Room 13

by Robert Swindells

  Mrs Evans stuck her head round the door just as Fliss was taking her shoes off. ‘Can I see you out here a minute, please, Felicity?’

  Fliss sighed, re-tying the laces. ‘What’s up now, I wonder?’

  ‘You’re in bother,’ said Marie, cheerfully. She was already in bed. The twins hadn’t finished in the bathroom yet.

  Fliss went out on to the landing. Mrs Evans had Lisa there too. She spoke quietly to them both.

  ‘Now listen. I know you’re both worried about Ellie-May Sunderland, but you needn’t worry any more. She’s been fine today, but anyway Mrs Marriott and I have decided to take her into our room for the night, just in case she decides to go sleepwalking again. Mr Hepworth is speaking to Gary and David, and we want you all in bed and asleep before the clock strikes ten. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  The disco had shattered everybody, and by the time the faraway clock struck ten Marie and the twins were fast asleep. Fliss lay stroking her pebble, wishing she could sleep too. She could have, easily, but she knew if she did she wouldn’t wake up till morning.

  So. Ellie-May won’t be coming. That doesn’t mean the room out there won’t change though – wish it did. What about the others? Mr Hepworth’s spoken to Trot and Gary. They know Ellie-May’s being guarded. Will it stop them coming? Gary wasn’t too keen to begin with. And if they don’t come, what do we do, Lisa and me? Shine the torch in his eyes and hit him with the pebble, or call it off and let him go on luring kids to their doom? And anyway, who says Lisa’s going to show up?

  Good way to keep awake, worrying like this. Every quarter that clock chimes, but it seems like hours between. Ten fifteen. Ten thirty. Ten forty flipping five. Forty-five minutes to go.

  Then what?

  THEY CAME. ALL of them. Fliss came last, clutching her pebble.

  ‘Have we all got our stuff?’ she whispered. They showed her. ‘Right.’ She looked at her watch. Twenty to twelve. ‘Soon be over now.’

  ‘Aye,’ growled Gary. ‘One way or the other.’

  Fliss looked at him. ‘We’re going to succeed, right?’

  He shrugged. ‘If you say so. But if somebody had told me last week I’d be risking my life for Ellie-May Sunderland I’d have told him he was nuts. I don’t even like her, for Pete’s sake.’

  ‘Who does, but it’s not just for Ellie-May, Gary. Old Sal says it’s for all the others.’

  ‘Yeah, well, like I said before, she’s crackers.’

  They waited. Fliss kept looking at her watch. When it said five to twelve she whispered, ‘Right. Time to get into position.’

  They’d worked it all out beforehand. Trot was first. He opened the bathroom door and stood on the threshold, holding his kite. He’d stripped away the tattered polythene. All that remained was a stiff, white plastic cross. As soon as the number appeared on the cupboard door, he was to cross the landing, open the door quietly and walk in, holding up the cross. That was in case the vampire was awake and out of his coffin. If he was, then they wouldn’t be able to carry out their plan, but the cross might keep the creature at bay till they could get out and slam the door.

  Behind Trot stood Lisa with the torch. She would follow him in, and shine the torch around to see if the vampire was loose. If he was, she’d try to dazzle him while they retreated. If he was in the coffin, she was to shine it on his chest, right where Gary had to place the stick of rock.

  Gary was third. He would follow the other two in, and if everything was all right, he’d grip his rock with both hands and place the point directly over the vampire’s heart.

  Fliss would be last. If the vampire was out of the coffin, her job would be to get out fast and that was all. If he was in the coffin, she would raise the pebble and bring it down on the rock, driving the point into the vampire. She was to hammer the rock again and again till the vampire was dead.

  It would all have to be done very quickly. Fliss wished they’d been able to practise a couple of times, but they hadn’t. So. They had to get it right first time, or else –

  The town clock began to chime. ‘Stand by,’ whispered Fliss from the rear. Her mouth was bone-dry. Her left hand was resting on Gary’s shoulder and she could feel him trembling. In front of him, Lisa switched on her torch and trained it on the door.

  The pale stain appeared. Four pairs of eyes watched it form the number thirteen. As the figures grew clear, Fliss hissed, ‘Go!’

  Swiftly, silently, they padded in line across the landing. Trot twisted the doorknob, pushed, and walked into the darkness, holding the cross up high and with Lisa at his heels. The torch beam made a quick sweep of the room and steadied on the long, pale box. Gary strode forward and leaned over the open coffin, grasping the rock in both hands. Fliss stood poised, the great pebble raised high above her head. The torch beam slid over the rim of the box.

  He lay with his hands crossed on this breast and his eyes closed. He was thin, and small, and dirty. His face was dead white, except for a dark smudge on the forehead and a brown crust about the bluish lips. A fleece of pale, tangled hair, grey with dust, covered the skull, falling on to the bed of earth which covered the bottom of the coffin. His fingernails were split and blackened, and a disgusting smell rose from the single, filthy garment he wore, which looked like a nightshirt or shroud.

  ‘Ugh!’ Gary’s stomach heaved and he twisted his face aside.

  ‘Quick!’ hissed Lisa. ‘His eyes are moving – look!’

  As she spoke, the vampire’s eyelids fluttered. Gary sucked in some air, turned back and planted the spike he’d made in the vee between the creature’s hands. The vampire’s eyes flew open, red-rimmed, filled with fear. Grabbing the coffin-rim with one hand and scrabbling in the earth with the other, he began to rise. His lips parted. Chipped, yellow fangs glistened in the torchlight and the breath hissed stinking through his teeth. Trot dashed forward and thrust his cross at the contorted face. The vampire let go of the coffin-rim to strike at it, and as he did so Gary threw all this weight forward, bore down on the spike and yelled, ‘Now, Fliss – now!’

  Fliss aimed, screwed up her eyes and brought the pebble down with all the force she could muster. There was a wet thud and the vampire began to scream, bucking and thrashing so violently that the coffin slid about. Gary fell forward across the table, clinging desperately to the spike. ‘Again!’ he gasped. ‘For Pete’s sake hit it again, Fliss!’

  Fliss, sickened, raised the pebble and brought it down again, driving the spike clear through the writhing body into the bloody earth beneath, where it broke off. The vampire screamed again, clutching at the coffin-rim with both hands, flailing its naked legs and arching its back so violently that Gary’s grip was broken and he crashed to the floor.

  At once the others closed in. Lisa’s beam lanced into the creature’s fear-crazed eyes. Trot lowered the cross till it almost touched the coffin-rim, and Fliss lifted the pebble, ready to split the vampire’s skull.

  She didn’t have to. As they watched the creature’s struggles began to subside. Its screams became ghastly, bubbling cries as it twisted this way and that, clutching at the impaling spike, striving to draw it out. Soon, weakening, it ceased to kick.

  Its hands lost their grip on the spike and slid down the curve of the heaving chest on the glistening earth. It lay, mouth open, gulping at the air, rolling its head and screwing up its eyes as it strove to avoid the light. Gradually its movements became sluggish and its breathing shallow. Then, quite suddenly it seemed, the breathing stopped. The head rolled over to one side. All movement ceased.

  Fliss lowered her arms, dropped the pebble on the table and turned away. Trot let his cross fall to the floor and stood, gazing into the coffin. Gary had picked himself up and was leaning against the wall with this eyes closed, breathing hard, whispering, ‘We did it. Wow, we did it,’ over and over. Lisa aimed her torch beam at the floor and very slowly followed the puddle of light towards the open door. As she did so there were footfalls on the stair, and voices
, and the landing light triggered the shift, so that three frowsy teachers saw four dishevelled children and a cupboard which was locked.

  SOME MORNINGS ARE just perfect. You know what I mean. You’ve slept like a log, you come wide awake and it’s sunshine from the word go. Sunshine and birdsong and your favourite breakfast and everybody being nice to you. It sometimes happens to people on their birthday.

  Well, that Friday morning at Whitby was one of those, and it wasn’t anybody’s birthday. There should have been some gloom about because the holiday was over, but there wasn’t. Fliss and the other three should have felt dog-tired and maybe a little bit chastened after their horrific adventure, but they didn’t. They’d got a terrific telling-off from old Hepworth, of course, but they didn’t mind that. An enormous weight had been lifted from them and they walked on air. Nobody thought, Oh, crikey, school. Everybody thought, Oh great, home! It was that sort of morning.

  Fliss was hungry. The aroma of sausages, drifting up from the basement kitchen, made her mouth water. Sausages! Her favourite. The cereal was a favourite, too. She shovelled it into her face, watching the teachers.

  They hadn’t tried to explain to the teachers. There was no point. Grown-ups don’t believe anything you tell them. They have to see with their own eyes, and there was nothing to see. Not now.

  After breakfast, the children went upstairs to finish packing and tidy their rooms. The door of the linen cupboard was closed, and there was no number on it. Never will be again, thought Fliss. Not even at midnight. She smiled.

  In room ten, everything had been packed away. Marie and the twins stood looking out of the window. ‘There’s no old witch today,’ said Maureen.

  ‘Mad Sal’s not a witch,’ said Fliss. ‘And she’s not mad either.’

  Room ten looked bare without their bits and pieces. It wasn’t their room any more and they weren’t sorry to leave it. They carried their luggage downstairs and stacked it in the hallway. The coach wasn’t due for another hour, so the teachers took them down to the beach where they ran or skimmed pebbles or stood, saying goodbye to the sea, which sparkled in the sun.

  The coach was coming at half-past ten. At twenty past, Mr Hepworth called them together and led them back up the steep pathway.

  It was there. The driver was stowing the last of the luggage in the boot. Mr Wilkinson was helping him. Both men whistled as they worked.

  The children crossed the road and climbed on board. Fliss and Lisa got seats together. The driver slipped into his seat, grinned at the children through his mirror and told them to hold tight. The engine roared into life. The coach rolled forward. The Wilkinsons stood on the top step, waving. The children waved back. The coach gathered speed. The Crow’s Nest fell away behind. They were going home.

  Fliss settled back in the comfy seat and sighed. ‘It’s been a funny sort of holiday,’ she said.

  Lisa nodded. ‘You can say that again. I’m glad we did it, though. We made things better, didn’t we, Fliss – I could sort of feel it this morning.’

  ‘Oh, so could I. Everybody could, I think. Mr Wilkinson, whistling. And the driver. Drivers are usually a bit narky when they’ve got a coachload of kids, but this one isn’t. Look at him, grinning in the mirror.’

  The coach swooped down into Sleights, then toiled up the road to the moors. Halfway up, Fliss slapped her knee and cried, ‘Drat!’

  Lisa looked at her. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered – that picture I got for my mum. I put it on top of the wardrobe and I’ve left it there.’

  ‘Oh, Fliss! Why did you put it there, and not in your case?’

  ‘I had other things to think about, didn’t I? Vampires, for instance. I just shoved it any old where and forgot about it.’

  ‘Maybe Mrs Wilkinson’ll find it – send it on.’

  ‘How can she? She won’t know it’s mine. It might have been there weeks for all she knows.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Mum – no pressy.’

  They were on the moors now. Sun and sky, wind and heather. Mr Hepworth stood up. ‘If you look back now,’ he said, ‘you’ll get a glimpse of the abbey.’

  Everybody stood or knelt, looking back. There it was, a black, dramatic silhouette against the shining sea. As Fliss gazed at it, somebody touched her elbow. She turned, and saw Ellie-May with a little flat package in her hand. ‘I heard what you said,’ she whispered, ‘about your mum’s picture. I want you to have this.’

  ‘What is it, Ellie-May?’

  ‘A picture. A Sutcliffe, like the one you lost. I saw you with it yesterday.’

  ‘Well, don’t you want it? Didn’t you buy it for someone?’

  ‘I bought it for me, Fliss. It was a present from me to myself.’ She smiled. ‘I bring myself presents all the time. Or rather, I did. I was my favourite person, you see. Now you are – you and Lisa and Gary and Trot – because I know what you did. Here – take it.’

  Fliss took the package. She smiled at Ellie-May. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Thank you, Fliss.’ Nobody had seen her give Fliss the picture. Everybody was busy looking at the abbey. She slipped back to her seat.

  Fliss looked along the coach at Ellie-May, then down at the little package. She smiled.

  ‘So long, Dracula,’ she whispered. ‘Hi, felicity.’

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Robert Swindells left school at fifteen and worked as a copyholder on a local newspaper. At seventeen he joined the RAF for three years, two of which he served in Germany. He then worked as a clerk, an engineer and a printer before training and working as a teacher. He is now a full-time writer and lives on the Yorkshire moors.

  He has written many books for young readers, including many for the Transworld children’s lists, his first of which, Room 13 won the 1990 Children’s Book Award, whilst his latest, Abomination, won the 1999 Stockport Children’s Book Award and the Sheffield Children’s Book Award and was shortlisted for the Whitbread Prize, the Lancashire Children’s Book Award and the 1999 Children’s Book Award. His books for older readers include Stone Cold, which won the 1994 Carnegie Medal, as well as the award-winning Brother in the Land. As well as writing, Robert Swindells enjoys keeping fit, travelling and reading.

  Also available by Robert Swindells

  and published by Doubleday/Corgi Yearling Books:

  ABOMINATION

  BLITZED

  HYDRA

  INSIDE THE WORM

  INVISIBLE!

  JACQUELINE HYDE

  NIGHTMARE STAIRS

  RUBY TANYA

  THE THOUSAND EYES OF NIGHT

  TIMESNATCH

  A WISH FOR WINGS

  INSIDE THE WORM

  Robert Swindells

  The worm was close now. So close Fliss could smell the putrid stench of its breath. Its slavering jaws gaped to engulf her …

  Everyone in Elsworth knows the local legend about the monstrous worm that once terrorised the village. But it never really happened. Or did it? For when Fliss and her friends are chosen to re-enact the legend for the village Festival, something very sinister begins to happen.

  Hidden within the framework of the worm costume, the four who are to play the part of the worm dance as one across the ground. And as they sense the exhilaration of awesome power, an intense excitement that tempts them to turn beauty into ugliness, good into evil, Fliss begins to feel real fear. Somehow, the worm itself is returning – with a thousand-year hunger in its belly, and vengeance in its brain …

  A compelling, fast-paced and spine-chilling new thriller, featuring Fliss and her friends from the award-winning Room 13.

  0 440 86464X

  CORGI YEARLING BOOKS

  ROOM 13

  AN RHCB DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 10019 4

  Published in Great Britain by RHCB Digital,

  an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

  A Random House Group Company

  This ebook edition published 2011

  Copyright © Robert Swin
dells, 1989

  Illustrations copyright © 1989 by Jon Riley

  First Published in Great Britain

  Doubleday 1989

  The right of Robert Swindells to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  RANDOM HOUSE CHILDREN’S BOOKS

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk

  www.totallyrandombooks.co.uk

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.