Glimmer and other Stories (7 page)

‘What?’

Shush, now, shush, there’s a good girl.’

‘Who’s there?’ Isabelle said. Her throat tightened and her heart thumped against her ribcage.
 

‘Shush, don’t make a sound or the devil’s dog will come for you.’ The woman’s voice was raspy and low. She recognised it as the one she’d heard in the hospital. ‘He has a special hound for those who don’t do as they’re told. Can you hear it? It’s coming.’

There came a distant howl.
 

The scratching became louder, faster, desperate. Isabelle put her hands up to her ears. ‘Oh god,’ she said, reached out, turned on the light and saw a child-like figure crouched against the opposite wall.
 
She cried out and the phantom melted into the uneven plaster.

‘Izzie? Are you okay?’
 
   

‘Mum, come in, quick.’
     

The door opened and she sat up. Her mother hurried over and sat on the edge of the bed. Isabelle gripped her arm and pointed at the place where she had seen the child. ‘I saw something over there. I heard this noise, like an animal gasping, then someone spoke to me…’

‘Shush, shush now Izzie. It’s okay, you probably had a bad dream.’

‘What? No. I wasn’t asleep.’

‘You probably didn’t realise that you’d nodded off. A noise outside must have disturbed you and you probably weren’t fully awake.’

Isabelle looked at her mother. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks riddled with red thread veins. She saw weariness in her face and relaxed her grip.

‘Yeah. Maybe you’re right.’

Her mother’s face brightened and she smiled. ‘I am. Shush now, and go back to sleep.’

‘Will you stay with me?’

‘Until you fall asleep.’

‘Just like when I was little.’

Isabelle’s mother cleared her throat and patted the mattress. ‘Lie down and close your eyes. That’s a good girl.’

She felt her mother place her hand onto her forehead and winced. ‘Have you got another one of your headaches?’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t the medication working?’
             

‘Up to a point. There’s only so much they can do.’

‘But it is doing some good, isn’t it? I mean, your hair is starting to grow back.’

‘Yeah, it is.’
   

Isabelle’s mother stroked her hand and kissed the top of her head. ‘Well, that’s a good sign. Night, baby girl.’

***

The smell of coffee and fried bacon aroused Isabelle from her slumber. The sun squeezed itself through the slatted blinds, making curious shapes on the cream carpet. She yawned, stretched, watched the lights flicker on and off to the rhythm of clouds passing over the sun. Cheered by the sight, Isabelle hummed a tune to their visible beat. With a sigh, she got out of bed, picked up her wig and put it on. Then she wrapped herself in a thick blue towelling robe and turned her head towards the spot where she had seen the child.
 

She walked over to the wall, squatted and pressed her hand against the cold plaster. It gave way a little and a waft of warm air brushed across her knuckles. She withdrew her fingers and wiped them on her robe.
   

Isabelle stood and turned to leave, but something hard pressed against her cheek. A throbbing at the back of her ears made her clutch at her head. She made a high-pitched whine. A familiar voice said, ‘It’s all right, shush now. Don’t make such a fuss.’

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, thrust her hand into her dressing gown pocket, and pulled out a small plastic bottle. She opened her eyes slowly, unscrewed the cap, took out a large blue pill and swallowed it. Gagging as the tablet stuck in her gullet as it slid down. The pounding in her skull gradually faded, so too the woman’s voice. ‘Good girl, good girl.’ It trailed away and she pulled her dressing gown tight, then went downstairs.

At the doorway to the kitchen, she paused and smiled at the sight before her. It was as if she had travelled back in time to her childhood. There was her mother standing at the cooker, frying bacon; there was her father sitting at the table, a newspaper obscuring his face; there was her brother, shovelling cereal into his mouth.

‘Sleep okay in the end?’
   

‘Yes thanks, Mum.’
   

‘How do you like the new house?’
   

‘It’s not new, Peter, it’s four hundred years old listed building,’ her father said.
 

‘Yeah, I like it,’ she said and walked into the room. ‘Maybe a bit creepy, you know, with all the beams and leaded light windows…’
   

‘And cobwebs, ghosts and…’

‘Shush Peter. Izzie had a fright last night. Her head’s a bit fragile. I don’t want you making it worse.’
   

‘Oh come on, mum, she’s a grown woman.’
   

‘I know, but she still doesn’t like the dark, and she’s not very well.’

‘Hello,’ Isabelle said, and sat down. ‘I’m right in front of you. Stop talking about me as if I wasn’t here.’
   

There was a long pause.
 

The air filled with the aroma of frying meat. The silence was broken by the scraping sound of metal on metal. Isabelle’s mother pushed rashers of bacon around a grease-encrusted pan and shoved slices of bread into a toaster. Isabelle leant forward and put her elbows on the table. Peter gave her a raised brow look. ‘Hoo, don’t let Mum catch you doing that.’
   

‘Doing what?’
 
   

‘Nothing, Mum,’ Isabelle said and slid her arms off the table.
 
   

Her father put down the paper, sat back and let his wife fork pieces of crispy bacon onto his plate. She plonked the pan into the sink, pulled four pieces of golden brown bread from the toaster, and placed them on a plate next to a jar of jam and a tub of non-dairy spread. Isabelle took a piece of toast and slowly spread it with the fake butter. Her mother sat opposite her and picked at a small pile of fluffy scrambled eggs. Her brother and father ate their food, staring at nothing in particular through blank eyes.

Isabelle bit into the warm bread, looked around the room, tilted her head back and stared at the old scarred beams, at the unevenly textured plaster in between them, and became transfixed by their asymmetrical roughness. The light from the bevelled windows threw dark shapes across the walls, creating strange silhouettes that looked like people dancing. Through half closed her eyes, the shadows mutated. They transformed into distorted animals, crawling and yawning. Then they changed into the faces of screaming children. Isabelle blinked and the phantoms disappeared. ‘What are the walls made out of?’

‘Clay, mud, straw, animal and human hair,’ her father said.

‘Gruesome.’

‘Not really. That was all people had to build with back then.’

‘When you think about it,’ Peter said, ‘it’s very green. Totally organic. The stuff can bend and move with the house like a breathing membrane. Quite cool in fact.’

Isabelle felt goose bumps plip out all over her body. ‘If you say so Pete. Dad, do you know anything about the history of the place?’

‘Not much. It used to be bigger, but half of it burnt down in the late 17th century.’

‘I wonder who lived here?’
 

‘Peasants probably or farmers. Or maybe, evil landowners who raped and murdered their servants.’

‘That’s enough Peter,’ his mother said. She pushed her chair out and stood next to her daughter. A slight breeze brushed against Isabelle’s bare legs. She tightened the belt on her dressing gown. Her mother felt her brow and shook her head. ‘You feel a bit hot. I think you’re coming down with something.’

‘No, I’m not. Stop fussing, I’m perfectly…’
 
Isabelle stopped, cocked her head to one side. ‘Can you hear that?’
   

‘Hear what?’
   

She opened her mouth to answer, but stopped when she saw the look of fear on her mother’s face. ‘Nothing. I didn’t hear a thing. My head’s buzzing from the migraine.’
   

Peter narrowed his eyes and nodded in the direction of the cooker. ‘Do you want to know what I found in that inglenook?’

‘Shush, Peter. Now’s not the time.’

‘Mum, she started it, she asked.’
   

Isabelle sat up. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Izzy, maybe you should lie down. You don’t want to hear your brother’s silly story.’
   

‘I’m fine. Go on Pete.’
   

‘Well,’ he said and leant across the table. ‘I was fixing some of the loose bricks when one of them fell out. It left a big hole. When I put my hand into it, I found a black book hidden inside.’ Peter paused.

‘Go on.’

‘Load of old rubbish.’

‘It’s not, Dad. I showed you the thing.’

‘Yes, you did. A funny old thing it is too.’

‘What? Tell me,’ Isabelle said and slapped her hand on the table. Her mother shook her head and cleared the dirty dishes away. ‘Are you going to carry on with your story?’
 

‘If Dad will let me?’

‘If you must.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘Don’t take anything he says too seriously, he has a vivid imagination.’
 

‘Ron, help me with the washing up.’

‘Okay, I’ll dry,’ Ron said, picked up a tea towel that was hanging over the back of his chair and joined his wife at the sink.

Peter shuffled closer to Isabelle. ‘The book was full of these really weird diary entries. They start at 6th December 1649 and end on 6th January 1650. They didn’t make much sense really, lots of stuff about “The Master, his doings,” and “his black ways will be our downfall,” and the like. All of the entries mentioned a little boy called Roland, who was in some sort of danger. I couldn’t really understand everything; it was a bit flowery, you know, the language. But the last page entry is really spooky.’

‘In what way?’

‘The pages are all charred. You know, like someone tried to burn it.’

Isabelle chewed on her bottom lip. ‘Where’s the book now?’

‘Do you want to see it?’

‘Well, yes.’

Peter put his hand under the tablecloth and pulled out a drawer. He picked up a small blackened, leather bound book, and placed it on the table in front of his sister. Isabelle touched it and drew her hand back quickly. She stared at the red mark on her finger and showed it to her brother.

‘When did you do that?’

‘Just now, when I touched that book.’

‘Very good, Sis. Almost had me there.’ Peter pushed the book towards Isabelle. She leant away from it and began to sniff. Her brother pointed at the relic. ‘Look inside, go on.’

Isabelle shook her head and coughed. Smiling, Peter opened the charred diary. He flicked through the pages and read out an extract. ‘Listen to this, “My darling, Roland, woke from his feverish slumber. The Master was pleased. I did not like the smile he gave me, or the touch of his hand upon my intimate place. I will not unlock my door tonight. I will not let him in.” Good stuff eh? There are loads like that. Then a bit about a gathering and that Roland kid being, “Made ready.”’ Peter grinned at Isabelle. She did not return his smile.

‘What does the second to last page say?’

‘Doesn’t make much sense. Listen, “They will not have him. I will not let them. I will save my darling boy, we will go to heaven.”’

Isabelle began to breathe heavily. She leant forward and coughed. Struggling to take in air she spluttered, ‘Can’t breathe.’ Peter stood and slapped her on the back. Isabelle hacked up black.

‘Yikes, Izzy, have you been smoking?’

Ron turned and stared at his daughter. ‘What’s going on? Are you okay?’

Her mother poured out a glass of water and handed it to Peter, who sat beside his teary-eyed sister. She took the glass from him, sipped the drink and gradually calmed. Her father rubbed his unshaven chin and drew in a long deep breath. ‘Is it the chemo?’ He stroked her hair.

‘Don’t know. They said there would be side effects.’

‘Coughing up tar is one of them?’

‘Maybe, Dad.’

Ron kissed the top of her head and went back to drying dishes. Peter closed the book and put it back into the drawer. Isabelle swallowed down some more water.

‘Finished?’ her mother said. Isabelle nodded. ‘Right, I’ll just wash this then.’

She watched her mother clean the glass and hand it to her father. He rubbed it so hard it nearly shattered. She pinched her nose and closed her eyes, unable to bear the uncomfortable silence. When she opened them again, her family were staring at her as if she was already a corpse. A sharp pain cut through her head. She put her fists against her temples. ‘Stupid headache,’ she said, opened her eyes, and smiled at their concerned faces. ‘I’m okay, really. Pete, why don’t you read some more from that book?’

Peter looked at the floor. ‘Nah, it’s just a stupid old book. I shouldn’t have said anything.'

‘No, you shouldn’t, you’ve upset your sister.’

‘He hasn’t, Dad. I’m just tired from the drive down.’

‘You do look a bit washed out.’

‘You know what? I think I’ll go back to bed for a bit.’

‘Yes, you do that and I’ll give you a shout when it’s lunch time, okay?’

‘Yep, that’s sounds fine. Thanks, Mum.’

Isabelle stood and went back upstairs. On entering her bedroom, she smelled smoke. Sniffing the air trying to identify exactly where the burning odour came from, she moved around inhaling the fumes, following their scent, until she came to the wardrobe. The smell of burning was overpowering, and she pinched her nostrils. Then she reached out with her other hand, took hold of the handle and pulled the wardrobe door open. The smell of burnt flesh blew into her face, she gagged and turned her head away. A sob, juddery, raw, made her turn back to the open wardrobe. It was the panting sound again, only louder. Isabelle knelt down and peered into the blackness of the cupboard.
 
‘Shush, now, shush.’
 

The voice pelted out. Isabelle fell back onto her ankles and covered her mouth with her hands. A muffled sobbing came from the place where she had seen the child squatting the night before. She shuffled away and stared at the wall. The yellowing plaster moved in and out like sickly lungs. As she watched, a small mouth appeared. It opened and closed as if trying to suck in air. ‘When can I come out?’