The Stuff of Nightmares (10 page)

So I ran, round gnarled trunks, over the concrete-hard ground, my head darting first here, then there,
searching
for some kind –
any
kind – of shelter. Ten minutes in the rain were enough. The rain was still full of the acids and pollutants created by the last civil war, a war with a new chemical weapon.

When my parents separated, my mum packed up and moved back here, to her home country. I wasn’t sorry about the separation. Dad punctuated his sentences with his fists more often than not when talking to Mum. Over the years I grew to despise him and everything he stood for. I hated his belief that might was right. I hated the way he couldn’t bear to see Mum happy, as if her happiness was something he couldn’t control so it had to be knocked out of her. I’d lost count of the number of times over the years that I’d told Mum to leave him.

‘But he’s my husband … But how would we live …? But you need a father …’

Not a father like that, I didn’t. I swore when I was old enough to mean it for life that I’d never let any man treat me the way Dad treated Mum. I’d rather die first. Every time Dad hit her, I’d scream at him to stop. I’d cry just as hard as Mum. I’d feel every blow as if it was aimed at me. When I was old enough it would be me and Mum on one side, crying and hugging each other as he looked down at us. After that, Dad rarely hit Mum when I was around. But the moment I set foot through the door, I could always tell if something had happened. Dad thought Mum was telling tales, as he put it. He didn’t understand that she didn’t need to open her mouth.

I could always tell.

But then, when I was fourteen, he made the mistake of hitting Mum in front of me. And why did he hit her? Because she gave me a birthday card and the most beautiful necklace I’d ever seen. It was a single, exquisite pearl at the end of a delicate gold chain. And the card was signed, ‘
With all my love, Mum
’. Dad dug into his pocket and handed me a few notes. No card, no happy birthday. He’d obviously forgotten all about my birthday. And I made the mistake of ignoring him and hugging Mum and telling her how much I loved her present. Later that evening, over dinner, I wore my necklace and felt like a princess; the day was perfect. I kept smiling at Mum. I couldn’t help it. was so happy. Mum smiled back, just as happy as me.

‘What the hell is this swill?’ Dad shouted. ‘I’m so sick of this … this dog food you keep giving me.’ He picked up his dinner plate and threw it across the table.

And in that instant the mood around the table changed. I knew what was going to happen next. Dad jumped to his feet and moved round the table, hauling Mum out of her chair. Before I was even aware of what I was doing, I was there and in Dad’s face.

‘You lay one hand on her and I’m calling the police,’ I warned him.

And I meant every word. And Dad knew I meant every word. I glared at him, making no attempt to hide the loathing I felt. He let go of Mum, who fell, half on, half off her chair. I was vaguely aware of her crying
and
trying to pull me away from Dad but I wasn’t about to move. Dad stared at me, breathing just as hard as I was. And then, without warning, he hit me. Hard and fast and sharp as razors – he hit me.

I was down on the ground and my head was ringing and I had no idea how I’d got there. Mum was at my side in an instant, screaming words I couldn’t hear at Dad. The ringing in my ears began to subside, but I still couldn’t make out a word she was saying. Then I realized Mum was screaming at Dad in her home language, the language I understood and could even speak a little, though Mum and Dad wouldn’t allow me to use it in the house. And all the time Mum screamed at Dad, Dad didn’t say a word. The pitch of Mum’s voice grew lower as she spoke, making her easier to understand, but she wasn’t letting Dad off. In a voice brittle with sadness, she asked him what had happened to the man she fell in love with; where had he gone? Dad looked at her for countless seconds before he slammed out of the room, then out of the house.

He didn’t come back for three days, and when he did, he tried to smile and joke with me as if nothing had happened. I swore then and there that no man would ever hurt me again and get away with it. Never ever. But that was enough for Mum. She waited until the school year ended and Dad was away at some conference or other for the week. She emptied their joint savings account, then we packed up and headed for Mum’s home country. I was sorry I didn’t get to say
a
proper goodbye to all my friends, but to be honest, it was worth it to get away from
him
.

We’d been in this country for a little over eighteen months when the civil war started. A war between those who wanted their own separatist state against those who insisted that the country shouldn’t be divided. And the country was already so small, little bigger than a question mark on any world map. The war was brutal and bloody and the rest of the world just wasn’t interested. But then the separatists got hold of chemical weapons and some lunatic actually used them. That’s when the rest of the world started paying attention, but by then it was too late. Our rain had become lethal, and unlike people, the rain didn’t discriminate. My mother had called it the Sad War; I thought the name apt. Some of the people I met on my travels were sad – remembering how things had once been. More people were unfriendly, belligerent even. I could understand that. In these times it was the only way to survive.

I felt a drop of rain on my cheek. A second or two and then the pain began, like a red-hot needle thrust into my skin.

Find shelter, Robby. Find something fast
.

Another drop on the sleeve of my leather jacket. A tiny, perfectly round hole appeared in the material. My heart was screaming at me to get undercover. That’s when I saw it – a light up ahead. I pelted for it, ignoring my aching legs, the pain in my ankles. I turned my face to the sky and sniffed. The rain was closer;
the
sky beyond the trees was rapidly turning to darker shades of grey. At last the light I’d seen revealed its source. It was a house, more like a cottage really, with a light on in one of the ground-floor windows. I didn’t care about that. It was shelter. I would take my chances with the occupants. In the rain I had
no
chance.

I banged on the door, again and again. I felt a raindrop wet on my cheek. The pain arrived only a fraction of a second later. Another red-hot needle. I panicked, felt for the door handle and turned it. Thank God it was open. Another scalding raindrop fell on my forehead before I stumbled across the threshold. Kicking the door shut, I leaned against it, forcing myself to calm down. I was inside now. Safe?

‘Hello? Is anyone home?’ There was no answer.

‘Hello?’ I shouted again, looking around with tired curiosity. It wasn’t particularly clean. It smelled musty, uncared for … but it was dry and that was all I cared about. I entered the closest room, the room with the light.

‘Hello,’ I tried again feebly. Maybe the house was empty. I hoped so. I wanted to be alone, to relax for the first time in weeks. The occupants were probably sheltering from the rain somewhere. I couldn’t help but wish they got caught in it; then they would die and the house would be mine. The thought made me squirm inwardly with guilt but it didn’t stop me from thinking it.

The room was quite large, its walls a dingy
yellow
-brown. What light there was came from a fireplace and two candles on a battered, three-legged stool. Opposite the fireplace was a light-coloured settee, possibly once beige or maybe even yellow but now grubby and worn, with the stuffing appearing in odd places through the cushions. Still, it had to be more comfortable than the hardwood floor, so after taking off my backpack I sat down and continued to look around. The only other furniture was a tiny table beneath the one small window to my right. I leaned my head back and sighed softly. I was right. The settee was soft, the fire was warm and I was out of the rain. I closed my eyes gratefully.

Suddenly my head was yanked back and something sharp and cold pressed against my throat. Instantly I knew and felt that it was a knife – with a
very
sharp blade.

‘Who the hell are you?’

I couldn’t see the man behind me. I was too frightened to turn my head. Besides, the tiniest movement on my part and he would cut my throat, that much I did know. Hell! He might cut my throat anyway.

‘Answer me,’ the man demanded again. ‘Who are you and what are you doing in my house?’

‘I … my name’s Rob … Robby. I’m fourteen … It started to rain. I came in for shelter. I’m … tired. I didn’t mean to trespass …’ The knife moved fractionally away from my neck.

‘I want you out of my house …
now
,’ the man said harshly.

‘But … but it’s raining,’ I protested. ‘I’ll die if you send me out there. Can’t I just stay until it’s over?’

‘The rain is your problem, not mine. And besides, it might last for a week or more. You’re certainly not going to stay here that long.’

‘It won’t be for that long,’ I argued eagerly. ‘It’s only going to last two days, then I’ll be on my way.’

‘I don’t want you in my house for two minutes! And how d’you know it’s only going to last for a couple of days?’

‘My nose told me,’ I replied reluctantly, feeling foolish. ‘I can always tell when rain is coming and how long it’s going to last.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘It’s true.’

‘You can’t stay here—’

‘Please … please …’ I begged, wishing I could turn my head to look at him. ‘I won’t be any trouble. I can cook, clean, chop wood …’

‘In the rain?’ he said scathingly.

‘I won’t be any trouble,’ I argued. ‘Please …’

Inside the room, the silence echoed around us. Outside I could hear the rain sheeting down now.

‘Please,’ I tried again.

‘I’m going to move the knife away from your neck now, but one false move and you’ll be dead before you can blink.’ The tip of the knife was reapplied with force to my neck. ‘D’you understand?’

‘I get the point,’ I replied.

The knife left my throat and I heard him move out from
behind
the settee. Slowly, carefully, I raised one tentative finger to my throat. When I examined it I was chastened but not terribly surprised to see blood. I had a slight cut, and it hurt. Still, that was better than not feeling anything at all … ever again. I remained seated as the man moved to stand before me. I recoiled deeper into the settee at the sight of him. The candles cast strange, dark shadows over his face, but even in the strong sunlight I would have given this man a wide berth. He was tall, at least six feet, with dark hair flopping across his forehead, and he had hard, icy eyes. I guessed he was over thirty and under forty. His face was the meanest I’d seen in a long time, and it had nothing to do with the deep scar running from just below the corner of one eye and across his cheekbone. I glanced down at the knife, which he still held in his hand.

‘What did you mean when you said your nose told you it was going to rain?’ he demanded.

‘I can smell it,’ I said. I decided that with this man it would be prudent to keep my answers direct and to the point.

‘How old did you say you were?’

‘Fourteen,’ I replied – too quickly.

His eyes narrowed. ‘How old?’

‘Seventeen,’ I said reluctantly.

‘I thought you didn’t look fourteen. But isn’t your voice a bit high for a seventeen-year-old?’

‘I know.’ I frowned. ‘That’s why I tell everyone I’m fourteen. I’m lucky though. My voice may not have
broken
yet but that’s the only side-effect I’ve suffered from the chemical fallout. I’ve seen people who’re a lot worse off than me.’

Shut up, Robby. You’re rambling! Short, concise answers
.

The man continued to scrutinize me. I shifted on the settee, suddenly aware of every lump and bump in the cushion under me. Wasn’t he going to say anything? Why didn’t he say anything?

‘I’ve travelled a lot since my mother died,’ I continued, more for the sake of saying something than for any other reason. ‘I don’t like to stay too long in one place—’

‘You talk too much.’

He wasn’t the first person to tell me that. But something in the way he said it sent ice crystals dancing through my veins and made me shut up immediately. That’s my trouble, you see. I don’t like silences and I always try to fill them. The man walked to the window, his eyes rarely leaving my face. I watched as he closed the inside wooden shutters.

‘Now I won’t get any more uninvited guests,’ he said stonily, glaring at me.

‘Er … what’s your name?’ I asked. ‘I’ve told you mine.’

‘What’s it to you?’ he snapped. ‘Anyway, you won’t be staying here long enough to make use of it.’

‘I’ve got to call you something while I’m here,’ I pointed out.

Besides, I knew the rain would last for five days, not
two
, but I had sense enough to realize that if I told him the truth he’d want me to leave immediately. Two days under his roof he might tolerate; five was asking a bit too much. But once I’d been here two days, I could stretch it to another three.

‘Carter,’ he said suddenly.

‘What? Your name is Carter?’ I queried. ‘Is that your first or last name?’

Carter strode across to where I was sitting, grabbed the top of my jacket and pulled me out of the settee towards him. ‘Listen, Rob or Robby or whatever the hell your name is. Let’s get a few things straight. If you want to stay here, you’ll keep out of my way and you won’t talk so much. I don’t like a lot of questions. Get it?’

I nodded vigorously.

He released me and I slumped back onto the settee.

‘Does that mean I can stay?’ I asked immediately, straightening my clothes.

Carter’s glare became even more penetrating. ‘Only until the storm passes,’ he said at last. ‘But first let me see what’s inside your backpack.’

‘Why?’

‘Damn it! Stop answering everything I say with a question.’

Without another word I reluctantly emptied my backpack out on the seat beside me. Some bunches of herbs and a pouch filled with nuts and berries fell out first, followed by a dented flask of fresh, uncontaminated water and lastly two books given to
me
by my mother: the Bible and a science-fiction novel.