by John Kitchen
“The cases, and your clothes, you mean. That could have been one of the kids…”
“That’s what I thought,” Lloyd said. “I figured it was Martin. We had a punch-up about it before I come out – but… he swore it wasn’t him, and then… when I got down in that cellar…” He’d never talked to someone older like this. “You won’t believe this – and – I don’t mess with people. I mean, I tell it how it is, and, down that cellar I saw like – a whirlwind – and the dust was swirling everywhere. I seen it yesterday too – only, today it was bigger and yesterday it didn’t move. Today, though, it was all over the place, moving like a twister, and my photos and letters was in with the dust, flying round in the vortex.”
Justin breathed sharply. “Are you kidding me?” he said.
“I told you, I don’t mess with people. That’s what I saw. I said so to Rudi and Martin yesterday. But they didn’t see nothing.”
Justin was looking away across the grounds. “You said your cases were messed with,” he said “And then there was this vortex thing down the cellar.”
“Yeah. You don’t believe me, do you?” Lloyd said.
“I didn’t say that,” said Justin. “It’s just, it sounds really weird. What do you reckon it is?”
Lloyd clasped his hands and leaned forward. “It’s got to be kids, mucking around. But them whirlwinds – that takes some explaining. I figured some sort of air vent down the cellar, but…”
Justin didn’t say anything for a minute and, when he did speak, he sounded reluctant. “You’re probably right,” he said. “And I’m not saying this to scare you or anything, but it could be something else. Some people think that houses can get sick, especially older ones. It’s like, when something bad happens, the – sort of – ambience of the place changes, and sometimes it’s so bad it hangs around forever. People say whatever’s there can be powerful, so it can create physical disruption, even moving stuff around. I’ve read about it.”
“I’d rather you hadn’t said that,” Lloyd said. “I mean, I’m here trying to find some rational explanation that I can get my head around and you reckon this place is cursed, just like Lee Peddar said. You reckon what he said is for real.”
“Sorry,” Justin said. “I didn’t want to say anything, but there’s something out of sync here. I never figured it was as bad as you said. It’s like you can sense something though. It’s everywhere.”
“Yeah, but what is it?” said Lloyd.
Justin picked up one of the photos again. In the recounting of what had happened Lloyd had absently put the bundle to one side of the bench.
He didn’t attempt to wrest it back this time.
“I don’t know. It’s often something big that’s happened in the past – and, let’s face it – this place goes back to Tudor times. There’s been plenty of space for bad stuff. Sometimes though, it’s just an accumulation of bad things that are happening now. I mean, you’ve got somewhere that’s full of kids from broken homes – orphaned kids, disturbed kids – with no families and that and… well – nothing personal, but – they’re not the happiest guys in the world, are they? And years of these kids coming and going – that could cause this kind of thing – or it could be one really unhappy person. It could be any of these things, or it might be something different – some natural phenomenon.”
Lloyd shook his head. “I don’t want to believe that, man,” he said. “It’s got to be kids, and something down the cellar that’s causing the spirals. Anyway, how come you’re so well in to this stuff?”
Justin gave another broad grin. “My tutor at university,” he said. “He writes books about it, and in a way some of it is tied up with what I was doing – history and archaeology.”
They stared out across the grounds. “You should have stuck with that,” Lloyd said. “That’s a great subject, studying the past.”
“I still keep in touch with my tutor,” said Justin. “– A bit like you and your foster parents, I guess. He keeps trying to make me come back.”
“You won’t though, will you? Not yet. Not till I’ve left here?” Lloyd said suddenly, and Justin laughed.
“Why not?” he said.
It had been an unguarded moment. He’d loosened his grip, like a limpet on the rock taken unawares, and, immediately his defences tightened. “Nothing,” he said. “It isn’t no big deal. It’s just I’m glad to have a guy like you to talk to. The kids here don’t talk about nothing.”
The front door had opened and Christine was there, sour faced and scouring the grounds. Justin chuckled. “Looks like trouble,” he said.
But Lloyd wasn’t bothered with Christine.
“Can I talk to you again?” he said.
There was a warmth of kindness in Justin’s eyes as he looked down. “Any time, mate,” he said and then Christine’s raucous voice bawled across the forecourt.
“Lloyd Lewis.”
Suddenly Lloyd grabbed Justin’s hand, shaking it as if he was sealing a friendship. “Thanks, man. That’ll be good.”
“Lloyd Lewis?” Christine said again. She was heading towards them and her stout feet were grating harshly on the gravel.
Justin got up, handing the photo back. “See you then,” he said. “And show me those pictures again. Tell me about the family. They sound okay.”
“Dave wants you inside,” Christine snapped, but Lloyd’s eyes were fixed on Justin. Only when he was out of sight did he go with Christine into the house.
He was surprised that Dave wanted him. He couldn’t think why and he tried quizzing her, but she just looked at him with a knowing expression, vengeful and triumphant.
“You’ll find out,” she said.
She marched him down the corridor towards Dave’s study. He was beginning to feel an aggression every time he saw Dave. The guy was a total waste of space. He sat there now, a smirk on his face, his fingers touching, resting on his lips – a pose guaranteed to get right up Lloyd’s nose.
“What do you want?” Lloyd said.
“A bit of respect for a start,” said Dave.
“I told you about that already. I only give respect to people what deserve it.”
Dave scowled. “I hear you’ve been in a fight with Martin.”
So that was it. “Who told you?” he said.
“Never mind who told me. The fact is, I know, and I won’t have it – aggressive behaviour. We don’t tolerate it here.”
Whatever else he thought of Martin he knew it wouldn’t have been him that had squealed to Dave. It must have been Caitlin. That was the kind of thing she’d do. “There isn’t nothing you don’t tolerate,” he said. “My cases and my stuff. All my photos and letters was nicked. You’d tolerate that, no problem.”
“What are you talking about, boy,” Dave said. “You’ve got the photos and letters in your hand.”
“Yeah, but they was nicked. I just found them, didn’t I? And they wasn’t nowhere near my cases. You planning not to tolerate that?”
“Was that why you had a fight with Martin? You thought he’d taken them?” Dave leaned back in his chair. “The trouble with you, Lloyd Lewis, is you jump to too many conclusions and you don’t seem to have any self control.”
“I didn’t have to jump to no conclusions about my letters and my case,” Lloyd said. “Any fool could see someone had mucked around with them.”
“That’s not the point,” said Dave. “And I’ve already told you, you’re not here to bandy words. You got into a fight with Martin, with no provocation, and I won’t have it.”
“It’s okay. We sorted it, which is more than you did with my cases.” He glared at him sitting there complacently behind his desk. “It’s me and Martin what gets things done. You don’t do nothing. Me and Martin understand each other.”
Dave unclasped his hands and then mitred his fingers. “Getting things done with your fists isn’t exactly the best course, is it? And quite frankly, Lloyd, I don’t think it’s a good idea to let you two sleep in the same bedroom. I th
ink – until you’ve settled – it’s best for you to go into a room on your own.”
“That’s fine by me,” he said. “I’ll go and shift my stuff now. That suits me, that does, being in a bedroom on my own.”
“You can get Rudi to give you a hand if you like – unless you’ve got designs on a punch-up with him too.”
“Me and Rudi, we’re okay,” said Lloyd, and Dave stood up.
“I’m delighted to hear it.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “It’s gratifying to know that someone’s okay in this establishment.”
Rudi was in the television lounge with Martin, and Lloyd saw Martin look straight at the photos and letters.
“I got them back,” he said. “But Dave’s going nuts, because of me and you having a punch-up. He said I’ve got to move out. He said Rudi’s got to help me shift my stuff.”
“Where’re you going?” said Rudi.
“I got to go into a room on my own, haven’t I?”
He saw Rudi breathe in sharply.
“What’s up?” he said and Martin eased laconically in his chair.
“We told you about that yesterday. You go into a room on your own and you’re in the North Wing – with Caitlin Jamieson. You’re going to love that.”
Lloyd had forgotten and, for a moment, his stomach lurched, but all he said was: “That isn’t no sweat.”
The North Wing though, it was certainly worse than the main building and the room he’d been given down there was pokey, with a low ceiling and it only had one small window. The window was letting in the very last dregs of daylight when they went in – and the smell of must and the silence was stultifying.
Rudi helped him stash his stuff and the room generated so much tension that conversation only came in brief snatches.
He was on the ground floor because there was a policy not to allow boys and girls on the same landing.
“Will you be okay?” Rudi said, folding clothes into a drawer.
“Have to be, won’t I?”
Rudi looked around, and breathed in, screwing his face into a grimace. “Let me know how you get on anyway – bad or okay. I want to know.”
“It won’t be bad,” Lloyd said. “I survived thirteen years and nothing’s beat me yet.”
“You will tell me though,” Rudi persisted. “Because I’m going to talk to Dave. Get him to put you back with us.”
Lloyd shoved socks in beside the T-shirts. “Don’t lose no sleep over it, man,” he said. But, after they’d finished unpacking they didn’t stay in the room any longer than they could help, and – whatever Lloyd said to Rudi, that smell, the must and decay, the degenerating stone – it made him feel very uneasy about the coming night.
There had to be a rational explanation for everything though. He was convinced of that even after the talk with Justin… but he knew as he settled for bed, here in the North Wing, finding a rational explanation would take some doing.
He could explain the cases and the disappearance of the letters – some smart kid trying to frighten him – and the vortexes in the cellar – that could still be a hole in the floor somewhere… it was a long shot – but that’s how he’d have to get through it all.
He couldn’t lock his door – none of the bedroom doors locked – there was too much risk of kids shutting themselves in, and, when he crept under his duvet there was a coldness penetrating right through to his bones and it wouldn’t go away.
He decided to leave the light on. Darkness was a big threat to rational explanations. When you couldn’t see what was going on, that was when your imagination played tricks.
He pulled the duvet over his ears and buried his head in the pillow.
But the smell permeated everything, and it seemed to get stronger as the night wore on. Nothing he could do would blot it out. Stuffing his head in the pillow merely suffocated him, so he had to come out for air, and the suffocation on its own was making him feel sick. But, so far, with the light on, nothing seemed too bad. There was an occasional crash from the store room over the way, but, with all the tools Justin had stashed in there, you’d expect that… and thinking of Justin made him feel easier.
He closed his eyes, lying on his back, breathing slowly – deep, gentle breaths, and he tried remembering the two of them sitting out on the bench chatting. He’d been on the brink of telling that guy everything… but, somehow, that didn’t freak him out, not like it would have done with others. He felt safe with him. He was only seven years older than Lloyd so it wouldn’t be like it was with Bill and Jean.
Through his eyelids he could see the red glow of the light bulb. If he lay very still, he thought, perhaps, sleep would steal over him.
Stillness… and a steady red glow behind his eyelids… and then there was a repetitive crackle, and the red glow began stuttering. He could hear sparks spitting in the light bulb. He sat up and tried to pull his mind together. A short circuit – old houses often had bad wiring. It could happen anywhere.
But he couldn’t leave the light on, not spluttering like that. Fireworks in the electric system were bound to keep him awake. He dragged himself out of bed and, in the darkness, in spite of his bravest efforts, there was a lurch of anxiety.
He knew what he had to do though. He would ride the storm into sleep.
And a storm it was – far worse than the night before in the main wing. First, creaks and groans… but that would be the floorboards contracting in the cold night. Then there were crashes echoing around the corridors – some of Justin’s tools being knocked over – probably by rats. He pulled the duvet more tightly over him. That was okay as long as the rats didn’t come into his room.
Something touched his face and he jumped – it could have been a moth, something fluttering around the room. The window rattled and the door creaked. He heard it swing open and then slam shut again. That would be the wind. It seemed to have come up quite strongly. Immediately the banging was followed by a rattling against the windowpane. It was almost as if pebbles were being chucked at the glass. A squall of hailstones he thought. What could be more natural in early spring – but… He sat up and opened his eyes. Through the window there was a clear-cut moon, shining, full and gleaming. Then the bed shook. Earth tremors? You did get them in Britain sometimes, but the hailstones were still rattling against the windowpane, even though the moon was out… and the wind was shaking the place with an ice-cold blast, colder than he’d ever felt in his life.
He stared and his brain searched in desperation.
There were shouts now too, cries of anger echoing through the empty rooms, and, immediately, he leapt out of bed.
There was an easy explanation for that. Caitlin Jamieson. The kid was having some sort of nightmare – and that, he could stop.
He pushed through the door and staggered into the passage. There was a wind out there, howling down the corridors like absolute zero, and he felt his way up the stairs to Caitlin’s room. Even before he got there though, he knew. The noise wasn’t coming from her room. It was coming from somewhere downstairs.
The duvet on her bed was pushed back. The sheets and pillows were disturbed, but she wasn’t there.
He felt his way back to the ground floor with the wind ripping through the house and the rattling hailstones on the window panes and he realised the howl of anger was coming from the other side of the cellar door.
Something bad was going on down there and he couldn’t let that go unchecked. It would mean going into the cellar again, and that cellar was the worst place in the whole building, with the tornadoes, and now some weird thing that was doing Caitlin’s head in.
He thought about fetching Dave, but – no way was Dave going to drag himself out of bed for the likes of Caitlin.
If he knew where Justin lived, he’d go and fetch him… He didn’t, though. and really this was just prevarication.
At last he took a deep breath and pushed at the door.
But it didn’t give and he gasped with exasperation.
That idiot girl had
gone down into the cellar and locked herself in. He tried rattling the door and shouting her name. But still nothing happened.
Then he noticed something that startled him. There was no lock on the door. There was a handle and a door catch, but no lock… and no keyhole.
It must have got jammed somehow.
He pushed at it again but there still wasn’t any give. It almost seemed as if some power on the other side was resisting him. Then, with all his strength, he barged, shoving with his shoulder. He ran at the door, but there was still no movement.
If he listened he could catch what Caitlin was shouting. She was practically tearing her throat out down there – and there were words. “Go away,” he heard. “Leave me alone” and “I hate you, old man.”
He couldn’t begin to imagine what was going on and he pushed at the door again, but with no more success than before. All he could do was just stand there, stunned out of his head, and the screaming seemed to go on and on. It was like, when you’re in the dentist’s chair, and the dentist is drilling… and your brain keeps yelling, “When will this stop? When will it end?”
At last, though, it did end. The hailstones, the wind, the creaks, the shaking of the house, the yells from the cellar, they all stopped at once and a stillness came down on him that was as eerie as the noises had been.
The only sound now was a steady footfall, someone climbing the cellar stairs – slow – regular, like hammer blows.
Then the latch lifted and the door swung back.
He darted against the wall, and Caitlin stood there, her hair a mess, her face pale, her clothes ruffled and, instinctively, he moved towards her.
But she just walked past him as if he wasn’t there.
She was treading with even steps. Her eyes were staring and slowly she climbed back to her bedroom.
For a moment he didn’t move.
What had happened down there?
Part of him wanted to leg it back to his own room, shut the door and blot it all out. But another part of him wanted to know just what had scared Caitlin.