Preface

When their car breaks down on a remote Highland road, Martin, Esther and their mother take refuge at a lonely loch-side guesthouse. Are the other guests just trying to spook them? Or could there be some truth in rumours that a monster lives beneath the dark, rippling surface of the loch – a monster that has claimed two lives already?
Esther and Martin are determined to uncover the facts about the mysterious ‘loch monster’ deaths. But what starts as an adventure quickly takes a strange and sinister turn, as they realise they are part of a plot that just keeps getting thicker. Why are the beds all empty at night? Who is the mysterious red-headed stranger? What is the significance of the symbol in the art gallery? And who can they really trust?
The longer they stay, the more Martin and Esther begin to realise that no-one is quite who they say they are… and that someone really doesn’t want them to leave.
The sense of menace builds layer upon layer as the children start to unravel the web of intrigue… and then comes crashing over their heads in the final action-packed denouement.

Chapter One — Another Boring Loch

The lake glinted darkly through tight clusters of pine trees along its shore. In fact the trees were so thick-set that they seemed to loom menacingly at passers-by on the deserted road, like youths on a lonely street corner. Esther shivered a little and huddled further into the car seat. She was always ready for an adventure, and this holiday had offered plenty – wild camping on the shores of Loch Monar, making fires, climbing trees and paddling in ice-cold mountain streams – but even she was glad they weren’t stopping here for the night.
Her brother Martin had his head stuck in a book as usual. It was amazing he didn’t make himself car sick. This one was a mystery about a missing Egyptian scroll. Esther watched as he absent-mindedly pushed his glasses up his nose and turned a page. Martin was ten, and a bookworm, but his lips still twitched silently as he read.
‘Esther, don’t wind your brother up!’ said mum without even looking in the rear-view mirror.
‘I didn’t say anything!’ protested Esther.
‘You didn’t need to,’ mum said.

Martin glanced up from his book, and then down to the foot-well behind mum’s seat, where his sister’s pale shins stuck out of her walking boots.

‘And Martin don’t kick your sister,’ mum said without missing a beat.
A green road sign whizzed by.
‘Fort Augustus 30 miles!’ groaned Martin. ‘I thought you said we were nearly there.’
‘Nearlyish. It should only be about another three quarters of an hour-’ (mum ignored the indignant cries of ‘three quarters of an hour!’) ‘- but the thing is, I’m getting really worried about our lack of fuel. There’s supposed to be a petrol station somewhere along this road.’
‘This journey’s going on for ever,’ complained Esther.
‘Don’t worry, it’s going to stop very soon if we run out of petrol,’ said Martin. Maybe it was the heat in the car, or the boredom of the journey, but for some reason they both found this inexplicably hilarious. Giggles turned into guffaws, and guffaws into side-clutching laughter of the kind that makes you have to gasp for breath.

Mum didn’t find it funny at all. She frowned, and glanced at the fuel guage again.
Eventually, with a supreme effort, Esther stopped laughing and began rummaging for her asthma inhaler.
Martin gave a little hiccup and proclaimed, ‘My tummy’s full up from laughing!’

Then the car gave a hiccup too.
Just one at first, then a couple more, and then suddenly it was kangaroo-jumping wildly all over the road, and Martin and Esther fell around in fits of laughter again, and then finally, with a whirr like a hoover being turned off, the engine died and the wheels crunched to a standstill on the gravel road-side.
There was a stunned silence.
‘Well that’s done it,’ said mum, after a while. Esther and Martin collapsed in giggles for a third time, but stopped abruptly when they saw her face.
‘I’m glad you two find it such a scream,’ she said sharply, ‘because it probably means we won’t be going to XtremeNess.’
Martin’s smirk died on his lips, as suddenly as if someone had switched off all his facial muscles. Mum had to be kidding! XtremeNess was the only decent thing about this holiday. Camping and country hikes were all very well in small doses, but they weren’t really his thing. This was what he’d been looking forward to all week: a whole theme park dedicated to the Loch Ness Monster, with a waterpark and a museum and a life-size, moving, roaring model of Nessie, and the biggest roller coaster in Scotland!

Mum and Esther were getting out of the car, so Martin followed. Taking the leaflet from his pocket, he unfolded and read it again. The stuff of legend… or is it? Nestled on the shores of Loch Ness, XtremeNess is Scotland’s premier attraction offering a larger-than-life encounter with the world’s most famous monster. Whether you’re young or old, believer or sceptic, you won’t be disappointed! the leaflet promised.
But if you’re Martin Oakley it looks like you’re going to be, he thought, kicking a stone.

Mum was studying the map. ‘The petrol station can’t be much further on. I say we push the car. But you two are going to have to help.’
To begin with, pushing the car was fun. Esther and Martin both went to the back and leaned their shoulders against it, while Mum pushed and steered from the driver’s side door, and the hazard lights blinked on and off in warning. Mum even let them take turns at steering so she could go at the back and push. But it was hard, exhausting work, and long before the petrol station hove into sight they were both sweaty and moaning.
Finally they saw the black and orange sign up ahead, and all three gave a little cheer – but it was short lived. As they drew closer they saw that the garage was all shut up, and everything, from the petrol pumps to the shop windows, covered with a thick layer of grime.
‘It doesn’t look like it’s been open for years,’ exclaimed mum.
‘Now what are we going to do?’ said Esther, flinging herself down onto the verge with a dramatic flourish. They were stuck in the absolute middle of nowhere, miles from civilisation, banks of pine trees stretching away on either side of the road, with only the occasional break in the trees to their right showing the gloomy Loch still rippling eerily. It was hours since another car had passed them on the road.
Mum was peering into the distance. ‘It looks like there’s a couple of buildings up ahead. It might be a hamlet.’
‘More like a Macbeth,’ said Martin, always first in with the literary references. ‘Oh well, at least we’ll have some entertainment while we’re stuck here.’
‘You’re such a geek,’ said Esther, her voice loaded with scorn.
Martin made a sound like an air raid signal. ‘Joke alert, joke alert, warning: all those allergic to humour please put on your gas masks now.’
‘That wasn’t a joke,’ said Esther with a snort of derision.
‘A hamlet means a small village,’ said mum. ‘They might help us. Or at least put us up for the night.’
‘What, here?’ both kids cried, united in horror. ‘We can’t stay here!’

A few minutes later they were knocking on the door of a small granite cottage. A faded sign saying ‘Bed and Breakfast’ hung outside. Martin tried to peer in at the windows, but the late afternoon sun shone directly onto them, making it impossible to see anything inside. It looked dark and quiet and cold, and they were surprised when the door was suddenly thrown open.

The woman had dark, wavy hair, streaked with grey, and pinned up on top of her head with an assortment of pencils, hair pins and what looked like a chopstick. Her hands were still inside a pair of oven gloves. She frowned at them suspiciously for a minute, and all three took a step back; then her face cracked into a smile and she said, ‘Welcome to Loch View. Will you be wanting somewhere to stop for the night? We’re pretty full this weekend, but I’m sure I can squeeze you in.’

The woman, whose name was Iris, told them that the garage would be open on Monday. That meant they had to stay here all day tomorrow, Sunday, just kicking around this dusty little hamlet, instead of maxing out on adrenaline at the theme park.
‘So can we go to XtremeNess on Monday?’ they asked.
‘I’m so sorry, children,’ mum said sadly, ‘I really am. I just can’t take any more time off work. As it is I’m going to have to call in on Monday and tell them I’m still stuck in the Highlands. We’ll just have to come back another year.’
Martin’s lip began to tremble, and even Esther felt a dull thud of disappointment in her stomach when she thought about missing the rides and the waterpark.

‘We can explore the pine forests, and the loch, and maybe even catch some fish,’ said mum, putting on a bright voice.
‘Another boring old loch,’ said Martin.
‘Oh, this one’s no’ boring,’ came a voice from the doorway. They all turned to look.
A broad man in a fisherman’s cap and galoshes seemed to fill the doorway. He looked at Martin with piercing little eyes. ‘When you’ve heard the stories about this loch, you’ll wish it was a bit more boring – if you’re staying here that is.’
‘Joseph! You’ll no’ be frightening the guests with your old stories again,’ cried Iris, coming in with a tray of tea. ‘Joseph’s one of our regular visitors,’ she explained to mum and the kids. ‘He has a very active imagination.’
‘Oh yes, about as active as that grizzly,’ he said, gesturing towards an enormous head of a brown bear mounted on the wall above the fireplace. He stooped to put his head next to Martin’s and croaked: ‘I speak the truth.’
‘Well you can speak your truths after they’ve had a bite to eat, Joe Moffat,’ said Iris firmly, ushering him out of the way so that she could set a tray of crumpets on the table. ‘They’ve been on the road all day, the poor things – literally.’
Esther flopped down onto the ancient armchair, which managed to be both hard and saggy at the same time, and sank her teeth into a hot crumpet dripping with butter. It more than made up for the shortcomings of the lumpy armchair – after a tiring and stressful afternoon, it tasted like the best thing she’d ever eaten. Martin was nestled into one corner of a sofa, his feet tucked under him, reading his book and nibbling like a mouse around the edges of his crumpet. Mum sat next to him and poured the tea. Iris was beavering away in the fireplace, and soon she sat back on her heels and watched as the flames licked their way along the newspaper, the kindling caught, and a fire began to crackle in the grate. She took the chopstick from her hair and prodded at the fire with it.
‘You’ll be wanting your tea,’ she said to mum. It was a statement not a question.
Mum looked hesitant. ‘Oh but – you don’t need to worry about us. We’ll find something to eat.’ Martin and Esther exchanged glances that said: will we? ‘I saw a fish restaurant just back along the road. I’m not sure if it was open,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Oh yes, it – er -’ Iris looked quizzically at Joe, ‘It should be open later. But you’ve had a long day, you don’t want to be going out again this evening. I’ve got a lovely chunky vegetable soup in the fridge I made yesterday, needs to be eaten up tonight or I’ll have to throw it out, and I hate waste. Oh and for the kids I’m sure I’ve got a pizza in the freezer. If I were you I’d save the restaurant for tomorrow – they always have a good catch on Sundays.’

Result! Instead of mackerel caught in the dubious-looking Loch Bàth, they were going to be sitting by the roaring fire, eating pizza and listening to old Joe tell spooky stories.

‘People have told tales of a creature in the Loch for centuries,’ he begun. ‘Long before the village was here, when the road was just a track and the forest a wilderness of oak and ash and briar. Back then, there were stoats and badgers and even deer in these woods, the loch was teeming with salmon and bream, and no-one had ever heard tell of the Loch Ness Monster.’ He spat the last three words.
‘Oh, you look surprised,’ he said. ‘Yes, the Loch Ness Monster is a Johnny-come-lately compared to the Siannach Bàth. What’s more, it is a Fraud!’ he said fiercely, almost rising out of his chair. ‘A gimmick! A publicity stunt! Yes, they have their theme parks, and their hotels, and their fancy restaurants full of Americans. It’s all good harmless fun, and there’s plenty of money to be made from fun. But it isn’t real,’ he breathed.

His huge frame seemed too large for the armchair he was sitting in as he leaned forward, face animated with the drama of the story. But there was something in his manner that made Esther think it was a well-rehearsed tale that he’d told many times before.
‘And this one is real?’ she asked.

‘Oh, the Siannach Bàth is real all right lass. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. It was not two years ago, on a day as still and clear as Highland honey – though you’ll learn, however bright and blue the sky is, the water still ripples with strange currents. Restless, it is, the loch.’
‘What was the monster like?’ asked Martin breathlessly.
‘Well, I didnae stick around to get a close look!’ said Joe. ‘All I remember is, the sky suddenly clouded over, almost as if someone had put a dimmer switch on the sun, and a wind got up, from nowhere like, and the surface of the loch began rippling and churning away, and I thought it’s time to go home right enough, so I turned the boat round quick and began rowing to the jetty as fast as I could, and as I was rowing I felt a kind of – disturbance – in the water behind me, and I looked over my shoulder and there was a great swelling wave spreading across from the other shore, and there in the middle of it was a great grey shape, rising about a metre out of the water.’
‘A grey shape?’ asked Esther doubtfully. ‘What, like a piece of driftwood, or a rock, or an old TV someone had dumped in the lake?’
‘I can see you’re a sceptic,’ grinned the old man gleefully. ‘How many TVs have you seen with teeth like this?’ and he whipped something from his pocket, and brandished it triumphantly in Esther’s face: a 5 inch long, sharp, pointed, yellow fang.

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Preface

When Fee Thomas meets two fellow mothers as they all wait for their children in a theatre coffee bar, it soon becomes clear that they have one particular thing in common: their unhappy marriages. One by one they abandon their husbands, and take their small children to live a dream life together.

As their husbands struggle to cope with domesticity and child care, they deal with adversity in their individual ways, and our sympathies vacillate from them to their wives. Paul, Fee’s husband, is angry and aggrieved. Reluctantly he takes the advice of a colleague and begins counselling sessions with Max Rutherford, a specialist in marriage breakdown and anger management. Gradually Paul begins to heal, but his peace of mind is hard fought and not without its pitfalls.

Despite promises to each other that they will wait, the women begin to seek furtive relationships with men, but disastrous events begin to strike them and their children. Relationships are tested and adjusted again and again. Is there something sinister going on and if so, who is responsible?

Chapter One — The Meeting

The broad staircase of the small theatre is purple-shabby. Fee’s footsteps are hushed by the fading carpet, and she glides her fingers along a hand-rail polished smooth by countless others before her. She is trying to suppress anxiety about her small daughter. Kitty has just waved goodbye from among several other little ones, variously sucking thumbs, hopping, and looking expectant. There is no indication that Kitty is worried by the bossy woman running the drama class so Fee decides to focus on the benefits of this new activity.
She sweeps her eyes over the muted foyer. There are people, but not many for a Saturday. Through a smoked glass wall to her left are spectral outlines of diners and drinkers in the cafe-cum-restaurant where she’s decided to pass this forty minutes of Kitty’s absence. She heads for the scent of coffee.

Waiting for a skinny cappuccino she scans the busy room for a vacant table, and spots one on the far side, next to a couple of women, chatting amid a tumble of squashy bags and folded coats. She fixes her eyes on the spot, hoping nobody will grab it before her order is ready. Coffee takes so long to make, these days. From the corner table a boy-child makes a tottering bid for freedom. One of the two women reaches out and grabs him by the arm, and her flossy locks bounce in the soft light. The other girl, Mediterranean in colouring, sips from a thick, white cup, and pushes a buggy back and forth.

Fee weaves between diners to bag her spot, and drapes her jacket over the back of a chair. The two women at the next table are worrying about the officious drama teacher. It’s hard not to eavesdrop.

There’s a muffled squawk from the buggy and the petite and appealing, olive skinned girl bends to the small hollow of the pram and extracts a tiny, lolling infant with cappuccino coloured skin and a dandelion clock of black hair. She places it on her shoulder and rocks her body, patting the infant’s back. The new-born, perhaps finding this treatment objectionable, raises its wobbly head, belches and ejects a glob of creamy white liquid before subsiding again onto the sweet and slippery shoulder. Fee grabs the napkin from her saucer.
‘Here, let me,’ she offers, and soaks up what she can from the back of the girl’s coat.
‘Thanks very much.’ The young woman screws her head in Fee’s direction. ‘If you could take Lucas a moment I’ll get this thing off.’
Fee accepts the child, and as the girl shrugs off her pea jacket, regrets wearing her Burberry sweater.
A familiar aroma of milk and lotion rises from the tiny bundle, and Fee finds herself enveloping him in her arms, and staring, fascinated, into the tiny face with its curdled-milky chin.
The flossy mother sits passively on the opposite side of the table with a small boy on her lap. His eyelids droop, and chubby digits twist and tug at a lock of the straw coloured hair draped over her slender shoulders.

‘I’d forgotten how that happens,’ Fee remarks. ‘You think you won’t forget but you do.’
‘He’s so sicky. I should have learned by now.’ The girl smiles a huge and open grin that transforms her face. ‘Thanks so much for your help.’ She holds out her arms for the child and Fee passes him back.
‘I’m Millie.’ She proffers a small hand under her son, and they shake fingers. Millie indicates the other mother with a small movement of her head as she shifts the baby and sits back down.
‘Twitch and I are waiting for our older children; they’re upstairs doing a drama class with a terrifying lady.’ She makes a comical face.
Fee remains standing looking down at her. ‘Me too. She was pretty terrible, wasn’t she? I hope they’re OK.’
Across the table, Twitch, her young son dozing on her lap, regards Fee comfortably – not ‘Nervous Twitch’ then. ‘Come and join us?’ Her voice is deeper than her wraithlike features might suggest. Fee slides into a seat at the table and lies her jacket across her knees.
Huddled in her corner, dark haired Millie breast feeds, and tells with engaging openness of her family. She has two mixed race offspring, Olivia upstairs, and the pukey baby. Her husband, Mick, is from Ghana. She drapes a terry nappy over her shoulder and winds Lucas without mishap then gathers him to her.
‘So, what about you, Fee?’ She asks as she buttons her shirt. ‘Do you only have your little girl or is there a New Man at home with a brood of others?’ She announces the words New Man, like the MC at a function.
‘There’s just Kitty. She’s plenty for me – us. I work full time so having another baby would be a strain.’ She avoids tackling the New Man reference. ‘How about you, Twitch?’
‘I’ve got the two. I’m just beginning to raise my eyes towards the future again, I feel as if I’ve been surrounded by nappies and feeding routines for ever!’
‘What might you do?’ Millie gazes at the translucent eyelids of her son.
‘Oh I don’t know. Escape.’ Millie looks up and she and Fee regard Twitch in silence. Twitch looks at them both with a hopeless expression. ‘Sorry. I can’t think about anything else at the moment. I shouldn’t have said that. You hardly know me – I hardly know you.’ She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I hardly know anyone!’
Fee leans on the table with both arms, and bends towards her companion, but Twitch is backing off.
‘It’s just the usual stuff: boredom, inattentive husband, abandoned career.’ She flaps a hand in the air as though batting at a wasp.
‘Well, if you ever need a shoulder…’ Millie smiles.
‘Thanks.’ Twitch gives a forlorn smile and picks up her cup.
The remaining forty minutes pass in small talk, then Millie, with Lucas on her shoulder, drags her buggy to a space beside the bottom step, and they make their way up the stairway, hoping the lesson has been a success.
A crowd of boys and girls muddle out of the room, full of excitement, and Fee forgives the teacher. She’s human after all.
They retrace their steps, passing portraits and landscapes by local artists, on the walls of the corridor. The older children dance ahead, already friends, and the women, less impetuous, agree to meet again next week, then part, each in a different direction.
Fee grasps Kitty’s hand, and heads for the underground car park. When she glances back through the glass entrance doors, Twitch’s straw-coloured hair and ochre skirt catch her eye, swinging from side to side like pampas grass.
The parking floor is gloomy, and their footsteps echo off concrete walls.
‘What did you do today, my poppet?’
‘Well, we had to be tiny.’ Kitty releases Fee’s hand and stops to crouch into a ball. ‘Then we had to be tall.’ She takes a few steps and throws her arms into the air. ‘Then we made ourselves as wide as a tree.’ Her arms fly out to become branches, ‘and really, really thin like a pencil.’ This calls them to a complete stop as Kitty holds her breath and stands to attention, her whole being focused on being still and narrow. Fee needs to get 0n, there is a mound of work to do, but first, Kitty has a swimming lesson.
‘Show me when we get home Kitty.’ She opens the car door.

Has Paul started the chores? She suspects he’s still in bed, and sighs as she seats herself in the driver’s seat.
Kitty chirrups away during the short journey to the sports centre, while Fee prepares herself for what awaits her.

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She’s here, in the living flesh at the Hall. Emily is too upset about the tiger to care but the Captain is pleased young, brave blood pulses around the place. She came with Sophia to help look for Baby. Here, to this cold and damp house, shrouded in winter fog and the calls of the crows. The Captain reckons she has a strong taste for adventure and a will to match. The black dog, Beelzebub keeps running madly around, excited by her owner’s presence. It keeps taking me to the garden and then starts digging, or trying too. Getting a bit annoying really…

When she arrived with Sophia, looking frozen and slightly uncomfortable in winter woollies, Old Bill and Charles perked up immensely from their misery. With the tiger gone, the Hall would have to be sold and where, oh where would they go? Mr Sharp Suit had got wind of the missing cat and had greased himself into the house earlier that day, let in by that guttersnipe Brigitte and had gone away with a smile on his thin, dry, odorous lips.

Through the looking glass

And then the dog goes and appears to her in the mirror. She is sleeping in the room with a lilac tree outside, Maria’s old room, which is quiet and has a large circular mirror on the wall with floral prints covering most of the surfaces. There she is, brushing her hair, looking wishfully into it, when low and behold; the damn dog appears digging in the snow and generally messing about, instead of her almost perfect reflection. Even Emily, taking a break from her hunt for the beast to cast a critical eye down below, jumped. Loulou didn’t. She just gazed, looking puzzled.

“Is she stupid?”Emily asked. “Why didn’t she react?”

Emily is very jealous of the new occupant, who is stealing her feminine lime light.

“I think she has special sight…” I said to Emily, who immediately huffed and disappeared.

I do mean it though. I think she feels us around her. Just before going to sleep, Emily went to her room and heard Sophia giving her a few pointers about life at the Hall;

“If you feel them around you,” she was saying, “talk to them! Tell them to either help or be kind or get lost. You have to take charge a little or they may try and mess you about. I know it feels silly talking to a room but it works for me…”

Moments later Emily was told to leave the room and the Captain paced a little quieter in his corridor, so as not to disturb the young warm blood in her dreams.

Dream a little dream for me…

Today started with a few surprises.

She tossed and turned for most of the night, the room oddly so cold, that thin ice formed on the inside of the windows. Drafts do permeate the space but I have never seen it frozen over before. Emily and I were quite shocked when she woke with a scream and fell out the bed, making us both glide backwards into the shadows in the corner. Then it made sense. The Norse was there, smothering us with his freezing form and mumbling incoherently. I think he had been there all night and I think he had something to do with Loulou’s harsh awakening .But what? I heard the words beast, ground and snow but could make out little else. And then he disappeared.

At breakfast she told Sophia of a dream.

She was in darkness, the only noise a drip of water. Then she heard a purring which vibrated in the void around her, like the noise of a very large cat. A strange shadow had appeared, holding a lantern and had beckoned her towards his black form. Not keen on this horror film vision, she turned away and tried to walk in the opposite direction, starting to feel a growing fear. Her feet felt stuck in the mud and it took a great effort to move only a few steps. And then something tugged her clothes, almost pulling her over. It’s a dream, she told herself, trying to calm her pumping chest, wake up idiot, you are dreaming. It was so dark all around her and she took a breath before looking behind her to see the lantern, still gleaming and coming closer. Then she felt Beelzebub beside her, pulling at her to walk towards the light.

“Bl**dy dog, what are you doing here? What’s the matter?” she called into obscurity.

Her feet suddenly felt wet. Then she noticed the sound had changed. The drip had vanished and was replaced by a gushing, gurgling noise mingled with a low deep howl, almost a roar. And now her ankles were getting wet. She had to move but couldn’t. Mud, the dreamer’s nightmare, clung thickly around her feet.

“Beelzebub,” she screamed. “Help me!”

The lantern drew closer but she became engulfed in a cold so thick, she felt she was drowning.

“Go to the garden!” a voice called, before her last effort to break free brought her tumbling out of bed and onto the floor of her freezing abode.

Melting

Sophia had comforted her and then insisted that they did indeed, go to the garden. Chocked up in hats and scarves they patrolled the lawns, still stiff with snow .Emily and I watched them crunching through the icy layer, Loulou shivering in the intense freeze. The winter sun was out trying to warm the earth and the trees were crying with melted joy. Dean appeared carrying a bucket of salt for the paths.

“It’s melting!”We heard him comment. “It’ll be brown sludge in a few days I reckon,” he grinned, tripping over himself to get a better look at Loulou. Sophia introduced him to her young companion. He then promised to take Loulou on a tour of the secret historical spaces of the Hall (his speciality) and wandered off to grit the main path, whistling tunelessly and managing to catch his scarf on any branch he happened to pass.

“He’s a good lad really,” Sophia smiled and suggested they get back into the warmth for a cup of hot chocolate.

Hours later the police had been round with very little to report. They had found a tranquillizer syringe in Baby’s pound but nothing more. Brigitte could have dropped it at some point but as she had gone away for a few days and wasn’t answering calls, they would have to wait until she returned to check on their only clue.

Old William looking tired and drawn, had retired to his room. Charles was sitting with his heavy head lolling in his hands and Sophia was trying to be bright, cooking with Loulou in the kitchen.

OMG

A couple of minutes ago Emily spied Dean running eagerly to the house in the dying light of the day. He started banging on the back door and shouting about the garden and the old tunnel. The dogs began barking hysterically but Charles just shook his head. Loulou, still haunted by her dream, jumped up and sped to the excited gardener. Emily and I joined her.

On opening the door all we heard was;”It’s appeared, the tunnel, it’s appeared!”

The dogs dashed out and so must we. That’s where I leave you…till the next time….

Frosty fingers

The night draws in early now around the Hall and icy fingers hold its walls through the night. Emily likes the frost with its sparkles, painting an opaque layer over the ugly and abandoned but it reminds me of death. Its pale white sheen filling in the cracks of the living, like an old face in death suddenly appearing smooth, having lost the anguish of life.

After a rather entertaining Halloween, I decided to return to the burnt rock with the black dog, Beelzebub. We all had to stay away from downstairs anyway because the ghost hunters arrived. Just such funny creatures with their cameras and sound equipment. Our frolics over Mischief Eve brought them in for a few days. We were restrained to icy blasts of air and the occasional thump of furniture. Very dull really when all you want to do is give them a real treat but rules are rules…

A council woman turned up too, looking into the situation with Baby. She and Charles spent at least an hour together and he took her on a tour of the historic Hall. She gushed with pleasure when he told her of the priest hole and showed her the ancient chimney, the tunnel leading up to the church and ovens. As she left she told him she was going to look into a few things and be back to see him soon. She might be able to help him. Charles looked bemused but pleased. Brigitte watched everything with stern eyes. I don’t think she was too happy with the council woman.

So I disappeared with the black beast. Obviously we don’t banter much so the journey was quiet but fast. I actually quite enjoy travel now. Been a few places and seen a few things. I do mean just a few though.

We arrived at dawn to watch a strange scene of two grown men dragging a young lad into an abandoned building. The dog got a bit excited about it all and then we sped off to find her owner.

The island looked beautiful, bathed in orange as the sun rose, especially after the sugar coated colourless world I had just left. And we were there, on the mountain side, at the home of the girl called Loulou. The dog demon started to get very agitated and somehow merged himself into my, I mean, the sleeping teenager. I didn’t like that much and when she suddenly tossed and fell off the bed, I liked it even less. I feel strangely protective over her.

High adventure

Well, I barely know how to explain what happened next. Lou’s best friend Nelson had disappeared and she seemed sadly devastated. Over the next two days it was a roller coaster of excitement and suspense. I’m no story teller so cannot relive the experience for you in words but I can say that Loulou is an amazing girl; so feisty and brave. She helped solve a mystery and catch some criminals without really blinking an eye. She did have some help though; Beelzebub the dog. Yes, the dog. Oh and there was a man in a pink van, a beastly cake maker and a turtle called Pugsley, drugged children, strawberry cake and the dog vomited. I know it sounds a little odd but it was the best time I’ve had in ages!
I really didn’t want to come back to the chills of the Hall but the Captain came to get me. Something bad had happened and they needed me to help. I had only been away a couple of days…

Who’s got Baby?

Baby, the cute cuddly, vicious, killing creature had somehow disappeared. There had been heavy snowfall one night and in the morning she was gone. The Captain had been up in Grimsby at a soldiers reunion and Emily had gone into Hull to watch rehearsals for the Christmas pantomime (Oh no she didn’t, oh yes she did) and spent the night in the costume wardrobe rolling about in the gowns and the glory. The only one in upstairs was the Norse and no one dare ask him anything.
Maria arrived and swiftly took control. She had a way with the Norseman (her Icelandic blood I guess) and he appeared out of his hide hole. He said he saw nothing but felt the Tiger was still there, somewhere. He had heard voices outside in the night but he didn’t care who they were so he didn’t look. Amazingly he offered his help. We were too stunned to speak. Things must be bad.

Downstairs are a mess. Old William trundles slowly about looking ashen, while Charles sits with his head in his hands. The loss of the tiger has hit both emotionally and financially. The world has come crashing down. Brigitte, on the other hand, remains cool and calculated. She strokes Charles back murmuring gently; “Don’t worry; you’ll just have to sell the Hall…”

Mischief

Halloween has passed with much festivity and mirth. It was a good year this year; the Captain was on form and the youngsters had practised their tricks to perfection. My son’s girlfriend thought it was a good idea to have a party at the Hall so we had many warm bloods to play with. What joy! I’ve always relished a good prank or two.
The upstairs bathroom was our choice for mischief. The bathroom furniture dates back to the swinging sixties, all teal coloured with a modern edge. At least it was. The room has a huge mirror over the sink which is going black around the edges. The silver is corroding giving it a misty glow and your reflection is smudged and faint. Perfect. The downstairs bathroom is presently out of order so all the guests stomped up to admire themselves in it.

Once upon a time in a bathroom…

Mysteriously the upstairs lights dimmed for the evening; (possibly due to the Norseman) making the creaky walk up the stairs followed by a slight jog along the darkened Captains corridor rather a scary affair for the living. The Captain loves making warm blood cool so he stands glaring at them in the middle of the walkway so they have to pass through him to get to the bathroom. It is quite a treat watching everyone shiver in that spot and the Captain glows with joy. This year, as we had guests, even the ghost in the hole, joined in with the festivities. I think he was the one playing with the electricity, flickering the lights and popping a few light bulbs downstairs in the big lounge.

Well, when they got into our retro suite, Emily and I took over. By standing in the bath behind them we could appear, mouths open in silent screams. Strangely some didn’t even see us, so we tried more extreme methods. I would create steam on the mirror and Emily, good with her hands, would start to draw in the mist. The effect was always the same, no matter what she drew (from death skull to pig); slight paralysis, sweat and an immediate and fast vacation of the room, followed often by some serious crying down the corridor of shivers. Only one young woman, slightly worse for wear with wine, was quite fascinated by the magical drawing on the mirror. I think she would have stayed with us all night except that there was a small queue building outside the door. She looks sad to have to return to the living. At one point a couple started to get sexual in there, so we started water running from every tap and jiggled the old window frames until they squealed in pain and that soon stopped them. Even Brigitte went home early, complaining of a headache. We kept shutting the door in her face as she went to leave. She almost ran down the drive after Charles saved her by forcing the portal brutally back, making Oliver disappear into the ground.

I remember bathing my children in that bath, giggling and playing with the bubbles, sliding up and down on the enamel. It was also my winding down space; a volcanically hot tub and a room filled with perfumed steam. No housework, no husband, no mess, no children, unless Sophia wanted to talk. She would jump up on the side, next to the sink, swinging her legs and babble endlessly on about her school friends and their boyfriends. It a shame I never really appreciated that closeness and intimacy. Being a housewife can drive you crazy you know. You can be more obsessed with a carpet than your own kith and kin. I would love just to hold her now; to take her in my arms and just hold her. To have her chat on excitedly about her life; her eyes looking for my approval and asking for my advice; that would be bliss but I can wait.

Shag pile

My old bedroom, all chocolate brown shag pile carpet and equally dark velvety walls has been transformed into a workshop of indescribable horror. Mismatched shelves stand in crocked lines, sagging under the weight of god knows what. My boudoir of peace looks more like a shed. The grassy wool of the carpet now has bald patches and the wallpaper looks greased rather than velveteen smooth. Where my big king-size bed rested there now lurks a huge table, encrusted with metal grips and solutions that appear to burn through surfaces. Only the small chandelier remains, hanging over it all like a dusty reminder of a glamorous past. The perfumes and the swish of my dresses, powder and hairspray and the glint of jewels all smothered by the present into whispers of me.

At first I did cry at the sight of my murderous house. I still bear scars from the pathetic state it would reduce me too. Now, I just wait for my children and watch. Certainly puts your life in perspective up here. All that you do, all your passion and pain, your triumphs and terrors, mix in with the dust in time.
So get out there and bloody enjoy yourself while you can. Oh and don’t come to the hall for a party near Halloween. You may not leave…

Downstairs

Hello downstairs, my name is Maria. I spent the best part of my life looking after the Hall; scrubbing, cleaning, polishing and decorating. I come back now to see my son, always a loner and a gentle soul, sensitive to the pain of the world we have created. I also keep an eye on the house and it upsets me to see the ceilings bulge and the brickwork crack. And winter is coming again.

A tour

The hall has a wall. I think it’s been there at least a hundred years. Handmade bricks; coloured crimson, gold, copper, amber and umber have protected the ancient mansion well. On its top, gleaming multicoloured glass sparkles, ready to rip and tear an intruder’s thieving skin. The stone lions sit patiently on the brick columns, looking out to the Red Lion pub opposite, staring out at drunken, singing revellers on their way home.
Inside the rooms span the decades. The yellow kitchen is linoleum and Formica from the late sixties, the vintage units still doing their jobs. The tap merrily dribbles water all day as it’s done for nearly fifty years. Once, this kitchen safe guarded the family crockery, gleaming porcelain and silver spoons. It’s really just a place to dump muddy shoes now and other debris stained by the outside world.

Another step takes you into the main kitchen, circa 1985, with its beiges and browns. Cupboards now open to reveal golf balls, batteries and string as opposed to the normal pantry requirements. It does make me see red…It took so much sweat and tears to keep the place in order and now you would be stretched to find a fresh baked bun. The tiles are losing their sheen and the grout has turned a shade of black. Even old Arga has a fine skim of grease, protecting the gleam underneath.
The amount of nagging echoes I hear, as I roam these rooms is deafening.

The old copper door handle has been eternally loose and rattles as you enter the middle earth of the Hall. Darker and more sombre we step back to Victorian England, with florals and pelmets and tassels galore. Dark carved furniture on animal paws crouch as you walk through the hallway and into the lounge. A table, big enough for a dinner party of ten, sits struggling with the mound of paperwork heaved upon it. The chairs sit around it looking bored and deflated. Above, on a winch sits an elderly light fixture, presently the home a family of busy spiders. The times we had around this table; Christmas, Easter, Weddings, Births and even the occasional death was celebrated here. I’m not long departed so still feel very close to this house. If I had a body I would scratch.

This house, which proved the death of me…

And now on, into the lounge, which I converted when I moved in. Running with cockroaches it was. Disgusting bugs of an indestructible kind. This is the oldest part of the house, dating back to the 17th century. It feels different. The beamed ceiling, with its meat hooks, is twice as high as any other room in the house. The walls are feet thick and you can feel the centuries there.

I left the old ovens in the wall and the big old fireplace in the centre (the one Oliver fell into and died). It warms an otherwise freezing room in the depths of winter, despite the numerous cast iron radiators that clank their way through the cold season. The room feels stately and in my lifetime was used to entertain guests and accommodate family events. Christmas morning was spent here, with the fire roaring and wrapping paper and mince pies flowing freely. I loved Christmas and every year planned for perfection. Presents were all bought by November, Christmas cake started and shopping lists made. A season to be merry. It never really turned out that way and Bill and I usually ended up roaring at each other. My nostalgia for the season drove me a little too far near the edge, I see that now but hey,hoe.
Sophia’s baby grand piano sits neglected in this room, used as a cup shelf by my old lover William. This is base camp for him now and I can barely look at it. The copper fire grate and its coal bucket were polished every fortnight by our lifelong cleaner, Mary, usually assisted by a very grumpy Sophia. The place was dusted and vacuumed till it shone; it was the pride of the house. The tall Georgian windows and doors with their thick uneven glass were cleaned with vinegar and newspaper, inside and out. I have to say I never liked sitting in it though. It was as if I could feel them there, the people upstairs…

Through the beautiful glass doors you fall into the Retreat; a seventies conservatory extension, triangular in shape with big metal patio doors. I spent my last months in this room as it has a good panoramic view of the garden and I could watch nature at work. The windows look foggy now so the garden looks like it’s shrouded in a perpetual mist. The flat roof has always leaked and since my passing , everything has been covered with tarpaulin with buckets collecting the drips.
Odd how the mind works. I remember my family on their last visit, buzzing around trying to make me smile and find some peace but I wouldn’t have it. The disease not only had my body but my mind as well. Thinking beyond the struggle seemed impossible. And the Hall, it needed looking after and I couldn’t do it. So I barked orders from my sick sofa and fought with my feelings of uselessness and approaching death. My family could do little but sit with me as I stared out to the garden, head filled with fear and loathing.

I beat the cancer but the Hall wouldn’t let me rest. There was so much to catch up on, so much to do. And I couldn’t do it; I was weak from my fight but angry, so angry. I wanted to get on, the house was shouting for attention.
My only lung collapsed and my heart stopped.

Never did get to repaint the windows, redecorate the lounge, replace the stair carpet and patch up the roof. Never got round to planting a vegetable garden and clearing the shed. Never nagged William enough to fix the tap in the yellow kitchen.

I stand by him today, shouting as loud as I can in his ear. I think he can hear me, like a nagging conscience and I rather like that…

And then we go upstairs.

Hello down there.
It’s Emily speaking from upstairs. Oliver has disappeared again. Back to the girl on the hot island I think. He’s in love! I’m sure of it because he’s never been like this before; dreamy, confused and always babbling on about what she was doing last time he saw her. It’s very silly of course, falling for an earth walker. The Captain has had his fancies but never become smitten like Oliver. I do wonder what she looks like and how she has captured the heart of a very old teenager. Maria, Charles and Sophia’s Mum, finds it funny, positively glowing when I told her my thoughts.
She’s here because she’s keeping an eye on her son. Another boy in love. Maria says Brigitte is not what she seems but in my experience is anyone? Earth walkers in the main, are chameleons; they change to fit the situation seamlessly. I have watched a few struggling with this ability though, Charles being one of them. It’s not that he’s shy he just finds people difficult to be around and can often disappear off at social gatherings, preferring his own company to the restless nattering of the crowd. Old William however, thrives surrounded by family and friends, entertaining them with his tales of the past and the occasional ancient joke, accompanied by a few large goblets of red wine. It’s wonderful to watch when he is in full swing, old eyes sparkling and spitting to get his words out in excitement.
Anyhow, Maria thinks Brigitte is going to dump him. At first she was overjoyed he had found himself an intelligent, clean and good looking mate but as time has passed ,Brigitte’s aloofness and cold humour has made her watch the relationship closer. Charles is head over heels for the pretty woman and will do anything for her as she marches in and out of the Hall. I bet if she asked him to paint all the white roses in the garden red he would (slightly begrudgingly) do it. I think the expression a closed book applies to Brigitte and there is nothing we can really do to help.

Big Baby

I am in love with Baby, who does look like an overgrown ginger cat and loves her tummy being scratched. I use twigs to itch her as my hands aren’t strong enough. She is horribly beautiful. When a storm comes and she sits in the rain, yowling to the night, sometimes sharpening her nails on the stump of the old chestnut tree, she is truly magnificent.
Old William visits her now in his robot wheelchair and sits in the cage, the tigers head on his knee. He stares out at nothing, his memories providing the view as he strokes the big cats’ ears. I think Baby likes Old William the best. He is so gentle, his movements slow and deliberate and he murmurs to her, occasionally laughing and tugging her pelt. With Charles she is boisterous and flirtatious, hugging him and swatting his legs in play.
With Brigitte, she is more guarded, watchful, making sure she sees every move the woman makes. Ultimately very obedient but she just doesn’t shine when she’s around the vet. Could be a girl thing I suppose. Baby is the first tiger I have ever seen, so I don’t know how they normally behave. Do you?
A few days ago a couple of men came from a zoo to see Baby. Apparently she is a golden tabby tiger, a very rare creature with a very cute name. It just makes her more adorable to me. The zoo man, Morris, broke out into a sweat when he saw her and fumbled for his phone, taking pictures and sounding very excited. I’m not sure Charles is though; he would much rather keep our cuddly cat. Even Brigitte looked sad or possibly a little disappointed, I’m not sure. It’s a bit hard to tell with her, as you know. Rare usually means money though, so I think I will be saying goodbye to her soon. She is a killer after all and I do mean Baby, not Brigitte. No matter what Maria thinks…

And now for the good news…

The great news is Old William with his robot chair. At last he has dragged himself out of bed and can get about the house; reasonably fast but slightly inaccurately. This obviously does have its downsides. In the toilet there is a special seat which takes him ages to struggle with and accidents can happen and do. He also leaves a trail of newspapers and coffee cups everywhere he’s been and you can almost trace his movements during the day by the remnants discarded on numerous plates balanced in obscure places around the Hall. Julie found a plate with an old lamb bone and some very dry pickle behind a curtain in the bathroom yesterday, followed by a bowl caked with muesli and banana in the shoe cupboard.
“What can you do?”she said to the mirror she was cleaning.
My thoughts exactly…

Hello down there.
It’s me; I’m back from a short trip to a dusty hot island. Apologies for the last blog entry. That was the dark spirit that hides in the priest hole. I have no idea how he managed to do it but I am fascinated by his story. He has never spoken to any of us, despite Emily and me trying (as you probably realise from his ranting). A very old soul in pain. There is little we can do to help. And as for the danger approaching, all I can do is watch. Miserable bugger though isn’t he? Mindyou,if I had helped to kill off most of my family and brutally traumatise my only friend, I suppose wouldn’t be in the best of moods. Plus he committed suicide.

We have only had a handful of suicides come through here; normally hanging, occasionally blood loss and a few that have taken to the nearest pond. Some have asked; “Is this heaven?” a few; “Is this hell?” and others are a little befuddled. Their painful human existence is over but their stay here is extended. It’s their fault. We call it thinking time. They get centuries of it. Punishment for a life unlived.

Lizard power

You may wonder who made these rules. As I have said before, they are not written but told like fables around our huge community. When someone moves on they never return to tell the story. I like to believe we get another go, another chance at life but Emily thinks we are gleaning knowledge to take elsewhere, to be put to good use. A higher intelligence has to be involved somewhere, I suppose. One youngster that passed by a while back, talked on and on about Aliens, Star people and life on other planets. Some upstairs believe we are ruled by a band of giant lizards. When the Captain heard this he laughed for days but I think they may have something. Not the lizards necessarily but I have seen unexplained things in the sky and always put this down to my lack of modern technological knowledge, rather than ships from other worlds. We will know one day…

Bricks and stones

I went travelling, as you know, leaving the Hall to bask in late summer sunshine. Its bricks were handmade in the seventeenth century and enjoy the heat on their red hide. The garden reveals its true beauty and windows have been crowbarred open to allow the sweet scent of the season to perfume the Hall’s guts.

I followed the big dog to the rocky island near the other side of the world. I’m getting better at moving through space and time; I no longer feel so sick or dizzy and I can hold myself together better. So I am ready to explore this planet a little more.

Life there is different to Anlaby; the traffic quieter, the views bigger and the population more content with what they have. The landscape is bare; black rocks and stones with bubbles of green growth and trees that only grow out of the tops of their trunks. Oh, and I mustn’t forget the huge cockroaches, what creatures they are. The upstairs people there communicate differently too; they are noisier and sing and shout more. Their language is guttural and quite difficult to understand. I rather like them.

I also rather like the girl, the dog’s mistress. Her name is Loulou (I have mentioned her before) and something about her interests me. She is, I believe, what we used to call a tomboy but the learned traditions of girlhood hang around her. In order to blend in with her sex, makeup is bought and painted, mirrors gazed into and fashion observed. I do get the feeling that this doesn’t sit well with her; these rituals are a struggle. She is happier running on the mountains and throwing herself into the sea. And I sense she feels me when I watch her. She stares unknowingly, directly at me, for minutes at a time. The dog is attempting to contact her but so far, to no avail. It is a dog after all and the girl is young.

I’ll go back to see her and her eccentric family soon. For some reason it makes me feel lighter and maybe, happier when I am around her, not the sort of emotions I am used to. I told Emily this and she laughed and said I have fallen in love. Gadzooks, me in love with an earth walker? How damned ridiculous…

He

He’s gone. With luck he won’t return, smug little devil. Always pestering, whispering to me; trying to break my silence. She will leave me alone now, that little bird. She wouldn’t dare come near on her own, carrying her pencils and scraps. Stupid little thing tries to draw me but all she can ever see are shadows. I’m good at hiding.

I’ve hidden for too many years to count, here in the Hall in the hole they made for the priest. No one comes here. People live above and below me. Over the years I have learnt this English language. I, like the others, watch and learn. I am secluded and quiet and want no company. I do not speak.

I killed them, my family. I have hidden from them ever since because I know they will be looking for me. I killed them. This is my confession.

Rheum rhabarbarum

I lived here in the first house. The village then was named Umlouebi. It was a longhouse then. Wood and stone. Many of us lived here, making a settlement in a new land. We travelled far over the water from our true home. Norsemen. Strong and brave. I was young, just a baby when we arrived.

I was of middle years when I did it. Not old enough to be a father or young enough to suckle like a child. I held no anger or spite. It was an accident.

I met a boy like myself out in the woods. He was teaching me his local language and I was teaching him mine. We hunted and caught rabbits, swam in the ponds and played battles .We avoided our jobs together and chased small children through the fields. My friend.

One day he was collecting a plant for his mother; rhubarb, with its grand green leaves and red stalks. I took some too, a surprise for my family. Great bunches of it. My grandmother chopped it up and boiled it, serving the evil brew that night while most sat around the fires. I was out with the animals and on my return found the whole house groaning .Some survived but my elderly grandparents, my mother (who was round with a new baby) and my small sister died. Others too fell afoul of the poisonous brew. The village was already weakened by a heat under the skin that made them sweat in the cold. The rhubarb finished them. My father beat me till he couldn’t see through his sadness and then left the house, swearing to never return.

So by morning they were all gone. My whole family, gone. I was helping to build the pyre to burn their cold bodies and immediately understood what I should do to appease any gods watching and cure my sad, guilt-ridden heart.

Out there, in the garden of the present Hall, is where we lit the fire to send their bodies upwards and onwards to the next life. Out there, once the flames had taken hold and the heat was scorching on the skin, I jumped in.

The Hive

Now I know he meant no harm, having seen the living eat it in pies. Now I know. Time cannot be retrieved, lives cannot be re-lived. Guilt must be carried. Silence observed.

I went to visit the boy in the woods days after my death. I went to his home. I hated him for his treachery and believed he should suffer as I had.

. A small wooden shack with children running in and out like bees in a hive. Such a scene of happiness. There was a fire burning gently inside the hut around which the older family members huddled. It didn’t take much, even in my new bloodless state, to send out a few big sparks, landing on clothes and blankets. I watched through the smoke as the family screamed. We were even then, the boy and I.

One chance

I have one chance at redemption; I must save rather than destroy. I have had ceaseless years but feel unable to meet them yet; my family, my friend.

I can feel something dangerous coming to the Hall. The idiot boy and his pretty playmate have no idea. They prattle and gossip but are blind to the truth. The Captain sees it but he is consumed by his own needs. They may need me downstairs soon. I think it’s time.

I will not write again.

Thunder

Good day my friends on the soggy earth. Summer rain and storms battle in the air and the Hall watches on. The storms continue inside with the return of the prodigal Sophia, outraged at the mess around the house and the tragic vision of her frail father, Old William. Grey and thin, William sits looking like he is ready and willing to give up on the world. Windows have been wrenched open to let in the balmy breezes and the fridge; before containing milk and a small open can of spam, has been stocked with fresh vegetables, meats and cheese. Delicious smells emanate from the kitchen as do the angry voices of the siblings. I have noticed siblingship can be a difficult affair, each born the opposite of the other, unable to see through each other’s eyes. Sophia seems choked by guilt; living at a great distance, unable to offer the everyday assistance  her father needs and Charles by his own self-pity; feeling stuck with the ailing William, desperate to leave the Hall but still unable to pack his bags. Different lives make different people.

Tonight, with the storm raging around them, they fight. Emily and I love to move things around the house, just a foot or two, enough to confuse and frustrate. Today we moved Charles’ glasses under his desk. He now believes Sophia, in her cleaning binge has misplaced them and many of the hidden anxieties have flowed forth. A storm blew outside and inside.

They love each other really…

Tumble

Emily and I must confess to a major crime. This dawn, we both knew we had to help someone; she was in danger of upsetting her fate and it was our job to stop it. It was our fault it was going to happen, really and as the sun rose, Emily and I both had the very same thought… SOPHIA.

She was upset that morning. Hating seeing her father looking as if he was knocking on the door to Heaven and arguing constantly with her brother (over what we had done) she decided to take the dogs out for a windblown walk in her favourite fields, a ten minute car drive away. Sighing as she walked out of the dripping Hall, she jumped into her Dad’s car, complete with furry beasts and sped off at quite a speed.

Emily and I sat in the back; Emily’s mouth open in a silent scream at the velocity. Great fun speeding along the glistening roads, the dogs panting misting up the back windows. Then the walk through the muddy fields; the wind whipping through clothes and hair, the rain softly dampening the skin. I’m sure Sophia was crying but it was hard to tell. And then home…fast.

We approached a tight bend; the car only just clinging to the road, the spray flying and it happened…The back wheel burst sending us towards a wall of undulating greenness. This wasn’t good for Sophia and we knew instantly what we had to do. When the car hit the wood it flew, as did Sophia, seat beltless, knocking her head on the ceiling. We help protect her body as the car spun around her and thumped to the ground on its roof, shattering the windows and crunching shut all the doors forever. Sophia had blacked out during the spin and woke to find herself sitting on the roof, looking at the wood through the smashed windscreen. The car had flipped in the air and crashed onto its back, sliding slowly down the road until it lost momentum and wobbled to a halt. The dogs were fine, having flown for the first time and they scampered to her, licking and barking. We felt quite pleased with ourselves, knowing Sophia’s skull would have been well and truly cracked without our help. She had no idea we were there, the only clue being that the silver rings on her fingers had twisted. This bemused her almost as much as the fact she had no injuries at all. The locals who came running were amazed too, expecting blood and bones.

“Job well done!” laughed Emily as we returned to the Hall, now surrounded by black clouds and screaking ravens. I don’t think Sophia was happy though…

Howl

That big cat doesn’t like the thunder. It sits in the middle of its enclosure, howling. Last night Charles had to bring her in as the neighbours had had about enough. When lightening lit the land there she was, muscular and mad, calling to the gods of the storm. Quite an impressive and beautiful sight but possibly a little fearsome for the old couple on the other side of the wall.

The mice cluster together, going out in small groups to peer through the cracks to check on the weather. They scurry and fidget, cowering when the bright light illuminates their hiding places.

Sophia, calm and composed after her accident, watches from her window as the dark bilious clouds roll over the Hall. Unlike the animals, she is smiling; enjoying the power of the beast that is Nature. I think the enormity of earth’s power can strip away human pain, fear or anger. If earth walkers allow themselves to be absorbed in it, if they could look outward and beyond themselves, they would witness a lot more miracles than they realise.

The patient

Greetings warm bloods,
Gossamer rain falls around the Hall, gently wetting and feeding the green, while the crows shower and croak. The leaf filled gutters are starting to leak and drip and the paint on the window sills stretches out, tearing away from the old wood in attempt to greet the approaching summer.

Inside Old William lies in his temporary bedroom, plaster covering half of his body and gloom filling his mind. He rests on the ground floor, unable to climb the stairs and reach his room. Around him are piles of books, newspapers, notepads and several sets of pens. Remote control devices of different shapes and sizes slide about, falling into blanket folds and onto the floor. In one corner collect his clothes; some clean, some used and jostling for space with a woven bin exploding with used tissues and more newspapers. The mice are happy as William is finding eating almost impossible with only one useable arm and all his droppings are gratefully received, when the lights go out. Pill cartons lie atop of the jumble, with indecipherable names and difficult packaging; small clusters of lost pharmaceuticals decorate the floor. All animals are banned from the room for fear blood pressure tablets will be scoffed and animal lives lost.

Old William has lost the machines that fit into his ears, so the screen screams with scientists whose space-time continuum theories are broadcast day and night. He has created a panic button system, patiently helped by Charles, which sounds like the horn of a car. Two hoots for general attention and one long, nerve jarring hoot for emergencies. His panic button is rigged to speakers around the house, so, if he is in need, everyone there knows it, in surround sound. Dean, still traumatised by his feeling of guilt at not preventing Old Williams’ fall, runs into the house with great speed at the merest hint of a hoot. This, though marginally helpful, is driving both the saintly cleaner and Charles completely over the edge. Dean has normally been working in the flower beds or baby’s pen when he hears the alarm and so distributes reasonably foul smelling manure through the Hall on his rescue mission.

The carer

Charlie is finding life difficult. He now spends as much time as possible outside with the big cat, playing and talking to it, as if it were a friend. He’s always been a bit of a loner but his workload and the new patient mean he is confined to the Hall almost full time. When the hooting starts up on the outside speakers, he sometimes pulls his jacket over his ears and stares off into the distance, unable to find the energy (or the will) to go in. The lad needs a break.

Not that Madame Smarty pants has been round to help. Oh no…She disappeared off somewhere for a week and on her return popped her nose round the door, said she had a cold and didn’t want to infect anyone and promptly left. Charming…

Julie, the cleaner, is a saint in an apron (but hopefully she won’t die like one). The look on her face on encountering the nest that old William has somehow created over the last few days was quite priceless. Usually a bit of a natterer, she stood speechless at the entrance, unable to take a step further in to the darkened old lounge; now complete with a bed, our patient and a squad of fat looking mice.
Curtains were ripped apart, the windows that could open, were heaved open and air freshener sprayed liberally for ten, ten second bursts. The room was ship shape in two hours after much tutting and rebuking and several cups of tea.

Women pop round with cakes and biscuits, much to Charles’s delight. The kitchen side board is covered with assorted silver coated objects of differing shapes and sizes and this is their main source of fresh food at the moment. Cooking has been reduced to strange dark oblong packages that are thrown in the oven and come out steaming and ready to eat. Amazing.

I think Julia is pleased to have old William contained in one room. His mess is watchable and possibly controllable. She runs round the ancient house with an old noisy Hoover from the sixties that would give any young boy muscles to be proud of. Having bleached, swept and reset traps, she looked content on leaving, ever hoping that the Hall would stay even slightly clean for her return the following week.

The horns are honking and Charles is slowly making his way downstairs to his father. Dean on the other hand has just tripped over the sausage dog, hit his nose and continued to hurtle towards the Hall, blood oozing down his face shouting; “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Till next time…