The Mystery of Wickworth Manor (7 page)

Should he apologise?

No. No way. She was wrong and it would do her no good to have people agree with her just to keep her happy. And it wasn’t as though they were friends, even. She’d got him in trouble. She was insensitive and loud and believed in astrology and witches. And she had glitter on her clothes. What was he doing with someone who thought glitter was a fabric?

Curtis climbed twice more with the instructor as his partner. He got to the top both times, but it didn’t feel as exhilarating as it had the first time.

The rock couldn’t have moved. It was simply impossible. It was a sandstone pillar jutting out of the earth. It was formed of layer upon layer of river bed or flood plain. Millions of years in the making. Things like that didn’t move. Well, they didn’t
shrug
, anyway. How could she not see that it was in her head?

Eventually, the session was over. The ropes were looped into figures of eight. Helmets came off and harnesses were removed. Curtis looked at the spot where Paige had been sitting. There was no sign of her; she must have gone back to the house.

‘Where’s your girlfriend?’

Liam.

Great.

‘She’s not my girlfriend. I hardly know her.’

‘You want to steer clear of her,’ Liam said. ‘She’s mental. Her mum’s a witch, you know.’

Curtis looked at Liam. He was grinning. Was he serious? Was there no one at this school who didn’t believe in fairies and goblins and things that go bump in the night? ‘A witch?’

‘Yeah. I swear. Not with broomsticks and things. Not like that. A modern witch. People on the estate go to her to read their fortunes. Anyway, I reckon being around all that has made Paige a bit nuts. This is serious advice I’m giving here, bro. You want to get yourself some better mates.’ Liam winked.

Curtis shook his head. Had he really just been called ‘bro’?

‘I think you’re all right, you know,’ Liam said. ‘Some of the boys, they ain’t sure, they think that you think you’re it. But I said, no, he’s just new. It’s hard to be the new man.’

Curtis shrugged.

‘So, I’ve decided to give you a chance, yeah? We’re going to have a laugh tonight. But we need your help, bro.’

Liam laid a hand on Curtis’s arm. Curtis had a strong desire to shrug it off. But he didn’t. There was something about the look on Liam’s face: listen to me, it said, listen to me or you’ll regret it.

‘What do you mean, “a laugh”?’ Curtis asked. He wished Liam would let go of his shoulder.

Liam gave a small squeeze. ‘Right. This place is meant to be haunted, yeah? Well, we were thinking that it would be wicked to make sure it is haunted, just for tonight. We’ll set up a ghost and frighten everyone. We’ll be a . . . what’s it called?’

‘A manifestation?’ Curtis suggested.

‘Yeah, bro, exactly. We’ll be ghosts. Frighten everyone.’

‘Bedsheets and spooky noises?’ Curtis asked, rolling his eyes.

Liam just laughed. ‘Something like that. I got some wicked dry ice from my brother.’

Curtis tilted his head to one side. ‘Where do I come in?’

‘Well, it’s your voice, see. No one talks like you talk. You sound proper posh. If any of us sounds like some dead guy from history, it’s you. You’re going to be the voice of the dead.’

The voice of the dead? Something about those words made Curtis shiver. He pulled his arm free.

Liam spread his hands wide and grinned. ‘What? You scared of upsetting the real ghosts?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then what, bro?’

‘I don’t think it’s right, that’s all. I don’t think you should pretend that kind of thing and scare people. Some people believe in that stuff, you know.’

Liam stopped smiling. He brought his hands down and crossed them in front of his chest. ‘Looks like they were right about you, new man. Just remember, I tried to give you a chance, yeah?’

Curtis walked back to the house alone. He felt tired and hungry. His room was stuffy from the heat of the late afternoon sun baking the roof above it. The air tasted like cotton wool. He lay down on his bed. The boy in the painting looked back at him. The slave in the painting? The servant? The status symbol? Curtis didn’t know what to call him. He must have had a name. Curtis rubbed his eyes; the lids felt heavy. How was it that someone could live a life and then a few hundred years later, everything about that life had been forgotten? The boy was left with no name, no history, just a painting and some ghost stories.

Curtis realised his eyes were wet. Was that all a life was, when it was over? Just ghost stories?

Chapter 15

CJTE/015 Broad Quay, British School, 18th C.

From the docks and the high reek of the sea, the house was half a day
’
s ride. He sat atop the coach, with a driver as sullen and grey as the sky above them. The man beside him held the reins and cursed at the road, the horses, the mud and the boy. His welcome was as warm as two
-
day
-
old corn meal.

As they rolled past the quay and the narrow houses of the city, the boy stared. Never before had he seen such pale, awkward creatures as the inhabitants of this place. Their faces were bleached and bloated like some poor drowned thing fished from the brine. They jostled each other and batted their children. They shrieked and cried and stank like sea birds. He was pleased to leave them behind.

He was headed to his master
’
s home. He was headed for his new life.

Chapter 16

Curtis woke with a fuzzy head and hunger pains stabbing his stomach. The light in the room was dim. What time was it? He checked his phone: eight o’clock. He had missed dinner and no one had come to wake him. Curtis stretched until he heard his bones clicking. He needed to eat; he hadn’t had anything since breakfast. No wonder he was feeling so melancholy. Low blood sugar.

He couldn’t be bothered to move just yet.

No one had come to wake him.

No one here had noticed he was missing at dinner and wondered where he was. Paige was the nearest thing he had to a friend and she wasn’t talking to him. He pulled his phone out of his case. No missed calls. No one was wondering how he was.

Well. He didn’t need them anyway. He threw his phone back. He would find some food for himself. There would be something edible in the refectory kitchen. Some cheese and bread would be enough. He felt himself salivate at the thought of white crusty bread spread thickly with butter.

The refectory was deserted when he got there. All the tables were out, ready for breakfast, but the lights were off and the kitchen hatch was closed. There was a side door set next to the hatch. He tried the handle, expecting it to be locked. But it gave. The kitchen was lit by the blue light of a fly-zapper. It shone off the silver work surfaces like moonlight.

There was no food left out anywhere. He opened a door; it led into a larder, but there were just bags of dried food in there – rice and flour. Nothing he could just eat.

A huge fridge stood at the back of the room. He walked past preparation stations, rows of saucepans big enough to bath a baby in, plastic chopping boards in shades of grey that must have been red or blue or green in proper light. He reached the fridge and tugged the handle. Locked.

If this were Northdene, he could just find the boy in charge of the tuck shop and pay double the daytime price for a Mars bar.

But this wasn’t Northdene.

And there was nothing to eat.

Suddenly, the back door opened. The dinner lady walked in. Curtis thought about ducking under a table, but there wasn’t time, and anyway the space under the nearest table was crammed with oven trays and cake tins.

She put down the shopping bag she was carrying and raised one eyebrow.

‘Hello,’ Curtis said.

‘Hello,’ she said doubtfully. ‘What are you doing in here? And if you say Midnight Feast you’ll be sorry. This isn’t Enid Blyton, you know.’

‘I know. I just . . . I missed dinner.’

‘Why?’

‘I fell asleep. I didn’t mean to, it just happened.’

‘Why did no one wake you?’

‘I don’t think anyone noticed I was missing.’

There was silence. The woman unbuttoned her jacket and folded it on top of her shopping bag. ‘I’ve finished work. I haven’t got time to switch everything on again and cook a meal.’

‘I know. I didn’t expect you to. Why would you?’ Curtis’s stomach rumbled so loudly they could both hear it.

The corner of the woman’s mouth rose. ‘But it just so happens that sometimes, before I go to bed, I make myself a hot chocolate and some toast with jam. You could share, if you want.’

Curtis nodded, then remembered his manners. ‘Yes, please.’

She flicked some of the light switches next to the door and unlocked the fridge.

Soon, Curtis was sitting in a plastic chair, pulled up to the main prep table, with a cup of hot chocolate and thick toast smeared with red jam.

‘Don’t make a habit of this, will you?’ the dinner lady said, taking a bite of her own toast. ‘I don’t cook all that food for you lot to leave it to go to waste.’

Curtis shook his head. The hum of the fridge and the crunch of the crusts were the only noises.

‘I’m Curtis,’ he said, after he’d licked the jam off his fingers.

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs Shanklin. You can call me Carol.’

‘Thank you for the toast, Carol.’

‘You’re welcome. Things don’t seem so bad do they, on a full stomach?’ She smiled at him.

Curtis felt his cheeks get hot. ‘Did I look like things seemed bad?’

‘You had that air about you, yes. I’m guessing you’re homesick? It happens a lot. First time away from home, is it?’

Curtis frowned. ‘No, the exact opposite, really.’

‘Oh?’

‘I was at Northdene Prep. I was a boarder. So, I’m used to being away from home. But . . . I had to leave.’

Carol took a sip of her chocolate. ‘Why?’

Curtis looked at the crumbs on his plate. He licked the tip of his index finger and dabbed them up. ‘Money,’ he said finally. ‘I needed a scholarship. If you’re clever enough, then they let you go there for free. I sat the exam.’ Curtis paused. He put his head in his hands.

‘Are you OK?’

He nodded quickly. ‘I didn’t pass.’

‘Life’s full of surprises,’ Carol said. ‘Things that you think are one way turn out to be another. But things have a way of working out in the end. I’ve been here all my life. I didn’t expect that when I started here. I was sure I’d be an actress or a singer. But I don’t regret it. I’m happy here. You might be too if you give it a chance.’ She took his plate and balanced it on top of hers; she carried them to the sink and ran the hot water.

‘I can do that,’ Curtis said. He took her place at the sink and added washing-up liquid. ‘You like it here?’

Carol laughed. ‘It has its moments.’

‘Some people think the house is haunted.’

Carol picked up a plate from the draining board and wiped it with a tea towel. She chuckled. ‘The Wickworth Boy? Have you been talking to Year 7s?’

‘You’ve heard of him?’

‘Of course. Poor thing. My gran used to work here when she was a girl. She saw him once, wandering the upper house. He walked right past her. She said she was rooted to the spot with fear. She heard him calling too, one night, calling for his mother.’

‘His mother? I thought he lost his true love?’

Carol took the cloth from him and wiped the draining board. ‘Is that what they say now? The maids used to say it was his mother he’d lost. But then, those maids went to live in the big house when they were just girls. They probably thought everyone was missing their mother.’

Curtis thought of his phone upstairs. The one that hadn’t rung the whole time he’d been at Wickworth. ‘I should go now,’ he said.

Carol nodded. Then she suddenly looked serious. ‘And you should try to get to know a few people here. They’re not bad kids, you know. You need someone to wake you up if you sleep through tea time again.’