Slawter (2 page)
Except, of course, it wasn’t. Life isn’t a fairy tale. Stories don’t end. Before she left, Meera took me aside and warned me to be careful. She said there was no way to predict Dervish’s state of mind. According to the recorded accounts of the few who’d gone through the same ordeal as him, it often took a person a long time to settle after a one-on-one encounter with Lord Loss. Sometimes they never properly recovered.
“We don’t know what’s going on inside his head,” she whispered. “He looks fine, but that could change. Watch him, Grubbs. Be prepared for mood swings. Try and help. Do what you can. But don’t be afraid to call me for help.”
I did call when the nightmares started, when Dervish first attacked me in his sleep—mistook me for a demon and tried to cut my heart out. (Luckily, in his delirium, he picked up a spoon instead of a knife.) But there was nothing Meera could do, other than cast a few calming spells and recommend he visit a psychiatrist. Dervish rejected that idea, but she threatened to take me away from him if he didn’t. So he went to see one, a guy who knew about demons, whom Dervish could be honest with. After the second session, the psychiatrist called Meera and said he never wanted to see Dervish again — he found their sessions too upsetting.
Meera discussed the possibility of having Dervish committed, or hiring bodyguards to look after him, but I rejected both suggestions. So, against her wishes, we carried on living by ourselves in this spooky old mansion. It hasn’t been too bad. Dervish rarely gets the nightmares more than two or three times a week. I’ve gotten used to them. Waking up in the middle of the night to screams is no worse than being disturbed by a baby’s cries. Really it isn’t.
And he’s not that much of a threat. We keep the knives locked away, and have bolted the other weapons in the mansion — it’s filled with axes, maces, spears, swords, all sorts of cool stuff — to the walls. I usually keep my door locked too, to be safe. The only reason it was open last night was that Dervish had thrown a fit both nights before, and it’s rare for him to fall prey to the nightmares three times in a row. I thought I was safe. That’s why I didn’t bother with the lock. It was my fault, not Dervish’s.
“I will kill him for you, master,” Dervish says softly.
I lower my fork. “What?”
He turns, blank-faced, looking like he did when his soul was fighting Lord Loss. My heart rate quickens. Then he grins.
“Ass!” I snap. Dervish has a sick sense of humor.
I get back to wolfing down my breakfast, and Dervish tucks into his, not caring that the scrambled eggs are cold. We’re an odd couple, a big lump of a teenager like me playing nursemaid to a balding, mentally disturbed adult like Dervish. And yeah, there are nights when he really frightens me, when I feel like I can’t take it anymore, when I cry. It’s not fair. Dervish fought the good fight and won. That should have been the end of it. Happy ever after.
But stories don’t end. They continue as long as you’re alive. You just have to get on with things. Turn the page, start a new chapter, find out what’s in store for you next, and keep your fingers crossed that it’s not
too
awful. Even if you know in your heart and soul that it most probably will be.
S
CHOOL was strange when I first went back. I’d spent months outside the system, first in the asylum, then in the mansion with Dervish. It took me a while to find my feet. For the first couple of terms I didn’t really speak to anybody except Bill-E and the school guidance counselor, Mr. Mauch, better known as Misery Mauch because of his long face. I’d always been popular at my old school, lots of friends, active in several sports teams, Mr. Cool.
All that changed at Carcery Vale. I was shy, unsure of myself, reluctant to get involved in conversations or commit to after-school events. On top of the hell I’d been through, there was Dervish to consider. He needed me at home. I became an anonymous kid, one who spent a lot of time by himself or with a similarly awkward friend (step forward Bill-E Spleen).
Things are different now. I’ve come out of my shell a bit. I’m more like the old me, not quiet in class or afraid to speak to other kids. I’ve always been bigger than most people my age. In the old days I was a show-off and used my bulk to command respect. At the Vale I kept my head bent, shoulders hunched, trying to suck my frame in to make myself seem smaller.
Not anymore. I’m no longer Mr. Flash, but I’m not hiding now. I don’t feel that I have to.
I’ve made new friends. Charlie Rall, Robbie McCarthy, Mary Hayes. And Loch Gossel. Loch’s big, not as massive as me, but closer to my size than anybody else. He wrestles a lot — real wrestling, not the showbiz stuff you see on TV. He’s been trying to get me to join his team since I started school. I resisted for a long time, but now I’m thinking of giving it a go.
Loch also has a younger sister, Reni. She’s pretty cute, even if she does have a nose that would put Gonzo to shame! I stare at her a lot of the time, and sometimes she makes eyes back. I think she’d go out with me if I asked. I haven’t. Not yet. But soon... maybe...if I can work up the nerve.
The end of a typical school day. Yawning through classes, desperate for lunchtime, so I can hang out with my friends and chat about movies, music, TV, computer games, whatever. Bill-E joined us for some of it. I don’t spend as much time with Bill-E as I used to. He doesn’t fit in with my new friends — they think he’s geeky. They don’t mouth off about him when I’m around, but I know they do when I’m not. I feel bad about that, and try to help Bill-E relax, so they can see his real side. But he gets nervous around the others, acts differently, becomes the butt of their jokes.
Thinking about Bill-E as I walk home. I don’t want us to stop being friends. He’s my brother, and he was really good to me when I first moved here. But it’s difficult, because I don’t want to lose my new friends either. Guess I’ll just have to work harder to make him feel like part of the group. Try and be like one of those TV kids who always solve their problems by the end of each show.
Dervish is sitting on the stairs when I let myself in. I’m dripping wet — it’s been pouring for the last couple of hours. Normally, when the weather’s bad, he picks me up on his motorcycle. When there was no sign of him today, I figured his mood hadn’t improved since breakfast. I was right. He’s as blank as he was this morning, staring off into space, not registering me until I’m right in front of him.
“Dervish! Hey, Derveeshio! Earth to Dervish! Are you reading me, captain?”
He blinks, frowns as if he doesn’t know who I am, then smiles. “Grubbs. You’re alive. I thought . . .” His expression clears. “Sorry. I was miles away.”
I sit beside him. “Bad day?”
“Can’t remember,” he replies. “Why are you home early?” I hold up my watch and tap it. Dervish reads the time and sighs. “I’m losing it, Grubbs.”
My insides tighten, but I don’t let Dervish see my fear. “Losing what — your sanity? You can’t lose what you never had.”
“My grip.” Dervish looks down at his feet, bare and dirty. “I wasn’t like this before. I wasn’t this distracted and empty. Was I?” He looks at me pleadingly.
“You’ve been through hell, Derv,” I tell him quietly. “You can’t expect to recover without a few hiccups.”
“I know. But I wasn’t this way, right? Some days I can’t remember. I feel like it’s always been like this.”
“No,” I say firmly. “It’s just a phase. It’ll pass.”
“All things must pass,” Dervish mutters. Then he looks at me sideways, his cool blue eyes coming into focus. “Why are you wet?”
“Took a bath. Forgot to strip.” I rap his forehead with my knuckles, then point to the windows and the rain battering the panes. “Numbskull.”
“Oh,” Dervish says. “I should have picked you up.”
“No problem.” I rise and stretch, dripping steadily. “I’m going up to shower and change into dry clothes. I’ll stick these in the wash. Anything you want me to add?” I did all the jobs around the house when Dervish was a vegetable. Hard to break the habit.
“No, I don’t think so. I . . .” Dervish stares at his left hand. There’s a black mark on it, a small “d.” “There was something I meant to tell you. What...?” He snaps his fingers. “I had a phone call, a follow-up to some e-mails I’ve been getting recently. Ever heard of a someone called Davida Haym?”
“No, can’t say . . .” I pause. “Hold on. Not David A. Haym, the movie producer?”
“That’s her.”
“I thought that was a guy.”
“Nope. She uses David A. on her movies, but it’s Davida. You know about her?”
“Sure. She makes horror movies.
Zombie Zest. Witches Weird. Night Mayors
— that’s, like,
Nightmares,
only two words. It’s about evil mayors who band together to set up a meat production plant, except the meat they process is hu man flesh.”
“Win many Oscars?” Dervish asks.
“Clean sweep,” I chuckle. “I can’t believe she’s a woman. I always thought... But what about her? I didn’t think you were into horror flicks.”
“She called me earlier.”
I do a double-take. “David A. Haym called you?”
“Davida Haym. Yes.” Dervish squints at me. “Have I grown a second head?”
“Hell, it’s David A. Haym, Dervish! That’s like saying Steven Spielberg was on the line, or George Lucas. OK, not as big as those, but still...”
“I didn’t know she was famous,” Dervish says. “She told me the names of some of her movies, but I don’t watch a lot of films. She made it sound like she was a cult director.”
“She is. She doesn’t make films with big-name stars. But her movies are great! Anyone who loves horror knows about David A. Haym. Though I’m not sure many know she’s a woman.”
“That’s a big sticking point for you, isn’t it?” Dervish grins. “You’re not turning into a chauvinist, are you?”
“No, I just . . .” I shake my head. Water flies from my ginger hair and splatters the wall. “What did she want?”
“She’s making a new movie. Asked if she could meet me. She’d heard I know a lot about the occult. Wants to pick my brain.” He tweaks his chin, forgetting the beard isn’t there. “I hope she didn’t mean that literally.”
“Did you say yes?” I ask, excited.
“Said I’d think about it.”
“Dervish! You’ve got to! It’s David A. Haym! Did she say she’d come here? Can I meet her? Do you think —”
“Easy, tiger,” Dervish laughs. “We didn’t discuss where we’d meet. But you think I should agree to it?”
“Absolutely!”
“Then meet we shall,” Dervish says, getting to his feet and heading up to his office. “Anything to please master Grady.”
I tramp up the stairs after him, pulling off my clothes, thinking about how cool it would be if I could meet David A. Haym... and also how weird it is that one of the world’s premier horror producers is a woman.
“David A. Haym’s a woman? No bloody way!” Loch howls.
“You’re putting us on!” Robbie challenges me.
“How stupid do you think we are?” Charlie huffs.
“Of course she’s a woman,” Mary says. We gape at her. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” Loch says. “You did?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
Mary shrugs. “I dunno. Years.”
“And you never told us?” Robbie barks.
“It never came up,” Mary laughs. “I have no interest in horror movies. I always tune out when you guys start on that garbage.”
“Then how did you know she’s a woman?” I ask.
“There was a feature on her in a magazine my mum reads,” Mary explains. “I think the headline was, ‘The horror producer chick who beats the boys at their own game.’”
They’re nearly as excited as I am. Most of my friends don’t know what to make of Dervish. In a way he’s cool, the adult who rides a motorcycle, dresses in denim, lets me do pretty much what I like. On the other hand, he sometimes comes across as a complete nutcase. Plus they know he was a vegetable for more than a year.
But now that he’s in talks with the slickest, sickest producer of recent horror movies, his cred rises like a helium balloon. They want to know how she knows about him, when she’s coming, what the new movie’s about. I act mysterious and secretive, giving nothing away, but dropping hints that I’m fully clued-in. In truth, I know no more than they do. Dervish wasn’t able to get through to her last night. He left a message and was waiting for her to call back when I left this morning.
“Did she call?”
“Who?”
I groan, wishing Dervish wasn’t a complete airhead. “David A. Haym, of course! Did she —” “Oh, yeah, she called.”
“
And?
” I practically shriek, as Dervish focuses on getting dinner ready.
“She’ll drop by within the next week.”
“Here?” I gasp. “Carcery Vale?”
“No,” he smirks. “
Here
— this house. I told her she could stay the night if she wanted, though I don’t know if —”
“David A. Haym’s going to stay in our house?” I shout.
“Davida,” Dervish corrects me. “Dervish... the terrible things I’ve said about you... the awful names I’ve called you...I take them all back!”
“Thanks,” Dervish laughs. Stops and frowns. “
What
awful names?”
Everyone wants David A. Haym’s autograph. They want to meet her, have dinner with us, maybe snag a part in her next movie. Loch auditions for me several times a day, moaning and screaming, pretending bits of his body have been chopped off, quoting lines from
Zombie Zest
and
Night Mayors
— “We elected a devil!” “That’s not
my
hand on your knee!” “Mustard or mayo with your brains?” Draws curious stares from teachers and kids who haven’t heard the big news.
Bill-E tosses around script ideas. Figures he can pitch to her and become the brains behind her next five movies. “Writers are getting younger all the time,” he insists. “Producers want fresh talent, original ideas, guys who can think outside the box.”
“You’re about as far outside the box as they come,” Loch laughs.
“I wouldn’t have to write the whole script myself,” Bill-E says, ignoring the jibe. “I could collaborate. I’m a team player.”
“Yeah,” Loch snorts. “Trouble is, you’re a substitute!”
I let them scheme and dream. Smile smugly, as if they’re just crazy, dreamy kids. Of course, I’m as full of wild notions as they are — I just prefer to play it cool.