by Clark, Simon
‘Hurry up,’ said his sister, snuggling down beside Michael. ‘It looks like rain.’
Kenny looked through the window. Outside, it was nearly dark. In the distance, the Skinner’s trees were dusky cumulus shapes which began to undulate in a sudden gentle breeze. The trees lay beneath the yet larger shapes of thunderheads stalking across the horizon. An ominous grumble of thunder rolled over Thorne Manor. And, as Kenny watched, the last gleam of daylight died; then something fantastic happened: the clouds and trees merged into a single, enormous, threatening shape. His head voice started. ‘Scary, scary.’ He could picture himself walking along Skinner Lane, away from the safety of the house. A tiny, forlorn figure, gradually being swallowed by the dark. Under the trees would be the Skinner: huge, indistinct, a monstrous shadow hungry for warm meat. Lord yes, it would be ravenous. Kenny’s only hope would be to take the flashlight and cut across open fields.
‘Oh, and be sure to stick to the lane,’ said Michael. ‘I’ve seen the state of your shoes. I want you back here clean and tidy.’ Smiling, Michael looked deep into Kenny and saw that thing he liked. Fear. ‘You’ll be back in half an hour – if you’re lucky.’
Kenny walked as slowly as he could. What if he refused? No. Michael had told him before. Any bad behaviour and they would send him back to the Home. Perhaps … perhaps …
Then his sister spoke. ‘Wait a minute, Kenny. There’s a box of matches in the kitchen. Mr Tomlinson left them this morning.’
Michael’s mouth was the shape of a smile, but his voice was like ice. ‘That’s saved your legs eh, Kenny?’
Kenny did not have to be clairvoyant to know what Michael was thinking. ‘Wait until next time … just you wait …’
* * *
Later. Huge drops of rain rattled hard against Kenny’s bedroom window. He climbed into bed and lay there, delaying switching out the light.
Kenny was too upset to sleep. Why did Michael try so hard to frighten him? It had started straight away with Michael turning off the lights while Kenny was alone in the room and making ghostly moans. Then it was scary stories and now – worst of all – the Skinner.
Imagine if you hadn’t eaten in thirty years Kenny … just imagine … scary, scary … peeled like a ripe banana …
Could the Skinner really be there? Crouched in a tree; peering down through the leaves. Waiting.
Kenny pulled on his cap. It might make him feel better.
It did, but he was still too tense to sleep. The same questions batted around his head. Why was Michael so cruel? When Michael was in a bad temper or had drunk too much it was a sharp kick or cuff that did the hurting. He knew Michael wouldn’t rest until he’d got Kenny to go down to the village in the dark. Down Skinner Lane. He shuddered. Would the Skinner get him?
Then Kenny did something brave. He switched out the light.
* * *
2am. He saw the Skinner.
There it was, seven feet, no ten feet tall, lit by an incandescent flash. Then as the thunder roared the bedroom was plunged into darkness once more.
Instinctively, Kenny snatched at the light cord.
No! Let the Skinner get you in the dark … better not to see its face … nasty …
Kenny switched on the light to reveal …
Nothing.
Cautiously, his heart pumping hard, he leaned over to see if the Skinner was crouching on the floor. Nothing.
Under the bed! In the wardrobe!
No. The Skinner was huge. Too big to fit in the wardrobe or slip through the three-inch gap under the bed.
Suddenly feeling hot enough to boil, he kicked off the bed clothes and flopped back on to the sweat-soaked sheet. The Skinner had been there. He was sure; the image still clearly impressed on his mind: a huge grey man. Beast-like. Naked. Stooping, because the ceiling prevented it from standing upright, it had used one shovel-sized hand to push away the pink lampshade from its face so as not to interrupt its view of Kenny.
The big flat face (nasty … nasty) was angled downward, heavy jaw thrust forward, thick lips parted, exposing yellow teeth the size of clothes pegs, and the eyes …
Kenny shook his head trying to dislodge the mental picture. But it would not budge.
The grey skin was like the hide of an elephant; pink warts rashed over the upper part of the chest, while here and there red hairs bristled across the skin.
Its eyes … and down below …
Kenny struggled not to remember, but the solid image squeezed through some tight hole in his mind to flash there as bright as television.
Folds and folds of thick grey skin …
The eyes. There were no white parts. Just big dark eyes – glossy black – which filled the sockets like ripe plums. Around one, tiny brown blisters clustered, reminding Kenny of Cocoa Crispies.
Never eat those again … sweet little Crispies crunching in my mouth …
And down below. Kenny tried to think of something else. ‘Baa-baa black sheep have you any wool, yes sir, yes sir, three bags full – and –’
And down below something protruded. Something stumpy and grey like a pig’s trotter. Something like a finger. Pointing.
Evaporating perspiration chilled his skin. He crawled under the bedclothes and curled up tightly. But not to sleep – no …
More lightning; thunder rumbled.
Kenny had heard of people dying of fright, and he was very, very frightened. Kenny didn’t know much, but was certain of one thing. Michael had made this happen. And before it was too late Michael had to be taught a lesson. A lesson he would remember – always.
That night Kenny didn’t sleep. It wasn’t fear that kept him awake – no. He was thinking.
* * *
Saturday night. Descending the open staircase was his sister. Best dress, hair done, jewellery. ‘Are you feeling alright, Kenny? You look worn out.’
Before his reply she looked at the grandfather clock. ‘God, is that the time? I’m due at the Alexandra’s at eight. See you later, love. Get what you want for supper.’
Michael, glass in hand, appeared at the door of the lounge. He smiled broadly.
‘Michael,’ said Sue, ‘are you sure you don’t mind me going tonight?’
‘You go and enjoy yourself. Take the Rolls.’
‘No – don’t sit on the stairs, Kenny – no, the MG’ll be fine.’
‘My treat, Sue. Take the Rolls, but try not to bend it. Promise?’
‘Promise. Thanks love.’
‘Oh, leave the keys to your car; I might pop down to the village later. Down to my last cigar.’
‘Bye, Michael. Behave yourself, Kenny.’ Then she was gone, leaving Kenny and Michael alone.
For a tense moment Kenny stood not knowing what to do or say. Michael went to refill his glass, then his voice boomed into the hall making Kenny jump. ‘Don’t make the place look untidy, old boy. Come in here and watch television.’
For an hour Kenny watched the cowboy film, and Michael was nice. Too nice.
Occasionally, a little secret smile would flit over Michael’s face and he’d glance out the window or check his watch. Kenny, engrossed in the shoot-out, didn’t notice the important thing. The thing he’d planned for; should have watched for. He never noticed the sun set.
‘Kenny.’ Michael stood and held out the key of the MG. ‘You know it’s not really convenient having the one key for Sue’s car.’ He smiled like a confident assassin. ‘Slip down to the village and get a spare cut.’
Kenny shook his head. ‘N–n–no … Sat–Saturday. Nothing owe–open.’
‘Nonsense, the filling station on the roundabout’s open twenty-four hours a day. You’ll find they cut keys there. Run along, Kenny.’
Outside, it was moonless and very, very dark. Kenny was appalled. Somewhere in those trees would be the Skinner. Waiting.
If you hadn’t eaten for thirty years, you wouldn’t be hungry … you would be bloody ravenous …
Michael pushed Kenny into the hall where he gave him a little plastic flashl
ight. ‘There you are, old boy. Don’t want you getting lost in the dark.’ Michael, smiling broadly, watched Kenny tie the laces of his blue trainers.
Might have to do some fast running – fastest ever …
‘Kenny.’ The voice was slithery smooth. ‘Did I ever tell you I’d seen a picture of the Skinner? Nasty brute, I can tell you. Long sharp claws, loads and loads of vicious teeth – like a shark’s. It looks just like that big, hairy swamp monster from Dr Who. Remember?’ Michael had to stop himself from laughing out loud. ‘Remember, you were so frightened you hid behind the settee …’
Kenny reluctantly pocketed the key and money, knowing Michael was sending him to his death … Peeled like a ripe banana … Michael would be sat in the lounge, happily drinking, while Kenny was being ferociously torn apart by the Skinner.
‘Mind how you go,’ called Michael as Kenny walked down the drive. ‘And if you hear any strange noises don’t worry. It’s only the Skinner waiting for a juicy little chap to come along. Cheerio.’ Then Michael shut the door and Kenny heard muffled laughter.
Nasty Michael, thought Kenny. If only he had a gun, then Michael would have to watch out!
Kenny followed the feeble puddle of light thrown from the flashlight. Ahead, the lane lay hidden in darkness … scary, scary … Where was the Skinner?
The Skinner! Kenny stopped dead, surprised by his own flash of understanding. The Skinner looked nothing like Dr Who’s marsh monsters. The Skinner was a giant grey man, all pimply and rubbery. No horns, no claws, no fur. Michael was wrong. He did not know everything.
Suddenly, Kenny’s heart was thumping hard. He had a plan. Taking the money and key from his pocket, he hid them by a gatepost where he could collect them later. Then taking his penknife from his pocket, he forced the blade through the stitching in the lining of his trouser pocket. A tug and the hole widened.
Five minutes later he was back at Thorne Manor, breathless and scared. He had to do it. Even though he knew Michael was going to get mad – really eye-popping, red-faced mad.
Michael looked up, his face a picture of annoyance. ‘What the hell are you doing back so soon?’
‘A–a M–Michael, I–I–’ panted Kenny.
‘For Christ’s sake spit it out!’
‘A–a mm. S–s key.’
‘What about the key? Where is it?’
‘Lost it.’
‘Oh, for crying out loud. You can’t have. You put it in your pocket.’
Kenny turned out his pockets.
‘No wonder! Look, there’s a ruddy great hole in it!’ Michael was boiling mad.
Kenny, frightened, wished he hadn’t done it now, but there was no going back. The plan had to be followed through to the end.
‘Come on,’ snapped Michael. ‘We’ll bloody well go look for it. You’re going to be sorry, my lad. Just wait till we get back. And take that bloody cap off!’
Michael took the powerful torch from the garage then marched off down Skinner Lane, a brilliant light cutting a great swath through the night. Kenny had to run to keep up with the furious pace. ‘Right, where did you drop it?’
Kenny’s stutter grew worse. ‘A–a … it went – like ting-ling-ling.’
‘Well where, for Godsake?’
Kenny pointed along the lane. They crossed the stone bridge, then climbed the hill to where the trees arched across Skinner Lane.
The Skinner’s trees … scary …
Kenny stopped when he reached the trees.
Michael’s voice was a snarl. ‘I’m phoning the Home tomorrow. They can have you back. I’m not putting up with …’ His voice trailed off as he noticed Kenny had stopped. ‘Where? Round here?’
‘Further, f–further.’ Kenny pointed into the black tunnel of trees.
‘Are you sure? Right, stop here … moron.’ Then Michael strode into the tunnel, the light swinging left and right as he searched the ground. ‘Are you sure you heard it drop here?’ Michael’s voice was a different shape now. ‘Well, where did you drop the key?’
Yes. Kenny knew that shape. Fear. The knowledge was uplifting. Michael was afraid of the dark.
Somewhere branches creaked oddly.
‘What …’ Michael shone the light upward. Kenny caught a glimpse of Michael’s face. Really scared.
Strangely, Kenny felt no fear. There were the trees: massive dark shapes. Once they had concealed all the monsters of the world. Now it was different. Kenny listened for the voice to say, ‘scary’. It was dumb now.
A moment later he heard a rustling like something big – something giant – pushing through bushes.
Michael heard it too. He shone the light into the darkness illuminating disparate chunks of green.
Michael sounded authoritative. ‘Who’s there?’
Slowly, Kenny began to walk backwards.
‘Come on,’ boomed Michael. ‘You’re frightening no-one, you – God!’
Noises. A crack. The torch flashed wildly, lighting great waves of leaves, then it went out. Total darkness.
Kenny suddenly turned and ran for a full one hundred paces. Behind him Michael shouted incoherently.
Like a barrel of monkeys …
Then screamed: ‘Kenny … Kenny, for Godsake! G–g–get … police …’
Kenny stopped. Michael’s voice was a shapeless yell of pain, panic and terror yanked from somewhere deep inside; louder, louder … Then it stopped. Silence.
The Skinner had got him!
Kenny looked back into the black hole of the tree tunnel. He saw nothing, heard nothing.
As he stood, the head voice came back, but this time it was saying something different. No more kicks, no nasty jokes, no scary stories – no more Michael. Kenny’s spirits rose. He wouldn’t have to be afraid of Michael coming home – ever. Then, unafraid, he walked under the Skinner’s trees. On the road surface was something the size of a penny. In the gloom it looked like a single drop of glistening black engine oil. Kenny looked up as something whispered through the trees.
‘Thank you.’ His voice was like a silver bell: clear, no stutter. ‘Thank you, Mr Skinner.’
* * *
His sister was very upset; Kenny did his best to comfort her. The house had been full of people and Kenny made sure he did all the right things. Like wiping his eyes with tissues, or sitting quietly with his head in his hands. ‘Poor dear,’ Mrs Tomlinson would say, and Kenny would keep his eyes downward.
The police asked him dozens of questions, then took him up to the Skinner’s trees where there were yet more police. They found the roadway and grass verges particularly interesting. One photographed the smashed remains of Michael’s torch. Dotted about on the ground were paper labels tied to sticks, and one patch of earth had been criss-crossed with lengths of white tape in which two policemen squatted, apparently searching for something.
‘Is this the brother-in-law?’ asked the detective and the constable replied:
‘Aye, but you’ll get nothing from him. Just pulls faces and gibbers. Thick as pig shit.’
Kenny stared down at the white lines on the road, making sure he did not glance upward – not for a second. He knew somewhere in the branches above, Michael’s skin would be flapping in the breeze like shirts and pants drying on a washing line. And Kenny would bet anything that Michael’s belly had been full of nasty white snakes which would be festooned through the trees like Christmas streamers.
Kenny wasn’t scared. No, he would keep looking down so he wouldn’t give the Skinner away. If the police found out they would call in the army with RPGs, Armorlites and tanks.
That was last week. Now the police had gone without questioning Kenny further.
Five days ago, Michael’s son, Nigel, came to stay. Already, he had taken the Rolls and was bossing Kenny. Last night he even turned out the light when Kenny was in the bath. Nasty Nigel.
From where he sat on the garden wall Kenny could see Nigel sitting at the patio table, working a pocket calculator, a full glass of red wine by his hand.
Occasionally, he would nod and smile then drink from the glass. Kenny swivelled round to look at Skinner Lane.
The trees were too distant for him to catch sight of the Skinner, but that didn’t matter. Kenny knew what he had to do.
One day soon he would fill his Harrods carrier bag with king-size Mars bars, soft mints and cans of chilled Pepsi, and there would be something else in the carrier – a secret. Then wearing his army cap, he would march up the lane to the Skinner’s trees.
On the wall, Kenny closed his eyes, feeling the sun hot on his back. In his mind’s eye he saw himself looking up into the trees. The Skinner’s tree would be the biggest tree: a thick trunk driving outward, upward and skyward; milk-white fungi ascended the trunk like the rungs of a ladder to pout pale lips through leaves which sizzled as some large body passed downward through the heart of the mighty tree.
‘Mr Skinner.’ The call would be loud and clear. ‘Mr Skinner, it’s Kenny, your friend! I’ve got something for you.’
The branches would be parted by two huge shovel hands and the Skinner’s big grey face would be looking down from the shifting ceiling of leaves. When he recognized Kenny he would smile broadly and hold out his hand. Kenny would take it, and laughing happily, both would climb up into the Skinner’s heavenly green world. They would sit astride a branch facing one another. Around them skins would be rustling like paper. Kenny, opening the carrier, would share out the treats. On one branch peeled faces hung like tatty old masks, and right at the end would be Michael’s silly face, scaring no-one – not even the littlest sparrow.
Then Kenny, quite casually, would say: ‘I’ve got another surprise for you.’ And he would give the Skinner the cap he had been saving for a special occasion – the postman’s cap Kenny’s father had worn.
‘Thank you, Kenny. You’re very, very kind,’ the Skinner would say, his big dark eyes filling with tears, and he would keep the cap forever.
For the next twenty minutes – no, a full hour – Kenny would tell the Skinner stories. The Skinner would listen intently, hanging on to every word. An hour later they would see Nigel walking up the lane, and Kenny would say: ‘Time for a Mars bar first.’
