Thirteen Days of Midnight (6 page)

The wind’s dropped, and the trees along Wormwood Drive are still, but this only adds to my unease. It seems like the whole road is holding its breath. I make my way down to our house, ears alert for any unusual sound, wishing I had my skewer. The dark windows remind me of empty eye sockets. I’m holding my breath, expecting movement at every moment. The fear intensifies as I open our front door, and I’m cringing away from the darkness inside our house, absolutely certain a man’s shape will appear in the hall.

I hear a gentle movement in the kitchen and nearly jolt out of my body, and then Ham’s gray form appears from the blackness, and he calmly thrusts his warm head into my legs and waits to be petted. I burst into laughter and push him off me.

The house itself is fine. There’s no mystery meal waiting on the table. Television remote, sneakers, schoolbag, Mum’s house keys, frying pans, the fruit bowl in the living room, Dad’s papers on my desk. Each object sits in its proper place. Mum is asleep in bed. Seemingly hasn’t moved all day. If anyone came in here, Blotch-Face or the skinhead or anyone else, there’s no sign of it. I check every room and make sure every window is locked. I walk to the bathroom, fill a glass, and drink. Walk to my bedroom. Close my eyes.

S
late-gray Wednesday morning. When I open my door Ham is lying outside it like a draft stopper. I shouldn’t have let him sleep up here the other night. It set a dangerous precedent.

“Get downstairs,” I tell him, but he refuses to budge.

The chill I noticed yesterday is back, creeping into my toes. The relief I felt when I got home last night has vanished completely, replaced by a queasy sense of doom. I know I haven’t seen the last of those men. I need to check the kitchen. I take the stairs as quietly as I can and push the door open softly, using the finger of one hand.

Someone made me breakfast again. I stare at it, stomach churning. The mystery chef is back. The spread is less fancy this time: slices of processed turkey and a glass of mango juice. The meat has been arranged in a dainty fan across the blue plate. The air inside the kitchen is nearly subzero. I swear there’s frost on the glass of juice and the kitchen windows. I refuse to believe this is happening. I grab the plate of turkey strips and fling it as hard as I can into the wall. It smashes in a cascade of blue shards and flopping slices of meat. I feel calmer. I stride into the hallway, grab the cordless phone, and dial nine three times.

“Hello? Police, please. I want to report a break-in. Number seven Wormwood Drive.”

“Is this an emergency?” asks the operator.

“I think there might still be someone in the house.”

“You think the burglar may still be on the property?”

“Please just send someone over,” I say. “I’m afraid.”

I hang up the phone and then walk back into the kitchen, scanning every corner twice over. I go over to the cutlery drawer and pull out my trusty skewer. I climb the stairs as quietly as I can, check the bathroom, my bedroom, Mum’s room, where she’s sleeping, curtains drawn, body knotted up in her duvet. As I’m closing the door to her bedroom, I hear a small, sly movement, definitely coming from the kitchen. Ham is still lying outside my room. I know he heard the noise as well. I motion for him to follow me, but he doesn’t move. My skin is crawling with fear, my arms and legs itching and prickling like I’m covered in invisible insects. Every step of the stairs seems to take an age, every tiny creak of wood under my tread sounds as loud as a cannon blast.

I cross the hallway before I can think better of it, and throw the kitchen door open.

Blotch-Face is kneeling down, doing something on the floor. I realize, with a growing sense of unreality, that he’s cleaning up the fragments of the plate I smashed, sweeping with a brush and dustpan. He turns to look at me. His face is long and greasy. The blotches are more like pustules; he’s got worse skin than anyone at Dunbarrow High. We look at each other, him holding a brush, me clutching a skewer.

There’s a cough to my left.

The skinhead is sitting at the kitchen table, staring at me. I nearly choke with horror. He must be able to move without making a sound. I grip the skewer so hard my knuckles glow white. He’s smoking a roll-up, leaning his thick arms on the table.

“If you move one muscle, I’m going to stab you,” I tell him, voice steady. “I mean it. The police are on their way.”

He just shrugs, says nothing. Takes another drag on his cigarette.

“I’ve called
the
police,
” I tell him, voice starting to waver.

“I must confess,” Blotch-Face begins, standing up, “I am confused.”

“What are you doing in here?” I ask. “This is my house!”

“A thousand apologies, sir,” Blotch-Face replies, bowing slightly. He’s got the clear voice of a news anchor. “Have we caused some sort of offense? You appear to be . . . aggravated.”

“Who are you?”

“Bloody hell,” says the skinhead.

“I am the Vassal,” says Blotch-Face, “a guide when the way is dark.”

“What?”

“This is my colleague, the Judge,” continues Blotch-Face, waving his hand at the skinhead.

“All right, boss,” the skinhead says.

“Who are you?” I ask again. The skinhead looks nothing like any judge I’ve ever seen.

“Was my explanation inadequate? We can delve into detailed biographies if need be, but I thought it best to give a brief outline. The others should arrive in the next few days, I would imagine.”

“The others?”

“The rest of your Host, sir,” says Blotch-Face, the Vassal.

“You’re mental. ‘Host’?”

“Is this about last night?” asks the skinhead — the Judge — uneasily. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he seems afraid of me. “ ’Cause if it is, then we’re properly sorry and humble, honest. Well out of line, manifesting like we did.”

“ ‘Manifesting’?”

“We would never ordinarily presume to attend to you when you had not specifically requested us,” says the Vassal. “My colleague and I were simply anxious due to a lack of instructions following the transfer.”

“You ain’t seem that keen on my cooking,” says the Judge. “Felt like I should ask what you wanted to eat.”

“ ‘Transfer’? Please, in as few words as possible, explain who you are and what you’re doing in my house.”

“I think,” says the Vassal, “we have presumed too much.”

“Can say that again.” The Judge shorts.

“You are Master Luke A. Manchett, correct?” the Vassal asks.

“Yes,” I say, still gripping the skewer in case they rush me. “That’s my name.”

“Your father is Dr. Horatio Manchett,” he continues.

“Was,” I say. “He’s dead. Is this about the money? Because I don’t have it. The lawyers didn’t give me it yet. I’m still waiting. I don’t have the money.”

The men exchange a puzzled look.

“We have precious little use for money these days,” the Vassal says slowly. “We are part of your father’s Host. I take it you don’t understand the term?”

“Clearly I don’t.”

“We’re his Host,” says the Judge. “His crew, his boys, his power.”

“We are — were — your father’s servants,” says the Vassal. “And in the event of his death, dominion over his Host transfers to the eldest living heir. Which, so far as we are aware, means you, Luke. Didn’t he explain this to you?”

“He left me some papers. I haven’t read them yet.”

“I’m sure they will illuminate these affairs better than we,” says the Vassal. “I am not an expert on matters of succession.”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “You’re his servants?”

“Slaves, more like,” remarks the Judge. The Vassal shoots him a look.

“My colleague and I have differing opinions on this subject,” he explains, “but, yes, we are servants. We have been signed for and are now indebted to you until the event of your own death.”

“So I . . . own you?”

“Yes,” he says, bowing again. The Judge tips his stubbly head down, too. “We are your Host, your property to do with as you see fit.”

“You’re my property? There’s laws against that. Dad kept
slaves
? How many?”

“The Manchett Host numbers eight souls,” says the Vassal. “They are not all as . . . reasonable as the Judge and myself. However, they will present themselves when called.”

“But . . . you can’t have slaves! It’s illegal! What am I supposed to tell Mum? Oh, yeah, we’ve got an extra eight people living in our house now? Don’t worry about it? Dad left them to me?”

“It is illegal to keep living bodies as slaves, yes,” says the Vassal. “Unfortunately, no such laws govern the soul. Since — well, this is a delicate matter for both of us — since the Judge and I are no longer alive, there are no laws about keeping us in bonded service.”

“You . . . what?”

“He really don’t know?” asks the Judge. “Or is he just out to trip us?”

“You’re dead,” I say. “You’re telling me that you’re both dead. I’m talking to dead people right now.”

“Well, all right,” says the Judge. “Touchy subject. No need to rub it in.”

“You’re ghosts,” I say.

“We are spirits,” says the Vassal. “Your late father was a necromancer, one of those who use ancient rites to raise and bind the dead into their service.”

For a moment we all stare at one another, and then I burst out laughing. It’s too much. The Vassal and the Judge grin at each other in an unamused way.

“You’re priceless,” I say. “This is ridiculous.”

There’s a heavy knock on the front door. Thank you, Dunbarrow Constabulary, your timing is perfect.

“All right,” I say, “you stay here. That’s the police now. I’m just going to let them in, and then you can tell them about ‘ancient rites’ and how you’re ghosts left to me by my father in his will, and then when you’ve told them that, the men with white coats and nets are going to come and take you both away.”

“Let them in, by all means,” says the Vassal. “Neither of us would presume to tell you what you may or may not do. But I do not expect they will be able to provide the aid you imagine yourself to need.”

I don’t bother to reply. The second these maniacs are out of my kitchen and sitting in handcuffs in the back of a van, the happier I’ll be. I realize that opening the door to the police while holding a weapon tends to create a bad impression, so I hide my skewer in the umbrella stand and open the door. The policemen are sensible-looking, red cheeked and broad shouldered.

“Morning, sir. So what’s the problem exactly?” the taller one asks, stepping into the hallway.

“There are two men in my kitchen,” I say. “They claim they’re friends of my father. They came into my house without being asked and now they won’t leave.”

“I see,” he says. “I see.”

“Please, can you ask them to leave?” I ask, “I’m on my own here.”

“Let’s see what’s going on,” he says. “I’m sure we can work this out.”

He walks past me, turning awkwardly in the narrow hallway, and enters the kitchen. I breathe out with relief. His partner stays in the hall with me. Everything’s going to be OK.

“The kitchen, you said?” comes his voice.

“Yes, that’s right,” I say.

“Nobody here, son.”

“They were just there,” I say. “Maybe they’ve gone to another room.” I follow him into the kitchen and freeze up all over again. No. No. This is not happening.

The policeman is wandering vaguely toward the fridge. He looks at the rows of silver pans, at the toaster, at the shards of the blue plate sitting in the dustpan. He doesn’t look at the most important things in the room, which are the two maniacs.

“Are you all right, son?” the policeman asks. “You’re a bit pale.”

“Almost as if he can’t see us. Funny how that works,” the Judge remarks.

“They’re right . . . they were right here.”

“I’ll have a look around the other rooms,” he says. “My partner will check upstairs. You just stay here and yell if you need me. Is there anyone else here?”

“My dog,” I say. “My dog’s upstairs. And my mum. She’s . . . she’s sick, though.”

“Right you are,” he says, and wanders into the living room.

“This isn’t happening,” I say.

“We tried to explain, sir,” says the Vassal. “I am so sorry. I hope this is not too distressing for you.”

“You . . .” I struggle for a word. “You’re real ghosts. You’re dead.”

“In one sense,” says the Vassal, “yes. In others, no.”

“So you’re — what?” I ask. “I’m not very — this isn’t scientific at all. It’s rubbish. This is nonsense.”

“Science got nothing to do with it,” says the Judge. “We ain’t crossed over, we lingered. That’s all there is to it.”

“So you . . . you’re a human consciousness? Something that survived death, some part of a human that isn’t physical. Some kind of energy or —”

“If I may, sir,” says the Vassal, “I would advise against thinking about it too much. It’s never done me any good, I know that much. Better minds than yours or mine have chased their own tails for lifetimes regarding such questions.”

“I’m going to need to sit down,” I say.

“Sorry, lad?” says the policeman behind me.

“Oh, nothing,” I reply.

“Nice dog you’ve got,” he says. “What’s his name?”

“Ham.”