A Graveyard Visible

by Steve Conoboy

  Still not knowing who or what is downstairs (but he knows, oh God he really does know that this is all his fault. He’s the one who turned and walked away. And what kind of boy does that? What kind of child could see their own father in danger and then leave them to it and think it will be okay? Caleb leaves the window open for a quick escape, then sits on the floor, back to the door, bracing his legs, and the footsteps move through to the kitchen, going round and round, as if checking every possible corner for boys.

  For him.

  It’s the Not-Man. It’s killed Father, and that’s Caleb’s fault, and Caleb will be next.

  No. It’s worse than that, so says his gut.

  And here come those footsteps, steady up the stairs. Caleb’s stomach clenches hard enough to hurt. Footsteps are at the first floor now, and coming.

  Thud

  Thud

  Thud

  right up to Caleb’s bedroom door and it’ll only take one hard push for this boy who weighs next to nothing to be thrown across the room.

  Thud

  Thud

  Thud

  those footsteps

  go right on by, past the bedroom, past the trembling boy hitching back tears, past the bathroom, the toilet, and Father’s bedroom door is slammed shut so hard that surely wood has cracked.

  Caleb allows himself one solitary sob. Even that sounds loud enough to summon the dead. Or summon the thing in Father’s bedroom.

  (It’s only Father. It’s not, it’s not him. I can’t know that, I haven’t even seen him. I don’t need to see. I can hear. I can feel.)

  Caleb can’t sleep here. Can’t stay here.

  There are only objects left by which to name this place home.

  With infinite care he opens drawers and wardrobe to stuff his rucksack with a change of clothes and his smallest photo album and a few other items that will fit. He’ll leave the bedroom window open in case he needs to come back for anything. Back here, where the monster lives.

  He climbs out one more time, and it’s like Gramps is waiting for him when Caleb turns up at his door, and they have beef stew with crusty bread and no questions. Caleb’s not hungry but he manages to put away two bowls of stew and three chunks of the warm bread. They tidy up quietly, the old man offering only his wrinkled smile, then the boy heads up to the spare room which has never been spare it’s always been his, and he flops down into sleep.

  His dreams are dark, and everyone in them is not who they’re meant to be.

  76

  Misha sleeps right through.

  She doesn’t wake when Granddad takes a peek in case she’s sneaked back in. She doesn’t wake when he retreats, reasoning that he might get some sense from her when she’s awake and fresh. She barely stirs when the Belvederes arrive and the hot topic of Crosswell and whether or not he’s right dominates the house. She is unmoved when they eventually leave dissatisfied and more fragmented than ever. She sleeps right through the night and the random messages that blaze onto Eight’s screen, vicious fragments from bad dreams. She sleeps curled around this poisoned creature, and for a while knows nothing of all the plans being made for her.

  She sleeps on past the plum-coloured dawn.

  77

  Sausage, bacon and eggs, cooked by Gramps. There is no breakfast quite like it. There are fresh tomatoes and beans cooked in the pan until the sauce is thick and clumpy and triangles of crisp fried bread and Caleb cannot get enough, mopping up every last bit of grease. His stomach grunts and groans its appreciation.

  ‘Room for any more?’ asks Gramps as the frying pan spits and crackles.

  Caleb amazes himself by saying, ‘Yes please.’ The way his hunger is revving right now there’s a chance he could go for thirds.

  ‘Can’t remember ever seeing you eat like this,’ Gramps chuckles, dishing up two more rashers of bacon and another egg. ‘I should think it’s going to get a bit musical in here later on.’ Caleb frowns at him. ‘All these eggs will give you a bad case of the trumps.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ says Caleb between bites. ‘I’ll take it outside. Plenty of air out there.’

  ‘You won’t be able to see the other kids for the green fog around you.’ Gramps decides not to ask the boy if he wants any more. Caleb shows no signs of slowing, and Gramps is part worried part amused by the idea that he might keep saying yes.

  ‘Not going near other kids. Got things to do.’

  ‘What about the girl?’ That’s the first thing all morning to make Caleb hesitate. ‘Will you stay away from her?’ Caleb, mouth full of breakfast, nods his head and looks insincere. ‘You’ll do whatever you do. I might be old, but I remember being young, your age young. There’s the you that you show to oldies like me, and then there’s the you that you are when you’re out of the door and you’re presented with all the world of choices. Don’t fret, Caleb. This is not a telling off. I don’t have the energy for telling offs, for raising boys.’ He turns on the taps to do the dishes. ‘Children try to do the right thing, by and large. I was one, you know, a child. They mean to do as they’re told, but it becomes difficult when the telling’s in the past and there’s fun or excitement to be had here and now. That’s when children start bending rules to fit, or convincing themselves that they misheard what they were told, or that if they don’t say anything about this then nobody needs to know.’ The frying pan takes some scrubbing. ‘I can’t chase around after you. I can’t second-guess what you’re going to do next. Hell, I barely know what I might get up to next. I lose things. I go into rooms and wonder why I’m there. I talk to myself and wonder what I’m on about.’ With his back to Caleb he doesn’t see that they boy’s appetite has ended mid-plateful. ‘What I’m trying to say is, save us the pain of any lies. It’ll save you the effort of coming up with them, it’ll save me the effort of dealing with them.’ Drying his hands, he turns to look at Caleb. ‘The girl. Yes?’

  ‘No.’

  Gramps nods. ‘I see. I suppose you’re going to be here for a few days? And your father knows you’re here? He’s not going to come knocking on the door, frantic to know where you are then wondering why I’ve hidden you here?’

  ‘He won’t come knocking.’ It’s a truth. He’s missed out the part that makes it the truth, but then he wasn’t asked about those parts, so there’s nothing to feel guilty about. He doesn’t need to tell Gramps about the awful, stupid, cowardly thing he’s done. It’s not like Father would have come looking for him anyway. He would have been pleased to get rid of his useless boy, might even have smiled.

  His father, swaying in his bedroom, choppy noises in his throat.

  Caleb wishes he could tell. But Gramps is old and tired and loses his grip, and isn’t it a kindness to leave the old man out of this bit? Isn’t that the right choice to make? Didn’t Gramps just say it was his choice to make?

  ‘Tell me when you’ve finished the journal,’ says Gramps. ‘There’s more for you to see. It might change your mind, if you’ve already made it up.’

  78

  Crosswell slips out of the office with barely a mumble to his secretary, squints against the day’s light as he crosses the street to the coffee shop. Fresh air stirs up his sour stomach and he chokes back a belch. He stayed up too long last night, stayed for one more whiskey than he should have. Up too long thinking about how girls can disappear, how old fools can be distracted by such disappearances.

  Morgan is waiting for him in the far corner with his usual double espresso. ‘You look rough.’ She grins.

  ‘How can you tell? I’m always rough.’ He drops into the seat opposite her. The plastic protests. ‘Meeting go any better last night without me around?’

  She stirs three brown sugars into her cappuccino. ‘It was a few decibels quieter, and it lasted a little longer. Those are about the only differences.’

  ‘Told you not to waste your time. There’s no arguing with the grand poobah. Do you believe me yet? Did he say all the same things he says every time? All the same excuses? All the same
bull?’

  ‘Do you need to ask?’ Her lipstick smears the edge of her cup. She seems to wear a touch more make up with every year that passes. Crosswell thought she was overdoing it fifteen years ago. ‘We need to take the books off him. We break in, it’s not like we have to be subtle. He couldn’t exactly run to the police and say that some naughty people stole his magic books and now he can’t do his hocus-pocus. It’s time to man up, Crosswell.’

  He smirks. ‘Is that manning up, is it?’

  ‘Striding in there and taking charge? Yes. That’s exactly what it is.’

  ‘Moronic is what it is. We could do that easily. Of course we could. After all the things we’ve covered up, that would be nothing. We can get the books. That’s if we can find them. We could take them no problem. But then, what do we do with them? He’s had them squirrelled away forever. He’s had most of a lifetime to work with whatever’s in them.’

  ‘Bully for him. We’re no slouches either. We can do…’

  ‘Parlour tricks. In comparison to what he does, we might as well be building castles with dry sand. Before you run your mouth, Morgan, I’ll make this really simple. Whatever it is we need, there’s one sure-fire way to get it.’

  Morgan leans in, smile hardening to hunger. ‘And we can’t just take her, can we? In the grand scheme of things, I think you’ll find that stealing children is frowned upon a little bit more than stealing books. Who’s the moron now?’

  He laughs because he wants to slap her. He wants to slap her so hard that her teeth cut into her cheek. Wouldn’t that cause a stir? Councillor Crosswell beats up businesswoman in coffee shop. That would stir these miserable leeches right up. ‘All I need to know right now is whether or not you’re on board. We forget the softly-softly approach. Completely. Ignore the endless meetings, the phone calls, the recalculations, and we look at all this from a different angle. We figure out how to get rid of the girl.’

  ‘What about the Turning? We can’t abandon that. If they get out of sync and start getting up whenever they like, then we’re all screwed. It’s a lot of time and effort wasted. Bye-bye grand master plan. A plan, by the way, that we’ve worked on for…’

  ‘Long enough, yes, yes. Long enough. Too long. If we can get the brat out of the way, and if we refuse to help him with the Turning, it’ll really pile the pressure on.’

  ‘On who? Him or us?’

  He drinks the double espresso in one. ‘Pressure’s not a problem for me. Now, I’ve had a thought.’

  79

  He can stand. It’s incredibly bloody sore, but the knee’s taking his bulky weight. He tries some test paces around the room. There’ll be no sprinting today. But Vic is up, and Vic is moving.

  80

  Mickey would rather be playing football, but he’s been out-voted this morning. Sam’s noticed there’s a ‘whacking’ big hole in the gate to Pernicious House, and he wants to go in. Jay didn’t need much persuading. The prospect of clambering through illicit holes is one the frazzle-haired boy will never pass up.

  ‘We could do this any time,’ says Mickey. ‘We’ve climbed over the fence before, it’s easy.’

  Sam, already sporting a mud-smear, shrugs like nothing in the world really matters. ‘We’re here now.’

  There is no counter-argument, so Mickey boots his ball over the gate and climbs through the bars first. It’s always good to be seen as first one in. He runs to his ball, brings it under control, then back-heels it to the other boys. The kick-about takes them around the dead waterfalls, up the stairs, across the courtyard, none of them taking much notice of the heavy clouds above. It will rain today. It’s guaranteed to. If it pours, they will stay out in it as long as they can, just like every other day.

  Sam misses a pass. The football whooshes past him while he stares up at the house.

  ‘Nice skills!’ cackles Jay. ‘You play like a grandma!’ He always reminds Mickey of a crow, hectoring from the trees.

  Sam nods at the house. ‘Let’s go in.’

  Mickey groans. He saw this coming. ‘If you think I’m going in there, you’re even more stupid than you look.’ Another Jay cackle. It feels good to score a point against the almost-leader of the group.

  ‘That sounds like the squawks of a chicken.’ He’s fixated on the darkness behind those windows.

  ‘I’m not breaking in there. I’m not Vic Sweet. That’s the kind of think an arsehole like him would do.’

  Sam’s sigh is disappointment and defeat. ‘Fine.’ He trots off to collect the ball, which has rolled to a stop beneath one of those big bare windows, and Mickey sees a shape, a human shape on the other side of the glass. It’s walking forward. It’s bending over to charge headfirst, to smash through, to grab the boy leaning over for his ball.

  It’s Sam’s reflection. It disappears as he picks up the ball, reappears as he stands.

  Mickey feels foolish, hopes his friends didn’t see any of the fright on his face. A glance at Jay, who’s making himself open for the ball, is enough to tell him he’s got away with it.

  Stupid spooky house.

  It’s a spooky house that Sam’s peering into, like something’s caught his eye, like something’s hooked him, like he’s forgotten that he just said ‘fine’ and now he can’t walk away.

  He’s going to go in after all, thinks Mickey, and we’ll have to go in after him because that’s what we do.

  And it’s Jay that snaps Sam out of it with a shout of ‘On the head!’ Sam grins as he turns away from his dark reflection, and he knocks out a long curling kick that Jay deftly heads with a frazzly flick. Mickey dashes across to bring it down with one knee. Then it’s all running and passing and shooting at tree trunks or lampposts or a bin or any static target. Jay and Sam quickly get bored, and Jay starts shinning up the tallest-looking tree he can find. ‘The view from up here is going to be sweet!’ he squawks as he snaps and cracks up the branches. Sam’s got his eyes on the stables.

  ‘Could be anything in there,’ he says.

  ‘What, like crap and straw? Go and get it, Sam!’ Mickey has a good loud laugh at his own joke. This far into the grounds it’s unlikely that anyone from the road will hear them or bother to investigate. All this space. A massive playground, only for them.

  ‘There could be dead things in there,’ says Sam, and here’s one of his obsessions. He’s always craved the great gruesome find.

  ‘Who wants to see a dead horse?’

  ‘It’s not going to be a dead horse, is it? They haven’t kept horses in there for ages, not even when this place was open.’ He whispers the next bit, in case whatever’s in the stables might hear. ‘I mean a dead body.’

  ‘Sam. A dead horse is a dead body.’

  ‘No, you dummy, a dead person is a dead body. Come on, it’s the kind of place where criminals stash stuff, isn’t it? If I bumped somebody off, that’s where I’d stick them.’

  ‘Why you always on about bumping people off? I can’t be bothered with this. I just want a kick about.’

  Sam shrugs it off. ‘Tell you what. You stay here being all gay, and I’ll step up and deal with the situation.’

  ‘What situation? You’re so…’ Weird is the word he doesn’t get round to using. Beams of light sweep and stutter, cutting through the trees. Mickey looks up to locate the source.

  ‘Police helicopter!’ panics Sam. ‘We gotta go!’ He runs.

  ‘Wait! What about Jay?’ Heart thumping, Mickey wants to run too. The police are here! He can’t get caught! How do they know? ‘Sam, wait!’ He can’t leave without Jay, but Sam’s not going to stop, he’s not going to step up and deal with the situation, he’s going to get gone.

  Then Jay cries out, ‘What the hell?’ and then he’s crying out without words, an increasing howl of alarm, and Sam finally slides to a halt and turns back. He and Mickey pound feet towards the tree containing Jay. White-blue light flickers in rotary cycles, and Mickey hears the snap of branches as Jay scrambles down as fast as he dares, and Mickey realises that the
helicopter is making no noise, and what kind of helicopter makes no noise?

  Jay’s scream is suddenly coming down a lot faster. Sam and Mickey are still fifteen yards from the bottom of the tree. The rapid-fire crash of snapping wood, like a huge weight falling straight down the middle from the top. A huge weight with bright lights strapped to it.

  Jay’s feet catch on the lower branches, slowing his descent. A backflip, and he thuds onto the ground. The impact stops him screaming for a moment. The lights shoot down after him, and a figure lands right on top of Jay, and Mickey and Sam slide to a stop. Mickey has a moment to wonder why whoever-it-is has torches attached to their head, then the whoever is grabbing Jay’s face in both hands, trying to set those beams directly in his eyes.

  ‘Get off him!’ shouts Mickey, and Neuman’s head snaps round to face him, beams flashing across his eyes

  through his eyes

  and he sees Oh God he sees

  the world stripped bare, blasted by some terrible weapon, pasted in icy blues and steely whites, the trees stripped of leaves and bark, boney metal skeletons that lean towards him, grass seared away from hard jagged ground, and Jay is without clothes or skin or flesh

  and Neuman is monstrous, a grinning, glowering invention of a mad god

  and the beam is gone as Jay catches Neuman with a stray knee, kicking himself loose, boosting himself out from under his attacker, then he’s off, and Sam goes after him, and Mickey gets off his knees (what am I doing on my knees) and he’s running too, going wide around the thing with torches for eyes (they’re not strapped on they’re its eyes), and he throws up a little, still disoriented after seeing that other place, that terrible place.

  Jay weaves, darting between trees at random, faster than Mickey’s ever seen him go. Splashes of light soak the tree trunks and paint them as freezing steel rods. Torcheyes is sprinting after them, as heedless as the boys. It cannot let them go. Mickey hears Sam crying, and his own wish is selfish and mean: we should have left Jay to it. They’re going the wrong way; they’re leaving the gates behind. Jay disappears, reappears as he zigzags through these woods, stumbling as something pulls on his foot. If any of them trip, they are done for.