A Spectre in the Stones

by John Kitchen

  “Whatever,” Martin said. He pulled the folds of duvet right over him. “You got stuff going with Caitlin Jamieson, that’s what you’ve got.”

  Getting out wasn’t going to be a problem. It was obvious Martin didn’t care either way, but Lloyd was worried that he would start spreading stuff about him and Caitlin, and that would cause real trouble, especially if Dave got to hear. “It hasn’t got nothing to do with Caitlin,” he said again, but by this time Martin had sunk even deeper into oblivion.

  “Whatever,” he mumbled again.

  After Rudi had settled, Lloyd lay, staring at the ceiling, listening to the raging mayhem outside.

  He’d forgotten the chaos that went on in the main building.

  He could hear Dave bawling from his office – and Christine close by. There were kids yelling back at her and there were crashes as though chairs were being chucked. It was like World War III out there.

  He wondered if they’d ever settle, but, eventually, for some reason, the steam ran out, the lights went off and night closed in. After that there were just the creaks and groans of the house, and the restive disruption of uneasy sleep.

  He waited until he thought the carers would be back in the common room. Then he slipped out of bed and into the corridor.

  He had to grope his way, finding his feet in the darkness. But then, in a confusion of light, someone snapped a switch and Christine’s voice rang out: “Where do you think you’re off to, Lloyd Lewis?”

  He swung around and his brain groped for a story – but his attempt at claiming he was heading for the toilet failed miserably. The toilets were behind her at the other end of the corridor – as she pointed out with considerable enthusiasm.

  “I lost my sense of direction, didn’t I?” he said. “It’s only the second night I been in this wing, remember?”

  Christine’s face looked mean and pinched and he knew all this was going to be hard, especially if she was on the prowl every night.

  Back in bed, he could hear his heart thumping. If he wasn’t down in the old building soon, he’d be too late. Caitlin would be in the cellar and there would be nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t make another move, though, not until he was sure Christine had gone.

  Eventually, he slipped out of bed and pulled the door open again, just the narrowest slit and he peered into the corridor. There was nothing except sooty blackness out there, and his eyes adjusted. Then he eased himself into the passage hardly daring to breathe. Every creak and groan could be Christine on the stairs again. But there was nothing and, this time, he made it to the fire doors.

  On the other side was a different world – the howling wind, the sheer blasts of ice. There were bangs and clashes, and hailstones, and there was that clear, cold moonlight. Before he opened the doors he’d been certain the sky had been heavy with clouds, and that was the weirdest thing. He gave a momentary thought to the new kid, Daryl Johnson. That guy must be scared rigid. But then something else grabbed at his attention.

  Caitlin was already out and she was treading, step-by-step, towards the cellar.

  He moved down the corridor, as light-footed as he could, slipping sideways so he could ease past her on the stairs, and he put his hands on her shoulders. Then, carefully, he manoeuvred her so she was facing back towards her bedroom, and he set about raising her, one foot at a time, towards the upstairs corridor.

  He must have had the knack because she didn’t seem startled. It was hard, though, getting her to reverse the downward motion. She kept putting her foot forward, feeling for a drop, and when her leg came against a rising step, she stopped. He had to lift her legs physically and it took three or four steps before she got anything like a rhythm going.

  Eventually, though, her body mechanisms clicked and he was able to guide her back to her bedroom.

  She slid under the duvet and the half open eyes hinted her relief. So did the semi-smile. There was a sigh that floated out of deep sleep and it sent a shiver through him and suddenly, because he couldn’t resist it, he leaned forward and stroked her hair. It was soft, and fell gently through his fingers. Then, out of sleep, her hand emerged and, for a moment, she held him, keeping his hand pressed against her head, and her face looked up in the clear moonlight and she gave him that look again.

  It was like, something big was happening, and he wasn’t sure what it was.

  He eased his hand away, because he knew that was the right thing to do. She was half asleep and he was wide-awake and that was wrong. Besides, he had to get down to the cellar and be back before Christine got wind he was out of bed again.

  There was a whole turbulence of feelings inside him, though, and these were different from the feelings he was used to. Normally he got through by analysing stuff, but this time he was almost content to let the bewilderment lie – to have it remain curled contentedly in his gut.

  He could hear the cellar door banging. It was open, waiting for him and, although there was still a lot of apprehension, there was also an excitement. If he could manage to make his voice work, he’d got stuff to tell the ghost. He’d followed its guidance and now he could dowse. He knew about the fractured ley lines. He knew about the sabotage inflicted on the ghost’s systems, and, he knew the old Beaker man had been key to his discovering all this stuff.

  All the regular things happened. The cellar door slammed, the light-bulb crackled, the atmosphere was thick with cold, but the ghost didn’t show. There were a few random twisters – wisps darting around by the wall, and there was the silence of the dead, but nothing transformed into any kind of spirit. The spirals dropped back and, for a while, he stood waiting, hoping the dust would kick up again. But there was nothing, and disappointment crept over him. The ghost wasn’t going to show. In his frustration, he kicked at the piles of dust on the floor. He’d hoped the creature would have wanted to hear about his dowsing, and he wanted it to come up with some more signs – pointers to the next step. He was afraid he might not see it again until after they’d been to London and, as he made his way back to the main wing, he felt a wave of discontent.

  There was no trace of Christine on the landing and Martin was moaning in his sleep. Even Rudi was sleeping.

  He slid into bed. He wasn’t sure about tonight. He didn’t see that there was any way forwards, not if the ghost didn’t show. In fact, it hardly seemed worth going down to the North Wing at all.

  But… there was Caitlin.

  Caitlin was never going to give up sleepwalking into the Beaker man’s lair and Lloyd was certain, if it was her that went down to the cellar, the ghost would be back in full force, terrorising her. And that meant he’d have to do this every night, just to keep her safe.

  Next day was delivery day. Lloyd was reluctant to drag himself out of bed, and there was still the fixation from Martin about Caitlin.

  “Go on your trip last night, then?” he said. “Good, was it?”

  He ignored the inference. “You come up with me and Rudi to see Justin tonight,” he said. “Talk to him if you don’t believe me, and while you’re up there, I’ll show you the dowsing.”

  Martin yawned. “Tricks with sticks,” he said, and this time Lloyd didn’t respond. He knew he had to keep out of trouble. He just grabbed his toilet things and headed to the showers.

  He’d have to go down there again after breakfast so he could get the envelope from Craig, and that didn’t sit easily with him.

  There wasn’t anything right about what Craig was doing and he’d have to get it sorted, but it couldn’t be this week. He had to keep his head down at least until they got back from London.

  At breakfast he couldn’t help looking in Caitlin’s direction. He half-expected a scowl, because of what he’d done with her hair. She was very quiet. Her head was down and she seemed to be concentrating on her food, but, as he looked, he caught her giving him a half-glance, her eyes peering through the falling fringe, and when she saw him looking, there was that semi-smile that sent a shiver down him.

  After br
eakfast he found Craig pacing around by the showers. He had the envelope in his hand and it wasn’t very big. If that was homework, there wasn’t much of it – not ten pounds worth for sure.

  “Where you been, black boy?” he said. “You got to be smarter than that, picking this stuff up. If one of the carers came down – me hanging around with this in my hand, how do you think that would look?”

  “I had to get my stuff from the bedroom didn’t I? Else I wouldn’t have had nowhere to put the envelope, and how do you think that would look – pink boy?”

  He stuffed the envelope in his holdall and headed for the minibus.

  At break he knew Rudi was bothered, but he made himself scarce all the same. They arranged to meet up by the main entrance just as they had the previous day. Then Lloyd searched out the blond guy with the skinhead haircut. He was around by the boiler house and the operation went without a hitch. But he didn’t feel good about it.

  “You Craig’s new runner?” the blond kid said, and the guy was looking as shifty as a weasel. “There aren’t any teachers around, are there?”

  Lloyd pulled the envelope out of his back pocket. He’d transferred it from the holdall as soon as they were released from class. “Not that I seen,” he said. “You the guy what Craig’s done the homework for?”

  He could see the boy couldn’t get hold of that. Then a light dawned and he gave Lloyd a patronising look. “Is that what he’s calling it, now?” he said.

  It was just as Lloyd thought. This didn’t have anything to do with homework. It was dodgy and it was all wrong.

  But there was nothing he could do. He took the money and headed back to Rudi, shoving the two five pound notes in his back pocket. He was careful that none of the teachers were around; but he was convinced this needed sorting as quickly as possible.

  There wasn’t a lot to tell Justin when they got back from school, but Lloyd wanted to see him, partly so Justin could talk to Martin, and it wasn’t easy prising Martin out of the television lounge.

  “What is it with you?” he said. “I’m not interested in all your weird stuff. I don’t even know this Justin guy. I mean, all this stuff with sticks – what do you call it, divining or whatever – it isn’t nothing to do with me.”

  It took physical force to shift him, with Rudi and Lloyd tugging an arm each. But they did eventually extricate him from his chair.

  Justin was raking dead leaves for a bonfire, and he straightened when he saw them, brushing his hair away from his face.

  “Who’s this, then?” he said.

  “He’s our roommate, Martin. We told you about him,” said Lloyd.

  Justin leaned on the rake and held out his hand. “How you doing, Martin?”

  Martin grunted and wiped his hand on the back of his jeans. He gave Justin a limp handshake, and he still had the expression of displacement on his face, confused and out of his own biosphere.

  “We brought him so you could explain what’s going on in the North Wing, and so Lloyd can show him the dowsing,” Rudi said.

  “He don’t believe us, see,” said Lloyd, shoving Martin gently in the mid-riff. “And he’s got this idea that when I go down to the old building at night, I’m going down there to see Caitlin.”

  Justin laughed. “Bit of a doubter, then, Martin?”

  “Well… what would you think?” he said.

  Justin smiled. “I don’t think Caitlin features that much, and what he says about the stuff going on in the North Wing has got me convinced. I know you’re going to find that tough to take, but what Lloyd’s told me, what he’s seen… well, the guy couldn’t have made it up.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Martin.

  He was still hunched, and he didn’t give much impression of being all that interested.

  “Can I show him the dowsing?” Lloyd said and Justin laughed.

  “It’s your thing. You can show who you like.”

  He fetched the twig, but when Lloyd took it over to the raised ground and it began moving, all Martin did was sniff. “It’s like I said – tricks with sticks,” he said.

  “You couldn’t do it,” said Lloyd. He thrust the hazel twig towards him, but Martin just shoved his hands in his pockets and began to slouch back towards the main entrance.

  “It’s nothing but bilge,” he said. “You got that gardener guy took in, but it isn’t going to happen with me.”

  Justin put an arm loosely around Lloyd’s shoulder. “The world is full of sceptics,” he said. “And I don’t think you’re ever going to convince that guy.”

  “I will, too,” Lloyd said. “I’ll drag him down the North Wing tonight. Let him see what goes on down there. That will sort him out.”

  Martin was no more pleased to be dragged down to the North Wing than he was to be prised away from the television lounge. But Lloyd wouldn’t give in.

  He made sure Christine wasn’t around and then they slipped off towards the fire doors.

  The icy blast caught them as soon as the doors were opened, ripping down the corridor, and there were bangs and ear-splitting groans. Moonlight was shafting through the window and there were hailstones like golf balls. There was a crash from Daryl’s room downstairs and it sounded as if his wardrobe had gone over. And the whole place shook.

  Suddenly Martin gripped at Lloyd’s arm and Lloyd could see his face was white and his mouth gaping.

  He nodded. He’d made his point and Martin hissed through clenched teeth: “I’m getting out of this.”

  Then he was off, barging through the fire doors, and he shifted faster than Lloyd had ever seen him shift.

  It gave him some sort of satisfaction as he eased down the corridor towards Caitlin’s door, but later, down in the cellar, the spirals were all that happened again. It was as if the Beaker man was too weary to put in an appearance.

  After breakfast the next morning, he was heading upstairs for his holdall when he heard a very familiar and very irritating call. “Hey, black boy.”

  Craig was standing below him in the hall, staring, his face brazen.

  “I got another bit of homework for you to deliver, okay?”

  It was starting to rattle him, all this stuff from Craig. “Look, pink boy,” he said. “I done stuff for you already this week and I told you, I’m not your runner. I got other things to be thinking about. You give the guy the homework yourself.”

  But Craig had him pinned against the banister in seconds. His face was within an inch of Lloyd’s and it was sallow and greasy, with hints of red eruptions. Lloyd leaned away. He was very conscious that Craig was stronger and bigger than he was and, at that moment, this corner of the stairs was seriously lacking in surveillance. “You listen to me, black boy,” Craig hissed. “If I say you deliver homework, you deliver homework, okay? No questions or I’ll splash your little black face all over the wall.”

  It was in Lloyd’s head to knee him, but he couldn’t. It would put the skids on their trip to London. His only chance to retain some dignity was to agree, but with as much bad grace as he could.

  “Just get your spotty head out of my face, man. And quit calling me black boy, will you? What you got? Some sort of fixation on black guys?”

  He had to move quickly because he knew what was coming and he pulled his head to one side just as Craig’s fist shot past his ear. “You watch your mouth,” he hissed, but Lloyd had already wriggled free and was making it upstairs to his room. He turned on the landing and glared back.

  “Right. You listen to me,” he said – and he had the advantage now, because he was standing above Craig, looking down on him. “I got big things on this week, and I don’t want nobody rocking no boats. So I’ll deliver your stuff, this once. But you got to start showing respect, man. I got black skin, all right. You got pink skin. Inside there isn’t no difference, and you got to get that sorted in your head. Okay?”

  “You just deliver the envelope,” Craig said. “That’s all I care about. Meet me same place as you did last time, this break, and I’ll show you
the kid – and make sure you lose the Indian guy.”

  He swung around and headed for the main door, while Lloyd fetched his stuff from the bedroom.

  Martin was taking the day off school again, and when he pushed through, he couldn’t help noticing a new respect in the half-bleary eyes. He was banging out some tune on his iPhone, but when Lloyd came in he pulled the headphones off. “You having trouble with Craig Donovan?” he said.

  Lloyd grinned. “Nothing I can’t handle. I got to talk to Justin about him, but don’t bother yourself. I got him in my sights and he hasn’t got much time left.”

  Martin nodded, this time not in the rhythm of the iPhone, and said, “That’s okay, then – but if you need back-up, you come to me, okay? That guy is one big pain in the backside.” He looked around and then, as if some fibre of urgency was struggling to break out, he added: “I got to say this, before you go. We got to talk, about last night. I mean, that stuff down the North Wing. I didn’t have no idea. It’s mind-blowing down there and you got to fill me in.”

  “No problem,” Lloyd said. “When we get back from school you come with me and Rudi. We meet up with Justin most nights to talk about this stuff, and he’s well clued in.”

  Martin retreated to his iPhone, sinking back into his pillow, and Lloyd was relieved. It would make it a lot easier to keep an eye on Caitlin and get down to the cellar every night if Martin understood what was going on.

  When Craig pointed the boy out at break, it left no doubts in Lloyd’s mind. This kid was definitely sixth form. He had long, straight hair, parted in the middle. It didn’t have any of the bounce that Justin’s had, and the guy had a mean look on his face. But he wasn’t wearing school uniform and there was no way he was going to stump up ten pounds for the privilege of letting a unicellular blob like Craig Donovan touch his homework.

  He told the others about it that evening and Justin gave a worried nod, as if he understood what Craig was in to straight away.

  “You don’t know what’s going on, do you?” he said. “And I don’t think I’m telling you, either. The less you know about it the better, but you’ve got to go and see Dave.”