Room 13 (4 page)

‘Right. What I thought we’d do between now and teatime is this: walk along the road here and have a look at the fish quay, then along the quayside to the swing-bridge and over into the old town. There are lots of interesting shops in the old town, including some specializing in Whitby jet. We could have a look in some of the windows, but I don’t think we should shop today – otherwise some of us might run out of pocket-money halfway through the week. At the end of the old town is a flight of steps leading up to the abbey and a church. There are a lot of steps, and I want you to count them as we go up and tell me how many there are. We’ll go in groups again – d’you know your group, Barry Tune?’

‘Sir.’

‘Good. Here we go, then.’

The three teachers moved apart and called their groups to them. The children got into twos, and this time Fliss had Gary for a partner. He grinned at her. ‘Holding hands, are we?’

‘No chance. I’ve to eat my tea with this hand when we get back.’

‘I’ll be using a knife and fork.’

‘Ha, ha, ha.’

They looked at the fish dock, but there were no boats in and the sheds with their stacks of fish-boxes were shut. They went along the quayside, threading their way between strolling holiday-makers, looking in shop windows or at the different kinds of boats in the harbour. There was that exciting smell in the air which you get at the seaside – that blend of salt and mud and fish and sweet rottenness which has you breathing deeply and makes you tingle.

They were taking their time – the evening meal was not until six-thirty – and Fliss was looking at a coble with her name,
Felicity
, painted on its prow when Gary grabbed her hand and cried, ‘Hey – look at this!’

‘What?’ She spoke irritably and jerked her hand away, but looked where he pointed and saw a narrow building with dark windows and a sign which
said
‘The Dracula Experience’. A tall man with a pale face, dressed all in black, smiled from the doorway at the passing group. His teeth seemed quite ordinary.

Gary raised his hand and waved it at Mrs Evans. ‘Miss – can we go in here, Miss, please?’

Mrs Evans, who had been looking out over the harbour, turned. She saw the building, read the sign, smiled faintly and shook her head. ‘Not just now, Gary. On Thursday, everybody will be given some free time to shop for presents and spend what’s left of their money in whatever way they choose. You’ll be able to buy yourself some Dracula Experience then.’ She looked into the eyes of the smiling man and added, loudly, ‘If you must.’

They crossed the bridge and sauntered through the narrow streets of the old town till they came to the church steps. By the time they reached the top, Fliss was out of breath. She’d counted a hundred and ninety-seven steps but Mr Hepworth, whose group had got there first, said there were a hundred and ninety-nine and she believed him.

The top of the steps gave on to an old graveyard. Weathered stones leaned at various angles, so eroded you couldn’t read the epitaphs. Long grass rippled in the wind. There was a church, and a breathtaking view of Whitby and the sea.

They had a look inside the church. It was called St Mary’s. Mr Hepworth pointed out its special features. You could buy postcards and souvenirs by the door. Fliss bought a postcard of the ruined abbey to send home. When they were gathered outside she said, ‘Are we going to the ruins, Sir?’ She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to or not.

‘Not today, Felicity. We’ll be looking at them on Wednesday morning, before we set off to walk to Saltwick Bay.’

They poked about in the churchyard for a while and visited the toilets near the abbey. Then they descended the hundred and ninety-nine steps and began making their way back to The Crow’s Nest. The fresh air and exercise had sharpened everybody’s appetite, and most of the children spent the walk back wondering what was for tea. Fliss did not. She was thinking about the landing at the top of the house, and what it would be like in the dark. The funny thing was, she seemed to know.

THEY GOT BACK
in plenty of time for tea, which was eggs, chips and sausages, with swiss-roll and ice-cream for pudding. Afterwards everybody went upstairs to put on tracksuits and trainers. Mrs Marriott was taking them for a game of rounders on the sands. Lisa would be missing out, because of the apologies she had to write.

Gary Bazzard’s room was one floor below Fliss’s. Number seven. When she came down the stairs he was standing in the doorway showing something to a group of his friends, who were making admiring noises. As Fliss passed he called out, ‘How about this, Fliss?’

She glanced in his direction. He was holding up the biggest stick of rock she’d ever seen. She didn’t like him much, and would have loved to walk on with her nose in the air, but the pink stick really was enormous: nearly a metre long and about four centimetres thick. She stopped. ‘Where
the
heck did you get that from?’ she asked, in what she hoped was a scornful voice.

‘Shop on the quay. One pound fifty. No one saw me ’cause I stuck it down my jeans’ leg.’ His friends gasped and chuckled at his daring.

Fliss pulled a face. ‘You’re nuts. One pound fifty? I wouldn’t give you fifty pence for it.’

‘You wouldn’t get chance.’

‘It’ll rot your teeth, so there.’

‘You’re only jealous.’

‘I’m not. I hope Mr Hepworth catches you and hits you on the head with it.’

It was a good game of rounders. It was more fun than it might have been, because the tide was coming in and the strip of sand they were playing on grew narrower and narrower. People kept hitting the ball into the sea, and some of the fielders had to play barefoot so that they could retrieve it. Finally the pitch became so restricted that play was impossible. They wrapped up the game, retreated to the top of one of the concrete buttresses which protected the foot of the cliff and sat, watching the tide come in.

Cocoa and biscuits were served in the lounge at half-past eight. The children sat sipping and munching while twilight fell outside and Mrs Evans read them a story. Lisa came down with her written apologies. Mr Hepworth read them,
nodded
, and gave her back her torch. It was nine o’clock. Bedtime.

Fliss was tired, but she couldn’t sleep. It was fun at first, lying in the dark, talking with Marie and the twins, but one by one they drifted off to sleep and she was left listening to the muffled noises that rose from the boys’ room below. After a while these too stopped, and then there was only the occasional creak, and the rhythmic shush of the sea.

She lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for her eyes to get tired. If the lids grew heavy enough they’d close, and then she’d drift off. She wouldn’t even know she was lying in the dark, and when she woke up it would be morning and the first night – the worst night – would be over.

Phantom lights swam across her field of vision, lazily, like shoals of tiny fish. She watched them, but they failed to lull her, and presently it came to her that she would have to go to the bathroom.

She listened. If somebody else was awake somewhere it would be easier. A boy on the floor below perhaps, or one of the teachers. She looked at her watch. 23.56. Four minutes to midnight. Surely somebody was still about – the Wilkinsons, locking up for the night, or Mr Hepworth making a final patrol.

Silence. In all the world, only Fliss was awake.
She
listened to the steady breathing of the other three girls. Why couldn’t one of them have been a snorer? If somebody had been snoring she could have given them a shake. A policeman going by outside would be better than nothing – his footsteps might make her feel safe. But there was no policeman. There wasn’t even a car.

The bed creaked as she sat up and swung her legs out. She listened. Nothing. The steady breathing continued. She hadn’t disturbed anybody. Perhaps she’d have to put the light on to find the door – that would wake them. But no. There was moonlight and the curtains were thin and she could see quite clearly. It would be most unfair to wake them with the light.

She stood up and crept towards the door. There was sand in the carpet. A floorboard creaked and she paused, hopefully. One of the twins stirred, mumbling, and Fliss whispered, ‘Maureen? Joanne?’ but there was no response.

She opened the door a crack and looked out. The only illumination came from a small window on the half-landing below. It was minimal. She could make out the dark shapes of the doors but not the pattern on the carpet. The air had a musty smell and felt cold.

As she hesitated for a moment in the doorway, peering into the gloom and listening, she became
aware
of a faint sound – the snuffling, grunting noise of somebody snoring beyond the door of room eleven. She found it oddly reassuring, and crossed the landing quickly in case it should stop.

Re-crossing a minute later with the hiss of the toilet cistern in her ears, she could still hear it. It seemed louder, and was accompanied now by a thin, whimpering noise, like crying. Fliss pulled a face. Somebody feeling homesick. Not Lisa, surely?

The idea that her friend might be in distress made her forget her fear for a moment. She took a couple of steps towards room eleven, unsure of what she intended to do. As she did so, she became aware that the noise was not coming from that room at all, but from the one next to it – the cupboard. Her eyes flicked to its door. On it, visible in the midnight gloom, was the number thirteen.

She recoiled, covering her mouth with her hand. When she had asked Mrs Marriott what lay beyond that door, there had been no number on it. She knew there hadn’t, yet there it was. Thirteen. And somebody was in there. Somebody, or some thing.

She backed away. The hissing of the cistern dwindled and ceased. The other sounds continued, and now the whimpering was more persistent, and
the
snuffling had a viscous quality to it, like a pig rooting in mud.

She retreated slowly, holding her breath. When she reached the doorway of her own room she backed through it, feeling for the doorknob and keeping her eyes fixed on the door of room thirteen. Once inside, she closed the door quickly, crossed to her bed and lay staring at the ceiling while spasms shook her body.

Much later, when the shivering had stopped and she was drifting to sleep, she thought she heard stealthy footsteps on the landing, but when she woke at seven with the sun in her face and her friends’ excited chatter in her ears, she wondered whether she might have dreamed it all.

THEY GATHERED IN
the lounge after breakfast. Mr Hepworth had fixed a large map of the coast to the wall. He pointed. ‘Here’s Whitby, where we are. And here,’ he slid his finger northward along the coastline, ‘is Staithes, where the coach will drop us this morning. Staithes used to be an important fishing port like Whitby, and there are still a few fishermen there, but it is a quiet village now. Captain Cook worked in a shop at Staithes when he was very young – before he decided to be a sailor.’

‘Will we be going in the shop, Sir?’

‘No, Neil Atkinson, we will not. Unfortunately, it was washed away by the sea a long time ago. However, if we are very lucky we might see a ghost.’

There were gasps and exclamations at this. ‘Captain Cook’s ghost, Sir?’ asked James Garside. The teacher shook his head, smiling. ‘No, James.
Not
Captain Cook’s. A young girl’s. There’s a dangerous cliff at Staithes, a crumbling cliff, and the story goes that when this girl was walking under it one day, a chunk of rock fell and decapitated her. Who knows what decapitated means? Yes, Steven Jackson?’

‘Sir, knocked her cap off, Sir.’

‘No. Michelle Webster?’

‘Squashed her, Sir?’

‘Closer, but not right. ‘Ellie-May Sunderland?’

‘Sir, knocked her head off, Sir.’

‘Correct.’ He leaned forward, peering at the girl through narrowed eyes. ‘Are you all right, Ellie-May – you look a bit pasty?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Right. Well, there’s a bridge over a creek at Staithes, and that’s where the headless ghost has been seen. We’ll be having a look round the village, then walking along the clifftop path to Runswick Bay. That’s here.’ He jabbed at the map again. A boy raised his hand.