by Rosie Green
‘Were you going to throw this out?’
Seb nods. ‘I asked Isla what she wanted me to do with me and she said to bin it.’
I stare at him in exasperation. What was Isla thinking of? This is part of our childhood! ‘In future, if you wouldn’t mind checking with me as well, I’d really appreciate it?’
He nods. ‘Of course.’ He nods towards the house. ‘You’d better check that the rest of that pile is rubbish.’
I wrap the globe carefully in the blanket that’s on the back seat of my car. From now on, it will have pride of place in my living room.
Back in the kitchen, I put the kettle on as promised, but as Seb hasn’t come in yet and I’m eager to get on with some work, I rinse out two mugs and make the coffee myself. He comes in a second later and even from the kitchen, I can feel the blast of freezing air as the door bangs shut behind him.
He’ll have that door off its hinges before too long.
I smile grimly. Come to think of it, that could well be part of Isla’s plan. We’ve got brand new everything else in here. Why not a new front door as well!
‘Ah. Beat me to it.’ He takes the cup and our eyes meet in a rare smile. ‘Did you work late last night?’
‘Got home at midnight but I didn’t mind.’ I take a sip of my coffee. ‘I like working away on my own.’
He nods. ‘Me, too. I sold my building company last year. Now I work alone and I much prefer it. No-one to please but myself.’
‘And your customers, of course.’
‘Indeed.’ A ghost of a smile appears on his face.
‘What was the company called?’ A lightbulb goes on in my head. ‘Oh, I know. Morgan Homes!’
‘Yup. That was us.’
‘So what made you sell up?’
He swallows and looks away, out of the window. He strokes his jaw as he stares over the garden. Then he turns with a shrug. ‘Things in my life . . . changed. A lot. I wanted more time to concentrate on other stuff besides work.’
‘Right.’ I stare at him, curious to know more. But he’s clearly not going to elaborate.
‘It can take some adjusting when your life takes a sudden dramatic turn that you weren’t expecting,’ I murmur.
‘You, too?’
I smile. ‘Me, too.’
He draws in a breath, as if he’s about to start talking about whatever’s altered in his life. Then he seems to change his mind, instead picking up his mug and taking a long swallow. I watch the movement of his Adam’s apple, sensing his sadness.
He rinses his cup out at the sink, leaving it on the draining board. ‘Right. Better get to work. I’m almost finished in that room.’ He points directly above us to Mum’s old studio. ‘Then I’ll start on the bedroom next door.’
My bedroom.
‘There can’t be much to do in there,’ I comment. ‘Except for decorating.’
He nods. ‘Just got to rip out those dodgy old bookshelves and I’ll be done. Then it’ll get a coat of paint along with the rest of the place.’
My heart lurches. ‘Erm, those shelves aren’t “dodgy”.’
He laughs. ‘Well, I beg to differ. They’re well knackered. Those shelves are to good furniture what The Grinch is to peace and goodwill to all men.’
I swallow, an uneasy feeling in my stomach. ‘The Grinch came good in the end,’ I mutter.
‘Sorry?’
‘The Grinch. He learned his lessons eventually.’
‘He did indeed. Great movie. Watched it only last night.’
He watched The Grinch? I stare at him in surprise. ‘I’d have thought you’d prefer Demolition Man.’
‘Nah! Don’t like science fiction.’ His lip curls in recognition of my feeble joke. ‘So did those shelves ever actually hold books?’
‘Of course they did. And I was a voracious reader when I was younger. Still am, actually. So they took a lot of strain.’
‘Amazing.’ His tone is rich in sarcasm.
‘That’s because they were beautifully made.’
He grunts in disbelief. ‘If they stayed up, it wasn’t because of any superior craftsmanship, believe me. It must have been sheer luck. Or wishful thinking.’
I stare at him, my heart aching at the thought of him pulling Dad’s bookshelves off the wall. I want to put my foot down - over-ride Isla’s instructions and tell him to leave them exactly as they are.
But . . . even I know those shelves can’t stay up. Truth be told, they’ve always wobbled madly, like a table in a café before the rolled-up paper napkin wedges the leg.
Not that I’m going to admit that to bloody Demolition Man . . .
‘Okay, well, have fun smashing up those bookshelves, then!’ I set down my mug with a crash and march out.
‘Believe me, I will,’ I hear him growl in response. ‘Bloody insult to carpentry.’
I rush over the grass and into the studio, locking the door behind me. Then I lean against it as the tears start slipping down my face.
Oh, Dad! My lovely dad. I don’t care that you were bad at putting up shelves. I just want you back . . .
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Later, around six, I’m working away in the studio, when a scratching noise at the door makes me jump.
I put down the blow-torch and remove my eye shield. Maybe it’s Seb come to apologise for criticising my shelves! I don’t think . . .
He probably just wants to tell me to clear out a forgotten drawer or something. I smooth my hair, straighten my top and go to the door. Funny he didn’t knock properly. Maybe his hands are full . . .
Opening the door, my heart almost bounds out of my chest with fright and I let out a loud squeal.
Two ghosts are staring at me.
Their faces are pale grey and mournful, like death masks, with gaping black holes where the eyes should be. Their ghostly white cloaks are smeared with blood and one of them has apparently had an axe driven into its skull.
‘Trick or treat,’ says the axe boy, and his friend holds out a pot that’s already full of cash and sweets. I’d totally forgotten tonight was Hallowe’en.
A third apparition is standing behind them. This one is taller and far bulkier.
Seb.
‘I thought you might like a spooky visit to cheer you up,’ he says. ‘But it seems we might have given you the fright of your life instead.’ His teeth gleam white in the darkness and I feel such a fool.
‘That was a very realistic scream, wasn’t it, boys?’ I say, as my thundering heart starts to slow down.
‘Um, yes,’ says axe boy, clearly willing to say anything if it means I’ll add to his haul of goodies.
‘Ah, so you were just pretending to be scared,’ drawls Seb.
‘Yes, of course I was,’ I tell him haughtily, turning to dig my purse out of my bag. ‘You don’t think I was genuinely spooked, do you?’
‘So why are your hands still shaking?’ he grins, as I hand a fifty pence piece to each apparition. He holds up a hand, giving each of the boys a high-five. ‘Good work, lads.’
They float off over the grass in their ghostly cloaks and I’m left alone with the scariest monster of all.
‘Did you give them something?’ I ask tartly.
‘Yes. A boiled sweet each.’
‘Wow, Mr Generous.’
He shrugs. ‘They were Werther’s Originals.’
‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then.’
‘I should have remembered it was Hallowe’en,’ he says. ‘I spent long enough gouging out a pumpkin the other night.’
I stare at him, temporarily lost for words. He was making a Hallowe’en lantern?
‘Is it in your window at home, then? The pumpkin?’
‘Not exactly.’ His smile has vanished. He looks down at his feet and thrusts his hands deeper in the pockets of his jeans. His expression, when he looks up at me, seems sheepish, a little shy, even. ‘Anyway, better let you get back to work.’ Turning abruptly, he walks back to the house, leaving me standing there, staring afte
r him in confusion.
Is it possible that Demolition Man has a softer side, after all?
*****
Moondance Cottage is in darkness by the time I drive away soon after ten. Seb must have gone home - back to his window that doesn’t have a pumpkin in it . . .
I wonder if he’s dismantled the bookshelves yet?
I grab a bite to eat, watch a bit of TV, then go to bed. But I can’t sleep. I just lie there, thinking about the house, all dark and empty and deserted. I feel haunted all over again. But not by two small ghostly apparitions this time. Now, it’s Dad’s bookshelves that are plaguing me. I can’t seem to stop thinking about them. Has Seb ripped them out and discarded them? Thrown them in the skip outside the house? My heart sinks at the thought.
Instead of storming off angrily, I should have asked him to keep them for me. Then I could have put Dad’s shelves up again, here in my bedroom. Why on earth didn’t I think of that at the time?
It’s probably too late now . . .
I turn over with a sigh, hoping for sleep. But minutes later, I’m wide awake again.
Finally, in despair, I sit up. The thought of those shelves in that skip is just too sad. Pulling on cosy socks and a warm cardigan over my pyjamas, I slip through to the hall and shrug into my warmest coat. I’ll need a good insulating layer for climbing into the skip in the freezing cold in the middle of the night!
My car engine roars into life, sounding more like a plane taking off in the dead silence of the night. Driving slowly along the frosty high street and along to Moondance Cottage, I turn into Pepperpot Lane and park behind the skip. It’s pitch black and I can hardly see a thing now that the headlights are off, so I reach for the torch in the glove box and switch it on. The light is fairly feeble but at least I can now see my hand in front of me.
Stumbling over the lane to the skip, I shine it around inside. There’s no sign of the shelves. At least, not in any form I recognise. There are odd scraps of wood at the bottom and my insides shift uneasily. Perhaps the shelves have been destroyed and are now beyond rescuing.
Or maybe they’re still in the house.
I slip-slide my way up the icy path and let myself in, deciding to leave the lights off. I don’t want Mrs Bevan thinking there’s something dodgy going on. I feel my way up the stairs to my old bedroom with the help of the banister.
The smell of dust and destruction is stronger in here, and sure enough, the bookshelves are no longer there. But there’s no sign of them in here. Maybe they went into the skip after all.
A sudden noise makes my pulse quicken. A vehicle is driving into the lane. Who can it be at this time of the night? The engine cuts out and dead silence reigns again.
Rushing to the window, I glance out and my heart clenches. It’s Seb’s van and he’s getting out.
Panic takes over.
What’s he doing here at this hour? And even more importantly, what’s he going to think when he finds me here? In a house with no lights on?
As I stand there, frozen to the spot, an idea suddenly occurs to me. It’s a thought that, in spite of the stress of the moment, actually makes me snort out loud. It would be a way of getting my own back for earlier, when he brought those ghosts to knock on the studio door with the intention of scaring me half to death. No doubt his idea of an hilarious joke!
Well, let’s see how funny he thinks this is . . .
Creeping carefully downstairs, as fast as the feeble torchlight will allow, I find Dad’s old Hallowe’en mask in the pile of rubbish. In the semi-dark, it looks even more scary. I shiver at the menacing expression on the slack and rubbery white face . . . the scary eyes, the blood dripping from the mouth. But it has to be done.
The rubber mask feels ice-cold, but within seconds it’s growing clammy with my breath. I must look like a creature from a horror movie in the pitch dark. I’ve never done anything so daft and impetuous in my life.
I quickly position my masked face close to the glass in the front door, holding the torch above my head. The eerie glow will hopefully make the effect even more scary.
Adrenaline is pumping through my veins and a sudden surge of laughter bubbles up at the thought of Seb’s reaction when he claps eyes on the eerie apparition. The effort of keeping silent is making my arm holding the torch shake as I stand there, heart thundering, waiting . . .
I hear the van door close and footsteps approaching the door, and I have a sudden attack of conscience.
Is this horrible of me?
Oh God, what if he drops down dead with fright?
My hand goes to the hall light switch and I’m on the point of whipping off the mask, when I think to myself: But this is no more horrible than what he did to me! If he can be a big kid at Hallowe’en, then so can I . . .
The footsteps stop abruptly and next thing, a string of curses – fit to make an entire family of Freddy Krugers blush - rings out into the night air.
I pull open the door and hiss, for good measure, ‘Beware all ye who enter here.’
Seb steps back into the rose bushes, a look of horror on his face. He hovers at a weird angle for a second, not taking his eyes off the mask. Then he loses his balance and falls backwards with a grunt, landing on his bum on the grass.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Oh, shit! I snap the switch and light floods the hall. Whipping off the mask, I rush to the rescue, apologising as I go. Ignoring my outstretched hand, my dazed victim stares up at me.
‘For fuck’s sake, Jess. What the hell . . . ?’
I wince. ‘Sorry. I was being a spook?’
‘Yes, I can bloody see that.’ He springs to his feet with admirable ease and we lock eyes. He rubs his rear, the chips of ice in his blue eyes more than a match for the icy chill in the air.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask, making a wincing, apologetic face.
‘Fine,’ he grunts. He steps over the rosebushes and, brushing past me, clatters over the doorstep.
I stand there on the lawn, staring into the house as he strides along the hall. What do I do now? Go in and apologise some more? Trouble is, I’m likely to have my head bitten off if I do. A dog in a nearby house starts barking so I quickly nip into the house and close the door behind me.
Seb is already climbing the stairs with paint tray and brushes in hand, somehow managing to look hot even wearing grey work overalls.
Almost at the top, he stops and turns. ‘So apart from the fright night special, did you have other plans for me?’
‘No. That’s it.’
‘Relieved to hear it.’
‘Were you scared, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, my work is done.’
‘Ah, so it was retribution, was it?’
‘You guessed it.’
He continues on up the stairs and disappears into the spare room. ‘You must be mad deserting a warm bed to come here in the middle of the night,’ he shouts.
‘Erm, I could say the same about you,’ I call back.
‘Fair point.’
I follow him up the stairs. ‘Actually, I didn’t come here with the intention of getting my own back.’
‘No? Why are you here, then?’
A scraping of step ladders drowns out my reply, so I put my head round the door. ‘I was – um – looking for the bookshelves.’
He throws me a disbelieving glance.
‘Yes, I know. You think they’re an insult to carpentry.’
‘Nothing wrong with the shelves,’ he grunts. ‘It was the way they were put up. DIY at its – ahem - finest?’
‘I suppose I’ve had a fruitless trip. No doubt they’re at the bottom of the skip now?’
‘Actually, they’re not.’
‘No? Gosh, you do surprise me. I thought you’d have wanted them gone from your life instantly since you find them so repulsive.’
He looks at me, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. ‘While you, on the other hand, seem to think they should be revered as important works of ar
t. Which is why I made sure to preserve them for you.’
I stare at him in confusion.
‘They’re in there. Along with all the screws.’ He points with his paintbrush at a long brown box in the corner of the room.
‘Oh.’ I walk over and hunker down to lift the lid, and sure enough, there they are. Preserved exactly the way they were, just as Seb said.
I’m not sure if it’s seeing the shelves still in one piece or whether it’s Seb’s kind gesture, but I find myself suddenly choked up.
Seb looks over. ‘All present and correct?’
I turn my back to him slightly so he can’t see my face. ‘Er, yes . . . thank you. Thank you very much.’
‘You’re welcome.’
My nose is running now, thanks to the sudden eruption of waterworks. I really want to sniff but it’s so silent in here. Surreptitiously, I run my sleeve over my nose. Then I get up and dive into the bathroom, hoping there’ll still be tissue on the roll.
‘Off now?’ I hear Seb call, as I give my nose a good old blow.
‘Yes. I’ll take the box with the shelves in it,’ I shout back, diving out of the bathroom, still mopping my eyes - and running slap bang into Seb emerging onto the landing.
‘Woah!’ He steadies me, supporting my arms lightly, and my body does that weird jelly thing again, like my limbs are too weak to support me. I could be one of those scary-looking ventriloquist’s dummies with their useless, floppy legs, except that my head doesn’t swivel weirdly.
It’s ridiculous, really. Ollie could be walking around stark naked and I never had such a profound reaction. Yet Seb can be dressed in hideous paint-spattered grey overalls, and I still find myself wanting to rip every stitch of clothing off his body and do all manner of unmentionable things to him . . .
His hands slip from my arms and encircle my waist. I gasp as he pulls me against him, rejoicing in the knowledge that I’m clearly not alone in feeling the strong chemical reaction between us . . .
Breathlessly, I stare up into his eyes, waiting for him to murmur a confession in my ear.
‘Stay exactly where you are or you’ll get paint on your coat,’ he orders, and proceeds to manoeuvre me out of the room.