The Unquiet House (17 page)

‘Where’s my brother?’ Frank said. He knew it was no use acting scared. If he did, Sam wouldn’t tell him anything. But he didn’t tell him anything now. He grinned and looked over Frank’s shoulder and Frank followed his gaze. Through the long grass where the water began there was a darker colour and he realised with a start that it was Mossy. As he watched, his brother raised one arm and waved. He didn’t shout a greeting or anything else.

Sam let out a whistle – a
watch this
whistle – and Frank turned to see him throw something small and coppery – a coin – into the long grass, towards Mossy. ‘We’re playing a game,’ he said.

‘The buggeration you are.’ Frank strode towards his brother. He immediately felt himself sinking. The ground only looked solid, he knew that. It was green, but it squelched like water. The river merged into the ground, no division between the elements. ‘Mossy,’ he shouted, ‘get ower ’ere,
now
.’

He couldn’t see his little brother any longer. He couldn’t hear anything either. The river’s progress was silent. Midges gathered about his face, as quiet as everything else. There was only his own breathing, and when he moved again, a sucking sound when he pulled his foot from the bog. ‘Mossy!’

His voice came out too loud and too high, and this time, behind him, there came a giggle. It was Sam. Frank pushed the thought of him out of his mind; he didn’t matter. He was thinking of Mossy’s feet, sinking deeper and deeper into the wet ground. He was further in than Frank and he wasn’t as tall or as strong.

He heard an answering cry a little way ahead of him. It was the sound made by someone who didn’t want anyone to know they were frightened.

‘I’m coming,’ he called, and he took a large, exaggerated step. He was into the reeds. They were stiffer than the grass, more difficult to push aside. If he bent them under his feet they might stop him from sinking too far. They were slippery though, and treacherous; he grasped at the thin stems to steady himself and they dug into his palms but he didn’t care. Mossy might not have the sense to step on clumps of reeds. He might not have the sense to hold on. If he went into the river – an image flashed before his eyes, but not of Mossy; oddly, it was the old man he saw.
You’re not ’im
.

Frank shivered. The hairs were standing away from the skin on his arms. He caught sight of a flash of colour: Mossy’s coat. ‘Hang on,’ he said, his voice lower now, just for the two of them to hear. ‘I’m almost the’er, our Michael.’

There was silence, and he didn’t know if it was because Mossy was reassured or because he was surprised at his brother calling him by his real name. Then the thought went out of his mind because he slipped, both feet this time, and in a second he was down, his hands plunging into muddy water.

He thrashed, grasping for the reeds, for anything solid, but nothing was; everything shifted or came away in his hands. Then he got his legs under him and he pushed himself up. He wasn’t sure which way he’d been facing. It all looked the same. He took another step – the ground felt a little more solid this time – and he heard Mossy cry out, a sharp sound of panic. He turned and caught sight of someone through the reeds, but it wasn’t him, not his brother; it was Sam, standing with his hands on his hips, smiling. It was odd, but for just a moment, it was someone else’s face he saw: he shook his head and it was only Sam again, but surrounded by a dark shape, like mist. His stomach clenched. He remembered seeing the old man with the woman standing just behind him, touching him, and he remembered the thought he’d had: that maybe it was
her
that had made him go bad. He pushed the thought away. He had to find his brother. He shouted his name, but his cry sounded inarticulate, like some wild creature.

He waded into the mire, the uncertain, unreliable mire, and he screamed something: Mossy’s name perhaps, though it might have been a wordless yell of fear, and then Mossy answered.

The sound carried to him clearly now. He couldn’t think how he hadn’t heard it before. His brother was wailing and splashing about, a frantic sound. Then he saw him, not in the river after all but among the reeds. He was covered in mud.

Frank kept going and reached out – for a moment he couldn’t see anything – then he felt fabric and his hand closed over it. He kept hold and pulled as hard as he could. Mossy scrambled towards him, into his grip, and he yanked his brother all the way out of the mire. When they were standing on firmer ground he still didn’t let go, he just stood there clutching his coat until hands started to slap at his own and he realised he was half strangling his brother.

‘I couldn’t find it,’ Mossy said.

Frank’s mouth fell open, and then he grinned and touched a hand to Mossy’s hair. He left a muddy smear on his forehead and his smile faded. ‘We’re going ter be for it,’ he said, and he shrugged. ‘I ’spose it dun’t matter. Come on, our Moss.’

He took his hand and stepped carefully back towards the bridge, ignoring Sam, tamping down the grass for Mossy. Now it felt firmer it was odd that he’d panicked like that. There was no way his little brother would have ended up in the river. Things like that just didn’t happen. He hadn’t meant to look at Sam again but he glanced around and saw he was still wearing that knowing grin as he tossed another coin in his hand.

Frank remembered what he’d seen –
thought
he’d seen – that woman, standing behind him. For a moment, she had even looked like a
part
of him. Then he focused on Sam’s eyes and they looked blank and strange and dangerous. Frank wasn’t sure it was the boy he knew, and then Sam shook his head and it
passed. Frank still felt cold. He wished he was at home, safe in his own bed, his brother in the room next to his.

He hadn’t expected Sam to speak but when he did, he sounded bewildered. ‘What—?’ and then he recovered himself and pointed at Mossy. ‘He owes me some brass,’ he said.

‘He owes you nowt.’ Frank glanced down at his brother. He was muddy and his eyes did not look trusting any longer and it was that more than anything that rekindled his anger. ‘Tha’ll not go near me brother again. I’m tellin’ yer.’

A smile spread slowly across Sam’s face. ‘All right. I’ll ’ave nowt to do wi’ ’im. Soon as you pay us back.’

Frank let out an exasperated sound and dug around in his pocket. There was nothing there but a five-pence piece he was going to use to buy Black Jacks or a lucky bag, but it would have to do. He held it out. His hand didn’t shake and he didn’t look away from Sam’s eyes.

Sam shook his head. ‘It’s not enough. And you know summat else, Frank Watts – I’m goin’ to tell your mum. I’ll tell ’er you threw Mossy in t’ watter cos he went out wi’out yer an’ you were mad. I’ll tell ’er you were in trouble in t’ playground. An’ I’ll tell ’er you went trespassin’ in that ’ouse, an’ all. She’ll believe me – you know she will.’ He paused. ‘It wan’t me that sneaked up to ’is window. It wan’t me what went inside that ’ouse. Anyroad, she can go an’ ask t’ old man, if she wants proof. He’ll tell ’er.’

Frank stared at him. No one said anything. Even Jeff was looking at Sam open-mouthed. No one ever told their mothers what they’d been up to; they just didn’t.

‘So ’ow about it? You goin’ ter pay us back, or what?’

Frank stared, but then, slowly, he nodded. He had some money left from his spends the week before, and it was his
birthday soon. Sam would have to wait – there was no way his mum would give him anything early – but what he got, he could have. ‘I’ll get you some brass,’ he said.

Sam smiled. Frank knew the smile did not bode well.

‘In yer dreams,’ he said. ‘It’s not brass I want. There’s summat I want yer to do for me.’

Frank found himself crouching by the drystone wall that ran along the front of Mire House. Everything seemed to come back to this place. Mossy was pinch-faced and silent beside him. Frank reached out a hand and grasped his shoulder.

Mossy looked at him, a question in his eyes, but it was Sam who answered it.

‘Tha’ll go in again,’ he said. ‘But this time you’re not after a pipe or owt useless. I want summat good.’

Frank waited but he did not say more and he realised it didn’t matter. It wasn’t really the value of the item that mattered – just
summat good
– so much as the satisfaction in making Frank fetch it, like a dog with a stick.

‘I’ll wait ’ere and so will ’e.’ He gestured at Mossy.

Frank had a sudden image of Sam taking his little brother and leading him back to the river. He shook his head and spoke, not to Sam, but to Mossy. ‘You
will
stop ’ere,’ he said. ‘You dun’t go nowhere. Not with ’im, not any more. Understand?’

Mossy nodded. Frank wasn’t sure he meant it, but it would have to be enough. He looked at the house and sighed. It still didn’t look like a nice house, but he’d taken the old man cake. He’d looked at pictures of his wife. He knew her name and what
it meant and he had shaken his hand. But he also knew that Sam was right. The way his mum had been lately, always cross, glaring at him and stomping around – she’d believe Sam in a shot, even if Mossy stuck up for him. He didn’t really have a choice, and it wasn’t as if the old man had anything valuable anyway; the whole house was a wreck, everything old and worn out and broken.

Except ’er
, he thought, remembering the look on the old man’s face when he’d spoken of his wife.
And she’s nowt but a memory
.

‘Well gerron wi’ it,’ Sam said, and shuffled on his haunches. ‘I’m not gerrin’ any younger.’

It was so obviously something he’d copied from his dad that Frank let out a splutter. It earned him a clip round the ear. ‘None o’ your cheek,’ Sam said, another phrase that sounded borrowed, but this time Frank didn’t laugh.

He turned towards the house. The thought of actually doing it, of creeping inside somewhere he’d been invited to visit, taking something that didn’t belong to him, made him feel sick. But if he didn’t do it – he looked at Mossy. Sam would find some other way of getting at him, so he might as well get on with it. He’d grab something the man would never miss and run out again. He’d just have to hope he wasn’t seen. He closed his eyes. He knew it didn’t matter; even if the old man never knew, he could never visit him again. He wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye.

He pushed himself up and ran, doubled over, towards the house.

The handle was familiar under his hand and he pushed on the door while he turned it to lessen the clang when it opened. The hallway was dark and it was only when he saw it that he
realised how quickly the day was passing; the sun must have almost disappeared already.

Frank slipped inside. The house was waiting. Only the dust moved, drifting down from the stairwell, and Frank watched it and it struck him that maybe the old man had died. He might have gone upstairs, taken off that smelly old jacket that was a little too small, taken a last look at that stone globe with the name of his wife and laid down and given up. Maybe he was with that dark woman now. Maybe
she
was with
him
. He looked up the stairs. They seemed steeper than they had before.

And then he remembered something that the old man had said:
Value in’t just in’t eye o’ the beholder, tha knows … If I was fussed about all that I’d go about flashin’ my watch-chain
.

A watch-chain, that would do. If he took that, Sam wouldn’t be able to accuse him of having failed. He bit his lip, imagining himself taking the one thing the man owned of any worth. But then, he didn’t value it, not really. It was other things he treasured. Pictures. Memories. Those kind of things.
In’t eye o’ the beholder
.

He took a deep breath and started up, one hand on the rail. It felt dusty but he didn’t take his hand away. If he fell, he’d be caught for sure. He looked down and saw the trail of muddy footprints he’d left behind. It struck him now that the old man might think the ghost had left them, the one who’d gone into the cupboard and disappeared. It seemed odd he’d never really thought about that before. He’d never seen a child, only the woman, and even then he’d barely thought the word
ghost
. He’d seen her, and so she simply
was
. It struck him how stupid it was that he’d just accepted that. He didn’t know what she was or where she had come from and he didn’t know
what it was she wanted. Maybe she wanted
him
. Maybe she wanted him
here
.

He swallowed. His throat had gone dry. It flashed across his mind how doubly stupid he had been. If he’d thought about this he could have simply knocked on the door, pretended he’d come to visit and slipped something into his pocket when the old man wasn’t looking. Now it was too late. The old man would be in his chair downstairs – he
hoped
– and if he came out now, Frank would be stuck. No, he had to keep going.

He reached the top of the stairs and glanced down at his feet. His boots were still muddy; there were tidemarks on his trouser legs. His mother would kill him, regardless of how this came out. He should have been in for tea ages ago.

He looked towards the bedroom and imagined stepping into that cupboard, that small stuffy space, and simply vanishing. He wrinkled his nose. Perhaps that would be best for everybody. He was nothing but a nasty thief now, wasn’t he?

His eyes were itchy and he rubbed at them with his sleeve. Then he stepped inside the old man’s bedroom. For a second he saw the old man sitting there on the bed, a shiny watch-chain held in his hands – actually
saw
him – and he blinked and the room was empty. He pulled the door to behind him. The photograph album was leaning against the side of the dresser; Owens hadn’t bothered to put it away. He walked over and looked down at it. The man and his wife might have had children. Frank might have been friends with them, they could have laughed together, played together; the house would have been different then.

No
. Somehow, he knew that the house hadn’t been meant for playing, for laughter. It wouldn’t forgive such a thing for entering its doors.

He saw now there was another picture, this one sitting on the dresser. The old man wasn’t in it but it showed the same woman as in the album and it was faded and browned. The frame it was in looked like silver.