The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  Frank stared at him. He didn’t pull a face and he didn’t glare and it took a long time, but eventually it was Sam who looked away. Frank pushed himself off the wall. ‘Come on then,’ he said. He stripped off the jumper his mum had knitted and he didn’t look at the others as he went, just dropped it on top of someone’s blazer in the heap that marked the goalposts. In some corner of his mind he registered that there was no one from his year playing, it was all the bigger lads, and none of them looked very friendly. He wasn’t sure why they’d asked him to join in.

  He sniffed and looked towards the school entrance. Today the teachers on duty were Miss ‘Hennie’ Henshaw and Miss ‘Skeleton’ Scales and they were standing by the door but they weren’t watching the pupils. They were having a right good natter, as his mum would have put it. Miss Scales’ fingers were twitching as if she wanted a cigarette.

  ‘Watch it,’ Harry Alsop shouted as he came in close, but he didn’t try to score; instead he collided with Sam, knocking him towards Frank so that he had to jump out of their way. Sam called out ‘My turn,’ and he took a half-hearted kick at the ball – he missed by a mile – and then he ran straight between the posts, into Frank, sending him staggering.

  ‘Sorree,’ he said, but his tone of voice didn’t say he was sorry. It said something else altogether.

  Frank straightened his T-shirt as he took his place again.

  ‘Now you.’ Sam nodded towards Thomas Furlow, who smirked and nodded and placed the ball on the floor, right in front of the goal. He backed away – it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t the rules – and booted it straight towards Frank. He tried to catch it, but it flew through his hands and thwacked into his chest.

  ‘Shot,’ someone else said admiringly, and Sam rushed in, curling his hand into a fist, and he rubbed it against Frank’s hair. It pulled, the knucklebones hard against his scalp, and he felt his eyes begin to water. He blinked them furiously.

  Sam started lining up the ball again. Frank didn’t like the look on his face. He knew it was revenge. Sam had worked out that Frank thought he was a coward and he couldn’t bear it. Now he was going to take it out on him. But Frank didn’t have to put up with it. He walked off to the side and grabbed his jumper, shaking it out straight. He muttered, ‘I’m off,’ from the corner of his mouth and headed away, trying to act casual, knowing it wasn’t quite working. He heard rapid footsteps on the tarmac and then Sam’s hands were on his shoulders, pushing him into the wall.

  ‘Yer’ll do as yer told.’ Sam’s face was up close, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘I’ll not.’ Frank’s voice was quiet. ‘I know what’s up with yer.’

  ‘You little—’

  ‘I’m not playin’. I told yer.’

  A whistle cut into the day. It wasn’t a teacher’s whistle, but they looked around and saw Harry shaking his head, then gesturing towards the entrance. Miss Henshaw and Miss Scales weren’t talking any longer; they were peering at them through the throng of children.

  ‘Later,’ Sam said. ‘You’ve ’ad it.’

  He turned and sauntered away, whistling himself now, the tune to We are the Champions, a programme Frank had never liked and didn’t watch.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Frank sat back on his bed, trying to read his Hotspur comic. He had read it already, more than once, but now nothing he looked at made any sense. He had seen Sam again on the bus home and he’d expected him to knock into him or say something mean, but he hadn’t; he’d only given him a knowing look.

  When he’d got home Mossy had started prattling on about some picture he’d painted and he’d just thrown down his bag and gone upstairs. Soon he’d get called down for tea. Dad would come in and after that they might go out again together to check the fencing or take some of the machinery apart and clean it and put it back together again. Sure enough, through the floorboards, he heard the rattle of the door. Still his mother’s voice didn’t come and after a while he went and opened the window and leaned out. It was cool out there, the air fresh against his cheek. He could see the church spire and beyond that, the house. Everything had changed since he first set foot on the driveway. Now he wished he’d never done it, even though Mr Owens hadn’t turned out so bad. Tha can come again, if yer want, he’d said, but Frank wasn’t really sure he did want to. Before all that, he’d had friends; not many, not around here, but enough. Now they weren’t his friends any longer.

  He drew a sigh. There was no point crying over spilt milk, as Mum would say. She’d tell him to gerron wi’ it, not sit here moping. Maybe she was right.

  He walked downstairs and he heard her voice even before he went into the kitchen. ‘Thought you must ’ave ’omework?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘ “Pardon”, not “eh”. ’Ave you done it, then? You might just catch ’em if so.’

  ‘You what, Mum?’

  ‘T’ others. They’re out lakin’.’

  Frank frowned. ‘Where’s Mossy?’

  ‘You can’t expect ’im to stay in, just cos you are. He’s out wi’ Jeff. Sam said ’e’d keep an eye on them. A good lad, that.’

  ‘Where’d they go?’

  ‘Not far, unless they want a good hiding. Now, what are you—?’

  But Frank didn’t wait, he headed straight for the door and before she could stop him he started running across the yard.

  The others weren’t in the yard. They probably weren’t even on the farm. Mire House was what he thought of first; it would be just like Sam to get Mossy into trouble, to get back at him. He ran into the lane, which was empty as the yard had been, and down past the church. He glanced in as he passed and the graveyard looked empty too, the colours a little too rich, as if it was about to rain.

  He slowed when he reached the house. He almost expected to see Mr Owens standing in the garden with his big stick, ready to ward the others off, but there was no trace of him. There wasn’t even a light shining in a window, although the day was starting to fade, the sun turning a deeper gold. It didn’t feel as if they were there.

  There was somewhere else, though; the place they weren’t supposed to go. He could see immediately how that would have appealed to Sam. He wouldn’t have taken Mossy to his house – their mum was worse than his at keeping an eye on them. You’ve ’ad it, he’d said. No, the mire would be more suited to whatever Sam had in mind. Frank thought of Mossy’s open smile, the way he trusted people, and anger rose within him. He hurried past Mire House and onto the path that led to the river. He didn’t look back; he started to run.

  He saw Jeff first. He was sitting on the bridge that crossed the worst of the mire, dangling his legs over the long grass. Sam wasn’t there and he couldn’t see Mossy, but then he noticed a dark shape standing beyond the bridge. He crossed it, ignoring Jeff. His legs felt at once cold and hot from running. His corduroys were covered with the gossamer of seed heads or cobwebs.

  When he reached the broad bank of the river, there was nothing but the green and pale yellow of long grasses; and then he realised that Sam was there, standing off to one side. He was alone. His hands were on his hips and his lip was curled.

  ‘Where’s my brother?’ Frank said. He knew it was no use acting scared. If he did, Sam wouldn’t tell him anything. But he didn’t tell him anything now. He grinned and looked over Frank’s shoulder and Frank followed his gaze. Through the long grass where the water began there was a darker colour and he realised with a start that it was Mossy. As he watched, his brother raised one arm and waved. He didn’t shout a greeting or anything else.

  Sam let out a whistle – a watch this whistle – and Frank turned to see him throw something small and coppery – a coin – into the long grass, towards Mossy. ‘We’re playing a game,’ he said.

  ‘The buggeration you are.’ Frank strode towards his brother. He immediately felt himself sinking. The ground only looked solid, he knew that. It was green, but it squelched like water. The river merged into the ground, no division between the elements. ‘Mossy,’ he shouted, ‘get
ower ’ere, now.’

  He couldn’t see his little brother any longer. He couldn’t hear anything either. The river’s progress was silent. Midges gathered about his face, as quiet as everything else. There was only his own breathing, and when he moved again, a sucking sound when he pulled his foot from the bog. ‘Mossy!’

  His voice came out too loud and too high, and this time, behind him, there came a giggle. It was Sam. Frank pushed the thought of him out of his mind; he didn’t matter. He was thinking of Mossy’s feet, sinking deeper and deeper into the wet ground. He was further in than Frank and he wasn’t as tall or as strong.

  He heard an answering cry a little way ahead of him. It was the sound made by someone who didn’t want anyone to know they were frightened.

  ‘I’m coming,’ he called, and he took a large, exaggerated step. He was into the reeds. They were stiffer than the grass, more difficult to push aside. If he bent them under his feet they might stop him from sinking too far. They were slippery though, and treacherous; he grasped at the thin stems to steady himself and they dug into his palms but he didn’t care. Mossy might not have the sense to step on clumps of reeds. He might not have the sense to hold on. If he went into the river – an image flashed before his eyes, but not of Mossy; oddly, it was the old man he saw. You’re not ’im.

  Frank shivered. The hairs were standing away from the skin on his arms. He caught sight of a flash of colour: Mossy’s coat. ‘Hang on,’ he said, his voice lower now, just for the two of them to hear. ‘I’m almost the’er, our Michael.’

  There was silence, and he didn’t know if it was because Mossy was reassured or because he was surprised at his brother calling him by his real name. Then the thought went out of his mind because he slipped, both feet this time, and in a second he was down, his hands plunging into muddy water.

  He thrashed, grasping for the reeds, for anything solid, but nothing was; everything shifted or came away in his hands. Then he got his legs under him and he pushed himself up. He wasn’t sure which way he’d been facing. It all looked the same. He took another step – the ground felt a little more solid this time – and he heard Mossy cry out, a sharp sound of panic. He turned and caught sight of someone through the reeds, but it wasn’t him, not his brother; it was Sam, standing with his hands on his hips, smiling. It was odd, but for just a moment, it was someone else’s face he saw: he shook his head and it was only Sam again, but surrounded by a dark shape, like mist. His stomach clenched. He remembered seeing the old man with the woman standing just behind him, touching him, and he remembered the thought he’d had: that maybe it was her that had made him go bad. He pushed the thought away. He had to find his brother. He shouted his name, but his cry sounded inarticulate, like some wild creature.

  He waded into the mire, the uncertain, unreliable mire, and he screamed something: Mossy’s name perhaps, though it might have been a wordless yell of fear, and then Mossy answered.

  The sound carried to him clearly now. He couldn’t think how he hadn’t heard it before. His brother was wailing and splashing about, a frantic sound. Then he saw him, not in the river after all but among the reeds. He was covered in mud.

  Frank kept going and reached out – for a moment he couldn’t see anything – then he felt fabric and his hand closed over it. He kept hold and pulled as hard as he could. Mossy scrambled towards him, into his grip, and he yanked his brother all the way out of the mire. When they were standing on firmer ground he still didn’t let go, he just stood there clutching his coat until hands started to slap at his own and he realised he was half strangling his brother.

  ‘I couldn’t find it,’ Mossy said.

  Frank’s mouth fell open, and then he grinned and touched a hand to Mossy’s hair. He left a muddy smear on his forehead and his smile faded. ‘We’re going ter be for it,’ he said, and he shrugged. ‘I ’spose it dun’t matter. Come on, our Moss.’

  He took his hand and stepped carefully back towards the bridge, ignoring Sam, tamping down the grass for Mossy. Now it felt firmer it was odd that he’d panicked like that. There was no way his little brother would have ended up in the river. Things like that just didn’t happen. He hadn’t meant to look at Sam again but he glanced around and saw he was still wearing that knowing grin as he tossed another coin in his hand.

  Frank remembered what he’d seen – thought he’d seen – that woman, standing behind him. For a moment, she had even looked like a part of him. Then he focused on Sam’s eyes and they looked blank and strange and dangerous. Frank wasn’t sure it was the boy he knew, and then Sam shook his head and it passed. Frank still felt cold. He wished he was at home, safe in his own bed, his brother in the room next to his.

  He hadn’t expected Sam to speak but when he did, he sounded bewildered. ‘What—?’ and then he recovered himself and pointed at Mossy. ‘He owes me some brass,’ he said.

  ‘He owes you nowt.’ Frank glanced down at his brother. He was muddy and his eyes did not look trusting any longer and it was that more than anything that rekindled his anger. ‘Tha’ll not go near me brother again. I’m tellin’ yer.’

  A smile spread slowly across Sam’s face. ‘All right. I’ll ’ave nowt to do wi’ ’im. Soon as you pay us back.’

  Frank let out an exasperated sound and dug around in his pocket. There was nothing there but a five-pence piece he was going to use to buy Black Jacks or a lucky bag, but it would have to do. He held it out. His hand didn’t shake and he didn’t look away from Sam’s eyes.

  Sam shook his head. ‘It’s not enough. And you know summat else, Frank Watts – I’m goin’ to tell your mum. I’ll tell ’er you threw Mossy in t’ watter cos he went out wi’out yer an’ you were mad. I’ll tell ’er you were in trouble in t’ playground. An’ I’ll tell ’er you went trespassin’ in that ’ouse, an’ all. She’ll believe me – you know she will.’ He paused. ‘It wan’t me that sneaked up to ’is window. It wan’t me what went inside that ’ouse. Anyroad, she can go an’ ask t’ old man, if she wants proof. He’ll tell ’er.’

  Frank stared at him. No one said anything. Even Jeff was looking at Sam open-mouthed. No one ever told their mothers what they’d been up to; they just didn’t.

  ‘So ’ow about it? You goin’ ter pay us back, or what?’

  Frank stared, but then, slowly, he nodded. He had some money left from his spends the week before, and it was his birthday soon. Sam would have to wait – there was no way his mum would give him anything early – but what he got, he could have. ‘I’ll get you some brass,’ he said.

  Sam smiled. Frank knew the smile did not bode well.

  ‘In yer dreams,’ he said. ‘It’s not brass I want. There’s summat I want yer to do for me.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Frank found himself crouching by the drystone wall that ran along the front of Mire House. Everything seemed to come back to this place. Mossy was pinch-faced and silent beside him. Frank reached out a hand and grasped his shoulder.

  Mossy looked at him, a question in his eyes, but it was Sam who answered it.

  ‘Tha’ll go in again,’ he said. ‘But this time you’re not after a pipe or owt useless. I want summat good.’

  Frank waited but he did not say more and he realised it didn’t matter. It wasn’t really the value of the item that mattered – just summat good – so much as the satisfaction in making Frank fetch it, like a dog with a stick.

  ‘I’ll wait ’ere and so will ’e.’ He gestured at Mossy.

  Frank had a sudden image of Sam taking his little brother and leading him back to the river. He shook his head and spoke, not to Sam, but to Mossy. ‘You will stop ’ere,’ he said. ‘You dun’t go nowhere. Not with ’im, not any more. Understand?’

  Mossy nodded. Frank wasn’t sure he meant it, but it would have to be enough. He looked at the house and sighed. It still didn’t look like a nice house, but he’d taken the old man cake. He’d looked at pictures of his wife. He knew her name and what it meant and he had shaken his hand. But he also
knew that Sam was right. The way his mum had been lately, always cross, glaring at him and stomping around – she’d believe Sam in a shot, even if Mossy stuck up for him. He didn’t really have a choice, and it wasn’t as if the old man had anything valuable anyway; the whole house was a wreck, everything old and worn out and broken.

  Except ’er, he thought, remembering the look on the old man’s face when he’d spoken of his wife. And she’s nowt but a memory.

  ‘Well gerron wi’ it,’ Sam said, and shuffled on his haunches. ‘I’m not gerrin’ any younger.’

  It was so obviously something he’d copied from his dad that Frank let out a splutter. It earned him a clip round the ear. ‘None o’ your cheek,’ Sam said, another phrase that sounded borrowed, but this time Frank didn’t laugh.

  He turned towards the house. The thought of actually doing it, of creeping inside somewhere he’d been invited to visit, taking something that didn’t belong to him, made him feel sick. But if he didn’t do it – he looked at Mossy. Sam would find some other way of getting at him, so he might as well get on with it. He’d grab something the man would never miss and run out again. He’d just have to hope he wasn’t seen. He closed his eyes. He knew it didn’t matter; even if the old man never knew, he could never visit him again. He wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye.

  He pushed himself up and ran, doubled over, towards the house.

  The handle was familiar under his hand and he pushed on the door while he turned it to lessen the clang when it opened. The hallway was dark and it was only when he saw it that he realised how quickly the day was passing; the sun must have almost disappeared already.

  Frank slipped inside. The house was waiting. Only the dust moved, drifting down from the stairwell, and Frank watched it and it struck him that maybe the old man had died. He might have gone upstairs, taken off that smelly old jacket that was a little too small, taken a last look at that stone globe with the name of his wife and laid down and given up. Maybe he was with that dark woman now. Maybe she was with him. He looked up the stairs. They seemed steeper than they had before.