay here and I’ll list them for you, shall I? You haven’t got any food, you haven’t got any water – don’t give me any cock-and-bull story about the well – and you haven’t got any heating. Well, you’ve got the heater, but I bet you won’t be able to turn it on. Even if you could, it’ll last for a couple of hours, no more. You’ll freeze to death before you starve – in fact, look at you, you’re shaking already. We’re all tired, we’re all dirty, we all need to go home. Let’s just pack it in.’

  Mixed emotions passed across Marcus’s face – anger, spite and fear among them. His shoulders slumped. His face sagged with disappointment.

  ‘Simon, the heater,’ Emily said. ‘You’d better take it back down, or Harris will see it and the game’ll be up.’

  ‘What? Who cares if it is? We’re not coming back.’

  ‘Please, Simon.’ Emily tried to smile, but her face felt stiff and heavy.

  ‘Oh, all right. Get out of the way.’

  ‘Thanks. He won’t know anyone’s been here with that gone.’

  ‘You reckon. Open the door then.’

  Simon hefted it out onto the stair, shifted his hands into a better position and vanished. His voice echoed upwards. ‘Bring my bag down. I’ll meet you at the hole.’

  He left behind him Emily and Marcus staring at the empty room.

  ‘I’d know someone had been here,’ Emily said. ‘It’s a right mess.’

  ‘Harris might not notice. He doesn’t care, does he? Not in the same way. He’ll think it’s birds got down the chimney, bringing soot with them.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

  Closing the door behind them, they trooped down the stairs to the next level, where they passed along the walkway to the hole and the coil of rope. Below them in the hall they could see Simon struggling to carry the heater into the hut. The wind caught the open door and half shut it on him as he attempted to go past. His curse echoed up to them through the empty castle. Marcus looked away, out at the fields.

  ‘He reminds me of my dad sometimes,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Your dad – fierce, is he?’ Emily said.

  ‘You could say that. He goes ballistic when I go off on my own. Hates it. Doesn’t like me having a life. And since this one’s overnight . . .’ Marcus sighed. ‘He’ll kill me.’

  ‘What are you going to tell him?’

  ‘Not a clue. I’ve never got on with him, Em. I was always closer to Mum, which he hated, of course. Said I was spoilt. Dad and I didn’t speak much, and if we did we’d only fight. Mum could calm us both down, but when she went . . . We didn’t have any option any more, did we? Had to get on with it. It’s a nightmare. When he comes home he’s always knackered and angry; expects me to do everything for him. Won’t let me go out. “I want you here, where I can see you.” And he hates me reading. Just wants to watch TV, never picks up a book.’

  ‘My parents don’t either. But I know what you mean. It must be difficult.’

  Marcus looked at her sharply. ‘But not too difficult, is that what you’re saying? Not dramatic enough for you? You don’t understand, Em. It’s driving me mad. I can’t bear it! I’d do anything to get away from him.’

  ‘What are you going to tell him when you get back?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘How about blaming me – say one of your friends – me – called you this morning and needed help. Urgently. Wanted you to go round.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe I was ill. Had an accident. No, that’s stupid.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Or you went out to the library again – to finish your work. You’re really up against it. Exams.’

  ‘So why didn’t I leave a note? Anyway, he wouldn’t buy it. Thanks, Em, but it isn’t any use.’

  Below them she heard Simon’s feet crunching across the snow towards the nearest set of stairs.

  ‘I enjoyed last night.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Liked your stories.’

  ‘Simon doesn’t believe them – any of them. He practically said so this morning. Said they were made up.’

  ‘He didn’t say that.’

  ‘He did. What about you? Reckon I’m a liar too?’

  ‘Of course not. Look,’ Emily said, ‘why don’t you give me your number? I’ll bump into Simon all the time, but you’re much further away. Then we can meet up. Do something.’

  Marcus looked at her. ‘I take it then we’re not coming back in here?’

  Emily thought of her ice-cold feet, her growing snuffle, her overwhelming desire to get indoors and have a hot bath. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Of course we’re not. OK. Have you got a pen?’

  ‘Oh . . . No.’

  ‘All right, give me yours. I’ll remember it. I’ve a good memory.’

  Emily told it to him. Marcus was repeating it for the second time when Simon joined them.

  ‘Right,’ he said, glancing askance at them. ‘You two first. I’ll take the rope off and follow.’ After a quick look to check the coast was clear, he spooled the rope out of the hole. Without a word, Marcus clambered onto the wall and lowered himself down and out of sight. Simon stood back and picked up his rucksack.

  ‘Exchanging phone numbers?’ he said.

  ‘So?’ Emily said hotly. ‘How else are we going to keep in touch?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to? He’s barking, you know.’

  ‘That wasn’t what you said last night.’ She put on a stupid voice. ‘“Great story, mate! Tell me another one, mate!”’

  ‘You silly posh cow. Go on. It’s your turn.’

  Emily inched her way down the rope seething with rage. He was such a boor! Such a moron! She couldn’t forgive him for his churlish behaviour. He was no better than his brother. Worse in some ways – at least Carl was so obviously obnoxious it made you keep away.

  She arrived at the ground. Marcus was waiting there, looking pale and thin. Something about his stance suddenly reminded her of when she had first seen him, tossing snowballs in the moat. Something lonely and forlorn.

  ‘You’d better go,’ she said. ‘No sense in making it even worse. I’ll wait for that grumpy idiot.’

  ‘Something happened?’

  ‘It’s nothing. Go on. Hope it goes all right.’

  He shrugged. Then he turned and began to trudge away.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted suddenly. ‘Don’t forget the number.’

  He called it back, very fast, over his shoulder, came to the edge of the moat and disappeared into its depths. Emily turned back to the castle wall. Out of nowhere the rope came hurtling down in an angry, writhing coil, narrowly missing her and ripping into the snow.

  She looked at it with dull, tired eyes, feeling obscure traces of disappointment and relief.

  ‘That’s it,’ she thought to herself. ‘We can’t get back in. It’s over.’

  First Sighting

  {10}

  A day passed, then another. If there had been any important events in Emily’s life in those two days they might have pushed the memory of the castle to the back of her mind. She did not greatly want to think of it in any case. For a start, she blamed it for the head cold that she had developed the minute she arrived home. It had forced her to go straight to bed, which at least allowed her to catch up on her sleep, but it made her feel truly dreadful at the same time. To add to this grievance, the behaviour of Simon and Marcus had made Emily angry and unsettled. Part of her would have been very happy to forget them too. But she was trapped in bed with nothing to do. Her parents watched television downstairs. She lay alone and dwelt on things.

  Of the two of them, Marcus was on her mind most often. Although she was still furious with Simon for his loutish behaviour, her simmering resentment had cooled off as soon as she’d had a decent sleep. In retrospect she wasn’t quite sure why she had become so angry. With Marcus, however, things were not so simple. She thought about his enthusiasms, his anxieties and his endless stories with a perplexing mix of ex
asperation and concern. He was so changeable, that was the problem – you never had time to get a handle on his mood before it altered. He had an underlying agitation that made him hard to be with.

  On the second day someone had rung for her while she was asleep. He had not left a name or a message. Emily had an idea who the caller might have been and was disappointed when he did not ring back. It made her more unsettled than ever.

  Behind all this, barely acknowledged, Emily could not shake off her memories of the castle itself – the darkness of its corridors, the red glow in the fireplace, the tower with its canopy of stars.

  On the third day her cold receded enough for her to go out after lunch. She walked through the village slush to the edge of the fields and looked out on the desolation of the winter fens, stretching flatly into the distance. The sight dispirited her. She did not want to go further in that direction. She returned through the village centre and out the other side, up the lane and into the wood.

  Through the trees she caught the grey flash of stone in the distance. It drew her closer, further than she’d intended to go. She came to a place where she could take in the whole view, buttresses to battlements, tower to tower. She tried to work out which tower they had stood upon and realized at last that it was the nearest, the only one visible that still seemed complete.

  It was a mild but blustery day; much of the snow still on the branches of the trees was slipping off slowly and there was a continual pattering and rustling in the wood. Emily’s head was hot after her walk. She pulled off her hat and scratched.

  As she turned to go back, she saw Simon emerging from a particularly thick clump of holly trees on the other side of the road. He looked from side to side in a furtive manner.

  Emily whistled. Simon jumped.

  ‘What’s up with you? Guilty conscience?’

  He walked quickly over to her. ‘You look rough.’

  ‘Thanks. Had a cold. Listen – ’

  ‘I’m sorry about the other day. I was tired, I suppose.’

  ‘Me too. Forget it. So – what are you doing, then?’

  ‘The same as you.’

  ‘What do you mean? I’ve just come for a walk.’