Nicking Time (7 page)

“Is that Kit?” says Lemur, squinting.

She’s holding a cone in one hand and a torch in the other. My torch, to be precise.

“Hey! That’s mine, that torch!” But she’s too far off to hear and my ice cream is tasting too good for me to get up and chase her.

“She’s always taking my stuff,” I complain. “You’re so lucky to be an only child, Hector.”

“Sometimes,” says Hector. “A lot of the time it’s really boring.”

“The annoying thing is,” I continue, “that I don’t want to use
her
stuff. It’s all girly rubbish. Nothing worth taking.”

“So you’ve got to be inventive to get her back?” says Skooshie. Having five brothers and sisters means that Skooshie’s experience in this area is impressive. There’s not a trick he hasn’t used or been the victim of.

“Yeah. I hide things a lot.”

“Nice one.”

“And tell her she has to do stuff, pretending I’m just passing on the instruction from my mum or dad.”

“Yeah, I like that one. There’s loads of opportunities for it in my house,” Skooshie says. “It’s got that you can’t really trust what anybody says.”

“I can still see her,” says Hector, making owl eyes with his fingers to improvise binoculars. “Everybody
finished? Could it be Sherbet Dip Time?”

“Yeah!”

And we’re off again, in pursuit of Kit. That’ll teach her to take my stuff.

It’s raining: an endless Weegie drizzle that drips and seeps into the den where it finds nooks and crannies we haven’t been able to block. We’ve had days and days of sun, each one hotter than the one before, and the heat has finally exploded in a storm. Today. Friday. Cathkin Day. When we’ve finally got the jemmy and there’s nothing to stop us – except now the weather. We’re sitting it out in the den. We’re more or less dry, but we’re feeling aggrieved, we’ve nothing to eat and on top of that we’re bored. Brain-numbingly bored.

I’ve just turned to Bru to argue that I’m more bored than he is when Skooshie’s bare foot is thrust between our faces.

“Wouldn’t it be great,” says Skoosh, “if you could hear with your feet?”

“Great how?”

“Well, think about how useful it would be if you were a spy.”

“How could that possibly help you in spying on somebody?”

“It would be unexpected. The element of surprise.
People would never suspect you could hear what they were saying.”

“Brilliant – except your feet are attached to your legs which are attached to your body which is attached to your head which features your actual ears – which, unless you are very, very, very tall, are within hearing distance of your feet.”

“And don’t you think people would notice a foot in their face?”

“Aw. You don’t think it’ll catch on?” says Skooshie. His toes droop, like they’re disappointed to hear that.

“Actually, it might work,” I say.

“How?”

“Not for eavesdropping. For knocking people out. One whiff and the stink would overwhelm them. Pure dead toxic.” Bru and I choke, clutch at our throats and keel over backwards to show how it might go.

Skooshie is delighted.

“Brilliant,” he says.

“You can take your foot back now.”

This uses up about a minute. Then it’s back to being bored.

“Ghost stories!” says Hector, trying to fire us up. “I’ll start! Have you heard the one about the headless…”

“… soldier of Battlefield!” we chorus. “Yes, we have!”

“Over and over and over again,” I add. It’s one of Hector’s favourites. We suspect it might be the only ghost story he knows.

“We need some
new
ghost stories,” Skooshie sighs.

“I’ve got one,” says Lemur.

“Before you start, Lemur, are you sure (1) that we
haven’t heard it before and (2) that it’s genuinely scary? Not like that story of Bru’s about the thing he thought was under his bed.”

“It
was
under my bed and it
was
scary. I was there and I was really scared. It didn’t
look
anything like a furry hat.”

“No, you said – it looked like an alien.”

“Yeah – it was all kind of WEAHH and BLEAHH.” Here Bru gives us a re-enactment of the hat-under-
the-bed
threat. We’ve heard this one lots of times before too. Some stories get better when you hear them again. Bru’s hat story isn’t one of them. It makes you appreciate the headless soldier option, and that’s saying something.

“(1) yes and (2) yes,” says Lemur. “You haven’t heard it before and it is genuinely scary. Do you want to hear it?”

“Go on then.” A good job he isn’t looking for enthusiasm.

“I’m going to tell you why no one ever has or ever will build on this place where our den is…”

“Wait – can we just fix this? I’m getting soaked.”

We help Skooshie tighten up the roof cover. This makes the den a bit less dripped on and also darker.

“Ready? It happened a long, long time ago. There used to be a big house here. A very big house, with a grand staircase – long, curving banisters you could slide down. And there wasn’t just one way up to each floor, there were little staircases at the back too: it was a perfect house for Hide and Seek. And there was a huge attic you could explore, full of forgotten junk and lost things and undiscovered treasures.

“The house had grounds too – not just a garden with grass and flowers, but trees and bushes, with hidden tracks and secret places for brilliant dens. Where we’re sitting right now – our den – was part of the grounds of the big house.”

“How come?” asks Bru, looking round. “There isn’t enough space for all that.”

“The houses around here didn’t exist then,” Lemur explains. “No Stanmore Road, no May Terrace. Just this big house. Even Cathkin wasn’t built yet. A family called Lorredan lived here and it was called Mount Lorredan House. But twenty years after this story, the house was a ruin… Picture it: completely abandoned and crumbling, with walls you could hardly see under the ivy and brambles. Bats nesting in the bedrooms, cobwebs strung across the broken windows. Everything falling into decay…”

Here he pauses, for a big dramatic effect. Honestly, he’s never happier than when he’s the centre of attention.

“No one wanted to live in it. Because of what had happened there, they were too scared… In time, the story was forgotten, but people remembered the house and its name survived and became the name for the whole area.”

“Mount Lorredan?” says Skooshie. “That’s not the name of the area. It’s Mount
Florida
, Lemur.”

“I do know that, Skooshie,” says Lemur.

“But
you
said the area was named after the house.” Skoosh doesn’t often get to correct Lemur and he’s feeling pretty good about this one.

Bru gives him a kick to bring him back down to earth. “Lorredan – Florredan – Florida,” he says. “Chinese Whispers kind of thing.”

“Aw. Get it.”

“It’s not
actually
true, anyway – Lemur’s just making it up,” says Hector. “It’s part of the story.”

“It
is
in fact true,” says Lemur, squaring up for an argument. “Do you
want
to hear the rest?”

I elbow Hector to make him shut up. We don’t want Lemur going off in a huff, leaving us without entertainment. Has Hector forgotten how bored we were?

“The man who owned the house was called William Lorredan,” Lemur continues. “His family was rich. His grandfather had built a sugar house in the centre of Glasgow…”

“A house actually made of sugar?” Bru cannot believe his ears. “In Glasgow? How come it didn’t dissolve in the rain?”

“Not
made
of sugar, Bru – a sugar house was a factory that
made
sugar. They brought the raw sugar on ships from the Caribbean. They refined it in the sugar house – made it pure. They turned it into the sort of white sugar that’s used in cakes and sweets.”

I can see Bru mentally adding this job to his list of possible future careers.

“The sugar made the family enough money to build Mount Lorredan House, which William inherited when his father died. He wanted to write a book about the Battle of Langside. He’d grown up wandering over the battlefield.”

“Splashing through the pools of soldiers’ blood on the ground?” says Skooshie, relishing the picture.

“Eh, no… but he did sometimes find souvenirs there, like horseshoes and bits of broken sword. He’d spent all his life trying to imagine how Mary, Queen of Scots felt as she watched her soldiers dying and realised that her only option was to leave her country and flee to England.”

Murmurs of sympathy from us at this. Lemur takes the chance to breathe before launching into the next part.

“So, William got married. He and his wife had two sons, Robert and Christy.”

“Kirsty? Like Midge’s sister? Bit girly.”

“Christy, not Kirsty, you eejit. Shush and listen. Ignore him, Lemur. Keep going.”

“Robert and Christy loved going with their dad to the site of the battle. It was still just fields then, no houses. ‘Listen,’ William would say. ‘Can you hear the swords clashing? The thundering hooves of the terrified horses? The groans of the men dying in agony?’”

The rain is drumming heavier than before on the roof of the den, not unlike the thundering hooves of terrified horses…

“When Robert was fourteen and Christy twelve, Mr Lorredan had a tree house built in the biggest oak tree in the grounds.” Here Lemur pauses significantly. We look at each other. None of us has any idea what an oak tree looks like. He gestures towards the tree Bru and I are leaning against.

“Oh…” We’re silently impressed. We’ve never had a ghost story with actual props before. Lemur is so much
better at telling stories than the rest of us. He has us hooked.

“Robert and Christy loved the tree house. They spent a lot of time there. They wanted to think up new games. They were tired of playing at soldiers – it’s hard to have a really good battle when there are only two of you. Robert had the idea of playing at pirates.”

“Pirates up a tree? Brilliant…”

Lemur ignores Bru’s comment and continues.

“At first the tree house was the island where both pirates had hidden their treasure. They were trying to steal the other pirate’s loot. They had to defend the island or storm it. But then Christy worked out a way the game could become much more exciting.

“He got a rope. He chose a tree quite close to the tree house, climbed it and crawled out along a thick, high branch. He tied the rope to it. Then he climbed down and tested the knot by hanging onto the rope and jerking it hard. Holding the end of the rope, he climbed back up the tree. Robert watched as his brother swung through the air from one tree to the other, landing in the tree house.”

At this Lemur grabs a stick and thrusts it at us, shouting, “By ancient pirate laws, this ship, the Purple Thistle, belongs to me, Captain Kroniss, and you are defeated, Robber Baron!”

“Wow!” says Skooshie.

“D’you think
we
could do that?” asks Hector.

“Robert was impressed too,” says Lemur, putting the stick down, “and they had a great time playing the pirate game with the rope – until they were caught. Their
mother was horrified. Their father laughed and cheered them on. Perhaps he remembered doing things like that when he was young. Perhaps he wanted to be the Robber Baron or Captain Kroniss even now. But when he saw how upset and anxious their mother was, he told them to take the rope down.”

“Aw…” A heartfelt groan of disappointment at this turn in events.

“Life was so very, very boring after that. Robert and Christy tried to think up new things to do but they just couldn’t forget the pirate game. Then their mother said she was visiting their aunt for a few days. Right away, they had the same idea.

“They stood here holding the rope and looking up at the tree.”

Lemur’s standing now, gazing upwards. Our eyes are irresistibly drawn upwards too. Unfortunately, our tarpaulin blocks the view of the upper branches, so it feels less awe-inspiring than it should.

“‘We could put it back up,’ said Christy.

“‘We could,’ said Robert.

“‘What do you think?’

“Robert said nothing.

“‘What harm can it do?’ said Christy. ‘If Mother doesn’t know about it, she can’t be worried, can she?’

“‘That’s true,’ said Robert. ‘We could put it back up just for today.’

“‘Or…’

“‘Or what?’

“‘We could make it more exciting… But maybe you don’t dare?’

“‘I dare,’ snarled Robert. ‘Tell me!’”

Sensing that we’re getting near the scary part, we all lean forward, anxious not to miss a single word of Lemur’s story. And one of us, I’m not blaming anybody but I’m pretty sure it was Hector, catches the overhanging roof tarpaulin with his foot. The rain’s been collecting up there for a while. It only takes this slight nudge for the whole roof to cave in, tipping its load of freezing rainwater onto our heads.

We struggle to pull the tarpaulin back in place, but there’s no chance while it’s still raining this hard. We only manage to get even wetter.

“Abandon ship!” yells Bru, and we spill out of the den like a mischief of rats. (That’s the actual name for a load of rats –
a mischief. A mischief of rats
might be my current favourite. Or maybe
a murder of crows,
I’m not sure. I’ve remembered a lot of them and I keep trying to drop them into casual conversation. It’s a lot harder than you’d think.)

We’re standing in Prospecthill Road, wondering what to do next. We’re drenched and our hair is plastered to our faces. And it’s still pouring with rain.

“It’s too wet,” says Skooshie. And if even Skooshie thinks that, we’re sunk (almost literally). He heads off home down Bolivar Terrace. “I’ll see youse later.”

He’s got a point. The rest of us agree it’s time to admit defeat and go home.

“You’ll tell us the rest of the story later, Lemur?” I shout through the rain.

“Of course I will,” Lemur answers. “Come back when
the rain goes off. I was just getting to the really good bit. See you.”

It turns out to be one of those days when the rain just forgets to stop. The sky is a sullen, unchanging grey, just to warn you it can keep piddling down until bedtime. But Bru and I are determined to get back to the den whatever – no way we’re going to miss out on the next instalment. So as soon as the downpour slows to a steady drizzle, we risk it.

Lucky we did. When we get to the den, Lemur’s there. Somehow he’s managed to drag the tarpaulin back in place and it looks like most of the floodwater has soaked away into the ground. Hector and Skooshie turn up a minute later with loads of plastic bags stuffed under their jumpers.

“We thought we could sit on these,” says Hector. The settee cushions have absorbed too much water so we spread the bags out on the ground. On the other side of the plastic, the ground shifts soggily beneath our bums. It’s not an unpleasant feeling.

“So. Their mum was away and they were thinking of having another go on the swing. But Christy’d had a better idea,” Hector summarises and gives Lemur a nod. “On you go, Lemur.”

“Christy’s idea was this: that they could make a second rope swing on another tree, then race to see who could get to the ship first.”

“Pure dead brilliant!” breathes Skooshie.

“Robert thought so too. They picked the second tree carefully. It had to be fair. Robert was a bit taller so he had to start just a bit further away. They climbed their trees. They crawled along branches to tie the ropes. They tested each other’s rope by hanging from it.

“Then they took turns swinging to the tree house. It was even better now!

“‘It’s like flying,’ said Robert.

“And then it was back to pirate action.

“‘I will recapture the Purple Thistle, you scoundrel,’ vowed Robert. ‘And then prepare to die when I wreak my terrible vengeance!’

“They stood back to back, like in a duel.

“‘NOW!’

“They sprinted for their trees – Robert was faster but Christy was a better climber. By the time they had the ropes in their hands, it was impossible to tell who might reach the ship first. Christy leapt, Robert leapt. They swung high across, their feet hitting the tree house platform at exactly the same time. But their legs tangled. Christy only just managed to cling onto his rope. Robert couldn’t – he lost his grip and fell. Backwards. Head first. To the ground.”

“No!” All of us at once, thunderstruck.

“He was dead. Their parents were heartbroken, so heartbroken that they forgot all about Christy. Their mother became ill. Christy wasn’t allowed to see her. ‘Give her time,’ his father kept saying. ‘She needs time to get over it.’ He was so worried about the shock and grief killing his wife, he spent all his time with her.

“No one had any time for Christy.

“Left alone, he wandered about the empty house and grounds. He was strictly forbidden to go into the tree house. He found a knife and carved his own memorial to Robert in the trunk of the tree. He felt cold all the time. And empty. It was like loneliness was eating him away inside.

“Sometimes he would creep quietly up the stairs to his mother’s room, in the hope that she might hear his footsteps and call him in. But she never did.

“Christy realised that he was on his own. Robert – he was the only one his parents thought about. He started to wonder if they blamed him for what happened. The rope had been his idea. Robert wouldn’t have fallen if they hadn’t crashed into each other. It was his fault – all his fault. He couldn’t forget how he’d crashed into Robert, their legs tangling – he had laughed, he had thought it was funny. And then watching his brother fall…”

Lemur’s voice drops. “He wondered if it would have been better if he had died, not Robert.”

Not one of us so much as breathes. We’re totally spellbound.

“No one came near the house,” Lemur continues. “They were told to stay away because his mother couldn’t bear to see anybody. With nothing else to do, with no one paying any attention to him, Christy took advantage of his freedom. There was no one to make him come inside, go to bed, eat properly, be careful. He thought that if he hadn’t been alone, it would have been perfect. If only Robert had been there.”

Lemur pauses. There’s still no ghost, but we’re spooked. This isn’t the kind of story we were expecting.

“He liked to climb the tree and crouch in the spot where Robert had stood. Of course, they’d cut down the ropes. Cut them down and burned them. He struggled to find another one but it was easy enough to tie it onto the branch once he did.

“He felt a surge of fear as he leapt, then the familiar effortless sensation that was like flying. The first time he landed easily in the tree house. The second time he kicked back off the tree house platform, and swung to and fro until he came to a standstill. He lowered himself to the ground. Then he threw the end of rope up into the tree, so it wasn’t hanging down, and went into the house without looking back.

“It was very quiet. No voices. No deep tick-tock from the grandfather clock in the hall. No one had wound it up for weeks. He went up the stairs, looking for his father. He overheard his parents talking in low murmurs in his mother’s room. He paused outside to listen. He heard her say, ‘But not my Robert, not my Robert…’

“Christy ran out of the house and stumbled across the grass towards the tree. It wasn’t because he was crying – he wasn’t! – just that he was running so fast. He clambered up the tree in such a hurry he scraped all the skin off his knuckles. He stood up high holding onto the rope. ‘This is how you do it, Robert!’ he shouted. ‘Like this – like this!’ And he jumped and he swung towards the tree house. He hit the tree. And dropped onto the ground.

“His father found him later, in the dark, lying on the grass. Christy heard him begging, ‘Christy, Christy!’, but it was too late. They buried him in the cemetery of the church nearby, beside Robert. Well, at least that’s where they took his body… Because somehow, although he was dead, Christy saw it all happening. He saw them carry his coffin out of the house and put it in the carriage. He saw the four black horses with the plumes bobbing on their heads pull the carriage down the drive and away. He saw the coffin lurch as they lowered it into the dark hole in the ground. And he heard the first shovelful of grit hit the lid. The lid of his coffin. He saw his mother crying and he thought that she had left it much too late to be sorry for him.

“Somehow, although he was dead, Christy was still here. Sitting in the tree house, watching without being seen. His parents left the house forever and so it was just him. He waited here for a long time. No one came. The people thought the place was cursed, after what had happened to the boys. Can you imagine being that alone? He felt thin and faded and hollow, like there wasn’t enough of him.

“Years passed and the house turned into a ruin. The trees and bushes became overgrown, cutting the house off from the world. By then the story had been forgotten. People sneaked in and took away what they could use. He heard them picking their way through the broken glass and rotten wood, talking and laughing, but he couldn’t make them see him. He watched the other houses being built around him, bits of his family’s land being stolen. But no one built on this part because he
was here. They couldn’t see him but they sensed it and they left it alone.

“And he has never left this place. He’s still here, still waiting…”

“Aw, magic story, Lemur!”

“Yeah – really exciting.”

“Really creepy!”

“Lemur, when you say it happened here – it wasn’t that actual tree, was it?”

“That actual tree, Skoosh. The brothers died right there… about where you’re sitting. Why do you think it’s never been built on?”

Skooshie is open-mouthed. “He’s not still here, is he?” he asks.

“Christy? Here in our den?” says Lemur.

“Yes – Christy – the ghost of the boy. Not still waiting here?”

“
Wooooo, Skoooooshie! I’m coming for yoooooo!
” Bru is on him before Skooshie can escape. The rest of us don’t hesitate to join in. It’s a lot of fun spooking Skoosh and to be honest we’re in need of something to relieve the tension.

Skooshie wrestles, pushes us off.

“Does anybody want some chips?” he says. “I’m starving.”