Authors: Nick Gifford
He checked his list.
He was upstairs, so he went to the main bedroom first of all.
Large chest, third drawer down
, the list told him. He found the shirts, each neatly folded. He placed two in the bag he had brought and eased the drawer shut.
Downstairs in the library, he went straight to the cupboard that held the photo albums. These were for his mother, he knew.
As many as you can manage
, she had scrawled on the list. The cupboard was full of them: from modern flip-over ones to heavy, old, board-covered albums with faded grey pictures pasted onto pages separated by thin, protective interleaves.
He took four of the older-looking volumes and stacked them with the clothes bag by the front door. As he did so, he looked out to the car. Vince was still sitting in the driver’s seat, shades pushed down to hide his eyes. He was puffing casually on a cigarette.
The last items on the list were the two books: first editions, they were in a box in the basement. Apparently Gramps had packed them up, ready to be sent off for sale, just before Gran died.
He opened the basement door, savouring the cool, damp air that drifted out. He stepped inside, found the light switch and looked around. A flight of concrete stairs dropped away before him. The walls on either side were red brick, worn smooth by generations of use.
He gripped the hand-rail and headed down.
The basement opened out on his left, a low-ceilinged chamber strewn with boxes and bags and all kinds of junk. It seemed to go on forever: he couldn’t see the farthest wall – the light just faded to blackness. There was a sense of enormous space here, of great age, too. His heart was racing, he realised. He made himself calm down.
Straight ahead of you. A brown Post Office parcel box
.
He saw it immediately, relieved that he wouldn’t have to go too far into the basement and trawl through all this debris. He stepped forward, felt suddenly dizzy and lurched towards the wall.
What was happening?
The bricks were cool against his cheek and suddenly he remembered his recurring dream: the high brick walls, the concrete floor. A dark presence, following him.
He pushed himself away from the wall and tried to approach the box. It felt as if his feet were stuck to the ground, as if he was wearing lead shoes.
The box. He had to get the box.
His heart was drumming in his ears, his breathing ragged, painful.
The heat! Why had he thought it so cool? The place was like a furnace.
At any moment his legs would crumple and he would collapse to the ground. But he knew that if he did that he would never get up.
He forced himself to turn, finding it easier to drag his feet back towards the stairs.
He reached the first step and slumped forward. In this position, he hauled himself up, one step at a time.
He had only made it to about halfway when he blacked out.
~
Hands on his arms, turning him, pinching at his cheeks, slapping him. A white face like a skull looming over him, dark eyes.
“Do you believe me now, then?”
It was Vince.
Matt shook the hands free, then rose to a sitting position. He was in the hallway. The box of books was at his side, even though he couldn’t remember fetching them.
“Found you on the stairs, didn’t I?” said Vince. “Looks like you had a turn, just like Kirsty.” He looked around. “It’s this place: it gets to her, too.” He was grinning now, chuckling to himself. “Looks like you’ve got it too, then: the madness of the Waredens. Looks like you’re just as bad as the rest of them...”
5 Gramps
“The books?” asked Gramps, as soon as Matt entered Aunt Carol’s front room. “Did you manage to get the books?”
Matt nodded. “The box is in the car,” he said. “I’ll bring them in, if you like.”
Gramps’ eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. He said nothing and Matt felt the need to fill the silence. “I got the rest of your things, too,” he continued. “The house was fine – a bit airless, that’s all.”
Gramps was still watching him. “That place has been in the family for years,” he said. “I was born there. I bet you didn’t know that, did you?”
Matt shook his head, although Gramps had told him the same thing only two days earlier.
“Lunch?” said Carol brightly, sweeping past Matt into the room.
~
That afternoon, Matt just had to get away, and as he left the house he felt a great weight lifting.
Throughout lunch, Vince had sat there, watching him. He made no attempt to hide the parallel cuts on his arm and nobody commented on them. And all the time, Matt was aware of his watching eyes, his smug grin.
Now, he crossed Bay Road by the memorial and headed down one of the zigzag paths to the Promenade.
It was a Saturday in August and the place was seething with people. It felt good to be among so many ordinary –
normal
– people. Overweight parents watching their naked, overweight, toddlers paddling on the beach. Gangs of young children chasing each other along the Prom, and up and down the steep, grassy slope locals called ‘the cliff’. Old folks calling helplessly after dogs that, according to the numerous notices, should be on leads at all times, with a £50 penalty. Teenagers down on the beach in bathing costumes and long shorts, smoking cigarettes and drinking from cans of lager.
Matt thought of his friends in Norwich. They all seemed so far away. Why would nobody tell him why they had to stay down here for so long, why his life was being messed about in this way? Nobody had consulted him about any of it: he had simply been told he was coming to Bathside with his mother.
She hadn’t told him it would be for so long. She hadn’t told him anything, so that now he could only guess why she avoided questions about when they would go home and why his father never answered his calls.
He’d confronted her last night and demanded to know how long they would be staying. “I’m sorry, Matt,” she had told him. “It’s not easy. Gramps... I can’t just
leave
. Anyway, it’s the summer and we’re by the sea: why not treat it like a holiday?”
He found a space on the grassy ‘cliff’ and lay back. It wasn’t as hot as it had been a few days ago, but the hazy sun felt good as its rays soaked into his weary body. Closing his eyes, with the smell of the sea and the sounds of the people all about, he tried to imagine that he really
was
on holiday.
Instead, he remembered Vince’s mad, staring eyes and the look – almost of pleasure, he realised – on his face as he had dragged that blade across his arm. He remembered the tension in his cousin’s voice as he had said, “I’m real, man. Don’t ever doubt me.”
No wonder he had over-reacted. That’s what it was, he was sure. Sitting in the car on the way back to Bathside, he had thought through his experience at the house – in the basement. It was delayed shock, he was sure. He remembered how scared he had been by Vince’s actions, how he had forced it out of his mind and gone into the house. He had moved from room to room like some kind of robot: checking that everything was okay, finding the items on his list.
And then in the basement... Had he stumbled, perhaps? Was that what had broken through his barriers and let the panic come rushing out? It was all a perfectly natural response to Vince’s warped display of bravado.
He smiled grimly. Either that, or he was cracking up, just like the rest of his family...
~
He knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the bed and breakfast on Bagshaw Terrace. There was something about it, although he didn’t know quite what it was.
Mrs Eldridge was working in the kitchen, singing a hymn in an exaggerated, semi-operatic voice. Little Lauren was in the front room, watching one of her videos as usual. So why was he suddenly so edgy? What was it that his body had detected that his mind couldn’t quite put into words?
He noticed the smell as he started up the second flight of stairs. A briny, pungent tang. Like old, rotting seaweed.
Automatically, he looked down at his feet. He had been on the beach earlier, but there was nothing attached to his shoes that could have brought this smell into the house with him.
The smell had become quite foul by the time he reached the top landing.
His mother’s door was open and as soon as she heard him she stepped into view. Her face was pale, and he could see from the redness around her eyes that she had been crying.
“What... what is it?” he asked.
She pushed a hank of hair out of her eyes. “Matthew,” she said in a steady, controlled tone. “I know it’s been hard for you, but
really
...”
“What?”
“I
know
you must be bored out of your mind, but this is really too much.”
“
What
is?” He stepped into the room, and the smell was so strong now that he nearly retched.
“This... this macabre collecting of yours: I didn’t say anything the first time, but it’s going to have to stop, do you hear me? It’s disgusting, Matt: these things are full of germs and god knows what else, and it stinks to high heaven! I really don’t know what’s got into that mind of yours. I really don’t understand what’s got into you.”
He still stared at her blankly, so that she stopped talking and merely pointed into the room at a carrier bag on one of the twin beds. “Just get rid of it,” she said. “Just get rid of that thing and we’ll forget all about it, okay?”
She was clearly making a tremendous effort to be understanding and reasonable and Matt still had no idea what she was talking about.
He went over to the bed. The stench was quite unbearable. Tentatively, he reached out for the bag and pulled it open.
Feathers. White, grey, matted a foul, dark red. A slim red beak, half-open, a fly crawling about in the empty gape.
It was a seagull, dead for several days, judging by the state of it, and the smell.
Matt looked at his mother. How could she accuse him of this?
She was staring at him, still trying to be understanding. “Where did it come from?” he asked.
“It was there when I came in a few minutes ago,” she said. “You really should know not to do something like that.”
“But...” There was no point arguing. She was never going to believe him: she’d already made up her mind that he was guilty. The more he protested his innocence, the more
understanding
she would try to be.
He gathered up the bag, overcoming a wave of nausea as he did so, and headed out of the room.
~
He hurried out through the conservatory and into the back alley, continually aware of the thing in the bag. He turned left in the alley, and moments later was standing on the pavement of Bay Road, wondering what he was going to do.
It had to be Tina, he knew: trying to drive them away from Bathside. Maybe it would work, he mused. Maybe his mother would be so worried about his mental health that she would want to get back to Norwich as soon as possible.
An old man, passing along the pavement, peered at Matt and wrinkled his nose up in disgust. Matt had grown used to the foul smell, forgetting how strong it was.
He crossed the road and walked along the top of the grassy cliff.
After a short distance, he came to a bin and, relieved, he dumped the plastic bag inside.
His mother was waiting back at the bed and breakfast.
“Guess what?” she said, more relaxed now, trying to smile.
He raised his eyebrows, still angry at her false accusation.
“Dinner with your aunt and uncle for a change.” She studied his expression, then added, “I knew you’d be pleased.”
~
A familiar scene: Gramps slumped silently in what had become his armchair, the girls sitting cross-legged on the floor slaughtering animated foes on the TV, Matt sitting at one end of the sofa staring out of the window.
For a time, he watched the back of Tina’s head, hating every movement. Eventually, she turned and smiled at him. “Has Aunty Jill had enough yet?” she asked. “Are you going back to Norwich?”
Matt stood up and walked out of the room. How do you handle someone like Tina? What could he possibly do that would get through to her? He remembered Vince saying that it was like living in an asylum. Matt knew exactly what he meant.
~
That evening, after they had eaten, Gramps said, “Air.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “I need air.”
Carol rose to her feet instantly. She put a hand on her father’s arm and said, “I’ll take you for your walk.” Every evening someone would take Gramps for a slow walk around the garden.
But tonight he shook off her hand. He looked at Matt and said, “Matthew, my boy. Join me?”
Surprised, Matt nodded.
It was quite cool outside now, a breeze coming in off the sea. As Matt waited on the patio, holding the door for his grandfather, a pair of small bats flitted about the eaves of the house.
“The moths come for the honeysuckle, the bats come for the moths,” said Gramps. He waved in the direction of the honeysuckle that scrambled over a trellis on the back wall. Matt was surprised that his eyes were still sharp enough to see in this murky twilight.
They walked slowly along the patio, Matt unsure whether he should offer his grandfather support or not. He chose not to, and just walked close to him.
“Like Bathside, do you?” asked Gramps. “The sea? The beach?”
“It’s okay,” said Matt.
Gramps nodded. “Your mother doesn’t,” he said. “She’s not happy, although she tries to hide it. Never liked this place. Couldn’t wait to get away from here when she was a girl – took the first chance she could. Never liked to come back, even to visit. We make her uneasy.” He smiled sadly at this.
Matt was surprised. He had been sure it was his father who was the reason for their infrequent visits, not his mother.
At the bottom of the garden there was a stone bench, its surface weather-stained and mottled with lichen. Gramps lowered himself onto the seat and, after a moment’s hesitation, Matt joined him.
“You found my books, all right, then.”
Matt was surprised to remember that it was only this morning that he had gone out to Crooked Elms with Vince. It all seemed so long ago, somehow. He nodded. “In the basement,” he said. “Just like it said on the list.”
His grandfather was peering at him, his pale blue eyes picking up the lights from the house so that they shone eerily in the dusk shadows. “You... you didn’t have any trouble?”
Matt started to shake his head, then stopped, unsure. “I fell over,” he said. “Hit my head, I think. But it’s okay – I didn’t break anything.”
“You came to stay with us when you were five months old,” said Gramps, abruptly. “Screamed the place down for most of two days. I said then that you were a sensitive one. Dizzy, were you? Did you feel the heat? Did you see anything?”
Matt shuddered, unnerved by his grandfather’s words. He remembered Vince talking about dark powers, special places, the family madness. “I just fell,” he said. “Tripped over something, I suppose. I blacked out for a short time and then Vince came and helped me.”
Gramps gasped. “Vincent?” he hissed. “He was there with you?”
“He drove me there,” said Matt patiently. “He has the keys.”
“What happened? What did he do?”
Matt glanced up towards the house, worried by his grandfather’s sudden agitation. “Nothing,” he said, remembering Vince’s mad stare as he had so carefully slashed his own arm. “He sat in the car most of the time, then he helped me with the box. That’s all.”
Gramps gripped his arm tightly. “You should be careful of that one,” he said. “He doesn’t know how dangerous he is, dabbling in things he doesn’t understand. He’s not a Wareden, you know – not really one of us at all. Doesn’t have the Wareden insight... doesn’t have the sensitivity... doesn’t appreciate the family way. Do you understand me, boy? Do you?”
Gramps was panting rapidly, hyperventilating.
Matt stood. “I’ll just go and get Mum,” he said, backing away.
Gramps half-stood, then slumped back onto the bench. “No,” he said. “No, Matthew! I need to talk to you. I need to warn you, don’t you understand?”
“Calm down, Gramps,” said Matt, scared by the sudden intensity of the old man. “Later, okay? We’ll talk later. You just need to calm down now, okay?”
But his grandfather pushed himself up again, and this time he managed to stand. “No,” he said. “Now... now’s the time to...”
Matt turned and ran.
A moment later, he burst in through the back door. Carol took one look at him and then rushed out past him into the growing darkness.
His mother was slower to react. She stared at him. “What is it?” she asked.
“Gramps,” said Matt. “He started ranting, started to shout... to get over-excited.” He thought then of Vince’s words. “I think he’s gone mad,” he said. “I think he’s finally flipped.”
Gramps had fallen over onto the lawn.
When Matt saw Carol crouching by him, he feared the very worst.
Then he heard his grandfather’s voice, mumbling away, the words completely unintelligible by now.
Carol turned the old man onto his side, and when Matt’s mother joined her the two of them were able to raise Gramps to a sitting position.
Matt stood back, wishing he could disappear completely in the shadows, as they helped Gramps back into the house. Uncle Mike was standing in the doorway, watching it all with a drunken smile on his face.
As they took Gramps to his room, Mike burped softly into the back of his hand.
“Good one,” he said, turning to Matt. “Got him well worked up, didn’t you? How did you do it? Maybe I’ll have a go myself, next time.”