The House on Willow Lane (Secret Gateways Book 1)

by John Moralee

  *

  “What are you watching, Mum?”

  “Oh, you know ...” She shrugged like it did not matter. “Oh, hello, Saffron. My, I haven’t seen you in a long time!”

  She had seen Saffron yesterday, but had forgotten. Saffron smiled awkwardly. “Hi, Mrs Brewster. Uh - nice to see you again.”

  “Aren’t you looking pretty today?” his mother said. “Isn’t she lovely, Ryan? Isn’t she as cute as a button?”

  Ryan could feel his cheeks reddening. He wished his mother would not ask him a question like that. She could be so embarrassing. His mother was waiting for an answer with Saffron – his best friend - standing right there. How could he possibly answer that question? If he lived in America, he would have taken the Fifth. There was only one way of answering. He looked down at his shoes and mumbled, “Yes, Mum. She looks as cute as a button.”

  There. He had just admitted his best friend looked as cute as a button. He was totally humiliated. And yet, he realised, a curious part of him wanted to know how Saffron felt about what he’d said. He glanced at Saffron for her reaction, but her face revealed nothing. He didn’t know if he felt relief or disappointment. What did that mean? Did he really think Saffron was as cute as a button? How cute was a button anyway? Were some buttons cute and others ugly? Could you be as ugly as a button?

  His mother had not finished examining his friend’s appearance. “My goodness! You are getting tall, Saffron. When you’re a grown up, you could be a catwalk model like ... what’s-her-name? She was in a film with that man – thingy?” She struggled to think of a name, but abandoned the attempt after a few seconds. “I like your new hairstyle. It suits your face.”

  Saffron had been to the salon at least two week ago, but his mother had not noticed until today. Her short blonde hair fanned out behind her ears like the wings of a bright-yellow canary. She self-consciously brushed her hair back from around her ears. “Thanks, Mrs Brewster.”

  Ryan’s mother turned her focus on him. “Speaking of hair, you should get that ragged mop of yours cut. It’s hanging over your lovely brown eyes and it’s nearly touching your shoulders. When was the last time you went to the barber’s shop for a haircut?”

  It was before dad died, Ryan thought, but he did not say it. For several years, after his career as a professional footballer ended, Kevin Brewster had been an assistant coach for Hobley United. It had been a job that required him to spend a lot of time travelling with the team. It had meant he was often away from home for days or weeks, but once a month he had always found time to take Ryan on a Saturday trip into the city, just the two of them. First, as part of a tradition, he and his dad had gone to Frank Jackson’s barber’s shop for a trim, then they spent an hour in the big shopping centre, where his father always bought him something – a book, a game, a DVD – before ending up at the six-screen cinema. There his dad bought the largest size of popcorn for them to share during the film and said funny things about what they were watching. They slurped giant milkshakes and acted like they did not have a care in the world. Sometimes Ryan had laughed so hard his ribs ached. Those trips out had become special – something Ryan looked forward to every month. Ryan had avoided going to the barber’s after his dad passed away because he knew he would start crying if he did. He did not want to have his hair cut for a long, long time, even if it meant bullies like Greg Armstrong accused him of wanting to look like a girl. (Greg had a shaved head, like most of his gang.) Ryan did not want to argue with his mother about getting a haircut. He decided to change the subject. “It’s all right if Saffron stays for tea, isn’t it, Mum?”

  “Of course,” she said. She sat up, her head swaying slightly. “I’ll cook something for you ...”

  No! Ryan could not allow his mother in the kitchen cooking. The last time she had tried to make dinner, she had forgotten to take a pan off the cooker, nearly burning down the whole house. Luckily, the smoke alarm went off before too much damage was caused. Just one wall was smoke blackened. He and his sister Rachel had spent that weekend re-painting and re-wallpapering. Rachel had told him not to let their mother do any cooking unless she was home.

  “You don’t have to cook, Mum. We can have take-out pizza when Rachel comes in. You like the Pepperoni Special, remember?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I like it. So does your dad.” She realised what she had said and corrected herself. “So did your dad. He loved pizza.”

  “I know,” Ryan said.

  “Ryan, I think I’m a little tired. I need to rest ...”

  The pills made her tired, Ryan knew. The pills stopped her feeling sad, but they also made her extremely sleepy as a side effect. Forgetfulness was another side effect. The doctor kept changing her pills, trying to get the side effects to disappear, but they had not succeeded. He wished she could stop taking them, but her doctor had advised against it. To suddenly stop taking them could be dangerous. She had to cut down the number she took gradually. It would be weeks – possible months – before she was off them. In the meantime, she was like a zombie.

  “Okay, Mum. Rest.”

  He kissed her and gently lifted her feet back onto the couch with a little of Saffron’s help. His mother lay down with three cushions as pillows. In a few seconds, her eyelids were drooping. Then she was asleep. Ryan found the TV remote on the floor by the couch. He switched off the television before they left the room.

  “Sorry about that,” he said to Saffron. “The pills make her strange.”

  “Don’t feel embarrassed,” Saffron said. “I can’t imagine how awful it is for your mum.”

  He was feeling gloomy. “I just wish she had someone in her life to help her like you helped me.”

  They headed up the stairs towards his bedroom, where he kept his computer. Normally, they would play a game for an hour or two, but they played his new one half-heartedly for just a few minutes before giving up. Despite the amazing graphics, the game did not hold his interest. Not today.

  He was thinking about the girl.

  He mentioned her to Saffron. “Do you think she’s been kidnapped by that guy or what?”

  “I don’t know,” Saffron said. “She could have been. He was certainly weird. I mean, why didn’t he come out of the house to give your ball back? It was like he was hiding in the shadows so we couldn’t see his face. He could be keeping her prisoner, but what can we do?”

  “We should say something to someone, don’t you think?”

  “I guess ... but who?”

  “The police.”

  Saffron looked alarmed by the idea. “We can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Think of the trouble we’d get in.”

  “We wouldn’t be in trouble for reporting a crime.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t actually see a crime. All I saw was a girl crying. There are a billion reasons why she was crying. Suspicion of a crime isn’t a good enough reason for calling the police. The police would blame us for wasting their time ... unless ... unless we have more to tell them, like real evidence.”

  Ryan sighed. “Okay – forget the police. What about telling Rachel?”

  “Your sister ... okay. We’ll tell her. When’s she get off work?”

  Rachel had a part-time job as an assistant at a book shop in the city centre. The job didn’t pay well, but it allowed her time off for studying and looking after their mother. Rachel finished working at five. It was nearly five.

  “She should be here soon,” he said.

  They were waiting anxiously when they heard Rachel’s car outside. Looking out his window, Ryan saw the little blue Nissan stopping next to the garage. His sister stepped out to open the garage doors.

  “Come on,” he said to Saffron as he left his bedroom. He bounded down the stairs with his friend following him. Passing the living room, he saw his mother was still sleeping.

  Ryan opened the front door. Rachel had parked the car in the garage - but she had not closed the doors. She had opened the boot, which was filled w
ith a week’s shopping. She was lifting out Asda bags when Ryan approached her. Saffron was just behind him. They offered to help his sister carry the bags.

  Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “You’re volunteering to help with the shopping?”

  “That’s right,” he said, taking hold of a bag. It was heavy and filled with tins. He picked up as many bags as his fingers could hold. Saffron grabbed some, too. They all carried the bags into the house. Rachel watched with amazement when Ryan and Saffron began unpacking everything onto the kitchen counter, sorting things out, then putting the items into the cupboards and fridge freezer.

  “This is too weird,” Rachel said. “What have you done wrong? Burned down your school?”

  “No,” Ryan said. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Honestly.”

  “But you want something?” Rachel said.

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Ah-hah! I knew it! You want me to give you money for something, but you know I can’t afford it.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t want money. Not this time, anyway. We just want to ask you something. You see I accidentally kicked my ball – the one dad gave me – over a wall ...”

  His sister winced. “You broke a window?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You knocked out an old lady?”

  “No! Just listen – please.”

  Ryan spent five minutes telling his sister what had happened. He told her about the man and the girl Saffron had seen crying. Saffron described every detail. Rachel listened but said nothing. When they had finished, he didn’t know what she was thinking.

  “So?” he said afterwards. “What do you think we should do, sis?”

  He called her “sis” when he particularly wanted a favour, reminding her of their sibling connection. He hoped it would work now.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Rachel said. “But ... just in case ... we’ll go back to the man’s house. I’ll ask him some questions to make sure she’s not in any danger.”

  Chapter Three

  An hour later Ryan returned to Willow Lane. He was in the rear of his sister’s car sitting beside Saffron. Rachel was driving slowly, looking at the houses as well as for a place to park.

  “Which house it is?” Rachel asked him.

  “That’s the house – Number Sixteen - the one with the big gates,” Ryan said. There were no vehicles parked in front of the man’s house – unlike every other house on the street - but Ryan didn’t want his sister to park where the man could see the car. “Please don’t park outside it. Go a little bit further.”

  Rachel stopped a few houses down between a grey car and a red one. Ryan studied the house through the rear window. The sun was behind some clouds, making the house looked even darker and more ominous than he remembered. The slate-grey roof had several chimneys poking up into the sky. He could see dark smoke rising from the central one.

  Rachel turned around to look back at Ryan and Saffron. “Okay, as we discussed, I will go to the house with Ryan. You will watch us, Saffron. If we go inside, call my cell after ten minutes to make sure everything’s all right. If I don’t answer, you know what to do?”

  “Yes,” Saffron answered. “I’ll call the police on my cell. Uh, I’ll just check I’ve got your number programmed right.”

  She pressed SEND and Rachel’s phone beeped.

  Ryan wished he had a cell phone, but he knew it would be stolen or broken within a day if he carried it around and someone at school told Greg Armstrong.

  “Well, our phones are working,” Rachel said. “Now, don’t forget to wait ten minutes after we go inside before calling, okay? Give us enough time to see the girl.”

  “Ten minutes,” Saffron said, nodding. “Trust me - I’ll time it to the nearest nanosecond. I won’t call the cops unless you don’t answer. Just be careful – okay? Watch your backs.”

  Her eyes pleaded with Ryan.

  “We will,” Ryan promised.

  He got out of the car. His sister joined him on the pavement. Saffron closed and locked all of the car doors, holding up her cell phone to prove it was ready. Ryan saw her chewing her lip. She was scared for them.

  He was scared, too.

  “See you soon,” Ryan said as he walked towards the wrought-iron gates. He looked back a few times to ensure Saffron was watching through the rear window. She was kneeling over the rear seats, watching every move. Her presence was reassuring.

  Ryan stopped at the gates, taking a moment to look around. Some of the neighbouring homes had turned on lights now the sunlight was poor, but no lights were on at the tall man’s house. The oak trees hid the house in impenetrable darkness.

  Ryan spoke to his sister in a quiet voice. “Can you feel the cold?”

  “Brrrrr! I can! You weren’t exaggerating about how creepy this place it. It’s like the home of The Munsters.”

  “The Mun-what?”

  “The Munsters. They were in an old TV series like The Addams Family. You have heard of that?”

  “Yes, of course.” He had seen the movies. His favourite character had been Wednesday played by Christina Ricci.

  “The Munsters was a basic rip-off of The Addams Family formula. They had a spooky old house just like this one.”

  “Never saw it,” Ryan said. “But I know what you mean.”

  Rachel shielded her eyes as though it would help her see better. “Can’t see any lights in the windows. They might not be in.”

  She sounded hopeful.

  “No - someone’s got a fire burning,” Ryan said, looking up at the chimney smoke. “He’s definitely in. I can sense it. He’s probably watching us right now, planning how to kill us.”

  “Shut up,” Rachel said. “He’s not a psycho. He’s probably a normal bloke. You’ll see.”

  Rachel stepped up to the buzzer. “Here I go ...”

  Ryan thought his sister looked nervous when she pressed the buzzer. The ringing lasted for a couple of seconds, echoing inside the large house.

  Like before, the man opened the door after a minute. Like before, he stayed in the doorway, cloaked in darkness. This time Ryan could barely see his outline against the doorway. His eyes registered the movement of his tall frame.

  “Yes?” the man said.

  “Hi!” Rachel called out cheerfully. “My name’s Rachel. I wanted to thank you for giving my little brother his ball back.”

  Little brother? Ryan hated it when his sister called him that. He was almost a teenager. He would be next year, anyway. “Yeah, we both want to thank you,” Ryan said.

  “It was the least I could do,” the man said.

  “That ball means a lot to my brother,” Rachel said. “He didn’t get to thank you properly, so he asked me if we could come back. As a thank-you present, we’ve brought you some of our home-baked muffins. We hope you’ll like them.”

  Smiling, Rachel held out a gift basket filled with delicious-looking chocolate and blueberry muffins. The muffins were not really home-baked unless you lived in Asda. The man would have to come out of the house to accept them – which was part one of their plan.

  “I appreciate your gift,” he said. “But I don’t eat muffins.”

  He didn’t move from the doorway. He started to close the door. It was all going wrong. The plan – it was a failure.

  What kind of weirdo didn’t like muffins?

  “Maybe,” Rachel said, “your daughter would like them?”

  The words froze him. He stopped closing the door.

  “My daughter?”

  “Yes,” she said. “She is your daughter – the girl my brother’s friend saw at the window?”

  The man did not reply for what felt like a long time. “Yes ... she is ... my daughter.”

  “She’ll like my muffins,” Rachel said. “I promise.”

  The man stepped out of the doorway into the evening light. He was coming towards them with alarming speed. Very quickly, the man was right there on the other side of the gates. He towered over Ryan and his sister, look
ing down through the wrought-iron bars. He had something in one of his black-gloved hands – a key. He unlocked the gates and opened them. He stepped forward.

  Ryan could see him clearly now. He looked as old as his stern, grim-faced English teacher, Mr McLeod, who was in his forties. He was wearing a dark-grey suit that looked old-fashioned, like something Ryan had seen in a film about Jack the Ripper. His hair was black and shiny, pasted to his skull like a pool of oil. The man’s face was long and narrow, with a sliver of pale lips. There was the barest hint of a smile. The smile did not reach his eyes, which were the deepest green. First, they were fixed upon Ryan, but then they moved to his sister.

  “Thank you,” the man said, accepting the basket. His eyes returned to Ryan. “This is very considerate of you, young man. What is your name?”

  Ryan wanted to lie - but he could not think of one with those penetrating green eyes staring at him. “Ryan, sir.”

  “Ryan what?”

  “Brewster.”

  “Ryan Brewster, my name is ... Lucas Ravencroft.”

  He offered his gloved hand to shake. Ryan shook it, trying to smile. The man’s grip was powerful. When Lucas Ravencroft released Ryan’s hand, Ryan felt like he’d caught his hand in a vice. He expected to see crushed bones and purple bruises. He flexed his fingers to make sure they were still intact. They were – but they ached.

  Now, Lucas Ravencroft smiled at his sister. “I’m sure my daughter will appreciate your muffins – er?”

  “Rachel,” his sister said.

  “Excuse me now – Rachel, Ryan – I have some work to complete.”