by Sue Limb
But then Beast had rung and summoned her, and she was off. Where was her loyalty to me, her oldest friend, in my hour of need? Gone. I was going to have to face my ordeal alone, while she partied with party animals.
And to top it all, Oliver had rung, and I had somehow managed to hang up on him! Could life possibly get any worse?
That evening I approached the dreaded Norman house. The screaming inside was clearly audible from miles away. The front door was open, as if Mr and Mrs Norman couldn’t wait to escape. I hesitated on the doorstep.
‘Hello!?’ I cried softly, but of course my weedy little call was obliterated by the rumpus within.
However, a moment later Mrs Norman appeared, large and complacent in crumpled linen. Behind her the twins were running round, stark naked and brandishing bananas. Seeing me, they raced to the door.
‘Sorry, Zoe,’ she said. ‘The doorbell’s broken.’ As if she thought she had to apologise for that random detail.
‘I’ve got a big wee-wee!’ yelled Ben, flashing his banana. Or possibly it was Jack.
‘I’ve got a bigger wee-wee and I’m going to pee all over Zoeeeee!’ screamed Jack, or possibly Ben, pointing his banana menacingly at me. I would remember this later, and marvel at his psychic powers.
Mrs Norman smiled at me as if to say, ‘Aren’t my twins just the most adorable and witty little fellows on the entire earth?’
My shoulders heavy with the feeling of imminent doom, I stepped inside.
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14
SUNDAY 7.32 p.m.
The worst evening of my life so far
‘We might be a bit late back,’ said Mrs N above the sound of the twins, who had tired of pretending to pee on me and were now demolishing the kitchen. ‘I’ve made up the bed in the spare room in case you want to stay.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said swiftly, ‘but I ought to go home afterwards. It’s only a couple of hundred metres and I am nocturnal.’ Last time I stayed, the twins had woken me up at 5 a.m. by thrashing my head with a rubber snake. ‘Don’t worry,’ I went on, trying to look capable and serene as plastic beakers whizzed past my head – like a reporter in a war zone – ‘I’ve got loads of homework and when that’s done I’ll get stuck into a DVD.’
After a bit of messing about, during which time the twins were persuaded into their pyjamas, the adult Normans left. Whenever they wave goodbye I have the horrible illusion that they’re never going to come back, ever, and I’m going to have to look after Ben and Jack for the rest of my life. I turned on the terrible twins and tried to look extremely frightening.
‘Right!’ I squeaked, unfortunately missing the ringing tones of vocal authority I was striving for. ‘If you’re not upstairs and in bed by the time I’ve counted ten, there will be No Story!’
The twins ran upstairs, yelling like banshees. But this wasn’t progress. They didn’t go to their room. They raced to the bathroom. A big sponge was floating in the washbasin. Twin A grabbed it and hurled it at Twin B. His pyjamas were saturated. He screamed. He grabbed a plastic mug and hurled more water over Twin B, who was laughing evilly.
‘Stop it!’ I roared. I strode forward and pulled the plug out of the washbasin. The twins were fighting behind me now. Which was worse: having them fighting each other or turning their Satanic energies on me? ‘Right!’ I shouted. ‘We’re going to have to get you some clean pyjamas. Take your clothes off!’
‘Take your clothes off!’ yelled Twin B.
‘Yeah!’ shrieked Twin A. ‘Show us yer bum!’
They tugged at the belt of my jeans. Thank God I wasn’t wearing a skirt. The first time I ever babysat for them, I’d been wearing a skirt, a long flowing one, and they had somehow ended up inside it, informing me that they were on a camping trip. My gran says children should know their place, but I’m sure it shouldn’t be actually inside your clothing.
‘Next time you go to the loo, we want to watch!’ shouted Twin B.
‘I would rather eat a live rhino,’ I informed him crisply.
‘I’m a rhino!’ screeched Twin A, charging me and head-butting me in the tummy, quite painfully.
‘Stop it!’ I roared. ‘And get those wet pyjamas off!’ They both pulled off their PJs and started running around naked again. ‘Stand still!’ I shouted. ‘Or I’ll phone the police!’ They ignored me. We were back to square one.
I went downstairs. OK, I was abandoning my responsibilities, but frankly I’d already had more than I could stand. I went into the sitting room and picked up my handbag. I was so tempted to ring Mum and ask her to come over. She’d offered. But I wanted to hack it on my own. If only Chloe hadn’t let me down by going off to the Next Big Thing, the treacherous bitch.
There was the thunderous noise of the twins coming – or possibly falling – downstairs, and they rushed in.
‘Are you going to phone the police?’ they asked breathlessly in unison.
‘Yes,’ I snapped, hastily improvising. I got out my phone, dialled a random number and waited for ‘a reply’. It wasn’t even ringing, of course. The twins watched, open-mouthed. For a moment there was perfect silence and peace.
‘Is that the police station?’ I said suddenly. ‘Yes, uuuuh, my name’s Zoe Morris and I’m babysitting at 32 Prince’s Gardens. I’ve got two boys here, Jack and Ben Norman, and they’re completely out of control. Can you send an officer round, please?’ Then I waited, and nodded, and said, ‘Uh-huh,’ and went through a big charade as if I was getting put through to where the officers are.
‘You’ll be round in ten minutes?’ I said. ‘That’s brilliant! And are you going to actually arrest them? … Oh, really.’ I covered up the mouthpiece and looked soberly at the twins. ‘The policeman says he’ll be able to take you to prison straightaway.’
‘It’s a trick!’ squealed Twin B. For a moment I had had them worried, but suddenly, somehow, the spell was broken.
‘What’s in your handbag?’ Twin A yelled, and dived into my most sacred and private receptacle outside my actual body.
‘Get out of my bag, you beast!’ I snatched the bag out of his horrid little paws, and everything flew across the room: coins, hankies, cosmetics, tampons, my broken pedometer, my tweezers, the lot. The twins crowed in delight.
‘If you’re not upstairs and in your bedroom in ten seconds,’ I screeched, ‘you won’t get The House at Pooh Corner!’ This was their favourite book.
‘Poo!’ yelled Twin B delightedly.
‘Poo!’ screamed the other. ‘Pee! Bum!’ They ran round and round me, yelling out the rudest words they could think of. And somewhere, privately, in the deep recesses of my brain, I flung my rudest words right back. I’m never going to have children. They’re just completely pointless.
Eventually they went to sleep. In their own beds, though not wearing pyjamas. I don’t know how it happened. They’d tired themselves out, I suppose. They’d certainly completely and utterly exhausted me. I lay on the sofa and just enjoyed the total silence for five minutes. Then I started to ransack the Normans’ DVD collection.
I found the original 1939 version of Wuthering Heights and decided to give it a whirl. It was in black and white and really spooky. I dimmed the lights and noticed that the wind was picking up outside – just right for a romantic romp with the ghosts on the moors.
Quite early in the film, there’s a frantic tapping on the window and the ghost of Cathy cries, ‘Let me in! Let me in!’ Mr Lockwood opens the window and her icy hand grabs his wrist. She won’t let go, and in desperation he rubs her hand against the broken glass, trying to shake off those madly clutching fingers. I watched in terror.
Then, moments later, there was a tapping at my window! Right here in the real world! And the wind was howling now, literally wuthering around the house. My blood ran cold. I hid under a throw. The tapping at the window increased.
‘Let me in! Let me in!’ Oh God, this was a bad dream. I was being haunted. The film had come to life. Or maybe I had gone
into the film. ‘Let me in! Let me in!’ the high voice wailed above the storm. There was a clap of thunder. My heart was pounding so hard, my ribs were on the point of exploding.
‘Let me in! Zoe! Let me in!’ Wait. The voice knew my name? I tiptoed to the window. My legs felt weak and shaky. Gingerly I opened the curtains a tiny crack, and looked out. There, soaking wet and lit up by the eerie light of the distant streetlamps, stood Chloe.
‘Open the freakin’ door!’ she yelled. ‘Let me in! The goddam doorbell’s broken!’
I raced to the front door and opened it. Chloe kind of fell in, panting, dripping, and, I’m sorry to say, sobbing.
‘It’s a nightmare!’ she gasped, gripping my arm with icy, ghostly fingers. ‘My life is technically over!’
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15
SUNDAY 9.45 p.m.
Life is a horror movie …
‘It was a total disaster!’ cried Chloe, falling into my arms. I just hugged her till she stopped sobbing, even though she was sopping wet. Sometimes a major hug is required no matter what. When she’d stopped crying I led her to the sofa and found a towel for her hair. I was scared she had caught a chill or something. She was sort of shaking madly and her teeth were chattering.
‘I was at the Next Big Thing,’ she said in a shivery voice, ‘and this girl turned up, and was like, “Who the hell do you think you are?” And she started shouting and stuff about me not being a sixth former, but she was having a go at Beast really, you could tell, and the thing was, I think she thought she was going out with him, so she was like mad with jealous rage.’
‘Hmm, pants!’ I said sympathetically. ‘I’m going to make you a hot chocolate.’
‘Wait! I haven’t finished!’ Chloe clutched at my arm, and she felt just like the icy cold ghost of Cathy. ‘At first I thought she was just, like, in a strop, then I could see she was jealous of me being with Beast, but then she just kind of flew at me, and I realised she was drunk. She pulled my hair and kicked me and all sorts of mad stuff. Beast tried to reason with her and they pulled her off me, but I just ran. I ran and ran and ran to your house, and your mum told me you were here.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Listen. I’m going to be very boring now. I want you to go upstairs and have a hot shower. I’ll put your clothes in the tumble-dryer. You can wear Jackie’s dressing gown till your clothes are dry again. And I’ll make you that hot choc. And then you can tell me all about it again, in slow-motion action replay.’
‘Th-thanks, Zoe. Thanks,’ said Chloe, still shivering. She didn’t smile, but she had finished crying. I could tell.
‘And for God’s sake, don’t wake the twins,’ I said.
Soon my maternal plan was serenely in progress. Chloe was warm and cosy in Jackie Norman’s red velour dressing gown, her clothes were tumbling dry, and we were both sipping hot choc and trying to get back into Wuthering Heights.
‘I tried to read Wuthering Heights once,’ said Chloe, ‘but there were too many people called Cathy in it.’ I was relieved she was talking about something else apart from what a two-timing heartbreaking cad Beast was. Then there was a knock at the window and a shout outside – a masculine voice this time.
‘Oi!’ it said. ‘Open up!’
‘Who the hell’s that?’ I muttered, getting up and going to the window. I peeped through the curtains. Oh no!
‘It’s Beast and Donut!’ I gasped. ‘And another bloke who looks like a weasel!’
‘Don’t let them in!’ screeched Chloe, cowering feebly inside her dressing gown. I made Go Away gestures, but the guys just kept on yelling.
‘Open the door! The doorbell’s bust!’
‘I’ll just go and tell them to clear off,’ I said. ‘You stay here!’
I opened the front door, but unfortunately the Normans didn’t have a chain, so Beast, Donut and the weaselly person just kind of bundled in past me.
‘Stop!’ I yelled. ‘Nobody said you could come in!’
‘Where’s Chloe?’ demanded Beast, looking round. ‘Chloe!’ he bawled at the top of his voice.
‘Shhhh!’ I hissed. ‘You’ll wake the twins! – Chloe’s not here – oh!’
Chloe had appeared in the sitting room doorway. She looked absolutely furious.
‘You’ve got a nerve!’ she shouted. Just occasionally, when she’s totally fired up, Chloe can yell for England. ‘Asking me to the party when you’d already asked somebody else! How humiliating was that! Can you imagine – can you imagine how I felt when that girl started wrestling with me, for God’s sake? In front of the entire sixth form? What the hell were you playing at? It was a nightmare! I never want to see you or speak to you again!’
‘Sssssh!’ I whispered. ‘The twins!’
‘You look fabulous in that dressing gown, babe,’ said Beast, grinning evilly at Chloe. ‘Red is definitely your colour! And you’re so beautiful when you’re angry!’ The two other guys laughed. I turned on them.
‘What,’ I demanded, ‘are you two doing here anyway? This is nothing to do with you! And how did you find your way here?’ I felt indignant about so many things, I didn’t know where to begin.
‘He rang Chloe’s mum,’ said Donut, ‘and she gave us your phone number, and your dad said you were babysitting here.’
‘Listen, babe,’ said Beast, cocking his head on one side and approaching Chloe, ‘I know you’re mad at me. That girl is insane, though. She’s obsessed. She means nothing to me. She’s just my kind of – uh, stalker.’ The other guys laughed. Chloe backed off towards the kitchen.
‘I don’t care!’ she yelled. ‘I DO NOT CARE! Go away! Do you understand English? GO AWAY!’ She was starting to shake again.
Suddenly, disastrously, there was a wakeful wail from upstairs. Then the other one joined in. My blood ran cold. This was more terrifying than Wuthering Heights. More terrifying than the relentless cold-bloodedness of the Beast seduction technique. The twins had woken up!
‘Waaaaaaaaaagh!’ came one cry.
‘Waaaaaaaaaagh!’ came another.
Moments later they were standing at the top of the stairs, stark naked and whingeing for England in stereo.
‘God!’ said Beast. ‘Don’t point that thing at me!’ But it was too late.
‘Wanna wee-wee!’ wailed one twin, and disastrously, started to pee right there and then, in a horrid golden arc, right down the stairs and on to the guests and the very expensive carpet.
‘Stop!’ I yelled. ‘Jack! Ben! Go to the bathroom!’
Foolishly, I blundered forward and tried to rush upstairs without getting peed on. Mission impossible. Before I was halfway up the other twin had started to pee too. They were like dogs marking out territory. And I was the territory.
The guys down in the hall were cracking up, helpless with glee. And Chloe was still yelling at Beast, yelling at the top of her voice.
‘Go away!’ she screeched. ‘Don’t you understand plain English? GO AWAY!’ It was, in a word, pandemonium.
And it was at this moment that the front door opened and Mr and Mrs Norman stepped inside. They aren’t usually cross sort of people. In fact, if they had got cross with their own brats more often right from the start, the world would be a much more gracious place. Their inability to get cross or yell at their offspring was legendary. But this was different.
Their hall was full of large young men they’d never met before. One looked like a weasel, one like a pickpocket and one like an enormous and tasteless root vegetable. A random girl, naked except for Mrs Norman’s best velour dressing gown, cowered in the background. And the babysitter from hell (me) was halfway up the stairs, being urinated on by their entirely nude and grouchy children.
‘What the hell is going on?’ demanded Mr Norman. He doesn’t normally say much, which made his present anger all the more alarming. As the official babysitter, I felt it was my duty to explain. Their children’s pee was on my head. Normally this would have entitled me to some kind of apology, but I had the feeli
ng that, in the present circumstances, it was just somehow further proof of my total incompetence.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. It seemed the best place to start.
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16
SUNDAY 11.18 p.m.
A daring escape …
‘You know Chloe …’ I faltered. ‘She came to babysit with me last time.’
‘Sorry about the dressing gown,’ said Chloe. You could see she was tempted to take it off guiltily, but that would have increased the number of nude people present to three. Mrs Norman wasn’t listening anyway. She was halfway up the stairs.
‘They’re sleepwalking again,’ she said. ‘The twins stared down at her like two statues. They had finished peeing now. ‘Get the carpet shampoo, Clive,’ she said. Mr Norman walked past us towards the kitchen. Mrs Norman hustled the twins off to the bathroom.
‘These guys were just leaving,’ I said to nobody in particular.
‘My clothes must be dry by now,’ said Chloe hurriedly. The tumble-dryer was out in the utility room, beyond the kitchen. ‘You go and get them!’ she whispered to me. She didn’t want to tangle with Mr Norman in the kitchen. I pushed past Donut, pausing only to hiss, ‘Get lost!’ to the guys.
Mr Norman was on his knees, ransacking the cupboard under the kitchen sink.
I tiptoed to the utility room and got Chloe’s clothes out of the tumble-dryer. She locked herself in the downstairs cloakroom to get changed. Beast hung about outside, whispering things through the door. I had to leave her to look after herself – there was other stuff to do.
Donut and Weasel were still hanging about in the hall, watching Mr Norman shampooing the stair carpet and sniggering unpleasantly.
‘For God’s sake!’ I whispered. ‘Get lost, can’t you? Just GO!’
Couldn’t they feel the atmosphere of embarrassment that hung heavy on the air? Weasel looked at Donut, shrugged and moved towards the door.
‘I’ll wait outside, then,’ he muttered.
‘You too!’ I insisted, pushing Donut towards the door.
‘We’ll wait in the car, yeah?’ Donut called to Beast.