‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t interrupt your father,’ snapped May. She looked as tired as Gary felt.
‘I was saying,’ said Bill, aggrieved, ‘I was saying that I met Jock Donovan yesterday and he was full of nonsense about the garage. Not that he mentioned anything like that when he sold the place to me.’
Donovan was a large, likeable and often drunken Irishman who had owned Jackson’s Garage for a few years, let it run down and then happily sold the now dilapidated building to Bill Baxter for a tidy sum.
‘What did he say?’ asked Gary urgently.
‘If you’d been listening –’
‘Come on, Dad. Please.’
‘I told you. He talked a lot of nonsense. Asked me how I was coping with the things that weren’t right,’
‘What did he mean?’
‘God knows. I asked him to elaborate and all he could say was that he’d “seen things he shouldn’t”. Not surprising – the rate he knocks it back.’
‘Didn’t he say what he’d seen?’
‘No, he didn’t. And by the way, Mum tells me you’ve been sleep-walking.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘You’re not telling fibs?’
‘No, Dad.’
‘Let’s have a look at your hand.’
Gary held up his heavily bound palm and his father turned to his mother. ‘He’s going to school with all that?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I suppose –’
‘I’ll be all right, Mum.’
‘Isn’t he going to the doctor?’ asked his father. Bill Baxter was a big, stocky, bullish man with a fierce moustache and a domineering manner.
‘I think the burn will clear up and –’
‘You think.’
‘Look, Bill, I do know something about first aid.’
‘You went on a day’s course.’
‘I picked up a lot,’ she said indignantly.
‘In that short space of time?’
‘Yes, in that short space of time.’
‘So it made you an expert.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Gary switched off as his parents began to harangue each other and thought instead of Ted. Suddenly, oddly, he realized that he was longing to see him again.
But he wasn’t there. Gary scoured the playground of the huge, impersonal school, with its scarred brickwork and peeling plaster. Islanders were different, he thought as he searched. There was something about them that was epitomized by the Red Funnel ferries that linked Cowes with Southampton. On board there was a curiously old-fashioned atmosphere: cakes and sandwiches in glass-fronted cases, steaming tea urns, fry-ups, vinyl surfaces – like a day out at the seaside he had seen in a book published in the 1950s. The whole island had the same feeling, as if time had been suspended. Benport, for instance, hadn’t changed in years. But it was the Islanders themselves who had originally fascinated and now rather frightened him. They were watchful, and there was an inner stillness to them that was noticeable in both grown-ups and children. He remembered the story of the Watchers – the dead seamen. Was there a little bit of those dead seamen in all of them?
Eventually, Gary summoned up the courage to go to the school secretary’s office. She was a thin, dried-up stick of a woman who looked like a dead tree, with her wafer-thin arms and legs.
‘Yes?’ her voice rasped, as if she could say only a few words, repeating them over and over again.
‘I was looking for someone, Miss. Can you tell me if he’s away?’
‘Someone?’
‘Boy called Ted. Don’t know his surname.’
‘Is he some friend of yours?’
‘Well – no.’
‘And all you know is that his name’s Ted.’ She gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘What year’s he in?’
‘Don’t know, Miss.’
‘Why are you wasting my time?’ Her voice was sharp. ‘Are you stupid or something?’
‘No, Miss.’
‘There I must beg to disagree,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I think you’re a very stupid boy.’
‘But, Miss –’
‘Now – go away.’ She began to hammer at her typewriter, hitting the keys with amazing force.
‘Miss –’
‘Go away.’
Miserably, Gary went away.
‘This is too much,’ said Bill Baxter at tea-time. He plonked down the letter in front of his wife and son with dramatic fervour. ‘Too damned much. These Islanders!’
The letter was neatly written but was unsigned.
Dear Mr Baxter,
You must pull down Jackson’s Garage. Pull it down and clear away the foundations. Then start building your supermarket. But if you convert the building you’ll keep it all in – and it’ll go on happening.
The notepaper was grubby white and the envelope much the same.
‘Anonymous letters are so awful,’ said Mrs Baxter. ‘So cowardly.’
His father went quiet, staring down at the tablecloth, and Gary and his mother suddenly had the same thought.
‘Bill –’
There was a slightly defeated look in his eyes.
‘You’ve had these before, haven’t you?’
‘Sorry?’ His attempt at evasion was transparent.
‘Come on, Bill. How many letters have you had?’
There was a long silence.
‘Bill?’
‘’Bout a dozen.’
‘What?’ May Baxter looked stunned and Gary felt a stab of panic. Why hadn’t he told them? Why had he kept all this to himself?
‘Maybe less.’
‘But even so – that’s a hell of a lot.’
‘Yes.’ He nodded humbly.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ chimed in Gary shakily, ‘why didn’t you tell us?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I just didn’t think they were that important –’ he began feebly but Gary was quick to interrupt.
‘Were they from the same person, do you think?’ He was wondering if Ted could have written them.
His father shook his head. ‘Possibly … though quite a few people seem to feel the same way. These Islanders – they’re a bunch of weirdos, some of them. Superstitious lot. And what’s wrong with the old garage, I ask myself? Is it haunted? Headless ghosts? That kind of thing? I mean – not one of these letters tells you.’
Gary could see that his father was working himself up into one of his moods and he decided, as usual, to go upstairs and do his homework. But not before Bill Baxter had said again:
‘These Islanders –’
‘If you say that once more,’ said May quickly, ‘I shall go mad.’
Once in the sanctuary of his room, Gary lay on his bed and wondered if he was going to dream tonight. Would Mum lock his door again? Probably. Did he want her to? The weird thing was that he wasn’t sure if he did. He lay and thought about it. Did he want to dream tonight? After all, the repetitive dream had been terrifying enough in itself, but since the young man had arrived and kind of melted in front of his eyes, the whole thing had become much more frightening. And yet – and yet – he could hear the baby crying so plaintively; perhaps he could help them. And to do that Gary knew he must dream again. And tonight. But would it work; would the dream come if Mum locked the door?
‘Shall I lock it?’ She was poised on the threshold, slightly hesitant. Gary felt the same way.
‘Er –’
‘Well?’
‘I’m not bothered.’
‘But I am. I think I should lock it. I’ve made an appointment with the doctor for Saturday morning.’
‘That smelly old man?’
‘He can’t help it.’
‘Smelling? I’m sure he can.’
‘We’re talking about the door,’ she said repressively.
‘I wouldn’t bother tonight.’ Gary had suddenly decided he couldn’t risk the door being locked.
But his mother had made up her mind. ‘I a
m bothering.’
‘So I’m going to be locked in for the rest of my life?’
‘Until we hear what the doctor says.’
‘Mum –’
‘Here’s a glass of water for you. Good night, love.’
‘Wait a minute.’
‘Yes?’
Gary’s mind refused to operate. Somehow he knew that he had to get her to leave the door unlocked. But how? He was running out of time. ‘Is Dad all right?’
‘He gets very worked up, bless him.’
‘Do you think the supermarket will be a success?’
‘How should I know? It’s not open yet.’
‘But when it is?’ Gary persisted, still wondering how he was going to persuade her not to lock him in. At the moment he didn’t even have the glimmer of an idea, and every moment counted.
‘I told you – I don’t know. It’s worrying. But your father’s determined. If determination were all we needed, we’d be millionaires tomorrow. Now you must –’
‘Mum, don’t lock the door. Please.’
‘I’ve made up my mind.’
‘But –’
‘We must do it, love. For your own safety. Just till we’ve seen the doctor.’
‘OK.’ He knew he was beaten, but there was a desperation in him that he had never felt before.
‘Good night, love.’ She pecked him on the cheek.
‘Night, Mum.’
The key turned oppressively in the lock and Gary climbed into bed. He lay on his back and heard the baby crying, but only in his memory. Hours later he was still awake, but he was now sure that even if he did manage to drop off he would sleep dreamlessly, and he couldn’t bear that. He had to enter the dream, but to do so he had to get Mum to open the door.
Gary began to pound on it, yelling for Mum as he did so. Despite all the terror that he knew he would have to face, Gary was desperate to dream. Somehow he was certain that his presence was essential; for the first time since he had arrived on the Isle of Wight someone really needed him.
Eventually she came and unlocked the door. ‘Now what’s up?’
‘I can’t sleep.’
‘Why?’
‘I feel too shut up – like the walls are closing in on me.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘It’s true, Mum,’ said Gary, putting a touching but artificial wail into his voice.
She looked at him suspiciously. ‘All right, then. I’ll have to come and sleep in here.’
‘Er –’
‘With a camp-bed across the door.’
Would the dream allow that? he wondered. But there was obviously no choice.
Once she had moved in, with much sighing and grumbling, Gary lay back on his bed again, tensely waiting for sleep. Eventually it came, deep and muffling and completely blank. When he woke it was with a profound sense of disappointment – a kind of miserable emptiness within himself. Somehow he struggled through breakfast, school, tea, homework – and the eventual sight of Mum’s humped figure on the camp-bed. He tried to sleep, and grudgingly sleep eventually came. But again it was blank. There was no dream and he woke in despair, with the baby’s cries ringing mockingly in his head.
On Saturday morning Gary was taken to see Dr Andrews, an elderly GP who had been on the brink of retirement for years and who suffered from halitosis. Close contact was unpleasant, as Gary knew, and anyway he had little faith in what the old man would say or do. Despite his protests, his mother was determined to come into the surgery with him.
‘I can see him on my own,’ he pleaded.
‘You can’t –’
‘I’ll tell you what he says, Mum.’
‘I’ll hear for myself, thank you.’
After an hour’s wait, gloomy amongst the copies of crumpled fashion magazines, they were admitted to the brown and cream décor of Dr Andrews’ surgery. He was bent, with rheumy eyes, and Gary was sure he could smell his breath directly he entered the room.
‘Hello, young man.’
‘Hello.’
‘He’s been sleep-walking, doctor,’ said Mrs Baxter with gloomy relish. ‘And he ended up getting a nasty burn. Show the doctor your hand, love.’
Gary unwound his bandage and showed him.
‘That’s clearing up nicely.’
Gary winced as the halitosis caught him.
‘And you burnt yourself sleep-walking, young man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well – how long’s this been going on then?’
‘A few days,’ chimed in Mrs Baxter. ‘Just a few days now.’
‘Do you open your bowels regularly?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your stools are nice and firm?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve been having a healthy diet?’
‘He eats well,’ put in Mrs Baxter hopefully.
‘Well now.’ There was a very long pause until he said what Gary had been dreading. ‘Better give you a check-over. Will you take off your shirt for me?’
Gary did as he was told and suffered the halitosis while his mother watched eagerly, anxious to pick up any symptoms and comments. But there were none.
Eventually, when Gary had put his shirt on again, Dr Andrews said, ‘He’s a healthy specimen.’
‘And the sleep-walking?’
‘Have you tried Horlicks?’
‘No.’ She sounded faintly astonished.
‘Well, that’s very good stuff.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘“Early to bed. Early to rise.” The lad’s probably been overdoing it.’
‘I’m sleeping in the same room at the moment.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
Gary felt a sudden gratitude to the old man. But would Mum take his advice?
‘And previous to that I locked the door.’
‘No need, and you have to realize what might happen if there was a fire. Haven’t you thought of that?’
She shook her head in guilty confusion.
Gary felt even more grateful.
‘But what shall I do? How can I protect him?’ Mrs Baxter was getting excited.
‘How about putting a baby-gate on the staircase? Just for a while.’
Would the dream mind that? wondered Gary.
‘Well –’
‘I’m sure if he’s sleeping deeply, the walking will stop. And the Horlicks should see to that.’ He crouched over his desk, as if willing them to go.
Reluctantly, Mrs Baxter took the hint. Once outside in the street, she said, ‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’
Gary did. Despite the baby-gate, he was sure he was free to dream again.
But he didn’t. Not that night – or the next three. He felt an incredible sense of loss, and he moped around as if much, if not all, of his life had lost its meaning. Gradually, and very reluctantly, he came to the conclusion that the dream had deserted him. It was all over.
Three
By Wednesday evening, Gary was so miserable that he couldn’t bear to be in the house a moment longer.
‘I’m going out, Mum.’
‘Where?’
‘Just for a bike ride.’
She looked at him anxiously and Gary knew what she was thinking. They’d been here a year and he hadn’t made any friends and she was wondering why. But she didn’t realize how clannish the other kids were, he thought. Or were they? Suddenly he was seized with self-doubt. Maybe it was his fault, not theirs. Even worse, maybe he was an ovener that nobody would ever like.
Gloomily, Gary cycled off, not really knowing where he was heading. He made for the hills, and after half an hour or so turned down towards the sea. It was a warm June evening and the water had a kind of glinting glow that attracted him. Gradually his misery cleared as he headed towards the strange sea-light that reached out to him. Now he was on the headland, coming off the flinty track on to grass worn velvet-smooth by sheep. How could he get down to the beach? He was obsessed by the idea. There was a freshening wind and he could
hear the rollers scrunching on the pebbles. He had to get down there, to be beside them.
Gary saw the other bike and the sign at the same time, for it was propped up against it. He shifted the bike to read the letters and his heart gave a lurch. Black Gull Chine. It pointed down to the beach where the Watchers were, or that’s what the elusive Ted had told him. Every day he had looked for him at school but had never seen him again.
Gary put his bike on the grass and began to walk down the wooden steps through the chine – a dried-out stream that in winter would savagely course the narrow valley between the cliffs. As he climbed down, the roaring of the breakers sounded more loudly and he felt a strong sense of exhilaration. He almost ran down the last of the steps, wondering who the owner of the other bike was, and then he was out on a beach that was made of tiny stones and compacted sea shells; it was light beneath his feet and made a rattling, grinding sound.
Gary shouted aloud as the rollers crashed in, spumes of spray lifting high above his head. It was the most extraordinarily inspiring sight and he shouted out again and again. It felt wonderful, and he began to run up the pebbles, towards the towering far-away cliffs, alongside the breakers that lashed him gently with salty spray. Then he paused; in front of him was a low outcrop that fingered its way into the frothy spume. Standing on the rock, fishing rod in hand, was Ted.
*
‘Hi.’
Ted turned and waved casually.
‘Where have you been?’ yelled Gary against the booming of the surf, but he could hardly make himself heard. He stood there, feeling foolish and wondering what to do. Gary shouted out again and Ted gestured towards the cliffs. Slowly laying down his rod, he fixed it in position with a small pile of stones and then slowly clambered down the rocks towards Gary.
‘What are you doing here?’ Ted shouted against the pounding waves. All his charm and openness were there and he looked welcoming, friendly, curiously unsurprised and glad to see him. But Gary was wary.
‘I came for a bike ride,’ he replied defensively.
Ted nodded, and then took him gently by the arm and led him towards a small indentation in the cliffs where the sound of the surf was less intrusive. ‘Were you following me?’ he asked.
Dead Man at the Door Page 2