“The embers . . . ,” she says. “When I was raking the fire, they were still warm.”
“Someone was here recently?” I ask.
“No doubt,” she says. “With our fire at home, we go to bed and the ash is still warm in the morning.” She thinks about it. “Maybe ten or twelve hours later?”
“So that means someone lit a fire and left here this morning,” Smitty says.
“They saw our smoke,” I say. “The black smoke from the gas station. They probably set out to see what had happened.”
“How? On foot?” Pete says. “We didn’t see them. They obviously didn’t make it.”
“Where were you, Lily?” Smitty leans back into a beaten-up leather armchair. “When it all kicked off. You and Cam were in the café, we saw you on the security camera playback. We were outside on the bus, but we didn’t see you run out. Next thing we know, you’re playing stowaway.”
“I told them already.” She nods to me. “We were in the car at first, then hiding in the café, then back in the car.” Lily pulls a blanket around her shoulders and shudders. “Don’t want to talk about it just now.”
“Why not?” Smitty appears relaxed, but I’m sensing he won’t let this one go without a fight.
“Because I don’t.” She leans over toward him, her eyes wide and blue, a tendril of blond hair hanging artfully over her face. For the first time I realize how attractive she is. Not pep-squad pretty, like Alice, but grown-up good-looking, full-lipped and heavy-lidded. Kind of sultry. I think Smitty realizes it, too. He shrugs.
“I think you have a responsibility to tell us all of it in detail,” starts Pete, and I’m glad he does because I want to know. But Smitty cutshim off.
“We can swap war stories tomorrow,” he says. “Who knows how long we’ll be here? We might need some entertainment.”
Alice is making snuffling noises on the couch next to mine. Someone really should have checked her head before now. I chuckle to myself quietly. Alice has needed her head checked way before now. The warmth of the fire is so comforting, and I have a feather-filled duvet all to myself. Whichever way you slice it, we’re oh-so-better-off here in a castle than on a bus. For the first time since what feels like forever, I allow my shoulders to lower, my jaw to unclench, and my hands to relax from the fists they’ve been making for the last two days. A wave of tired descends, like a wonderful soft blanket of dark.
“Should we take turns keeping guard?” Pete’s voice sounds far away.
Let ’em work it out between ’em, for once. I surrender to the tired.
There’s a dog barking, and I’m cold.
I open my eyes; daylight is streaming through the windows. The reason I’m cold is quickly clear. Cam has gathered all the bedding together and is making a giant bed in the middle of the floor. My duvet forms part of his cocoon. He wiggles around inside, then a shamble of blond hair and an eye peep over the top.
“ ’Lo,” he says.
“Morning, Cam.”
I sit up on the couch. Everyone’s gone. The chest of drawers has been moved away from the door that leads to the kitchen. I leap to my feet and rush to the window. It’s still snowing, the whiteness so fine it’s almost like a fog. I can’t see a thing. Somewhere, the dog is still barking.
“Where did everyone go, Cam?” I ask him, but he’s pupating under the blankets again and doesn’t answer. I reach for the handle of the rear door and turn it. “Back in a moment, OK?”
But the door refuses to budge. The handle is turning, but it won’t open. Someone has barricaded me in.
“Yo!” I shout. “Can someone come let me out?”
Silence. Even the dog has shut up.
“Hey!” I try again, thumping the door with my fist. “We’re stuck in here!”
Still silence. I head across the room to the other door. The sideboard is still in place, but after a few attempts I manage to ease it away from the door slightly.
“Smitty!” I shout through the gap. “Pete! Lily! Where are you! Cam and I are trapped in here!” There’s no response. I try one last-ditch effort. “Alice!”
At the mention of his name, Cam has reappeared out of his big bed, for the first time looking a little more clued in to our situation. I calm my voice. “It’s OK, buddy,” I reassure him. “I’ll get us out of here in a moment.”
Crappy older sis I’d make. Cam does not believe me for one minute. His face collapses into a wail. He crawls toward me and a little stubby hand reaches pathetically up toward me.
“Need poo-poo,” he cries.
Fantastic. Raise the stakes, why don’t you? I force a smile.
“It’s fine. I’ll get us out in a jiffy.” My mother’s voice echoes back at me. Empty promises. Cam doesn’t buy it, either. He waddles back to the floor-bed and buries his head in a blanket, like it’s all too much to bear. Which it almost is.
But it’s given me an idea. I leap off the sideboard and go to Cam. I stroke his head and he looks at me with suspicious wet eyes.
“I just need to borrow your blankie for a moment, Cam.”
He shakes his little head and holds the blanket tighter.
“Come on, Cam. I need to take it, but I promise I’ll give it right back. Why don’t you have one of these fluffy ones instead? They’re nicer than the stringy one anyway.”
He won’t be budged and I’ve got no choice but to pry the stringy blanket out of the hands of a three-year-old. He is incensed, and screams like I am cutting off said hands at the wrists with a hacksaw. The noise is so extreme I look around nervously, almost dreading that Lily will materialize and find me assaulting her little brother. But even with this cacophony, no one comes to my (or Cam’s) rescue.
I win the blankie tug-of-war, and Cam throws himself on the floor, kicking and screaming. I’m evil, but I don’t care. I wrap the blanket around one end of the sideboard and the other around my hands, then lean my whole body weight away from the huge piece of furniture and dig in my heels. Slowly it moves a little, then a little more, and then with a last heft, a little more still. It’s just enough. I breathe in and squeeze through the door. I’m about to go, then I look back at Cam. Darn. Can’t really leave him here when he can probably find a dozen ways to break himself. Plus there’s that whole business of the “poo-poo.”
I squeeze back, scoop him up, and manage to get the two of us back out again, somehow.
In the hall, I notice with huge relief that the front door is still shut and bolted. Good. So we haven’t been overwhelmed in the night, at least not through that door.
Now to find everyone. The obvious place is the kitchen. I’m about to call out again, but something stops me. The hall is cold and shadowy, like a cathedral. It almost doesn’t seem right to be hollering away in such a place. I didn’t notice last night — probably because of the dark and the exhaustion and the post-traumatic stress disorder — but there is an immense stained-glass window above the sweep of the stairs. The weak sun manages to light the colored glass, casting rays of red and blue and green into the room. It’s really pretty beautiful. On a proper sunny day it would be awesome. That’s presuming the sun ever shines in Scotland.
“Poo-poo,” says Cam in my arms, softly. He punctuates this with a short, sharp fart, in case I ever doubted his intentions. I fight back a giggle and move away before the smell can catch up with us.
I remember where the downstairs bathroom is, and we both do what we need to do. He’s a little unclear of what’s required after he’s finished, and I realize in horror he expects me to lend a hand. Quite literally. I wrap a load of toilet paper around my hand and try not to visibly wince when I wipe away. Of all the stuff I’ve experienced over the past couple of days, I can’t help thinking this is the grossest. Then I feel really bad about thinking the thought. But it’s no good, it’s thunk. We both wash our hands in gallon
s of freezing water and frothy oceans of liquid soap, and only then can I stop the grossness and the guilt.
Cam has a personality overhaul as a result of his über-poop. Now he’s bubbly and full of generous vigor. He runs though each room en route to the kitchen, with me struggling to keep up. We arrive at the kitchen door and it’s only the unwieldy handle that holds him back. I grasp him with one hand, and the handle with the other, and open the door slowly and carefully.
The smell hits me first. And then the frightening scene assaults my eyes.
Smitty, wearing an apron. Frying eggs and bacon.
“Wassup, Bob. Thought you were sleeping for England.” He flutters the eyelashes at me. “Or Scotland.” He shrugs. “Or the good ol’ US of A, wherever you come from.”
Pete and Alice are at the large kitchen table, eating. Lily is behind Smitty, making toast. Cam sees her and makes a run for it. Instantly, I hear a snarl and instinctively reach toward Cam and snatch him up, stepping back from the doorway. The door is slammed in our faces and Cam starts to cry. There’s a scuffle from behind the door, I can hear Smitty’s voice making coaxing noises, and after a minute or so Lily opens the door.
“Cammy!” she coos and takes him out of my arms. “Stupid crazy dog’s gone now, hinny.” She winks at me. “Want some dippy eggs?”
Cam nods and she leads us back into the kitchen. Pete and Alice are still wolfing down breakfast. Smitty is flipping bacon like nothing bad happened. I sidle up to him.
“Where’s the dog?” I whisper.
“In the library with a plate of bacon,” he replies. “He was being all friendly with us until Cam turned up.” He lowers his voice and leans over the bacon. “He really doesn’t like that kid.”
“So why didn’t you wake me?” I try to keep nonchalant, but my voice is shaking. “And why did you trap me in the living room?”
“Lily didn’t want Cam wandering off,” he says, cracking an egg. “And you were dead to the world.” His mouth curls into a smile. “Besides, I thought you’d like breakfast in bed.”
I flush as pink as the piggy in the pan.
“Sunny-side up?” He looks at me intently. When I don’t respond, he slides the food onto a clean white plate and hands it to me. It smells so good. My hunger overtakes my embarrassment and anger, and I find myself turning away in silence and sitting down next to Pete at the table. The bacon and eggs taste amazing. I don’t even really like to eat pigs; they’re clever and cute and I’d actually like one for a pet, but on this occasion I find myself digging in and mopping up the grease with bread and butter and wishing for seconds.
“Wanna eat the plate, too?” Alice snarks from the other end of the table. Ah. Great to know her concussion hasn’t had any long-lasting ill effects. I was going to offer to look at her head wound, but now I’ll let her fester. Thinking of which, we should really all check our wounds today. Everything happened so fast yesterday there wasn’t exactly time for that. I get a total recall of Pete’s skull tuft and my white leg bone, and instantly feel sick.
“So, plan of action,” says Pete importantly.
“Do we have one?” Smitty sits with his plate of food. I’m impressed that he’s waited to serve himself last.
“I do.” Pete forges ahead before anyone can stop him. “When I woke this morning, there was a break in the snow and I had a look outside. Through the windows, of course,” he says quickly. “There’s a telephone line. Definitely. One line in, appears undamaged.”
“I thought you said there were no phones here?” Lily says.
“We didn’t find any,” says Pete. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a phone unplugged somewhere — in a drawer or a cabinet.”
“Why would anyone do that?” says Alice.
“Numerous reasons, potentially,” says Pete. “But all I’m saying is there’s a line. And don’t forget there are more rooms through that locked door.” He points in the direction of the tower we couldn’t get into last night. “And there’s a stable block. Outbuildings, too. More to investigate.”
“Don’t forget the spooky basement!” Smitty spits through a mouth of egg.
“I’ve got all our phones,” Alice says. “If we can get up into that tower, we might get a signal. Or find the landline.”
I frown. “What do we do first?”
“Why don’t I stay in here with Cam and clean up and have a look for the tower key?” Lily says in a cheerful voice. “It’ll be like a fun game.” Yeah, what it’s like is that she’s pulling this whole domestic bliss thing so as not to freak Cam out. Or maybe it’s so that she doesn’t get freaked out. “You guys go off and check out the other stuff. We’ll find the key” — she looks at Cam — “then maybe bake some cookies for later!”
“Oh, très marvelous,” Alice says.
“Just don’t use up too much food; we don’t know how long we have to last here,” Pete says.
“Oh, please,” Alice says. “If I’m not out of here in twenty-four hours, I’ll gladly starve to death.” She pulls a grotesque grinning face at Cam. “Jokey-wokey!” Luckily Cam decides she’s hysterical, and the two of them laugh, Alice rolling her eyes at the same time, the cow.
I rise out of my seat and go to the window. “What about the juice?”
It’s still out there, for sure. The snow has almost covered it, but there’s a blue plastic bag handle sticking out of the white.
“It’ll be frozen solid.” Smitty burps loudly. “So unless anyone fancies a toxic ice pop for breakfast, I think we’re safe to leave it be.” He jumps up and grabs me around the waist for a split second. “Race you to the basement!”
He does his best evil laugh and runs out of the kitchen.
* * *
Smitty has his dwarven ax, Pete his fencing sword. I saw Alice eyeing up a carving knife in the kitchen, but thank heavens she’s chosen a golf club. I think it’s a kid’s one; it’s kind of short. I could see Smitty bursting with the need to mess with her for choosing it, but I managed to shoot him evils just in time to stop him. Or maybe it was because I distracted him by picking the poker from the fire for my weapon. I think he’s saving himself up for the countless comedic opportunities me having a poker could provide. Hey ho, something for us all to look forward to should we survive the morning.
“So bring on the spooky basement,” says Smitty, savoring the words. “After which, we could find a creepy attic and a shadowy graveyard to wander through — then we’ll have the full set of scary movie clichés.”
We stand at the top of the stairs, looking down into the darkness. Smitty flicks the light on and it’s a single bulb, swinging just above our heads, flickering and ominous. There’s a shelf on the wall just to my left; among the bric-a-brac I spy a flashlight. I pick it up and switch it on. It works.
“Make sure the door stays open behind us,” Alice whispers. “I don’t want to get stuck down here.”
“Yep, that would be textbook,” says Smitty.
Pete props the door open with a box of nails from the shelf, and we slowly make our way downstairs.
The staircase is shorter than I thought it would be. I mean, for those first few steps it really felt like we were descending into the bowels of hell, or journeying to the center of the earth. I was kind of expecting skeletons and ancient wall paintings, burning torches or scarab beetles or something. But there is none of that: just a flight of stone steps and then we emerge into a basement that smells of mold with garden fertilizer mixed in.
A single room, about the size of the living room we’d slept in last night. Pete finds another light switch and, after a couple of false tries, a fluorescent strip clicks on overhead. We look around. The room is lined with shelves that contain everything and nothing. Plant pots and garden tools. Crates of books and piles of Country Life magazine. In the middle of the room are a couple of stools and a tarp-co
vered lawn mower. In one corner is a small wooden door with coal piled at the bottom. I stick my head around the door; inside there’s a diagonal chute leading up to an inch of bright sunlight above. I force the door closed again. On the far wall hang sacks and dust cloths, aprons and netting.
“So this is it?” says Alice. “A whole load of rubbish? Nothing useful at all?” She sticks out a hip and puts a hand on it. “I suppose I should be used to this by now. I mean, I could have trusted you lot to find the one building in this whole area — no, country — that doesn’t have a phone.”
“Mmm, you know what, Malice?” Smitty is walking up to her, his ax swinging by his side. “We only came here because of you.” He points his ax up at her head. “If you hadn’t brained yourself back at the Cheery Chomper, we could have walked for miles and had our pick of tripped-out castles.”
“That’s not strictly true,” Pete interrupts.
“How is that head, by the way?” Smitty smiles at Alice. “If it’s still bothering you, we can take it clean off, if you like?” He raises his ax again.
“Get away from me, you bully!” Alice cries out, bringing her golf club up to knock away the ax.
“Bully?” Smitty laughs. “You wrote the manual, Malice.”
“I’ve told you, don’t call me that!” Alice roars, flinging herself at Smitty, golf club aloft.
He dodges out of the way before she can land a blow. But she’s moving with too much force to stop in midair. Instead of slamming into Smitty, she’s going to slam into the wall. I brace myself for the tears.
They never come. Alice doesn’t hit the wall, she disappears. Completely. Into the wall where the sacks are hanging. There’s a kind of muffled scream, then nothing.
Smitty, Pete, and I stand there looking at each other, and the wall, without words. I can’t help but wish that we’d tried to throw Alice into a wall way before now if this is the result. We watch the place where she vanished, and wait.
But it’s too good to be true. A few seconds later she’s back, her head appearing between two of the big sacks, then a shoulder, an arm, and a leg. The most surprising thing is, she’s smiling.
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