‘I hope he’s dumped his swamp-thing son on top as a guy,’ growled Rob.
Bethan looked down at her mud-plastered jeans. ‘It’s us who’re the swamp-things,’ she laughed.
The fence behind them, they turned shoreward and scrambled up the banking. Rockets were sowing stars in the sky, and flashes were followed by bangs. As they stood, stamping their feet to loosen clods of mud, something moved in the dark between the trees. Bethan saw it first. ‘What the heck’s that?’ she croaked.
‘What?’ cried Rob. ‘Where?’ They were glancing wildly about them when a man’s voice called out, ‘Who’s there: what the heck do you kids think you’re playing at?’
They froze.
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE DRY PALLETS at the base of the stack had got the bonfire off to a brisk start. Reginald Hopwood stepped back. Three volunteer stewards had spaced themselves at intervals round the stack. They were burly villagers, whose main job was to prevent anybody getting too close to the blaze, but they’d move swiftly to curb any outbreak of hooliganism.
Hopwood scanned the gathering till he located his son. Carl was taking snapshots of the fire with his mobi, watched by Nigel Stocks and Shaun Modley. The councillor stared at them till Carl looked across, then beckoned him. The sidekicks came too.
‘I need you to check out the reservoir,’ he told the trio.
‘Oh, Da–ad,’ protested Carl. ‘Not tonight. We’ll miss the fireworks, and besides nobody’ll bother with the res on Bonfire Night. They’re all here.’
His father looked at him. ‘Are they? Can you be sure about that?’
‘Well no, but . . .’
‘There you are then.’
Carl looked surly. ‘What is it about the res anyway, Dad? Why should you care if plonkers put themselves in danger? It isn’t fair, me and the lads were looking forward to watching the fireworks.’
The councillor’s features reddened. ‘The lads can please themselves,’ he spluttered. ‘They don’t live under my roof, eat my food. You do. Which means you do exactly as I tell you at all times. Is that clear?’
‘Y–yes, Dad.’ Carl hated looking a prat in front of his friends, but he’d always been scared of his father. He looked at Shaun and Nigel. ‘Coming?’
Shaun shuffled his feet, looked at the ground. ‘No, I reckon I’ll stick around, mate, if that’s all right.’
Nigel nodded. ‘Yeah, me too. We’ll see you later, eh?’
‘Thanks a bunch,’ snarled Carl. ‘Good to have mates you can count on.’ He turned his back on the fire, slunk away. It’d be woe betide any kid he found near Wilton Water tonight.
THIRTY-EIGHT
‘WH . . . WHO IS it?’ Bethan moved closer to her brother.
‘Dunno, Sis. Get ready to run.’
Rob snorted. ‘In that mud? No chance.’
‘It’s a man with glasses,’ whispered Alison.
Harry glanced at her. ‘Glasses – you sure?’ There was comfort in glasses; ghosts and monsters don’t wear them.
Alison nodded. ‘Look.’
The man came out of the trees. Fireglow reflected in the round lenses of his spectacles.
Rob laughed with relief. ‘It’s Steve,’ he said. ‘Steve Wood.’ He called out. ‘It’s OK, Mister Wood, it’s only us. We talked here a while back.’
The historian approached. He wasn’t smiling. ‘I know,’ he growled, ‘but that was tea time. You kids shouldn’t be here this late – what if I’d been a serial killer or something? What’re you doing, anyway?’
‘We came to check out the mill,’ said Harry. ‘The one you told us about.’
Wood nodded. ‘Hopwood Mill. It’s just along there, but it’s too dark to see much, and it’s highly dangerous to walk on that reservoir bed as you’ve just done. It drops off steeply into deep water.’
‘OK,’ said Rob. ‘We get the message, but we might as well have a quick look now we’re here.’
The historian sighed. ‘It’s easier to get in and out at the other end. I’ll show you. We pass the mill on the way.’
They followed Steve along the footpath. Flashes lit the sky.
Steve stopped, pointed. ‘There, see?’
They peered across the mud, saw lengths of crumbled wall, none more than a metre high.
‘Is that it?’ asked Harry. ‘No chimney, no roofs?’
Wood chuckled. ‘They didn’t leave the chimney up, lad, they re-used the stone. Took the roofs off as well. Yorkshire stone, expensive. It’s in the village, I’ll show you sometime. Come on.’
‘Can’t we just go down for a minute?’ asked Bethan.
Steve shook his head. ‘No way, young lady. I told you, it’s dangerous. Come back in daylight if you can dodge the workmen, but don’t come by yourself. And don’t tell anybody I suggested it or you’ll get me shot.’
At the west end of the reservoir was the dam wall, the overflow, the diggers and the dumpsters. This was where the work went on by day. There was a fence across the footpath, but this one was movable because the workmen had to come and go. Steve Wood lifted the tubular steel pole and bent one end of the fencing inward to make a narrow gap between it and the boundary wall. He ushered them through and swung the pole back into position.
‘Right,’ he said, sternly. ‘Off to the bonfire now, and remember what I said. No more night expeditions, OK?’
Rob nodded for all of them. ‘OK, Mister Wood. Daylight only, and you never said we could.’ He grinned. ‘In fact we’ve never heard of you.’
Steve smiled and nodded. ‘That’s about right, lad. G’night.’
THIRTY-NINE
CARL KICKED A pebble off the bank, watched it plop in the mud. He had on his brand new Nikes. There’s no way I’m wading through that in these.
Trouble was, there were footprints. Loads of them. They showed up every time a firework exploded. It looked like a bunch of people had squelched through the goo. He could go back to the fire and report all quiet. He might even catch the fireworks, but tomorrow was Thursday. Thursdays, his dad had lunch at The Feathers. What if he took it into his head to check out the res? He was daft enough. He’d see the prints. He’d know Carl must’ve seen them too. Life at home would be even more dodgy than usual.
Muttering to himself, he sat down and unlaced his trainers. He’d roll up his jeans and go barefoot with the Nikes round his neck. ‘And I wouldn’t be you whoever you are, when I catch up with you,’ he hissed.
Rocket flashes showed Carl that nobody was in front of him. He rounded the fence, scrambled up the bank and tried wiping his feet on grass. This didn’t work. His socks would be plastered with stinky gloop. Not my fault, he thought. Dad’s fault for being a screwed-up nutcase.
With the Nikes back on, he started along the footpath.
He was pretty sure the intruders were long gone by now, and that was fine – he didn’t fancy tackling a bunch of kids without backup. But he wasn’t going to let his dad accuse him of not doing a thorough job. I tracked ’em, he’d say, made sure they’d left.
They hadn’t though, had they? He stopped, screwed up his eyes. Somebody’s out there, by the mill, and he’s by himself. He smiled. Boy, is he going to pay for the hassle he’s put me through.
At that moment, a brilliant flash lit the sky and Carl saw his intended target clearly. She was standing two metres above the mud, on nothing more solid than air.
FORTY
‘WELL THAT WAS a big waste of time,’ grumbled Harry, staring moodily at the bonfire.
‘Yes it was,’ agreed his sister, examining her shoes in the firelight. ‘And look at the state of these trainers. Mum’ll go mad.’
‘Don’t be such miseries,’ said Alison. ‘We’re here before your mum, and we haven’t missed the fireworks. That’s what matters.’
‘ ’S all right for you,’ snarled Bethan. ‘Your mum won’t even look at your shoes, and if she does she won’t give a stuff. You’re lucky.’
‘We’re all lucky,’ put in Rob. ‘Carl’s
not here.’
Harry’s eyes searched the crowd. ‘No he isn’t, is he? His dad is, and both cave trolls, but not his great pink self.’
‘Probably drowning some kittens,’ growled Rob, ‘or torturing a robin. You know how he likes a laugh.’
‘Ah, there you are!’ Christa approached, smiling. ‘Am I in time for the fireworks?’
Bethan nodded. ‘Yes, Mum, Councillor Hopwood’s getting the stewards together, they’re about to start.’
It was a brilliant display, same as every year. The village traders clubbed together to buy the fireworks and no expense was spared. It was the one occasion when all the people of Wilton came together, and it was safer than having kids messing with fireworks of their own.
The show had reached its usual climax – salvo after salvo of large costly rockets whooshing into the sky trailing clouds of glory, when Harry spotted Carl Hopwood. He was walking through the crowd like a zombie, staring straight ahead as if nothing at all was happening above. As Harry watched, the lad approached his father, tugged at his sleeve to get his attention and spoke, gesturing back the way he’d come. To Harry’s horror, the councillor shook his son off and fetched him a terrific clout across the side of the head, knocking him to the ground.
FORTY-ONE
‘WHAT’S HAPPENED?’ ASKED Christa, glancing to where a knot of men stood looking at something on the ground. The last shoal of stars had blinked out, leaving their green phantoms in front of her eyes. ‘Has somebody been hurt?’
Harry nodded. ‘Yes, but not by a firework.’
‘What, then? I was watching the rockets.’
‘Everybody was. I bet I’m the only one who saw.’
‘Saw what, love?’
‘The councillor hit Carl, really hard. He fell down, they’re all gawping at him.’
As he spoke Carl sat up, one hand pressed to his cheek. The men stepped back. Councillor Hopwood bent, gripped his son’s elbow and pulled him to his feet. The boy looked groggy but his father ushered him away at once, through the circle of spectators, heading for the Rover.
‘What a brute,’ gasped Christa. ‘He’s lucky everybody was busy watching the sky. I expect he’ll claim the boy fainted or something.’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry. ‘Pity that photographer wasn’t here.’
What’s he called, Aly?’
‘Bill.’
‘That’s the one. Shame Bill wasn’t here with his camera.’ He smiled tightly. ‘Likes his picture in the Echo, our Councillor, but I bet he wouldn’t want an action shot of himself damn near knocking his son’s head off.’
‘Front page,’ grinned Rob. ‘Councillor Reginald Hopwood enjoys an intimate moment with his son during Wilton’s annual bonfire celebration. Minutes after this picture was taken, Carl was rushed to Rawton General Hospital where his head was sewn back on.’
‘Idiot,’ growled Harry.
‘Not something to joke about really, boys,’ murmured Christa. ‘Makes you wonder what goes on behind the curtains up at Hopwood House.’
‘Hopwood’s House of Horrors,’ intoned the incorrigible Rob. ‘Featuring Raving Reginald, Rawton’s Rotten Ratbag.’
FORTY-TWO
FELICITY HOPWOOD WAS at the window when the Rover pulled up in front of the garage. She’d been watching the rockets and Roman candles over the village rooftops. Felicity enjoyed fireworks, but never accompanied her husband anywhere unless it was absolutely necessary.
Reginald had stopped the car to let Carl out. As soon as she saw her son, Felicity knew something had happened. Carl didn’t look like a boy coming home from an exciting event. There was something hangdog about the way he waited for his father to put the car away. It was a look his mother had seen many times before. As the pair approached the house, Felicity stepped back and let the curtain fall.
Carl entered the room first. Felicity greeted him with the bright smile she wore when she didn’t feel like smiling. ‘Hello, Carl – nice time?’ The bruised cheek and swollen ear made his face look lopsided.
He shook his head and mumbled, ‘Does it look like I had a nice time? I saw this woman. She was a ghost but Dad says—’
Reginald loomed scowling in the doorway. ‘Dad says get yourself off to bed, now.’ Carl shot his mother a scornful look, then turned and slunk out. As he passed his father, Reginald raised a hand as if to hit him. The boy flinched, and Reginald laughed contemptuously. Felicity looked at her husband with loathing.
‘You hit him. A little boy. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.’
Reginald laughed again. ‘Certainly I hit him. He deserved it, showing me up in front of my friends.’
‘You show yourself up,’ murmured his wife, ‘and you don’t deserve to have friends.’ She was trembling. ‘D’you know what I wonder, Reginald? I wonder how you’d fare if you were ever foolish enough to strike somebody your own size.’
‘Ha!’ Her husband glared. ‘There is nobody my size,’ he snarled. ‘Not in Wilton, nor in Rawton. You married the cock of the heap, Felicity – not that you appreciate it or anything like that. Where’s my supper?’
Felicity locked eyes with him. ‘Your supper’s wherever you find it, you contemptible bully. I hope it chokes you.’
FORTY-THREE
‘WHOA!’ CRIED CHRISTA, as she followed Harry and Bethan into the porch. ‘Don’t you dare track those trainers across my kitchen floor.’ She gave them a suspicious look. ‘How’ve they got into that state anyway – there was hardly any mud on the Green.’
Harry pulled a face. ‘We . . . called at the res on our way, Mum. My idea, sorry.’
His mother sighed. ‘If you were sorry, Harry, you wouldn’t have done it. Your father was forever saying he was sorry, but it didn’t stop him doing the same thing over and over.’
Harry shook his head. ‘I’m nothing like Dad – it does my head in when you say that.’
‘I’m sorry, love. Of course you’re not like him. It’s just that I’ve asked you not to take Bethan near the reservoir, especially in the dark, and you did so regardless.’
‘It’s not all Harry’s fault,’ put in Bethan. ‘I’m interested in the old mill too, and—’ She nearly mentioned the ghost, but stopped herself in time. ‘And I nag him to take me.’
‘Yes well,’ said Christa, ‘we’ll say no more about it, at least not tonight.’ She smiled. ‘Decide who’s having the first shower, and I’ll put the kettle on for hot chocolate.’
Brother and sister slept like logs that night, but their mother did not. She lay thinking about Wilton Water, Hettie Daynes and the strange behaviour of Councillor Hopwood. On the face of it, the three topics were unconnected.
But were they?
FORTY-FOUR
CARL WAS SITTING on the bed, hands clamped between his knees, staring at the rug. He looked up as his mother came into the room. She saw that he’d been crying, sat down and put an arm round him. ‘Where was the woman you saw? What makes you think she was a ghost?’
Carl shook off the arm, turned his face away. ‘On the reservoir, standing in the air.’
‘What d’you mean, in the air? Was she flying?’
He shook his head. ‘No, of course she wasn’t flying, you daft beggar. She was standing. Six feet above the mud.’
He was shivering. She reached for him but he batted her hand away. ‘Why were you at the reservoir, Carl? You were meant to be at the fire.’
‘Dad sent me to see if any kids were there.’
‘Why?’ Felicity sighed in exasperation. ‘I don’t understand. Do you know why he’s the way he is about Wilton Water?’
Carl shrugged. ‘Safety, he reckons. Barmy if you ask me.’
‘No.’ His mother shook her head. ‘Your father isn’t barmy, Carl, but something’s worrying him.’ She touched the boy’s cheek with her fingertips. ‘So you told him what you’d seen, and then he hit you?’
Carl jerked his head back. ‘Yes. Some of his friends were there. He called me a blithering idiot, showing him
up. Then he knocked me down.’
‘And none of these friends protested. About his hitting you, I mean?’
‘I don’t know, do I? I was stunned. Maybe they didn’t see, everybody was watching the rockets. And anyway you’ve no room to talk. You never protest.’
‘I do the best I can,’ murmured Felicity. ‘It isn’t easy for me either, you know.’ She touched her son’s hair. ‘As for what you saw at the reservoir, try to put it out of your mind. It was dark, there were lights in the sky. Smoke. You certainly saw something, but perhaps it wasn’t quite what it appeared to be.’ She stood up, pecked his swollen cheek. ‘Sleep well, darling.’
FORTY-FIVE
THE RAWTON ECHO came out every Thursday. The day after Bonfire Night, certain people could hardly wait to see a copy of the paper. Most impatient was Councillor Hopwood. He bought an early edition on his way to The Feathers and paged through it as he walked along the street. He found Bill’s photo of Alison Crabtree in her wet costume and scanned the caption underneath.
Ten-year-old Alison Crabtree, winner of Wilton Primary School’s most original Hallowe’en costume competition. Alison came as the ghost which some local people claim to have seen at Wilton Water. The competition was judged by Councillor Reginald Hopwood, the school’s Chair of Governors.
Reginald smiled, folded the paper and thrust it into his jacket pocket. The photographer had heeded his threat. The ghost was just a ghost. No name, which was good. His own name appeared though, and that was even better. He was so pleased, he forgot to swear at the Big Issue vendor who occupied his usual pitch.
The Crabtrees wanted to see the Echo too, but they had to wait till tea time. It was on the table, along with a stack of unironed washing and the cat when Alison got in from school. Her mother nodded towards it. ‘It’s open at the page, love. You look sensational.’
Alison gazed at the photo. She did look sensational. She also looked remarkably like the apparition Bethan had snapped at the res. The white make-up, pointing finger and bedraggled dress were absolutely spot-on. ‘That is so cool,’ she breathed.
The Shade of Hettie Daynes Page 6