‘Dead, not eaten. Not sure why. I think parts were eaten. Her heart maybe?’
‘It was her heart the queen wanted, but the huntsman cut it out of a deer in the woods anyway. She doesn’t die. What about the dwarves then?’
‘Dwarves?’ Olive looked blank. They both sat there, thinking for a moment.
‘It’s the Menschenfresserin version I guess,’ said Olive.
‘Menschen-what?’ asked Peter.
‘Menschenfresserin,’ said Olive. ‘Cannibals. You don’t know about it?’
Peter had said of course he knew about cannibals but not that word. He didn’t think his parents knew it either. When Olive had gone back to Thistle and asked about the endings, her aunt had confirmed she had changed the stories.
‘I adjusted them, yes, to their more natural conclusions,’ Thistle had said. ‘It would be a fairly unsuccessful family of bears otherwise, wouldn’t it?’
In the backyard, Olive took a last plum.
‘So Mum doesn’t know,’ she said to Peter. ‘Don’t you get it? You never listen to me. They don’t know otherwise they would tell me. They would tell me everything.’
To Olive it was an irrefutable piece of logic. There were two things adults didn’t like admitting: one, that they didn’t know something, and two, that they were wrong. Mr Coppin at school was a perfect example of this—he would even make up answers and Olive had caught him out by checking something he’d said in a book at home. Then she’d gone to school and told him that he’d been wrong. She got into trouble but it had been worth it.
They lay on the grass, Olive propped up on her side.
‘A cave would be the best place for one, like at the beach I went to that time.’
Peter was glad there were no caves around Stratford and said so.
‘I don’t know if those séances really work,’ he added, and relaxed a little.
‘Yeah they do, I saw one on telly. It worked really well. And Thistle told me how to do it. They don’t know who they’re dealing with.’
Peter knew who they were dealing with, that she would never let go of a thing until she was satisfied. Sometimes she would try really hard to let something go. He’d seen her walk into another room, get a book, lie down on the floor. Pour herself a drink of milk, sit in front of a television show. Physically keeping it from spilling out of her. But it was no use. Soon she’d be back in front of him, pushing her face right into his, saying, You have to tell me. He’d decided early on that it was best to offer up everything straight away to avoid the attack that followed, a barrage which could continue over days. He’d seen movies on telly with torturing, people with water dripping onto their faces or tied onto wooden machines that slowly pulled them apart. Or trapped in one of those mummy cases that closed on the person and there were spikes on the inside. He knew how those people felt. He knew about giving in because you just didn’t have the strength to keep her out because you got too tired. She was a girl who never gave up.
Once she had sat in front of him, determined to find out what Snooky Sands had said about her the week she was away from school, when she got her tonsils out. She had her notebook open, ready. Had Snooky asked about her? What had her face been like when the teacher had explained the reason for her—Olive’s—absence? Whose idea had it been to make the class card, had it been Snooky’s or the teacher’s? Who had she played with at playtime? At lunchtime? What had they done and in which part of the yard? Did she let anyone hold her swap cards to flick through themselves or did she hold them up one by one, not letting any of the other girls touch them?
And it had been the same the time she’d found out he didn’t want anyone to know his middle name. He hadn’t cracked for almost a whole week, and they’d both been miserable until he’d finally told her that if she promised to never ever tell a single person, he’d say what it was. She assured him she would never tell, not anyone, not ever.
‘Promise. I’m really serious about it, ’cause if you break it, I won’t be friends with you anymore.’
‘I promise, I do.’ She saluted.
‘Don’t laugh, but it’s Dewey.’
And she hadn’t laughed. She had nodded and her face stayed the same, and it was why he trusted her one thousand per cent. Every other person at his other school in the other town, child or adult, had made him feel bad about his name but Olive had proved she was a person you could trust.
Peter’s mother appeared at the back door and said it was time for him to come in for tea. She asked if Olive would like to stay but she said no thanks, that she had to go home. She stood up, binoculars around her neck.
‘Are you going to watch The Ghost and Mr Chicken tonight?’
Peter said he wasn’t sure.
‘But you missed Trilogy of Terror.’
Peter shook his head. He had watched Trilogy of Terror because she’d said it was really good. He had begged and begged his parents to be allowed to stay up to watch it, but it had been so frightening he’d had nightmares. When Olive asked if he liked it he said he’d forgotten about it and just gone to bed.
Olive watched a lot of TV even during the day, always with the volume down because of her mother. If she kept it low enough she could watch for hours sitting close to the big set, finger ready to shoot out at the first sound of the tread on the stairs. Sometimes she crept down and watched when her parents had gone to bed.
Peter’s mother called again from the house and Olive picked up her bike. She told him she wanted him to make a pinkie shake, to promise to help her.
‘What with?’
‘Just the thing.’
‘That’s not fair if I don’t know what it is.’
She waited with her pinkie extended and tapped her foot until he linked fingers. Their hands went up and down three times, then snapped apart and they both clicked.
‘I really am going to solve the mystery and find out what happened, just you watch.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I told you. My sister? I’m going to find out what happened to her.’
‘You don’t seem very sad about her,’ Peter said.
She flicked at her bell.
‘And I don’t think it will work.’
‘Why?’
‘If the adults don’t know then you won’t be able to find out.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re just a kid.’
She was affronted.
‘A cave would be best but we don’t have one,’ she said. ‘But there’s Dead Girl’s,’ she said. ‘The tunnel. It could be good but we need to go first and check—we can do it tomorrow.’
Peter was shaking his head. ‘People don’t go in there, Ol. Not ever.’
‘Exactly.’ Her smile was all wrong and she started to push her bike away, shouting over her shoulder at him, ‘See you tomorrow!’
Peter stood, looking at his still-bent finger.
‘Not there,’ he said.
His mother came to the back door again.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘It’s nothing. Just Olive.’
His mother rolled her eyes and said to hurry. Peter got up and pulled one more plum off the tree and went inside. Maybe she’d been joking and he wouldn’t have to do it. Maybe she’d take Sebastian instead.
OLIVE WALKED HOME along the streets, pushing her bike. The footpaths were wavy in the heat and small flashes of light bounced from the lenses of her binoculars. There was a bird in a tree up ahead so she stopped and let the bike fall against her hip. It took a while for her to find it again through the binoculars but she did and it was a dotterel with a yellow patch. Common, nothing special. She was keen to see a whipbird or a treecreeper, even though they weren’t around much anymore. Thistle had seen some when she was younger.
She let go of the binoculars and walked on. She was almost at Violet Rise. She thought about Peter’s mum. Mrs Stonehouse was a mother who made good things, like
pork casseroles with chunks of pineapple, curried sausages, even homemade pizza. They had a crate of Loys soft drink delivered every Friday, and chocolate biscuits in the cupboard all the time not just for special. Peter’s mother often asked Olive if she’d like to stay but she would say no thank you, that her mother wanted her to eat at home. She had stayed once for dinner and Peter’s dad had talked about his work, telling funny stories about flat tyres and lost wallets, and Peter’s mum kept reaching across to grasp his dad’s arm. She did that a lot. Olive preferred to be at her own dinner table with her father chewing in his soundless way and her mother pretending to eat and none of them talking.
She pushed her bike. She knew exactly how many steps were between Peter’s place and hers so she reduced her foot swing and took little lady steps to make the time stretch out.
JETHRO SANDS WAS driving his brothers to the shops for ice creams but they had to stand outside the milk bar, on the footpath, he said. No eating in the car. He’d only said yes because they’d nagged, saying it was too hot to walk all that way, that their bike chains were off and they couldn’t fix them. Gary was the worst. He was a kid who never stopped pushing, so Jethro had said okay just to shut him up, and they all piled into his car, everybody arguing and shouting except John. Jethro had thought about changing his mind but then his mother ran out with her purse and she was so happy that he was taking his brothers down the street she’d given him the money for the ice creams.
As he pulled out of their street Luke was in the back yelling something about his t-shirt getting all stretched and Mark was trying to rile Luke even more, singing right into his earhole, a single note until his breath finished, while John sat looking out the window. Gary swung around from the front, his fist connecting with Luke’s ear. Jethro pulled the car over.
‘Stop it—you’re going to make me crash, you dickheads.’
He waited until they were quiet and turned back out and they were almost at the intersection of Kellda Street and Violet Rise when Luke started shouting again, something about a girl, saying to stop the car, to pull over, pull over.
‘It’s her, that’s the one, the one I told you about.’ Luke was leaning forwards, his arms over the seat back, talking to Gary.
‘I know her,’ Gary said. ‘She thinks she’s really good.’
‘She’s a weirdo,’ Mark said from the back seat. ‘Check the binoculars.’
Jethro watched the girl as she walked along, pushing a bike. It was Olive Lovelock.
‘She’s friends with that big kid, the copper’s son,’ said Luke. ‘They think they’re so good. She’s the one who pushed me in the diving pool.’ Luke tapped a knuckle against his teeth. ‘Snooky says they used to be friends but then she stopped playing with Snook. Yeah, she just dropped her—what a little bitch.’
Luke’s speech seemed to activate Gary and he turned to the window. Gary was like one of those dogs that smelled something weak and locked their jaws and wouldn’t let go.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jethro said.
‘Nah.’ Gary straightened from his slouch. He lifted his hand and held out his mangled finger so that everyone could see it. ‘Anyone who disrespects a brother or even a sister needs to be careful, I reckon. Otherwise it’s gonna be trouble.’
Jethro tossed his butt out the window.
‘She thinks she’s so good,’ Gary said as he watched Olive Lovelock walk down the street.
Jethro flicked the indicator. They went to the shops and got the ice creams, but even as Gary chucked his wrapper on the bonnet of a nearby parked car he was saying, ‘That Olive Lovelock.’ And driving back home, with Luke still sitting forwards, his arms over to the front, nodding in the rear-view mirror, Gary kept saying, ‘Yeah, that Olive Lovelock.’
ON HER BED, arms crossed over her chest, Olive lay trying to be dead. This was how they slept in the pyramids with black crayon on their eyes. They had a pet cat in there too and some gold. She wondered how her sister had been buried and guessed it must have been in a coffin but a very, very small one.
She had written down everything Thistle had told her about séances. One: ouija boards were also called spirit boards and talking boards, and they had been used since the olden days to make contact with dead people. Two: you had to really be careful because the spirits weren’t always friendly. Three: you could only ask a question once and the words might come through in the wrong order, which was why it was a good idea to have someone writing the letters down. Also, some spirits couldn’t spell or make proper sentences, usually the young ones or the babies. Which made sense, Thistle had said, and Olive had nodded, realising it really did make sense.
Thistle had also said that if spirits asked you to do unusual things, something with your body and especially your private parts, you had to stop and put the board away. Olive had asked what sort of unusual things and her aunt hadn’t answered, and it was the only time Olive could remember that Thistle had refused to answer a direct question, even though she made it seem as if she hadn’t heard.
She turned the page in her notebook. Four: it was important to never play alone. Five: don’t use the board if you are ill because then they can get in more easily.
‘Get in where?’ Olive had asked. ‘Into the house?’
‘No,’ Thistle said. ‘Into you.’
Olive had looked up and Thistle continued, telling her that it was children who got possessed by the spirits most easily and when it happened they started acting in odd ways. Strange things could happen, like the feeling of being watched, or of doors opening and closing on their own, or hearing footsteps in a house where everyone was asleep. Oh, and hair being pulled and fingers pricked, being held down in bed with no one there. Scratches. Those sorts of things, Thistle had stated matter-of-factly, as if discussing a list of to do items before bed. Empty bladder, wash hands and face, brush teeth. When she’d said it, Olive had been overcome with a very exact, crawling sensation on the back of her neck, the same that they talked about in horror stories. She would have to make sure she didn’t get taken over by any spirits.
She closed the notebook. She was right. They had to do a séance. It was the only way. Luckily she had Peter to help her. He couldn’t ever say no to her. She was his best friend and, even though she didn’t like to admit it to herself, he was hers.
IT WAS SUNDAY morning and they were at Dead Girl’s. The entrance was on the side of the main road out of town, near the back of the scout hall. The opening was barred with a fence but there was a gap at the side that they could squeeze through. Some kids said it was for escaping during the war, some said it was for cutting up the bodies of bad children so they could be carried out in bags and buried far away. Whatever its origins, for a long time teenagers had gone in there with petrol bombs to scare away bats, kiss and smoke cigarettes. There were also persistent stories of painted figures on the walls that no one could describe. Another thing most people agreed on was that a long time ago a girl had gone mad in there. She hadn’t said anything for days afterwards but they found her with scratches all over her body and she had to go to hospital.
Dead Girl’s was one place in Stratford that Olive had never been tempted to go, until now. Without hesitation she pushed through the gap beside the fence and told Peter to come on. They were in a tunnel that was quite high overhead and about as wide as a car. The surface was gritty underfoot and it was dark and cool. They walked to where it began to slope downwards and Olive switched on her torch.
‘That girl didn’t talk for weeks afterwards,’ Peter said. It was like she wasn’t even there anymore, they said—in her body, I mean.’
‘We don’t even know if that’s true or not, plus why do they call it Dead Girl’s if she didn’t die?’
They went in a way before Olive turned to see where they’d come from. The light from the entrance had lessened to the point where it was almost as dim behind as it was in front, beyond the reach of the torch. They kept going. Periodically she shone the torch on the walls on either side
, to see if there were any drawings, but there’d been nothing so far. Peter was right behind, almost stepping on her heels.
‘I’m going to switch it off, just for a second,’ she said.
‘No, wait—’
The surroundings clicked to black. In front, she couldn’t see a thing, nor to the side, both sides, or the back. She heard Peter breathing and switched the torch on again.
‘If we go a bit further we’ll be under the road.’
‘Don’t turn it off again, Ol. Don’t.’
‘It’s mine, so I can do what I want. Besides, you forgot yours.’
They continued and the ground became rubbled, the loose rock making it harder to progress. Then she thought about what would happen if she twisted her ankle, and the idea of being stuck there and not able to get out gave her a hot squirty feeling. Peter would have to get help and her battery would finish and she’d be left to go mad like the girl with the scratches. She realised in that exact moment that she was scared of the tunnel because Thistle always said darkness was where evil lived, that it was light that cleaned a person’s soul, not water and soap. Thistle said evil people had no sunshine in them, that even their mothers wouldn’t love them because they were all bad.
‘One thousand per cent?’ Olive had asked.
‘Yes, more than that,’ said her aunt. ‘Like a killer who does it for fun. He hurts people because he enjoys it and doesn’t feel sorry for them or guilty afterwards. He’s happy he did it. He loves it.’
‘Like Gary,’ Olive said in the tunnel and shone the light on the wall. She stopped walking and Peter knocked into the back of her.
‘What?’
‘Look,’ she said.
A series of figures were daubed on the cement walls, their naked torsos white, arms lifted, hands extended as if to grasp, fingers ending in claws. Small ones—children—and big ones too, with red on their faces where their eyes should be. Some tall and thin, others shorter. Chests with three red dots in a line, or a slash. Hunched shoulders, wound-like mouths and pointed ears. Jagged shark teeth in weirdly extended jaws, some with horns coming out of their heads, others with bloody stains coming from their eyeholes and noses.
Little Gods Page 14