The Lost Ones

by Ben Cheetham

  Jake started walking, not thinking about where he was going, his eyes haunted by doubt. He knew his dad was wrong and his mum was right. And yet something else his mum had said earlier in the day kept echoing at him. He’s got to learn that everything he does has consequences. The words filled him with a kind of paralysing dread. They made him want to find some lonely place beyond which his actions wouldn’t spread like ripples of destructive energy.

  He stopped suddenly. Seeing where he was, he realised he’d been aware of where he was heading all along. Beyond the ivy-clad garden wall and rusty gate, the Ingham house loomed like a solid shadow against the night sky. He stared uneasily at it, before checking out the gate. It was padlocked. He would have to go over. After a quick glance to make sure no one was around, he climbed past a STAY OUT! TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED! sign. He hooked his leg over the gate, pulled the rest of himself after it and dropped to the ground. Keeping low, he darted towards the house. Beyond the orange pools of the streetlamps he slowed to a walk, both because he didn’t want to fall in the darkness and because fear dragged at his limbs. He tried the front door – he didn’t want to go through the murder room unless he absolutely had to – and discovered with a sinking sensation that it was locked. He headed around the back. An edge of the moon appeared from behind the clouds, palely lighting his way. Pushing aside clinging brambles, he emerged adjacent to the boarded-up French doors. He tried the steel plate, half hoping the police had secured it. They hadn’t.

  He stood motionless, his forehead pinched tight. His mum’s words came back to him again – He’s got to learn that everything he does has consequences – motivating him to slide through the gap. The house’s interior was dark as the bottom of a well. His ears strained for any sound, catching only a whisper of wind. Goosebumps prickled on his arms. Was it colder in here? Or was he just imagining it? He took a slow breath, forcing himself to think calmly. Of course it was colder. It was night-time.

  Stretching his hands out blindly, he crossed the room. He half expected a ball of light to materialise and lead him upstairs, but the darkness remained undisturbed. His fingers came into contact with the far wall. Keeping one hand against the coarse, cracked plaster, he made his way into the hall, every nerve in his body alert for any unexplained sound or odd sensation. A shaft of moonlight found its way through the ceiling, pooling against a wall. Was this the light the ghost hunters saw? The moonbeam could hardly be described as a ball of pulsating white light. But then again, from what he’d seen on television, ghost hunters weren’t the most rational bunch. They were more likely to be motivated by hysterical fear or grief than hard facts. And he knew from his books on the occult that people like them – people who interpreted everything to suit their own needs – were easily tricked and led astray.

  Houses like this one were good at tricking you. They made normal things seem strange. All you had to do was allow yourself to think of bludgeoned skulls, blood spattering and flowing, lives being snuffed out. Actions. Consequences. Jake thought about Crazy Mary picking berries from a hedge. He thought about her older sister, Rachel. Gone, disappeared. Like Erin. No, not like Erin. The police believed Rachel had run away from her foster home. And perhaps they were right. It was easy to understand why she might have wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and this place. He knew of nothing that might have made Erin run away. But something had happened to her. Maybe the earth had simply opened up and swallowed her. He pictured her enclosed by cloying, constricting earth, like a mouse being slowly digested by a snake. The image somehow seemed more real to him than the possibility that Elijah and Joanna Ingham’s spirits were trapped in this house.

  The stairs creaked threateningly as Jake ascended them. He was suddenly conscious that his hands were sweaty, although the air was cool. A shadow seemed to pass across his vision. Heart palpitating, he almost turned and fled. Then he lifted his eyes to the hole in the roof. The moon had disappeared behind a cloud. That was all it was. He took another slow breath, telling himself to forget what wasn’t there and stay focused on what was. The object beneath the floorboards. That was something tangible, something that could be seen and touched.

  Back pressed to the wall, Jake edged along the landing. Rachel Ingham’s room was a black hole. The floorboards shifted like cracked ribs beneath his probing feet. He dropped to his stomach and snaked his way to the hole. He reached into it, groping through dust and cobwebs, soft decayed timber and crumbling plaster. His fingers landed on something slim and smooth – the lighter. He sparked it to life. Its flame flickeringly revealed the red object. He adjusted his position so that he could stretch his other hand into the hole. The object was tantalisingly out of reach. Spreading his legs to anchor himself to the floor, he wormed his head and shoulders into the hole. His fingertips brushed the object, inching it towards him. It had the texture of slightly rough leather. He hissed a triumphant ‘yes’ as he managed to get hold of it between his thumb and middle finger.

  Suddenly there was a loud crack and it was like the hole was swallowing him. Crying out, he grasped frantically for something to hold onto, but everything he touched disintegrated. For a gasping instant – long enough for him to think, This is really going to hurt – he seemed to hang suspended in the darkness. Then he slammed right arm and shoulder first into the floor of the room below. A bolt of pain shot up his wrist. He lay on his back, dust settling over him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. I can’t breathe! his brain screamed. But then air flooded back into his lungs and, coughing and spitting plaster, he jerked into a sitting position.

  A whimper escaped his dusty throat as he tried to move his injured arm. Something didn’t feel right – a deep, heavy pain. He could barely turn his wrist or flex his fingers. He tentatively tried moving other parts of his body. His right shoulder hurt like a bitch, but everything else seemed to be OK. The hairs on his neck prickled at what felt like a cool breath. He stretched out his hand and felt the right-angled opening of a brick fireplace. Reasoning that he must have fallen into the rear room, he continued to feel about himself. After a minute or two of searching, he found what he was looking for. The book. He was sure that was what it was now. It had a spine along one side. Three of its edges overlapped pages he could push his fingernails between. Clasping it to himself like a hard-won prize, he clambered to his feet.

  Now that he had what he’d come for, he wanted to get out of the house as fast as possible. But the floor seemed to shift precariously beneath his feet, forcing him to lean against the chimney breast. He flinched as something hit the floorboards nearby with an echoing thud. He guessed it was only another chunk of plaster, but it seemed to him as if the house was shouting, Go on, get out of here while you still can!

  He staggered in what he judged to be the direction of the French doors and was relieved to discover that he was right. Shouldering aside the metal plate, he squeezed outside. He started to head for the front of the house, but it occurred to him that he wouldn’t be able to climb over the gate with his arm. He made his way through the overgrown garden to the hawthorn hedge. The moon showed itself again, providing enough light to find the gap in the hedge. He dropped to his knees, but putting even the slightest weight on his injured arm set sparks of agony dancing in front of his eyes. He turned onto his back and pushed himself under the wire.

  In a haze of pain, he stumbled through the woods alongside the murmuring river. It was only when he reached the stone steps that the thought came to him, What now? He needed to see a doctor – that much was obvious. He also knew that if he turned up alone at Middlebury Hospital the first thing they’d do would be to contact his parents. He couldn’t stand the thought of seeing his dad’s face, let alone having to explain how he’d hurt himself. An idea came to him. His grandparents could take him to the hospital. Maybe they’d even let him stay with them afterwards.

  As he walked, he examined the book by the light of the lamp-posts. There was no writing on its scuffed red cover. It w
as held shut by a rust-speckled lock and leather strap. He unsuccessfully tried to prise his fingers under the clasp. The edges of the pages were grey with dust and age. He reluctantly accepted that he would have to wait a while longer to find out what they revealed. He felt certain the book must hold some secrets. Why else would its owner have taken such care to hide it?

  He stopped at a double gate wrought into curling iron branches and leaves. The gate was set between imposing posts topped by stone balls. Yews clipped into spirals, cascades and pyramids lined a long gravel driveway illuminated by ornate lamp posts. At the end of the drive, a handsome wood-beamed stone house faced onto a lush, well-tended garden. The house’s only neighbours were trees whose dark outlines swayed gently in the breeze. Gold lettering on the gate announced RITTON HALL. His granddad had told him the hall’s history many times. It had been built in the fifteenth century by the Ritton family, who lived there until great-great-granddad Brooks purchased it in 1901. At that time, the house had fallen into disrepair. Great-great-granddad Brooks had almost bankrupted himself restoring it to its Tudor glory.

  A light glowed behind the curtains of the leaded living-room windows. His grandma’s Mini and granddad’s Range Rover were parked in the drive. He pressed an intercom button. His granddad’s voice came through the speaker, harsh and wary. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Granddad.’

  A rise of surprise came into Henry’s voice. ‘Jake, what are doing here?’

  ‘I need to see you.’

  An electric motor whirred into action and the gates swung inwards. Jake crunched along the driveway. He was almost at the house when it occurred to him that the book could prompt some awkward questions. It might even be taken away from him before he’d had a chance to read it. He thrust it down the back of his jeans as the front door opened. Henry stepped out, his eyes widening at the sight of Jake. ‘My God, look at the state of you. Is that blood?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On your forehead. And why are you covered in dust? What happened?’

  ‘I fell.’

  ‘Fell where? How?’

  ‘I just fell,’ Jake said with an evasive shrug.

  ‘Yes, so you said, but—’ Henry broke off as Jake’s gaze dropped awkwardly to the ground. He sighed. ‘Come inside, let’s have a look at you and see what the damage is.’

  Jake followed his granddad into a high-ceilinged hallway with dark oak-panelling and a broad staircase whose balustrade replicated the shapes of the topiary. His grandma appeared at the top of the stairs in her dressing gown. ‘Who is—’ she started to say, but put her hand to her mouth. ‘Jake,’ she exclaimed through her fingers, hurrying downstairs. ‘You’re hurt.’

  ‘I had an accident, Grandma.’

  ‘What kind of accident?’

  Henry raised a hand to silence his wife. He carefully parted Jake’s blood-sticky hair. ‘The bad news is you’ve got a nasty cut and bump like half a cricket ball. The good news is it’s stopped bleeding.’

  ‘My right wrist hurts.’

  Henry felt Jake’s wrist. Jake yelped and pulled his arm back. ‘Can you flex your fingers?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Shall I get the first-aid box?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘I think this is going to take more than plasters and painkillers to fix,’ said Henry.

  ‘Do you think it’s broken?’ asked Jake.

  ‘I’d say that’s a strong possibility.’

  ‘Oh, you poor darling.’ Cathy took Jake’s uninjured arm in both her hands. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Let’s save the questions for later, shall we?’ Henry reached for his jacket. ‘We’d better get ourselves to A&E.’

  ‘I’ll put some clothes on.’

  ‘No need, darling. You stay here and get some rest.’

  Cathy looked worriedly at her husband. ‘If anyone should be resting, Henry, it’s you.’

  ‘I’d rather keep busy.’ Henry kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll call you if it’s anything serious.’

  He started towards the front door. Jake hesitated to follow, giving his grandma a look of wide-eyed appeal. ‘Don’t call Mum and Dad.’

  ‘But they need to know,’ said Cathy.

  ‘Please, Grandma.’

  ‘Your grandma’s not going to call anyone for now,’ said Henry. ‘You just concentrate on keeping your arm as still as possible.’

  They headed outside, Jake cradling his arm. Henry helped him into the Ranger Rover. The book dug uncomfortably into Jake’s back. He soon forgot about it as they accelerated away. Every bump in the road sent shudders of pain through his arm. As the sleepy streets swept by, he kept glancing at his granddad as if working up to asking something.

  ‘Go on,’ prompted Henry. ‘Say what’s on your mind.’

  ‘I was wondering whether I could stay at your house.’

  Henry raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘Has something happened at home?’

  Jake was silent for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Sometimes I think my dad hates me.’

  ‘Hate’s a strong word. What’s your dad done to make you so mad at him?’ Jake told his granddad about the clash on the stairs. ‘Well, I can understand why that would make you feel like you do,’ said Henry. Choosing his words carefully, he went on, ‘Now you listen to me, Jake. I think you know your dad and I don’t always see eye to eye. Tom’s an impulsive man. He often acts without thinking. And I’m sure that’s all this is. Of course, that’s no excuse for hitting you.’ He let his words sink in, then rested a reassuringly heavy hand on Jake’s shoulder. ‘You can come and stay so long as your parents say it’s OK.’

  ‘Thanks, Granddad.’

  ‘But I have to say, I think it would be best if you stayed at home. For your mum’s sake. You might not think it, but she needs you.’

  Jake stared at the passing buildings – houses, little shops, pubs. A sense of disorientation came over him, an eerie feeling of the familiar suddenly becoming unfamiliar. It faded as his granddad continued in a lighter tone, ‘You know, Jake, you remind me of myself when I was your age. Nobody could tell me what to do. My parents were at their wits’ end. Father and I were constantly at each other’s throats.’

  Jake glanced doubtfully at his granddad. It was difficult to imagine him as a rebellious teenager. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I grew up,’ Henry replied, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. ‘Shall I tell you what a big part of growing up is? It’s knowing when to listen to your heart and when to listen to your head. My heart was always telling me to do things that landed me in trouble. Then one day my head said enough is enough. It’s time to buckle down and focus on what’s really important – career, money, marriage, family. I know it’s not fashionable to concern yourself with such things these days. But believe me, Jake, without them no one will ever take you seriously.’

  They turned past a WELCOME TO MIDDLEBURY HOSPITAL sign, following a red arrow for ACCIDENT AND EMERGENCY. As they parked outside a boxy two-storey building, Jake asked, ‘We are going to find Erin, aren’t we, Granddad?’

  There was brief but telling pause before Henry said, ‘Yes.’

  Biting back the tears that threatened to form, Jake followed his granddad into a waiting area. Henry pointed him to a seat and approached the receptionist. Jake’s gaze skimmed over the sprinkling of people waiting to be seen. He was relieved not to recognise anyone. Word travelled fast in Middlebury. Every mouth in town was doubtless already trading gossip and speculation about Erin’s disappearance. The last thing his family needed was for more fuel to be added to that raging fire.

  Henry returned with a nurse, who led them to a curtained cubicle and a doctor with a stethoscope slung around his shirt collar. Henry shook his hand. ‘Thanks for seeing us so quickly, Bill.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, Henry. Always glad to do a favour for a friend.’ The doctor turned to Jake. ‘So what have we here?’

  ‘He’s had a pretty hard fall.’

  �
��Looks like it.’ The doctor motioned for Jake to lie down on a trolley bed. Jake did so, acutely aware of the book digging into the base of his spine. The doctor cleaned the cut on his scalp with stinging antiseptic. ‘It’s not too deep. I don’t think stitches are going to be necessary.’ He shone a light into Jake’s eyes. ‘How do you feel, Jake? Any dizziness or nausea?’

  ‘No. Only a headache.’

  The doctor moved on to Jake’s swollen wrist, feeling methodically along his bones. Jake grimaced at the probing fingers. ‘Can you twist and bend your wrist for me?’ asked the doctor. Jake did so with slow limited movements. The doctor nodded as if a suspicion had been confirmed. ‘Do you have any pain elsewhere?’

  Jake’s shoulder was stiff and throbbing. But he was afraid that if he mentioned it the doctor would ask him to take off his T-shirt and they’d see the book poking out of his jeans. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, the good news is I don’t see any signs of a skull fracture. We’ll do an X-ray just to be sure. As for the wrist, I’m 99 per cent sure it’s broken. So the next thing is to get you to radiology, young man.’

  Jake was escorted to another room and asked to lie down again. A radiologist positioned the extendable white arm of an X-ray machine over his head, before retreating behind a screen. The machine whirred and clicked. The radiologist reappeared to reposition it over his wrist.

  Fifteen minutes later he was sitting in yet another sterile-smelling room staring somewhat numbly at a spectral glowing negative of his arm. ‘It’s a good clean break,’ the doctor informed him, tracing his finger along a diagonal fracture. ‘It should be right as rain in six weeks.’

  The doctor went into the hallway with Henry and spoke in a hushed voice. ‘No one here can believe what’s happened,’ he said, obviously not referring to Jake’s arm. ‘We want you to know our thoughts are with you and your family.’