‘I can look after myself,’ I repeated. ‘I’m vindictive and vengeful. It helps me survive.’
Carter laughed in my face. ‘And very, very young.’ His expression hardened. ‘So stay down here if you plan to get older.’
He left the room. I placed my backpack on the stained, grubby floor and stretched out on the settee, switching the knife I kept in my right boot to my left boot as I decided to lie on my right side. I liked to keep my knife close to hand. Carter was a morose pig, obviously unused to company, but he didn’t look like a murderer. I tugged at my shirt. I longed to unstrap myself but decided it would be too dangerous. Instead I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep.
‘Wake up, damn it!’
‘Ouch!’ I exclaimed angrily after another hard punch to my arm.
‘What about breakfast?’ Carter demanded.
‘What about it?’ I repeated coolly, rubbing my upper arm.
‘Earn your keep!’ He walked away from me and opened the shutters. ‘And once you’ve made the breakfast you can clean the house.’
‘And what’re you going to be doing while I work?’ I asked, irritated.
‘Reading your sci-fi novel. It’s been a long time since I read a proper book.’
‘That’s not fair,’ I replied.
‘Tough. If you don’t like it you can always leave. And if you don’t do it you’ll be leaving anyway.’
I looked out of the window at the rain. It flowed like mini waterfalls off the leaves of all the trees around. How clever of whoever it was to release into the air a chemical agent which was only activated when it rained. And how extremely clever to ensure that it only attacked human flesh.
‘Well?’ Carter asked when I didn’t respond.
‘Why d’you think the rain still only attacks people?’ I asked. ‘Why would someone design a chemical to wipe us all out?’
Carter frowned at my question, which had obviously taken him by surprise. ‘Maybe they didn’t expect the chemicals to remain in the atmosphere for so long.’
‘Or maybe they didn’t care if they died as long as they could take their enemies with them,’ I ventured.
‘Hmm,’ said Carter, but it was hard to tell whether he was in agreement or just acknowledging what I’d said.
‘But that still doesn’t explain why the—’
‘Never mind the damn rain, what about breakfast?’
‘Don’t you have any thoughts on the subject?’
‘None that I’m going to share with you.’
‘What did you do before the war?’ I asked curiously. ‘You’re pretty old so you must’ve worked at something before all this. Or were you unemployed? You seem well educated, in spite of your bad manners and worse habits …’
‘All these attempts to get out of making the breakfast aren’t working,’ Carter said icily. ‘And I’m not going to tell you again.’
‘All right, all right,’ I sighed, getting up. ‘I’ll cook but I’m not cleaning your bloody house. It was like this when I got here.’
I went into the kitchen and Carter followed me. It was cramped and smelled nose-twitchingly of old, burned food. A wood-burning stove sat self-consciously opposite two huge water tanks which were as tall as Carter, with a diameter of at least two-thirds of a metre each. These tanks had a gap of just under a metre between them, in which a chair had been placed. The kitchen was small enough as it was, without wasting space like that, I thought. The tanks should’ve been placed next to each other, touching. There were various cupboards, work surfaces covered with rotting bits of food and candle ends, and next to the stove a small sink. I pointed to the door on the other side of the stove.
‘What’s through there?’ I asked.
‘The toilet.’
‘Where do you keep the food?’ I looked askance at the cupboards. Did I really want food out of those dirty, disgusting things?
Carter studied me. ‘Between the two water tanks,’ he said at last. I frowned as he walked over, moved the chair and lifted the filthy, patchy lino to one side. There was a trapdoor totally flush with the floor.
‘The cellar runs beneath most of the house. That’s where I keep my food,’ Carter said, his eyes burning into me. ‘You can go down there and get some, but don’t think of stealing anything because I’m going to check you and your bag before you leave.’
I walked across and peered down into the inky blackness that was the cellar.
‘What about some light?’ I asked.
Carter picked up a candle end and thrust it into my hand, then took a match out of one of his pockets and struck it against the wall before lighting the candle. Without another word I went down into the cellar. I’d have to find a way of pocketing some bits of candle before I left. I kept a number of useful, useless objects in my pockets: two candle ends, matches wrapped in a tiny scrap of cellophane, a pack of well-used cards, pins, even plasters. They were all things that my mother had given me – and so far I’d never needed to use anything but the cards and the matches. I looked around. I was surrounded by box upon box, swallowed up by the darkness beyond the light from my candle. Before I left I’d also have to try and pocket some food. Carter obviously had plenty.
‘Hurry up,’ he called after me.
With a patient sigh, I began to search through the tins in the box nearest to me for something suitable to eat.
‘Breakfast is served.’ I entered the living room, a plate in either hand. Carter was standing by the window, staring out. I placed the steaming plates on the table. My hands can stand really hot things; it’s the cold they don’t like. We ate breakfast in silence, although I could tell that my host was impressed. Not only did he make appreciative noises as he ate the corned beef hash I’d prepared, he then licked the plate, slamming it back down on the table. There was no ‘thank you’, not even a ‘that was good’.
‘What did you do before the war?’ I asked, annoyed. ‘No, don’t tell me. Let me guess … you wrote books on manners and etiquette.’
‘That’s not too far from the truth,’ Carter said dryly. ‘You can tidy up now,’ he added quickly, as if regretting the admission.
‘I’m not tidying anything – I told you that before.’
Carter smiled suddenly. ‘Can you play chess?’
‘Yes,’ I said cautiously, thrown by the change of subject.
‘We’ll play chess instead then.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s been a long time since I had an opponent other than myself.’
I could now see why the house was so dirty. The first two games lasted about twenty and thirty minutes respectively and I was thrashed both times. The third game lasted over an hour and I was still beaten, much to Carter’s disgust.
‘I thought you said you could play,’ he said scathingly.
‘I can play in that I know the rules. I never said I was a grand master.’
Carter snorted with derision at that.
‘I’m no good at strategy games, I never have been,’ I told him. In between playing, I made lunch. After the games I made dinner.
And so the first day passed. I asked Carter to show me around the house but he looked at me frostily and didn’t deign to answer. When I pestered him further he did tell me that the room next to the living room was a half-empty storeroom, nothing more.
The next day we played yet more chess, then draughts, using the chess pieces as draughtsmen. I was actually better than him at that, much to his annoyed amazement.
‘How come you’re so good at draughts and so crap at chess?’ he asked.
I smiled. ‘Draughts is more impulsive. It suits me.’
‘What a load of bull!’
‘You explain it then,’ I challenged.
He couldn’t, so he started cheating. Every time I looked away, one of my pieces would mysteriously disappear from the board. When it grew dark we both read for a while. Then he went upstairs and I stayed downstairs. And so the second day passed.
During breakfast on the third day Carter was obviously annoyed. ‘
I thought you said the rain would only last two days,’ he accused.
I sniffed audibly. ‘Another two days of rain,’ I said slowly. ‘I’m sorry I got it wrong before but this time I’m right.’
‘Hmm!’ he replied sullenly. ‘You’d better be.’
‘How did you get that scar on your face?’ I’d been dying to know since the first time I saw it.
His expression zigzagged faster than a lightning flash. ‘You’re too damned nosy.’
‘Not nosy. Interested,’ I corrected. ‘I’m surprised anyone got close enough to do that to you. You obviously think I’m more deadly than I look because you carry at least two knives that I know about. That’s why I’m interested.’
Carter dropped his fork, which clattered on his plate. He stared out of the window, his expression sombre and brooding.
‘A woman did it,’ he said at last. ‘A damned woman.’
‘What did you do to make her scar you?’ The question was out before I could stop myself.
Carter glared at me. ‘I was stupid enough to marry her,’ he spat. ‘No more questions.’
‘Where is she now?’ I asked.
‘Dead.’
A chill dripped down my spine. ‘Did you kill her?’
‘Hell! No, I did not. Some Marauders got her. Now, I mean it, no more questions.’
‘Is that why you hide yourself away … because of the Marauders? Don’t you miss people, having someone to talk to?’
‘No, I don’t. In fact, just listening to you makes me grateful for the peace and quiet I get when I’m alone. I haven’t talked this much in months.’
‘Don’t you like people?’ I said, ignoring the acid hint.
‘No, I don’t. I’ve never met anyone I liked enough to trust, especially when it comes to women. I remember a few months ago when a man and woman asked for shelter from the rain. No sooner had they set foot in my house than the woman started making a play for me. She didn’t even try to hide what she was up to from her partner. I woke up that night to find the man in my room, a knife in his hand, ready to separate my head from my neck. Take my advice, Robby, don’t trust anyone. Everyone lies and everyone wants something.’
‘I don’t’ – I shrugged – ‘unless you count shelter from the rain. I like people, and a lot of people are decent, even nowadays. The only ones I would always avoid are the Marauders – but then everyone avoids them.’
‘You’re a fool,’ Carter said with disgust. ‘You won’t make it to your eighteenth birthday.’
I shrugged again. Maybe he was right.
We played cards for the rest of the day. Carter had to be cajoled into playing – he said he didn’t like cards, but I threatened not to make dinner. After calling me a right little kid, he gave in. It was more fun than either of us expected. We played all the silly children’s games my mum had taught me.
Over dinner Carter said speculatively, ‘You’re the strangest boy I’ve ever met. I can’t make you out at all.’
‘I’m not a boy, I’m a man,’ I replied.
‘Have you ever had sex with a woman?’ he asked.
I said scornfully, ‘You don’t have to sleep with a woman to be a man.’
‘But it helps,’ Carter said. ‘And you still haven’t answered my question.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I answered.
‘Maybe that’s what you need for your voice to break.’
‘Believe me, Carter’ – I smiled – ‘I don’t think that would do much good!’
‘I sometimes miss sex.’ Carter stared out into the rain.
‘Only sometimes?’
‘Only sometimes,’ he affirmed.
‘Don’t you miss your wife?’ I asked carefully.
‘My wife put me off women for life,’ Carter said with venom. ‘She was incapable of telling the truth, she loved to humiliate me. She damn near emasculated me. She got exactly what she deserved.’
I hesitated before speaking, unusual for me. Carter was so angry, so bitter. His wife was a bitch, he said, therefore all women must be bitches.
‘Nobody deserves to be killed by Marauders,’ I said quietly. ‘Marauders are the sadistic scum of the earth. I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy.’
Carter sat broodingly silent. He got up abruptly, his chair falling over behind him, and left the room. I didn’t see him until dinner time, and even then he didn’t say a word to me. I just shrugged it off.
By the fourth day the strappings around my chest had become as uncomfortable as hell. I’d attempted to take them off the previous night but Carter clumped downstairs, accusing me of ‘moving about’. We argued briefly until I decided that I was wasting my breath and turned my back on him in an effort to get some sleep. In the dark silence that followed I thought he’d go away and leave me in peace. We both knew I hadn’t been moving about. Hell! I’d been trying to keep extra quiet so that I could take off my strappings and padding. Then Carter asked me if I’d like a game of chess. He obviously wanted some company so I reluctantly said yes. He was right. I was far too soft.
That afternoon I was preparing soup in the kitchen when I heard a noise outside the house. I went over to the window, rubbing off the grime which had turned the pane brown, and then I saw them – two of them – moving towards the front door.
Marauders …
10
THE TRAIN … I have to get back to the train … NOW.
I dredged up the thought from the middle of nowhere, only to find myself snapping back to the present so fast, my head was ringing.
‘You brought us out of Roberta’s nightmare,’ Rachel accused. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘W-what?’ I looked around, almost expecting Marauders to be striding down the carriage.
‘We’re not safe here,’ said Rachel.
I didn’t listen to her. I couldn’t take in what she was saying.
‘The things that happen to Robby – are they real?’ I asked.
Rachel frowned. ‘Why ask me?’
‘ ’Cause you know a lot more than you’re letting on,’ I said impatiently. ‘You knew I was sharing these … dreams in the first place. So was Robby’s nightmare true?’
At first I thought she wasn’t going to answer, but I was determined not to say another word until she did. ‘Nightmares are sometimes suppressed memories. Some nightmares tell what happened in the past, some tell what will happen in the future, most are nothing more than bad dreams or fears being filed away.’
‘But will that happen? The war and the rain?’ I asked, appalled.
Rachel shrugged. ‘Who knows? Possibly. Probably.’
Unable to take much more, I closed my eyes. I needed to get away, even if it was just in my head. Get out of this carriage, get off this train, go somewhere else … Go home.
Dad was in the kitchen, singing tunelessly. But at least he was singing. Deeply surprised, I tiptoed along the hall and stood in the doorway, watching him. Two steaks lay on a plate beside the cooker. Dad bent down and retrieved a frying pan from one of the kitchen drawers. He placed the empty pan over a too-high flame on the hob, still unaware that he was being watched. Turning away to season the steaks, he didn’t realize that the frying pan wasn’t settled on the hob properly. After a few seconds the pan began to tilt, then fall. I called out and moved forward, my hand outstretched, but I was too slow. Alerted by my cry, Dad spun and tried to catch it, but the handle was away from him. He grabbed at the pan but quickly pulled back his hand as the hot metal beneath his fingers seared his flesh. The pan clattered to the floor as Dad cupped his fingers, cursing up a blue streak.
A lot of noise, less than a little mess and nothing that a couple of minutes under cold, running water wouldn’t cure – that’s all it was.
But Dad lost it.
He swore as he snatched up the pan by the handle, then he raised it above his head and banged it down on the work surface. And again. And again.
‘Bitch – BITCH – BITCH!’ He punctuated each slam with that single word, ea
ch one louder than the one before.
I froze mid-way across the kitchen. I wasn’t going to stay and watch Dad beat the crap out of the work surface. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to try to take the pan away from him either.
Dad spun round to face me, breathing hard.
‘You see this, Kyle? You see what your mum has done? What she’s reduced me to?’
Somehow the tremulous crack in his voice was worse than his hammering of the work surface. Unable to face him, I headed out of the kitchen, leaving him alone.
Somewhere else … Home. Not just a place. It was supposed to be a safe feeling. Except mine was anything but. All I did was open my eyes and I was back on the train. The feeling I’d had as I left Dad alone in the kitchen was still with me. Maybe that was the problem. All the feelings I’d assigned to my mum and dad or our house weren’t in those places at all. They were all inside me. That’s why I could never escape them.
‘Kyle, we’re wasting time.’ Rachel frowned. ‘We need to …’
But I didn’t hear anything after that. Over Rachel’s shoulder I saw that further down the carriage a middle-aged woman was on her feet. She had light-brown, messy hair and her pink lipstick was smudged down towards her chin. She wore black trousers and a dark blue jacket over a light blue jumper. Someone else was on their feet, someone who wasn’t hurt. I started towards her, only for Rachel to grab my arm.
‘Let her be. You can’t help her.’
‘What’re you on about?’ I frowned. ‘She’s standing up. Maybe she can help us to help some of the others.’
‘You don’t need her,’ Rachel told me. ‘You don’t need the real world. You need to get out of this carriage and back into the head of one of your friends.’
I scowled at Rachel. What on earth was she talking about? Ignoring her, I turned back to the woman. But what I saw scooped out my insides in less than a second. She was standing on a heap of upturned seats and trying to pull herself up through the broken window above her. The wild look on her face was instantly recognizable. It matched my own expression not too long ago.
‘No! Don’t!’ I called out, and pushed past Rachel to race towards her. With a strength amplified by fright and panic, the woman’s arms now bore her weight as she kicked her legs clear of the upturned seats below. The scraping, grating sound of the train against the tracks told me what was going to happen next. It was beginning to slide …
The Stuff of Nightmares Page 9