Authors: Sarah Rayne
But even without spooky old ghost’s hands there were other dangers. She might trip over something in the dark and break her ankle or walk into a solid wall by mistake and knock herself out. If anything like that happened she might lie here for days before anyone found her.
Her eyes had adjusted to the light a bit now, and she could see that she was in a big central hall, the size of a very large room, nearly as big as the gym at school. There were two small narrow windows near the main door but they were both boarded up, making it even darker. Doors opened off on each side of the hall: Simone could just make out their shapes, and she thought the rooms beyond those doors would be very nasty indeed. She thought she would not open any of them.
The hall was dirty but it was sad as well. Grass was growing up through the cracks in the floor, and everywhere smelt disgusting and most likely there were about a million spiders and scuttly beetles in the dark corners. There was a wide stairway at the back of the hall, but even if Simone had wanted to explore the upstairs parts, the banisters were all hanging off and the stairs looked as if they would come crashing down the minute you stepped on them. Just as she was not going to open any of the doors, nor was she going up those crumbly old stairs.
It was very quiet, but it was not quiet in the way that a really empty house was quiet. Simone listened intently, and after a moment the familiar thought-patterns slid into her mind.
So you’re really here, Simone… I knew you’d come, one day… And now we’re really together at last…
Simone remained absolutely still. Had it been the inner voice or had the words been said aloud this time? She was not sure because everything felt different in here, in fact she was almost ready to believe that she really had stepped into the past—into the time when the black iron doors had clanged shut every night and the pig-men had prowled through the dark passageways. If she could listen hard enough she might hear the echoes of all those people who used to live here.
But there were no echoes; there was only a faint drip-drip of water from somewhere. If you wanted to give yourself nightmares for about a hundred years you could believe it was a brittle whispery voice, like the tapping of icicles against your bedroom window in winter.
And then it came again.
Come deeper in, Simone… It’s time we got to know each other properly… I’ve waited so long to see you and meet you properly…
Simone said out loud, ‘Who are you? Tell me who you are?’ Her voice sounded peculiar in the silence. It sounded a bit quavery as well. She said, a bit louder, ‘I know you’re here. I can feel that you’re here. But I can’t see you.’
Nothing. Silence. But Simone was still having the fluttery-stomach feeling that you had just before something really tremendous and important. Something’s about to happen, she thought. Something that’s going to matter a lot.
She removed the lens cover again; her hands were shaking which was annoying, but if she really did manage to photograph the little girl it would act as a sort of weapon. I’ve got photographs of you, she could say. And if you don’t leave me alone I’ll show them to people. The little girl would not like that: she wanted to stay secret and mysterious, Simone knew that.
The flash was in place which was good because of the boarded-up windows, and she had only used two of the new roll of film. She would try an inside shot now; it would be great if she could get on film the darkness and the spookiness of Mortmain, and the feeling of all the people who had lived in it.
The people who heard the clanging door that shut them in every night and that shut the world out, and the people who sometimes had to hide from the evil men—Don’t think about that.
The flash worked exactly as it was meant to; it went off with a sharp, white flare of brilliance that lit up the dusty old hall so that Simone saw it vividly. She saw the black mouldering stones and the patches of crawly fungus on the walls, and the splintered wooden panels hanging off the walls.
She saw the small figure framed in the doorway near to the back of the hall watching her. Exactly like the nightmare. The little girl with dark, sly eyes.
The flashlight died, and the darkness closed down again like a bad-smelling black curtain. But from out of this clotted darkness a voice spoke. It said, very softly, ‘Hello, Simone. I thought you’d never come.’
There was a long silence. Then Simone said, ‘Who are you? I don’t know who you are.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said the girl, and she took a step forward. ‘Of course you know who I am. Just as I know who you are.’ Simone felt the faint familiar tug on her mind. Amusement. She’s laughing. And then—no, she’s not laughing, she’s gloating. She’s hugging some secret knowledge to herself. I think what I’ll do, I’ll just find out who she is, and I’ll find out all that stuff about Mortmain, and then I’ll cycle home as fast as I can. But she was conscious of a vague feeling of disappointment. All that build-up—all that mystery and excitement—and after all it’s just a girl of my own age in a ruined house.
After a moment, she said, ‘You know my name, but I don’t know yours. What is it?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said the girl again, and at last she came forward. The shadows slid off her like water streaming away from somebody getting out of a bath. Simone saw that she was wearing a cherry-red pullover with a pattern on the front, and that as she walked one foot dragged a bit and her shoulders were slightly crooked. If she ran or even moved quickly she would do so in a hunching, lopsided way. But other than that—
Other than that it was like looking in a mirror.
‘Who are you?’ said Simone again.
‘I’m Sonia,’ said the little girl. ‘I thought you knew that.’ She smiled, and Simone saw that there was the same small unevenness in her front teeth that Simone had herself. As if a tiny piece had been chipped out.
Sonia put out a hand. ‘Come with me, Simone,’ she said, and Simone took the outstretched hand.
T
HE HANDCLASP WAS an extraordinary moment. It gave Simone the strangest feeling she had ever had in her whole life, and for several crowded seconds everything else was blotted out, so that she was only dimly aware of where she was and what she was doing here.
Many years afterwards she was to identify it as the feeling of an electrical circuit closing, or of negative and positive forces meeting and fusing, but standing in Mortmain’s swirling shadows, staring at Sonia, she was only aware that something important and something tremendous had happened. She did not really understand it and she was not sure if she ever would, but for the moment the nearest she could get was that it felt as if something that had been missing had been found, or as if a final piece of jigsaw had been slotted into place so that you suddenly saw and understood the whole picture. Sonia did not seem especially aware of the fierce emotions zig-zagging back and forth; she was drawing Simone across the hall and through one of the doors near the stairs. ‘It’s all right, Simone,’ she said. ‘There’s no one here but us.’
And the ghosts, thought Simone uneasily.
‘And I think this might be the day I told you about. Remember? Remember how I said that one day we’d meet? And share secrets, so we’d be bound together for always?’
‘Blood sisters.’
‘Yes.
Yes
. That’s what’s going to happen today. We’ve got the thought-talking thing already, but that’s a—a shadow-thing. I’d like it if we had something else, wouldn’t you? Something in the real world. Something in the daylight world. And there’s someone I really hate—someone I really want to get the better of. Remember how we talked about that?’
Simone started to say, ‘What do you—’ and stopped, because she was not sure she wanted to know what Sonia meant. What she really wanted to do was get away from Sonia as soon as she could, but the trouble was that she would have to think of a way of doing it politely. Sonia was a bit weird and if she got annoyed she might become even weirder. But Simone thought if it had not been for Sonia’s hand still holding hers and if it had not been for that insistent feeling of a loop closing, she would most likely have run away there and then, going full-pelt back down the track to where her bicycle was, and then pedalling home at top speed.
But she did not. She walked with Sonia through Mortmain’s swirling darkness, trying not to notice that Sonia moved awkwardly because of the squinty slant of her shoulders, and trying not to wonder what had caused it in case Sonia picked up the thought. Mother had always said it was quite rude to wonder about people’s disabilities, and it was very rude indeed and probably hurtful to let them see you were wondering. So Simone concentrated on the house: on the long echoing corridors with the black stone walls that dripped with slimy moisture as if a zillion snails had crawled down them, and on the rusting stoves that squatted in unexpected corners and had doors with grinning iron grilles and stumpy little clawfeet. When there was no one around the stoves might come waddling out of their corners and gather in one of the rooms, whispering to one another in clanking rusty voices, making plans to snatch up the next human who entered Mortmain.
Wherever Sonia was taking her she knew the way. Once they went through a long dim room with a scarred table nailed to the floor, and Sonia said, very softly, ‘This was where everyone had to come to eat. All of them—children, grown-ups, everyone. The refectory, they called it. There were wooden benches for seats.’
Not everyone could manage to spoon up their food without help…
‘And the food was dreadful, anyway,’ said Sonia, offhandedly.
‘How do you know that? How do you know all this about Mortmain?’
Sonia sent her another of the sideways glances, and then said, ‘I know what is and what has been.’
This was no kind of answer at all, in fact Simone was not sure that Sonia mightn’t be showing off because it sounded like a line of poetry. Still, the question might as well be asked sooner rather than later, so she said, ‘You don’t—um—live here, do you? In Mortmain?’ Because for a wild moment this seemed entirely possible. It seemed perfectly believable that Sonia might really live here as Simone had once believed; that she might actually sleep and eat and live inside Mortmain, wandering through the empty rooms. (Talking to the ghosts and listening to their stories…? No, that’s really stupid!)
‘Of course I don’t live here. I live in Weston Fferna, though. Well, just outside it. A few miles. But I’m allowed to cycle around places in the afternoons on account of it’ll make my legs stronger.’ This was said disinterestedly, and because Simone was not sure how to deal with it, she said, ‘I’ve never seen you.’
‘No, I only go along the lanes. And there’s a back road up to Mortmain. It’s closed off from the main road but if you know it’s there you can get through, and then you can cycle up the slope. Mostly I use that.’
‘What about school?’ Because there was only Simone’s own school for miles, and Sonia certainly did not go there.
‘I don’t go to school. I’m different from other people.’ It sounded smug. It very nearly sounded as if Sonia liked having a crooked shoulder and awkward legs; as if she thought it made her one-up on everyone else. ‘So I have lessons at home,’ she said, and sent Simone a quick glance to see how this was received.
‘Oh, I see.’ Simone did not like to say it must be pretty boring to have lessons at home, and not be able to enjoy things like art lessons and school concerts, and not have the fun of friends to giggle with about the teachers. There were a lot of bad things about school (arithmetic and geography were two of the worst), but there were quite a lot of good things as well.
‘I’ve lived here for a lot of years,’ said Sonia. ‘In fact—’ She stopped and for the first time Simone saw that Sonia was unsure. But then she said, ‘I’ve listened to things people say and stories that they tell. I don’t always like having to listen to all that stuff, but I have to listen whether I want to or not. But I probably know more about Mortmain than anyone alive today.’
Simone had the feeling that Sonia had been about to tell her something, and then had changed her mind. She was aware of a small jab of curiosity. I’ll stay a bit longer. I’ll see what she has to say.
They had reached the end of the corridor, and Sonia pushed open a door and waited for Simone to step through. Beyond the door was a long dim room, with fading sunshine trickling in through the high windows, showing up the dirt and the decay. Strewn messily on the floor were little piles of rubbish, left by the tramps and winos who dossed down here and did not see Mortmain’s ghosts, or maybe saw them and were so drunk they thought the ghosts were real people.
The room was dreadful. Simone had never been in such a dreadful place. Even standing just inside the doorway thick suffocating waves of pain and misery seemed to jump out at her, and there was a feeling of something tugging at her mind as if she was being dragged back to the days when people had been forced to live here because they had nowhere else to go and no friends or family to help them.
‘Why should you be young and pretty and free?’ said this horrid tugging thing. ‘We were never pretty, and we were never allowed to be young, not properly… Why should you live in a nice house and go to school and have friends and games and money to spend when we never had any of those things…?’
For several moments the room seemed to fill up with anger and bitterness and Simone had to take several deep breaths before she could go inside. She would not let Sonia know how frightened she was though, she absolutely would not.
But just as Sonia had not seemed to feel the huge surge of emotion that had exploded when they held hands earlier on, now she did not seem to feel the room’s anger and pain.
‘They called this place the Women’s Workshop,’ she said, her eyes still on Simone. ‘The women came here because they had no money and nowhere to live. If they hadn’t come to Mortmain they would have died from starvation. But they all hated being here.’
‘That was because of it being a workhouse.’ Simone remembered Mother telling her about this. ‘It was very shameful to go into a workhouse.’