Wicked Little Games

by Dee Palmer

  I’m not sure how I had missed him before that day. He was like a bolt of lightning entering the room. He rushed over to me and grabbed my hand. He yelled at my mother that he was taking me to find treasure, and we disappeared for the whole day.

  He was eight years old, and I was five. It was the best day of my life.

  Every day with Atticus is the best. Each school holiday after that day we were inseparable. He is like a force of nature, so much energy and spirit. He has so many stories his grandfather had told him that he wanted to share with me, it is like having my own personal walking, talking library. When I get tired, he pulls the cushions to the floor in whatever room we happened to find ourselves, and he makes a fort to protect us both. While I nap, he stands guard or sometimes falls asleep right beside me.

  He is naughty too, opening up rooms that are forbidden and taking me beyond the boundary of the walled garden where I know I’m not allowed to go. I’d always pull to a standstill when he tried to drag me somewhere we shouldn’t be, and I’d argue or shake my head. However, I wasn’t so good at coming up with reasons why we shouldn’t, not when he was so good with all the reasons why we should. The bottom line is I can’t say no to him if I want to, and I knew in my heart, even then, I didn’t want to deny him anything.

  He showed me all the secrets of Tartarus Hall. At the time, I wasn’t sure if knowing more helped or just made the place more terrifying. I soon learned it wasn’t the house I needed to be afraid of.

  I asked him at the time why he came for me that day, and he told me that I didn’t look sick. He’d heard me laughing and wanted to play. I was confused, but he explained his mother had said I was sick and to stay away from me. She had said that every time he asked about me. We had lived in the lodge for over two years, and I’d been in his house a hundred times, and every time his mother had said I was sick and to stay away.

  I wasn’t allowed to have friends come over and play from school. Mrs Kruse didn’t want the local children snooping, and my mother wasn’t fond of other people’s children. It was a grey and lonely childhood, and when Cass was home, my whole world ignited into a high definition adventure in glorious Technicolor.

  I hear the sharp clicking heels of Mrs Kruse, and I curl up tighter into the armchair, not that she will acknowledge me, but I’d rather not be here at all. I camouflage myself with the cushions and a worn blanket that hangs over the back of the chair. Closing my eyes, I simply imagine myself anywhere but here.

  “Margaret!” Her thick Swedish accent is highlighted by the sharp shrill of her voice as she calls out for my mother. “Margaret!”

  “I’m in the pantry, Mrs Kruse, I won’t be a moment,” my mother replies with a bright breezy tone.

  “Where’s your daughter?” I can just picture her disdain; her thin, wrinkled nose turned up, as if having to mention my name at all would cause a nasty smell.

  “Oh, I’m not sure, she was here a moment ago; maybe she’s gone to the little girl’s room. She knows not to wander the house, Mrs Kruse. She only ever ventures out of this kitchen if Atticus is here.” My mother’s detailed explanation sounds more like an apology.

  “Yes, Atticus, that’s what I want to talk to you about. He will be arriving home tomorrow.” Mrs Kruse’s haughty tone is clipped with irritation. Still, it takes all my effort to not squeal out with excitement. However, since my mother was also oblivious to my whereabouts, I’m more than happy to remain hidden. “I want you to keep your daughter away from him. He’s a difficult child, and I would rather he didn’t have friends like…well, they aren’t suited to play together.” She sniffs in a sharp breath, and her voice is sharp and harsh. I feel the sting of her words even if my mother doesn’t.

  “I understand,” my mother agrees. I don’t, and I don’t understand why she isn’t saying anything. I don’t understand what ‘suited’ even means. Atticus is my best friend, and we have fun together. I simply can’t fathom why she doesn’t want me near her son, but that doesn’t matter. I’m seven years old, and now I’m not going to be allowed to play with my one and only friend in the world. I can feel my eyes tear up, and my shoulders shake, trying to keep the sobbing silent. I definitely don’t want to be discovered now, or ever, for all I cared.

  My mother tells me the next day that I am to keep away from Atticus, even if that means I have to hide when he comes for me. When she tells me I’m not allowed to play with him, I don’t ask why. I don’t want to know her explanation, because it couldn’t possibly hurt any less with her made-up excuse.

  I hear his footsteps above the kitchen, racing down the corridor and clearly on his way to find me. My mother flashes me a worried look.

  “He’ll always come looking for me, Mum. If he wants to find me, he will.” I shrug my shoulders, and she rushes over to me, helping me put my things back in my rucksack.

  “No, no, he won’t,” she flusters, and I get a painful hit in my chest that she’s ashamed of me, just like Mrs Kruse. She’s so eager for me to be gone. “I’ll tell him you’re not here. I’ll tell him you’re staying with friends.” She smiles brightly, but it looks pained. I wonder for a moment if she feels a fraction of my pain, but then the panic in her eyes as the footsteps get nearer makes me realise she’s just worried for herself. She made a promise to Mrs Kruse, and she intends on keeping it, regardless of her own heartbroken daughter.

  “Okay.” I don’t even feel bad that I should’ve told her he would know that was a lie. I want her to tell him exactly what she just told me she was going to say. He knows I have no friends, and he is going to know it’s all a lie.

  Above my mother’s promise, above everything, I wanted him to come and find me.

  I wanted Atticus.

  I quickly pack up the rest of my stuff, my drawing book and pad, grab my pencils, and run up the servants’ staircase to the attic.

  Tears are streaming down my face by the time I reach the end of the attic in the West Wing of the house. The door had been locked for centuries, but Atticus had found the key, and it was my favourite place, apart from the kitchen. The eaves close in on both sides, and there is only one window. It is large and oval, and the panes of glass are arranged in an intricate pattern and are held in place by thick lines of lead. The sun casts an ethereal shadow when it hits and the mix of floating dust particles, light, and shadow make the room feel like another world.

  A dense supporting beam sits just below the window and gives me the perfect hiding place, with the most amazing view. From the doorway, I am invisible, yet I can see everything from where I lay, over the courtyard and right down the drive to the Gatehouse and lakes. On a clear day, the view stretches as far as the eye can see, far beyond the immaculate manicured lawns, rose garden, terraced flowerbeds, and ornamental ponds. It is the perfect vantage point to see over the hedges that are trimmed to artistic perfection and line the length of the drive with a menagerie of mystical creatures: Minotaur, mermaids, Hercules, and my favourite, Pegasus. I could draw this view all day.

  My tummy wakes me with a loud rumble followed by a snicker. Only it’s not any snicker. I lift my head up and peek over the beam.

  Of course, it’s Atticus.

  “I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up.” He chuckles and crawls over from where he is setting up a picnic. He rests his arms on the beam and peers over at my sketches then back to me. His eyes fixed on mine. I rub the sleepy dust away and let out a long, slow yawn.

  “How long have you been there?”

  “I had to wait until Mother went out because I am supposed to be studying for some test to get into a school in the States, but I came to find you just as soon as she left. Why did your mother tell me you were with friends? I knew she was lying. You told me you don’t have any friends.” He doesn’t draw a breath, firing questions and his own answers at me.

  “I don’t.” I drop my gaze and give a light shrug. I bet he has lots of friends, although he never has anyone over to visit at the Hall, just like me.

  “
You have me,” he states with misplaced conviction.

  “Not any more.” I sit up and turn to rest my back against the beam, pulling my legs up and tucking my knees beneath my chin. Atticus hops over and lands gracefully beside me. Our thighs are pressed together. He turns to face me, then follows my gaze out over his family’s Estate.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your mother doesn’t think we should play together,” I say as a matter of fact, but I can’t hide the sadness in my voice. The prickle of tears is already fighting behind my nose and welling in my eyes. I draw in a steadying breath. “She said you’re a difficult child, and I’m not ‘suited’ to play with you.” He sniffs out a flat laugh and agrees, in part.

  “I can be difficult, but you’re my only friend, too, Tia, and I want to play with you. I actually enjoy coming home now. I don’t want you to hide from me, ever. I will speak to Mother.” He brushes this situation off like it’s of no consequence. My jaw drops at his confidence, and I have to physically snap it shut to reply.

  “Atticus, don’t, it’s not worth it. My mother would kill me if she loses this job and your Mother was deadly serious.” I shake my head at the thought of the trouble this could lead to. Letting out a heavy sigh, I add, “I think my mother agrees with your Mother anyway, so it’s probably for the best.”

  “Do you know what having friends really means?” He ignores my concerns completely, barely registering that I have spoken at all when he voices his question.

  “Not really,”

  “It means I’m here for you, and I’ll prove it,” he states with absolute certainty. I’m kind of in awe of him, and a little bit scared, too. He has this dark look in his eyes, and his face no longer resembles a young boy; it’s sincere, serious, and stern.

  “Cass, I don’t want you to get into trouble.” I nudge him, and he puffs out a breath that just adds to his general dismissive attitude regarding my concerns.

  “Tia, I think that’s what the T in your name should stand for. A capital T for maximum trouble.” He laughs so much I have to join in; it’s infectious. He jumps to his feet and offers his hand to help me to mine. “It’s why we’re best friends, Tia, you’re trouble and I’m difficult; we’re a perfect pair. Besides, we’re more than friends, anyway. We’re like this really small gang.” He grins conspiratorially and leaps over the beam dragging me with him.

  “A gang?” I stumble, but he catches me before I fall head first into the little carpet banquet he has prepared.

  “Yep, and this gang is hungry. Want some lunch?” He stands proudly and sweeps his arm at the array of food he has laid out.

  “I’m starving. What have you got?” I sit down cross-legged, and he does the same. With a flourish, he removes the cloth covering a small mound in the centre.

  “I’ve got your favourite.” Stacked high is a pile of triangle white bread sandwiches that I immediately recognise.

  “Really? Didn’t my mum ask why you wanted banana and sugar sandwiches?”

  “She did, but in case you didn’t know, I’m a really, really good liar.” He tries to wink, but the two-lid scrunch thing he has mastered only makes me giggle. I fall quiet for a moment before I speak. He has a way of distracting me, but the underlying problem sits heavily in the pit of my stomach.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good thing, Cass.” He narrows his eyes and takes a huge bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly, all the while keeping his eyes on me. He takes a sip from the juice carton and sets me straight.

  “I like that I’m your only friend, Tia. It means you need me, and if I have to lie and cheat and steal to make sure I am here for you, then I don’t care if it’s right or wrong. It’s just what I will do for us.”

  “I don’t need you, Cass, it’s just nicer with you here. This place is very boring when—” I can’t help loving the way he said us, even if I’m not especially pleased that he seems to know how I really feel.

  He interrupts. “It’s okay, Tia, I need you too.” I put the feeling down to hunger, but I’m pretty sure that is the first time I feel the swarm of butterflies riot inside my tummy.

  Aged 12

  My first year of secondary school is the worst. I tried so hard to make friends. I know Cass said he was there for me, but he also wasn’t. He transferred overseas to study in the States when he turned fourteen, and he doesn’t always come home for the holidays. He sometimes spends time with his grandfather in New York, or the family goes skiing, or takes a beach vacations, or perhaps goes sailing. It doesn’t really matter. It just means he isn’t home; he isn’t with me, and I am alone, and I’ve never felt so lonely.

  My move to the big school was exciting at first. My primary school only had sixty children so changing to a school with over a thousand pupils, I felt confident I would make at least a few friends, and then perhaps I would have some sort of normal teenage social life. I had a few invitations to parties at the beginning of the year, but my mother doesn’t drive, and we live so far from anywhere I can never get home afterwards. I’m not close enough with anyone in particular, not more than a forced lab partner status, and definitely not close enough to garner a sleepover invitation. Declining invitations so early on was social suicide and meant that, pretty quickly, I stopped getting asked altogether. Despite the potential of a much larger pool of possible friends, I am back to being cripplingly lonely and isolated.

  It was easier after a while to keep to myself, a depressing self-fulfilling prophecy that means my life is in full pause mode until Cass returns. I know it isn’t healthy, and with puberty kicking in big time at the age of twelve, it means when he does finally come home for the summer holidays, I am going to be an angry mass of raging hormones.

  And I was.

  “If you don’t open the door, Tia Parker, I’m going to break it down!” Cass continues to thump his fist against my bedroom door. It’s the seventh day in a row he’s called, and this time he’s managed to get all the way upstairs. He must’ve waited until my mother left, because I knew full well she wouldn’t have let him in. Despite Mrs Kruse’s abrupt U-turn regarding my suitability as a playmate when I was seven, my mother is ridiculously uncomfortable with our friendship and wants to maintain what she sees as our proper ‘station’. She really doesn’t like it when Cass calls at our house.

  “Go away!” I call out, still lying on my bed but with my pillow pressed against my head because that banging has now given me a kicking headache.

  “You can’t still be sick, and even if you are, I never get sick, so just open the damn door.” He pauses the thumping just long enough to be heard.

  “Don’t swear at me!”

  “Damn isn’t swearing!” His voice drops, and I can hear the smile in his tone. He sounds different though. There’s a roughness that wasn’t there only a few months ago. “Open the fucking door, Tia. That’s swearing, and just so you know, I have enough food here to last the week. I’m camping outside your door until you let me in and tell me what the hell’s going on.”

  “My mother won’t like that,” I argue.

  “Your mother won’t mind, trust me. I can do no wrong in that woman’s eyes.”

  “Pff,” I snort and kind of hate that he’s right. His own mother may find him difficult, but mine adores him.

  “You know the shit I had to go through to stay here all summer. I want to spend my summer with you, Tia, and you’re being a brat.”

  “I’m a brat! You…you—” I yell but get flustered when my mouth fires off before my brain has secured a witty or more likely, snarky retort.

  “Me, yes, what about me?” he goads, and he starts to chuckle. I get a strange mix of anger and hurt that he’s laughing at me.

  “Go away, Cass. I don’t need you anymore,” I state with as much conviction as I can, hating that my nose tingles with the lie. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray he doesn’t hear when my voice catches on that last word. The silence is thick, and I can hear him let out a heavy sigh that matches my own.

&nbs
p; “Well, I need you, Tia ‘Trouble’ Parker.” He punctuates each word with a heavy hand banging loudly on my poor pine door. The hinges rattle and the poster of The Smiths loses at least two of the pins holding it in place. I think for a moment. He might just break through like he threatened, but he doesn’t. The thumping stops, and I hear him slide down and slump to the floor.

  I prop up on my elbows and stare at the door. I can picture his icy white hair falling into his impossibly perfect sapphire blue eyes as he hunches over, pulling his long legs up and most likely resting his head on his knees, plotting his next move. His blond brows are probably crinkled with irritation at not getting his way, not this time, at least. He has this calm seriousness about him that he maintains at all times, almost without exception. Oh, he has a temper that’s akin to a mini apocalypse, but I have only seen it once, and although I’d never want to be on the receiving end, I did benefit in that instance. We both did. The ban his mother tried to enforce when I was seven was instantly retracted, and even at the age of ten he was more articulate and forceful at expressing his wishes than a fully-grown adult.

  That aside, he also has some pretty devious ideas of how to get his own way, too, which are much more fun; but he has the tools to argue his case when necessary and he can be very persuasive. He is very smart, and I can listen to him for days. Which is what it feels like I am doing now. He hasn’t drawn breath for three hours straight, and I need to pee. Man, he’s stubborn.

  “I need to use the bathroom Atticus.” I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet, because I’ve actually left it a little too late, and I’m now at the toe-curling uncomfortable stage.

  “And?”

  “And you need to leave, so I can pee.” I rattle the door handle to give warning of my impending exit.

  “Why? Don’t you have a door on the bathroom?” he quips.

  “Don’t be an arse, just go home Cass. I don’t want to see you. I’m not sick, I just—”

  “Just what, Tia? Talk to me. I’ve missed you, please,” he pleads, and I hate myself right now. Why don’t I want to see him again? It’s not his fault I’m a friendless freak.