GHOST BLADES
Anthony Masters
For Simon with much love
A.M.
To Delisia
C.P.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
A Note on the Author
One
Terry sped down one of the paths in the park, putting in some power-packed turns and a few extra spins as well. He was really getting used to the blades now, feeling more confident, pushing out hard each side and bending forward at the same time.
‘Stop!’ yelled Alan, the owner of the purple and black Rollerblades. The boys had planned to buy them together, but Terry’s dad had been made redundant and he couldn’t afford to give him pocket money any more. Alan had been generous though and often let Terry borrow the blades.
‘What’s up?’ Terry bent his left knee and swung his right foot backwards, digging in his heel and coming to a slightly wobbling stop. He knew he still hadn’t got the pressure right and was just about to explain the problem when Alan snapped,
‘Come on, hand them over. I want them back.’
‘You said I could borrow them any time,’ protested Terry.
‘Well you can’t. Anyway, I’ve been thinking …’ he stumbled. ‘I should have asked for them back last week.’
‘Why last week?’
‘Because I said.’
Alan looked uneasy.
‘It’s not fair,’ Terry stared at him, more amazed than annoyed. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened. I’ve just changed my mind – that’s all.’
‘You mean I can’t borrow them any more?’ Terry was getting angry now.
‘I’m going to sell them to buy a fishing-rod.’
‘You don’t like fishing,’ Terry told him.
‘I do now,’ Alan replied stubbornly, and Terry knew he meant business. ‘Now give me my blades.’
Snapping open the clasps, Terry unlaced the boots and practically threw them at him.
‘I’m sorry …’ Now Alan had got them back he wanted to be friendly again.
‘Yeah.’ Terry was in a deep sulk and he wasn’t likely to come out of it for a long time.
‘I’ll lend you my rod.’
‘I don’t want your rod,’ yelled Terry. ‘I’ll never want your stupid rod. And you’re not telling me the truth, are you? I bet you’re going to share those blades with someone else.’ Terry ran off before Alan could see the tears in his eyes.
That night, Terry could think of nothing but the blades. Miserably he imagined Alan sharing them with someone else. He kept seeing another boy riding them – someone who was much better than him, someone who had become Alan’s best friend.
Terry was small for his age, with blond hair and blue eyes. He hated the way he looked. He wanted to be tall and athletic like Alan. The blades had made a big difference to Terry. He wasn’t much good at sport, too small for basketball and not fast enough for football and rugby. He hated cricket and didn’t like swimming because he had an allergy to chlorine. The blades though – they were different. He could really be somebody on those and he was sure he was becoming more skilful. But now his blading days were over.
Two
Terry got up next morning in a very bad mood, but at least he had a plan.
His parents and his little sister were already sitting round the breakfast table when he came downstairs.
‘You’re late,’ said Lucy. ‘And you haven’t combed your hair.’
Grimly, Terry realised she was out to get him for spraying her with a water-pistol the previous night. He had wanted to take it out on someone – and Lucy had been a walking target.
‘Shut up, you,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t speak to your sister like that,’ said Dad, gloomily scanning the Situations Vacant section of the local paper.
Terry realised he hadn’t made a good start. ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry to who?’ Lucy was triumphant.
‘Sorry, Lucy.’
‘You ought to say that on your knees,’ she said. ‘You soaked my pyjamas …’
‘I’ve said sorry.’ Terry gave her an almost pleading look but she stuck out her tongue at him. He turned to his father. ‘Dad. Can you do me a favour?’
‘Depends what it is.’
‘Alan’s going to sell his Rollerblades.’
‘Is he now?’
‘To buy a rod. Or that’s what he says.’
Slowly his father lowered the paper. There was genuine concern in his eyes. ‘I can’t do it, Tel. I can barely cope with the bills I’ve got.’ He paused. ‘I would if I could. You know that.’
‘I know that,’ muttered Terry, realising how stupid he’d been.
‘I’m sorry.’ His father’s voice shook slightly. Mum looked away and for once Lucy had nothing to say.
Later, Terry cycled past Alan’s house, trying to think how he could make him change his mind. In the end, he decided the only way was to talk to him again and make him see sense – or at least his point of view.
He went in the back way to avoid Alan’s mum, but directly he got to the door she was there, grinning, her hands on her hips. It was as if she had sensed him coming and was lying in wait.
‘Well, if it isn’t my Terry.’
‘Is Alan in?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘He’s got a terrible cold, sneezing everywhere. I wouldn’t go up – you don’t want to catch it.’
To his great annoyance, she gently patted his head.
‘OK. See you.’ Terry ducked under her arm and ran towards the gate. As he passed the shed he hesitated, knowing that was where Alan kept the blades. Were they still there? Or had he already sold them?
Terry tiptoed through the open door. The blades gleamed in the darkness so temptingly he could hardly bear to look at them. Why couldn’t he have a last go? As Alan was ill he couldn’t use them and he wouldn’t be selling them either. Not yet.
They were just sitting there, waiting. No one would mind. Not if he brought them back by lunchtime. Or even just before bedtime. Slowly, Terry tried to convince himself that borrowing wasn’t stealing.
Rain began to spatter on the tin roof of the shed but that didn’t worry him. What was a bit of rain if he had the blades? He could put in hours of practice and Alan wouldn’t even know, not if he got them back without being seen. Anyway, it wasn’t stealing. Before he’d decided to sell them, Alan had said he could share them, use the blades any time.
Three
Once he was speeding down the hill, Terry’s guilt vanished. All he could feel was the drizzle on his face and the wonderful freedom in his feet as he twisted and turned, skimming his way along the shining wet pavements.
Now he was darting his way through the town, the blades so light that at times he almost seemed to be flying. Terry felt terrific, but knew he was still in control, going as fast as he dared.
Twenty minutes later, Terry was blading through the run-down streets at the other end of town. The clouds scudding overhead were black now and the drizzle had changed to spitting rain. Closed-up shops, boarded buildings, rows of empty houses stretched around him and a large sign read:
Longside Development Begins Spring
Terry passed yet another derelict building, this time much more distinctive than the others. Set back behind a crumbling stone wall, it was high, with attic rooms in the eaves that looked like staring eyes. Glancing up, for a second Terry thought he saw a boy’s face at the window. Then it disappeared and he put it down to his imagination.
He swooped on down the street, gathering speed again and letting out a whoop of joy. Then the blades suddenly turned round in a small
circle and carried him back the way he had come. The shock was so great that Terry felt completely numb. It was unbelievable – but the blades had taken control. How could that possibly happen?
Faster and faster the blades carried Terry along the pavement, weaving their way in and out of startled pedestrians. Terry’s throat was dry and he could feel his heart thumping as if it were trying to get out of his chest. He tried to stop, but the blades didn’t respond. The force that was pulling him could not be broken.
The tall house loomed above him; dark, low cloud swirling around its roof. Large black streaks covered the walls and the windows were boarded up. The only exception was one of the attic rooms. Wasn’t that where he had seen the face of the boy?
But there was no time to think. He was far too scared and the blades seemed to be going even faster now.
Suddenly Terry found himself skidding round the corner of the house, hurtling down a narrow path through long wet grass. Taking the next corner at an incredible speed, sure that at any moment he was going to fall, the blades turned him at an alarming angle towards the back garden gate.
Terry watched the scarred mossy wood rush towards him and tried to brace himself, his mouth open in a silent scream. The blades were being propelled by such an incredibly strong force that however hard he pressed down on his right heel to try and brake them, they refused to respond.
Then the gate flew open.
Terry jarred his shoulder as he clipped the post, speeding along a path that was overgrown with stinging nettles. They lashed at his arms as he ploughed through, but still the blades weren’t slowing down.
The garden was becoming a blur, and he bounced over a plank of wood that was burnt and cracked, almost losing his balance. Desperately he righted himself and rounded an old greenhouse. He saw that he was heading straight for the back door.
Soon he was so close that he could see every detail of the big rusty lock and burnt green paint. Then, just as he was about to make impact, the door abruptly swung open. To his horror he was propelled inside a dark and misty smelling room.
The blades shuddered to a halt and the door slammed shut behind him.
Pulling off the blades, Terry ran back to the door and tried to open it, but it was stuck. He rattled and pushed and shoved and pulled but it wouldn’t budge, and for some time he battered at the heavy wood in terrible panic. Had the door jammed? Locked itself? He couldn’t remember seeing a key.
As a last effort he threw himself against the door, jarring his already bruised shoulder. But it was no good. He was trapped.
Miserably, Terry gazed around the room. It was a kitchen containing a few badly burnt bits of furniture – a table, some chairs, a couple of wall cupboards, a partly broken mirror and a singed calendar with a picture of a large house, its smooth lawns running down to a lake.
The walls were black and peeling and the ceiling was bubbled and scarred. The calendar was headed:
English Country Homes and Gardens 1965
All the scorched surfaces in the room were covered with a thick coating of dust, which had clearly not been disturbed for a long time. Terry shivered. The place seemed to have an expectant air, giving him the uncanny impression that it was waiting for something. For him? He shrugged off this notion, knowing his imagination was running away with him.
Two windows were boarded up and the other, although broken, was too small even for Terry to get through. He clambered up on the blackened enamel sink and wrenched at the heavy boards, but they had been nailed tight to keep vandals out.
As he struggled, something soft and silky landed on his neck. It made him jump and he brushed away a spider, which ran over the grimy linoleum, scurrying for cover under the table.
He climbed down, panic surging. Unless someone came he could be here for a long time. But why should anyone come? There had obviously been a fire and the house had been left derelict for years. He thought of his parents and Lucy, and felt the helpless tears pricking at the backs of his eyelids.
Four
The rain began again, pelting on to the roof, and Terry saw a steady trickle sliding down the opposite wall. He knew there was no point in just standing around, accepting he was inexplicably trapped and doing nothing about it. He would have to force himself to penetrate the darkness and explore the rest of the house.
Terry pulled open the door and gazed into a hallway. A pool of grey light filtered down from a hole in the ceiling. There was a table with a vase of dusty dried flowers, and a tattered picture of a family. Mother and father, a boy of about his own age and an older girl all sat in deckchairs on a newly mown lawn. Terry picked it up and looked at it intently; the girl’s face was vaguely familiar. But why should the photograph have been left here? The house looked as if it had been empty for a long time. He shivered, feeling so tense he could hardly breathe.
There was a mass of faded circulars scattered on the mat and a strong cindery smell in the air. Then he saw the blisters on the paintwork, the great swathe of scorch-marks on the wallpaper. Suddenly he was afraid, very afraid.
He hurried to the front door and tried to open it, but he should have known there would be no easy way out. Again and again he tried to free the lock, but it was hopeless.
He ran into the sitting room, which was completely empty, its windows boarded up, and then into the dining room.
He was sure he had heard something. Something upstairs. A rat? A footstep? But he could hear nothing now – and the silence seemed to go on for a very long time, like a dense blanket around him. Then he heard it again; a distinct, slightly creaking tread as if someone was moving slowly, watching him from the landing, waiting to come down.
Terry stared up the blackened staircase.
Was that a shadow? A movement? A shape?
Then he heard more footsteps, light as the rain but quite unmistakeable; footsteps that were even now stealing down the stairs.
To begin with Terry couldn’t see anyone; he was shivering so hard that the staircase seemed blurred. His heart pounded fiercely, sweat ran into his eyes, his mouth was so dry that he knew he couldn’t speak. Dry as cinders. Dry as the fire-damaged house.
Then the boy appeared.
At first he was insubstantial, but then his outline became much stronger and Terry could see he was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, grey shorts, long socks and sandals. The boy’s expression was blank and his face was incredibly white. His hair was cut very short.
Suddenly the blankness was replaced by mocking eyes, a grinning mouth, a look of pleasure and of triumph.
‘Got you,’ he said.
‘Who are you?’ rasped Terry.
‘Joe.’ The boy spoke in a whisper. ‘I’ve no one to play with.’ He paused. ‘There was another boy. He was on those skate things. But he went away. Then I saw you.’
‘You made me come here,’ stuttered Terry. ‘You turned the blades round. How?’
‘That would be telling.’ The boy’s grin widened.
‘I want to go home.’ Terry couldn’t move; it was as if he was a heavy stone statue, and a picture of playing statues years ago at a birthday party flashed into his mind. ‘You can’t move,’ his friend’s mother had said. ‘No one can move. You’re all made of stone.’
Joe came nearer, smelling cold and earthy. ‘I’ve been trying hard recently – trying hard to make friends.’
‘I want to go home,’ repeated Terry.
‘You can’t,’ said Joe. ‘You’re my friend now. You have to do what I tell you.’
Terry could feel a tightness in his stomach and his legs were leaden, but with an enormous effort he broke away from Joe and ran to the front door, pulling and shaking and rattling with all his strength. But it still wouldn’t move.
Joe laughed.
‘Let me go,’ yelled Terry.
‘I’ll never do that,’ he said quietly.
Terry felt the power of the boy in his mind, knowing instinctively how strong he was, how difficult it was going to be to get away. Whatev
er he did he couldn’t seem to escape from the house. Could he try to talk his way out instead? Convince this boy that he had to let him go, that he had no right to trap him?
‘Do you live here?’ he asked, playing for time, knowing that something was wrong with Joe, horribly wrong. There was a strange shimmering around the boy’s shoulders, as if they weren’t quite formed.
‘Have you seen my sister?’ he asked. The triumphant smile had vanished. ‘She’s older than me. She’ll know where my parents are. She looks after me.’
‘I haven’t seen anyone.’
Joe looked at him threateningly, his misty features twisted in anger. ‘I can’t find her.’ There was an awkward pause and then he said abruptly, as if he was deliberately changing his mood, ‘Come up and play.’
The invitation was the most threatening Terry had ever received. He didn’t want to go upstairs and play. Not with Joe.
‘They’ve gone and left me alone. It’s not fair.’
Terry remembered the old photograph. ‘What’s your sister’s name?’
‘Liz.’
There was another long silence between them and Terry was swept with despair. He didn’t understand what was going on. He didn’t want to understand.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve got to go home now. Can you let me out?’ Terry was trying to be reasonable, trying to talk himself out of a nightmare.
Joe clenched his fists. The dank earthy smell was more intense. ‘You don’t like me, do you? I fight people if they don’t like me.’
‘I just want to go home. What’s so bad about that? You forced me to come here.’
His pale features twisted in rage, Joe hit out, but his fist went straight through Terry’s chest and all he could feel was a blast of cold air that chilled him to the bone.
‘You’re a ghost,’ he stuttered unbelievingly. ‘A ghost.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Joe. ‘Ghosts don’t exist. I’ve never believed in them. My mum told me not to. Didn’t yours?’
Ghost Blades Page 1
