Trust Me!

by Paul Collins

  My head told me that if one door was locked, they were all locked. But I was too panicked to think straight. I reached for the door handle and tugged, tugged, tugged.

  I was focused on the rat-thing when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It could have been my own reflection in the window of the door, but it wasn't. I whirled so fast I almost cricked my neck.

  It was someone outside looking in. Face pressed up against the glass … glaring eyes, lips drawn back, showing his teeth … and a tie hanging loose around an open collar …

  I just about hit the roof. It was him! The guy who'd left the suitcase, the guy who'd been taken off at Kiama! He must've been released and hired a taxi or followed the train somehow! Dr Crowl!

  He wasn't actually drooling at the mouth, but he looked every bit as mad as the rat-thing.

  He drew back, and I saw something whirl through the darkness. Then a mighty crash on the door handle that jarred my fingers and shot up my arm.

  I let go in a hurry. The whole door was still shuddering. Looking out the window, I could see him winding up for another hit. He was wielding a massive iron crowbar.

  I jumped back from the door. In the moment before the next crash, I heard a squeaking, squealing sound. I spun round.

  The rat-thing had reared up on its hind legs. Snout twitching, whiskers quivering, it looked – excited.

  A third crash. I was caught between the mad creature and its madder owner. I didn't make a conscious choice, I just acted.

  I ran straight at the rat-thing. The seat backs of the last row of seats were in just the right position. I thrust down, stiff-armed, and vaulted up and over the ratthing's head. I sailed clean over the top of it – over the hideous hand – and came down on the other side.

  Desperate to avoid the hand, I forgot to make a proper landing. I went over on my ankle and fell sprawling to the floor.

  Frantically, I twisted round and sat up. The rat-thing wasn't after me. It had vanished from sight. Where?

  There was no fourth crash of metal on metal, but a scraping, grating sound. I worked it out soon enough. Dr Crowl must have forced the end of his crowbar between the doors and was now levering them apart.

  I slid backwards on the floor, pushing with my arms and my one good foot. I expected the doctor and his rat-thing to appear at any moment.

  Instead, it was his voice I heard first. ‘Where are you? Where?’

  He was inside the carriage, I could tell. I thought he was talking to me. I just kept sliding backwards, though I knew that sliding backwards wouldn't save me. Should I try to hide between the seats?

  Then he was there. Somehow, he didn't look drunk any more, only very, very determined. He had the crowbar in one hand – until he tossed it aside. It hit the floor with a clang.

  He advanced into the aisle between the seats, scanning from side to side. Why couldn't he see me? He clicked his tongue, the way you might call a dog.

  Then his face changed. ‘There you are!’ he cried.

  He swivelled, bent to the side and gathered up his rat-thing. The monstrosity must have jumped up on one of the seats to wait for him.

  He nursed it in his arms and made crooning, affectionate noises in his throat. He looked at it as though nothing else in the world existed. Maybe I imagined it, but the hand on its back seemed to be waggling its fingers. Ugh!

  So then he turned and headed for the exit door, and I watched him go. You don't want to hear the rest – how I waited in the empty carriage for another twenty minutes, then climbed out through the broken door and followed the railway track to Bomaderry station, hobbling all the way. I rang home from the payphone at the station and Dad and Matt drove out to collect me. But you don't want to hear all that, and anyway, I was half in a trance myself, operating on auto-pilot the whole time.

  There's just one more thing you need to hear. I hadn't noticed it when Dr Crowl was taken off the train at Kiama, and I guess I was too desperate to notice it when I thought he was coming for me, advancing into the carriage.

  I only noticed it when he cradled his rat-thing in his arms. The left cuff of his jacket hung loose because there was no hand sticking out from it. When the cuff rode up, when he cradled his rat-thing, I could see how his arm ended in a stump.

  Dr Crowl was missing his left hand.

  Brian bustled about, setting out trays of this and that, fussing around with tablecloths and candles and red lamps. He looked excited and expectant. Aidan watched the antics of his younger brother with a curled lip and a raised eyebrow. Brian was always so enthusiastic about everything! It was enough to make you sick. Even about dumb, little kids’ things like this ridiculous séance he'd dreamed up.

  It was all over some dumb thing he'd read in a dumb book. About how this bunch of weirdos, with nothing better to do than think up stupid things, got together and made up a ghost. Yes, made one up! They described it in turn, and then they had to see if the ghost appeared in front of them. It was the dumbest thing Aidan had ever heard in his life.

  Brian had said, ‘You see, Aidan, they decided they were going to create an Elizabethan ghost – you know, that's in Shakespeare's time …’

  Aidan raised his eyebrows. ‘Try-hards! Just like you …’

  Brian had hurried on, blinking a little, but determined to tell the rest of his stupid story. ‘They described its physical appearance, called it Philip, said it was Elizabethan, and called on it to appear before them. Sure enough, it did! The funny thing was, it wore a gold wristwatch – and they weren't invented back in Elizabethan times!’

  ‘Oh, very funny, sure,’ Aidan said sarcastically.

  Brian battled on. ‘It was just an experiment to prove if ghosts were real entities or hallucinations, you see, or something else entirely.’

  Sometimes, Aidan doubted if his brother was a real entity. Come to think of it, not many so-called people seemed to be. Maybe they were all hallucinations, as smart alec Brian said. Aidan reached out and pinched Brian on the arm, hard.

  ‘Ow!’ said Brian. ‘Why'd you do that for?’

  Aidan grinned. ‘Just checking to see you're a real entity!’

  Brian swallowed. ‘Um … a bunch of my friends and I, we'd like to try it … they're coming over in a little while. Do you think … you don't mind if we do this?’ he went on, uncertainly.

  It was the holidays, and both Mum and Dad were at work. Technically, Aidan was in charge. For a moment, he considered putting the mockers on the whole thing. But then he thought it might be fun to annoy and irritate Brian and his loser friends. So he shrugged, and mouthed, ‘I don't care. Do your dumb séance if you want.’

  The friends soon arrived. What a bunch of losers they were: Redmond, with the glasses and pimples and precise accent; Angie, dark and pretty, but with a nervous twitch; Cassie, with the prominent teeth; Hans, with the head like a broom handle. Aidan smiled savagely to himself. Once a dag, always a dag. Dags of a feather flock together. As for him, he had no friends. He wanted no friends. There was no such thing as friends. And he was all the better for it.

  He delighted in answering the door, staring at Brian's friends with that cold blue stare of his, giving them the once-over before allowing them to come in. They stammered at him – of course, they were scared of him, the wimps – and quickly escaped past him into the family room, where Brian had set up. Aidan could hear his brother talking, talking, in that high-pitched, high-irritation cheery voice of his. Like a squeaky toy, Aidan thought, like the stupid talking teddy he'd seen in the shops one Christmas. The kids were closing curtains, turning off lights, lighting the candles and lamps, whispering excitedly, as if they really thought they were going to call up a ghost, as if ghosts in any shape or form really existed!

  Time to have some fun. He strode into the room. ‘I think I'd like to try it too,’ he said, blandly.

  Brian looked anxious. ‘Are you sure you want to?’

  ‘Didn't I just say I did?’ Aidan smiled wolfishly at the nervous faces around the table. ‘It so
unds like an interesting experiment, Brian. I'd like to see how it turns out.’

  Brian certainly did not want Aidan there. A small cold feeling crept up his chest at the thought of it. He wondered whether he ought to call the whole thing off. But then he thought he saw a plea in Aidan's eyes, and he remembered what Mum had told him. Be kind, and patient with Aidan, she'd said. He's not himself, just lately. He's not happy. Brian had thought, yes he is. He's happiest being horrible. That's what he's like. Now he wasn't so sure. Maybe Aidan was indeed lonely. Maybe being mean was the only way he knew of showing it. Brian wasn't scared of Aidan; not really, anyway. But he found him tiring. It was hard work, being around someone who was always so negative about everything. Yet he refused to let it get him down.

  ‘Okay then,’ he said, but Aidan had already sat down. Next to Angie. Oh, no! Angie would be too nervous to do anything in this séance, anyway. Brian sighed inwardly. He banged on the table.

  ‘Now, you all know what to do. Everyone close their eyes and build up a picture of the ghost. Then we'll describe it, and then see if it appears.’

  ‘Ah, what period is this ghost going to come from?’ That was Redmond, of the glasses and pimples.

  Imitating Redmond's precise accent, Aidan said, ‘Oh, my dear Redmond, it is quite apparent he must come from an elegant period, don't you think?’

  Redmond blushed, but ignoring Aidan looked pleadingly at Brian. Brian ran his hand through his frizzy hair.

  ‘Um … I suppose this could be a recent ghost. Say, from the seventies or something.’

  ‘Sounds terrific!’ Aidan sneered. ‘I can't wait to see its daggy clothes!’

  No one said anything. They all shut their eyes. Tightly. That was to stop themselves from looking at me, Aidan thought. They're more scared of me than this dumb ghost they might cook up. He didn't shut his eyes. He tilted his chair back angrily. He'd been right, this was a boring, creepy little kid's game. They were losers. He'd find something better to do.

  Suddenly Brian spoke. His voice had changed, deepened, somehow. ‘I can see him! He has blond hair, very short,’ he said. ‘I can't see his face. He's standing.’

  ‘Standing in a large open area – maybe a street,’ Redmond said. ‘He's got his back to me, but I can see his clothes, they're sort of grey.’

  ‘Grey, yes,’ Angie said, quickly. ‘He's got something in his hand, something long, shiny. I can see him drawing his hand back. Is he trying to tell us something? No, he's looking at his watch.’

  ‘A strange watch,’ Cassie said. ‘It's got an in-built television. Wow! He's looking at it, but then he's dropped his hand. He's bending down, crouching.’

  Aidan wanted to move, to laugh at them, but he couldn't. In front of his open eyes, his wide-open eyes, a figure was emerging out of the air. A short, stocky figure, back to him, the hair on his skull as short as a harvested wheat field. The figure wavered, its outlines blurred.

  ‘He's crouching,’ said Hans. His voice was very low, there was something shining on his cheeks. ‘He's got a gun!’

  In front of Aidan's eyes, the figure crouched. Aidan stared at it. He blinked his eyes, once, twice. Still, the figure was there, gun in hand.

  ‘There's police coming,’ stammered Redmond. ‘They're coming! They're firing at him; he's falling, falling!’

  Angie yelled, ‘No, I'm not looking at anything more!’

  Her eyes jerked open, as did those of the others. No one spoke for a moment.

  ‘I didn't like that,’ Hans said at last. ‘I didn't think it would be like this …’

  ‘It wasn't real,’ Brian said, in a voice that was far from steady. ‘Just a made-up ghost. After all, did you hear what Cassie said, about that TV watch. No one wears those, certainly not back in the seventies.’

  His voice trailed off. His eyes, like those of his friends, were suddenly on his brother. Aidan was staring at a spot just beyond Brian's head, a spot just on the wall. His eyes were wide open, his lips were moving. For a moment, no one spoke or moved. Then Aidan turned, and looked at Brian. His voice was flat. ‘Don't kid yourself, Brian. He was here,’ he said simply. ‘He was real.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Brian said desperately. ‘It was all made up! We just thought it up!’

  Aidan shook his head and got up. He moved away from the table and went back to the sofa. He lay back and closed his eyes, his long blond hair flopping over his round face, his short stocky body huddled on the sofa.

  The others’ eyes were still fixed on him. All the fun, all the excitement, had gone out of the whole thing. They felt numb with horror, a horror they could not or would not name. Then Hans spoke.

  ‘Did anyone else see his face?’ he said. ‘Because I …’

  ‘No!’ Brian cut in, sharply. ‘This has all been a stupid mistake. We shouldn't do this kind of thing. It's just nonsense.’ In his agitation, he got up and started putting things away, mechanically, like a jerky battery toy. The others got up, too, and put their coats on. They were all in a hurry to go.

  ‘Brian.’ Angie paused at the door. She looked over at Aidan. ‘What if it was a ghost … not from the past, but from the future? That was why the watch … you know …’

  Brian stared at her.

  ‘His eyes,’ Angie said. ‘They were so terrible, so lost, so alone, like he hardly knew what it was like to be human any more. I … I felt so sorry for him. I wished I could help and I –’ She gulped, and suddenly took off down the path, and out of the gate. Brian slowly closed the door behind her and went back into the house. He stood for a moment uncertainly, then went over to Aidan, and touched him on the shoulder. ‘Aidan,’ he said uncertainly, ‘I'm … I'm sorry … it's …’

  Aidan's eyes flew open. He looked right into Brian's face. ‘Do you all really hate me that much?’ he said, quietly.

  Brian stammered, ‘I don't know what you mean … I …’

  ‘Come on, Brian,’ said Aidan, still in that same strange, quiet voice. But there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. ‘I saw that ghost's face, remember. And you created him. You and all your friends.’

  Brian protested, feebly, ‘It wasn't anything real.’

  ‘Oh, it was,’ said Aidan. ‘I saw his face. That was my face, Brian. That's what you and your friends think will happen to me. That's what you think I will become, what I deserve to become. A mass murderer. One of those crazy shooters. That's the truth. Isn't it? Isn't it?’

  Brian had gone very pale. Then he said, his voice very low, ‘No, Aidan. We didn't create him. We all saw him at the same time. We all saw him – because it was you who projected him, Aidan. It was you.’ His eyes widened. ‘You showed him to us, Aidan. You did.’

  Aidan stared at him in silence. A pulse beat in his throat. His stomach churned. He whispered, ‘That can't be true … I don't believe …’

  Brian looked into his brother's face and saw the helplessness and pain that he'd always missed before. Aid an was so good at covering things up. He whispered back, ‘You've got to believe, Aidan. It's a warning. It's a sign. You have a great power in you, Aidan. You could use it to destroy yourself and others. Or … or you could use it for good.’

  Aidan's lips curled, though his eyes were uncertain. ‘Good old Brian,’ he sneered. ‘Always be positive about everything. Hey, big bro, you're a loner and a nutcase, headed for an early death in a hail of bullets, well, never mind. Look on the bright side.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Brian, bravely. ‘There's always time to change. It's not certain fate you saw, Aidan, just the ghost of possibility. You know, like in that story “A Christmas Carol”, when you get the Ghost of Times Past, of Times Present and of Times to Be, but the last one is actually a warning, to give the man time to change? Well, maybe it was something like that. For you.’

  Aidan stared at his brother. Suddenly, he felt as though he could see what he'd always missed – the strength, the humour, the kindness and intelligence. And yes, love. Something hard and heavy began to shift in him. It hurt. Turning his head
away, he said, gruffly, ‘Angie … I heard what she said and I …’ But he couldn't finish his sentence. The words got somehow locked in his throat.

  ‘Angie's an amazing girl,’ said Brian, softly. ‘And she's always liked you, Aidan.’

  Aidan stared at him. ‘Don't be stupid,’ he growled. ‘She hates my guts. I can see it in her eyes.’

  Brian shook his head. ‘You have a lot to learn about people,’ he said, smiling gently. And strangely enough, Aidan found himself nodding.

  ‘Maybe you're right, at that, bro. Maybe you're right.’ And for the first time since he could remember, there wasn't that burning pressure of rage in his chest. It felt odd, like he was floating.

  I wasn't sure what the difference between doves and pigeons was, but I decided they were doves because it sounded more romantic.

  They were perched in the bare branches of a tree in the front garden, cooing.

  I thought it was strange, because everything else in the garden looked so bare and empty from the street. The trees and bushes were all bare. The lawn was dead. The day felt grey and cold.

  The gate was stuck closed. I had to lean my whole weight against it and shove hard before it finally gave way with a rusty groan.

  The path clearly hadn't been swept for a long time. I guessed that the family must use a back entrance – no one had been in this garden for a while.

  There was some kind of strange optical illusion in the garden, because the veranda of the house looked quite close from the gate, but it took me a long time to reach it. As I drew closer to the house, I shivered. It was old and weary-looking, all dilapidated and sad and colourless. The windows had faded curtains drawn across them. The patchwork shingles on the roof seemed to shiver in the cold afternoon.

  As I stepped onto the veranda, the doves all took off with a loud flapping. I jumped. Then everything was quiet. A single grey feather drifted down from the tree, the only sign that they were ever there.

  There was a doll's house on the veranda. Its little windows had been smashed, the banisters snapped, and the wallpaper torn. There wasn't any furniture inside.