Shiverton Hall, the Creeper (8 page)

Richmond got out of the car, holding Zezia and a small bag.

‘Where do I sleep?’ he asked.

The groundsman shrugged. ‘It’s a school. Take your pick of the dormitories.’

The car sputtered off, leaving Richmond, cursing his publisher, to enter the hall alone.

Richmond soon found a perfectly nice room for himself, painted blue and with only one bed in it, and he began to unpack. No sooner had he put his typewriter on the table than it started up again with its plea.

PAYMENT PLEASE

‘Right,’ Richmond said to himself, sitting down at the small desk, his knees barely fitting under it, ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ He began to type.

WHAT DO YOU WANT?

The typewriter was still for a moment, then started up again.

PAYMENT PLEASE

Richmond typed back.

WHAT TYPE OF PAYMENT?

The typewriter answered:
YOU.

The little bell on the typewriter sounded. Richmond stared at the paper. He typed slowly.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ‘ME’?

YOU
,
the typewriter answered.
PAYMENT PLEASE.

It was almost dark outside, and Richmond was beginning to regret coming out to this strange place. Regret was not a strong enough word.

He went downstairs and made himself a cup of tea in the small kitchenette that must have been used by the older boys to make toast during term time. Richmond walked over to the library, and looked for something comforting to read. There was a brightly coloured book of nursery rhymes on one of the side tables: that would do to steady his nerves. He lit a small fire in the grate, and began to read.

He was halfway through ‘Oranges and Lemons’ when he heard, from the floor above, echoing down the stairs and across the corridor, the faint sound of tapping.

Richmond tore up the stairs. He no longer cared what Zezia could do for him; he hated the thing, he didn’t want it, he would throw it out of the window and that would be that.

He opened the door to his room and grabbed hold of the typewriter. He felt cold when he saw what it was writing.

Oranges and lemons,

Say the bells of St Clement’s.

You owe me five farthings,

Say the bells of St Martin’s.

When will you pay me?

Say the bells of Old Bailey.

When I grow rich,

Say the bells of Shoreditch.

Here comes a candle to light you to bed,

Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP

Behind the sound of the keys was another sound, in the corridor, coming closer and closer to his room. A methodical thud, like an axe through wood.

Richmond’s fear had reached a maniacal pitch. He opened the window, and held the typewriter out of it, but the thudding continued.

DON’T
,
it typed.

Richmond, panicking now, put it back on his desk and typed madly, his fingers fumbling on the keys.

HOW DO I PAY YOU?

The typewriter answered immediately:
YOU.

Richmond began to type. He started with his parents, and his brother who had died at birth; he went on to his school days and the bully who had made his life a misery. Soon he was typing without even thinking; every secret, every petty cruelty he had ever committed, was laid bare on the cold whiteness of Zezia’s paper.

The noise in the corridor had stopped, but Richmond was more concerned about what his hands were doing. They were moving quite independently of his brain, moving through university, through his first love, through the terrible way he treated her, past his first book.

He wanted to stop, but his hands continued, fingers blistering on the mother-of-pearl keys. Richmond began to feel faint, as though he himself were being pulled into the workings of the machine, becoming entangled in its oily cogs.

Was that the dawn he saw in the distance? Or the gleam of Zezia’s silver ribbon spool? He could not tell.

The following morning the groundsman went into the hall to deliver some groceries to Mr Richmond.

He looked everywhere but could not find him; his room was empty, except for a finished manuscript tied with a green, velvet ribbon on the desk.

PAID IN FULL

by Antony Richmond

‘No one ever saw poor Antony again,’ Mrs Todd said sadly. ‘Of course,
Paid in Full
, his autobiography, was an enormous success. So raw, so truthful. And of course, no one believed the bit at the end about the magic typewriter. Except for me.’

‘Why did you believe it?’ Arthur asked.

‘Because I’ve lived near Shiverton Hall my whole life,’ Mrs Todd replied. ‘And far, far stranger things than that happen there. You’ll see.’

She cocked her head and looked at Arthur. ‘Or perhaps you already have?’ she said quietly.

Arthur looked at the cheru
b-
encrusted clock on the mantelpiece.

‘Oh! It’s already five,’ he said, jumping up. ‘I’ll miss the bus.’

Mrs Todd got up and showed him to the door.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s jolly nice to have someone to talk to. My children hardly ever come to see me nowadays. Busy.’ She shrugged.

‘It was nice talking to you too. I’m going to have to bring my friend George one day – he’ll go crazy for that typewriter story.’

‘Oh good! Well, I have plenty more where that came from. One of the benefits of being five hundred years old!’

‘See you next week, Mrs Todd,’ Arthur said as he made his way towards the forest. ‘Thanks for the cake!’

‘See you next week, Albert!’

‘Oh . . .’ Arthur paused. ‘Sorry, Mrs Todd, I should have said earlier. My name’s actually Arthur.’

Mrs Todd clapped her hand over her mouth in horror.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Arthur laughed. ‘You’ll just have to bake an even bigger cake next week to make up for it.’

Mrs Todd shook her head and laughed, then she disappeared into her miniature house, all of the bells and ribbons tinkling in the trees around her.

Chapter Six

Arthur hit the high street just in time to see George limp towards him, his curly hair plastered to his sweaty forehead.

‘Football went well, then?’ Arthur giggled.

‘I’m going to die,’ George spluttered. ‘Those eight-year-olds, they’re vicious.’

‘How were the Forge triplets?’

‘Even worse,’ George replied. ‘Awarded the teams extra goals for kicking the ball at my head. They are pretty interested in you, though. Dan kept on asking me all sorts of questions.’

‘Uh-oh. You don’t think they’re planning something, do you?’

‘Well, it’s either that or they’ve suddenly become your biggest fans.’

‘So I’m in trouble.’

‘I’d say so, yep,’ George said cheerily. ‘I might pop into Aunt Bessie’s while we wait for the bus. Wanna come?’

‘No way. I am not going in there for a second time,’ Arthur said. ‘She’s trying to shift the bonbons again – be on your guard.’

George loped towards the cigar-scented fog of Aunt Bessie’s and Arthur waited by the bus stop. Grimstone high street always looked like the sort of place you’d put on a poster to promote British tourism, with its pretty mismatched cottages and tea rooms, but Arthur particularly liked it at this time, in the evening, when the lights twinkled from the windows and mist hung over the cobblestones. It seemed rather more deserted than usual, though; in fact, once George had disappeared into the sweet shop Arthur seemed to be the only one around.

It was getting colder and Arthur pulled his wool blazer closer to him. He wasn’t sure if it was the grey light of the evening or the sudden chill, but he had the uneasy feeling that someone was watching him. He looked behind him: nothing. When he turned back around, he jumped. There was a woman standing in front of him, rail-thin and haggard, wearing a thin nightdress, her long hair hanging over her face.

She sprang forward and clutched at Arthur’s lapels. Arthur struggled to get away, but her grip was surprisingly strong.

‘Have you seen my son?’ she whispered, her bloodshot eyes only a few centimetres from Arthur’s. ‘Have you seen my son?’

Arthur shook his head.

‘He should be around here somewhere,’ the woman said, letting go of Arthur and looking desperately down the empty road.

‘I’m sorry,’ Arthur replied. ‘I haven’t seen anyone. What does he look like?’

The woman looked at Arthur as if he were mad.

‘You know what he looks like,’ the woman hissed. ‘His picture’s all over town.’

Arthur realised who this woman was and took her arm gently. ‘It’s rather cold out here tonight,’ he said, shrugging off his jacket and putting it over her shoulders. ‘Would you like me to call someone for you?’

‘My son,’ the woman said miserably.

Arthur did not know how to reply.

The bell of Aunt Bessie’s Sweet Shop rang out into the street and George emerged. The woman turned to Arthur and grabbed his hand.

‘When you see him,’ she whispered imploringly, ‘tell him I’m looking for him.’

The woman scuttled away, nearly knocking George over and tipping his bags of bonbons on to the street.

‘New girlfriend?’ George laughed, looking after the woman as she disappeared down a side street. ‘Looks like she’s nabbed your blazer.’

‘I think she’s Andrew Farnham’s mother,’ Arthur said.

‘Oh.’ George’s smile vanished. ‘That’s terrible. What did she say?’

‘Nothing. Just looking for her son, I guess.’ Arthur shivered. ‘Another detention for me from Long-Pitt for losing my blazer,’ he said grimly.

‘You can have my spare one,’ George said.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Arthur replied, hugely grateful. He knew his mum wouldn’t be able to afford another one. For some reason, the Shiverton uniform cost as much as a handmade Italian suit.

George looked back down the street. ‘Wait –’ he squinted – ‘is that Xanthe and Penny?’

The two girls were walking down the street towards them, their heads bent together conspiratorially.

‘I thought they were working on the school paper. What are they doing here?’ Arthur asked as they approached.

‘Hey, guys,’ Penny said as they reached the boys. ‘Good afternoon?’

‘What have you been doing in Grimstone?’ George asked.

‘Oooh,’ Penny replied excitedly. ‘We’ve been –’

‘Shhhhh!’ Xanthe said. ‘Remember what Chuk said?’

‘Oh right, yeah,’ Penny said. ‘Sorry, boys. Top-secret
Whisper
business, I’m afraid.’

‘What? Not fair!’ George whinged. ‘What kind of top-secret business?’

‘The secret kind,’ Xanthe replied.

They chatted on the bus on the way back to Grimstone. The Forges had insisted on sitting near Arthur again, and he kept turning round to check that they weren’t doing anything suspicious; every time he was met with the same maniacal grinning.

George was insanely jealous of Arthur’s WAA. ‘How come you get to just sit around eating and hearing awesome stories and I get repeatedly kicked in the trousers by a bunch of demon-children?’

George and the others absolutely loved Mrs Todd’s typewriter story. ‘It’s not in any of Grandpa’s books, you know. He’s going to be so pleased when he hears it,’ George said, rubbing his hands with anticipation. He was always trying – and failing – to impress his crotchety old grandfather.

When they got off the bus, Chuk was waiting in Shiverton’s grand hall. Penny and Xanthe scurried over to him.

‘Oh, I see why they’re suddenly so interested in the school paper!’ Arthur laughed, as he clocked Chuk flirting shamelessly with the girls.

‘He’s not even that good-looking!’ George said huffily. ‘I mean, yeah, OK, if you like that generic kind of tall, dark and handsome millionaire look then I suppose technically he’s all right.’

‘What do you think they’re talking about?’ Arthur asked.

‘Let’s walk past subtly and see if we can hear anything,’ George answered.

The boys casually sauntered across the hall, pretending to take in its architectural features. George squinted up at the enormous chandelier and Arthur peered at the weaponry on the walls as they got closer to Chuk and the girls.