I haven’t seen my siblings for varying amounts of years. They’ve scattered like sheep, landing in different places doing different things. It’s only me who’s still here, in Budbury – with our mum. I don’t blame them; they’re older than me, and moved away and built their lives long before she started to show signs of her illness. I don’t blame them – but I do miss them.
Even though, I think, as I pause outside the Room of Horrors, they were complete bastards that day – building up the terror, forcing me to go through with it, then laughing their arses off when I was so scared. It was the end for me and Briarwood – Mum kept on working here on and off, but I always made sure I had something else to do, even if it was tagging along with my evil big sister Auburn.Vicious as she could be, she wasn’t as scary as that room.
Over the years, though, I’ve thought of it occasionally – the way that kids can be so casually cruel to each other and not give it a second thought.
And, of course, the way I ran away, frightened out of my wits – I didn’t even talk to the poor boy in the room, who was just as scared. Who wouldn’t be? Some strange, feral child crashes into your space uninvited, screams at the top of her voice, and legs it without a word of explanation?
I think I scarred him for life – and as he was living in a children’s home at the time, he probably wasn’t in an especially good place to begin with. We were just two people who collided with each other’s lives for a split second. I still feel a bit bad about it, and wish I could go back in a time machine and at least push a note under his door saying sorry.
I force myself to stop procrastinating and open the door. Amazingly, nothing happens. No ghostly boys, no hanging corpses, no demons. Not even a whiff of the scary choir music from The Omen. It’s just a room – dark, musty, and sad.
The desk I remember, covered in what I now think was probably dismantled computer parts or reverse-engineered toasters, has gone. The swivel-chair the boy spun around in has gone. There’s nothing left here to tell me anything about the living, breathing children who once called this small place home.
I can feel the melancholy creeping back over me again, and shake it off. Nostalgia’s not what it used to be, and I’m probably not well-equipped to deal with thinking too closely about the past. I struggle enough to cope with the present.
I wander over to the window, preparing to open it like I did all the others, and stop dead. Hazily outlined through the grime, I see a person standing outside. He’s very still, looking up, probably thinking exactly the same thing as me: am I imagining this, or is there another human being out here in the land that time forgot?
I freeze for a moment, suddenly scared, and then use one of my cloths to wipe a circle of dirt from the window pane.
No, I’m not imagining it – it’s a man. A tall man with dark hair, and a bloody big dog. I wave at him, and he hesitantly waves back. He can probably only see one bit of my face, which must look weird.
The dog lets out a vast booming woof, and I hear Bella’s claws clattering on the floorboards in the hallway as she mobilises.
I follow her, fingering my mobile in my apron pocket for reassurance as I go. I generally don’t go through life assuming new people I meet are serial killers – but Briarwood has cast its unnerving spell, and it’s good to know I can communicate with the outside world if he suddenly wants to show me his stylish coat made of human skin.
I trot down the stairs, bundling up my bin bag as I go. Bella is ahead of me, her tail twitching in excitement. I am totally rocking the Cinderella look – face smeared with dirt, hair in a big mad pony, wearing a pinny that has a picture of King Kong on the front, odd socks popping out of the top of my Docs. Because life’s too short for worrying about your socks.
I emerge into the sunshine, and have to blink away the sudden blast of light that attacks my indoor eyeballs.
It’s been a surreal day. No sleep, domestic chaos, cleaning a haunted house, and now I’m standing out here, smiling at a man who definitely isn’t Edward Cullen.
Chapter 3
Obviously, I knew that. Edward Cullen is a fictional character. This man, I assume, is not.
He’s tall – a head higher than me, and I’m five-foot-ten – and he’s wearing faded Levis and a T-shirt with Godzilla on it. The old black-and-white Godzilla, not the less-scary CGI Godzillas of the current era. His feet are bare – life is obviously too short for worrying about socks for him as well – and shoved into a pair of well-worn Converse with trailing, untied laces.
His hair is shorn close to his head, like he’s either just left a super-secret post in the military or he knows from bitter experience that he’ll end up with a huge ’fro if he lets it grow out. It looks soft and dark, like moleskin, and I know that I might need to fight the urge to stroke it. Because that would be weird for us both.
He’s slender, but with broad shoulders and muscled arms that I’m guessing were created in a gym – he’s too pale to be an outdoorsman. Dark brown eyes, strong cheekbones and jaw, a nose that veers on the right side of Roman, a wide mouth. Beautiful, actually, in a you-could-use-him-as-a-sculpture-model kind of way. I see that the siren call of Budbury has resulted in yet another weird-but-well-built male responding to its pagan appeal.
‘Hi!’ I say, as I approach. For all I know he’s worried that I’m a serial killer too. My appearance can be a little alarming to people I catch unawares. ‘I’m Willow.’
He’s not really focused on me, I realise as I get closer – he’s staring at Bella, who has taken a few steps towards his dog, sniffed the air, and circled back to me. He has hold of his own pet’s collar, and is looking anxious about the whole situation.
‘Okay …’ he replies, nervously. ‘Any chance you could ask the dog to go back inside? Rick Grimes isn’t too keen on company.’
Rick Grimes looks like a cross between a Rottweiler and a German Shepherd, with a face like a teddy bear, a hugely muscled body and a weird black-and-tan ruffle of fur around his neck, like a lion’s mane. He’s tugging slightly at his owner’s hold, but not growling or snarling. Yet.
‘You named your dog after a character in a TV show about zombies?’ I ask, stepping in front of Bella protectively. I’m not overly worried – something about Bella gives off super-sexy vibes that generally ensure all male dogs adore her, the little tramp – but am ready to scoot her inside if I need to.
He looks up at me, and grins. It changes his whole face, and something inside me melts a little. Danger, danger – hot geek alert.
‘I did,’ he says, stroking Rick’s ears to soothe him as he talks. ‘Why? What’s your dog called?’
Hmmm. Fair question.
‘Erm … Bella Swan,’ I reply, feeling myself wilt a little. Not everybody gets the reference – but I am a hundred percent sure this guy will.
‘Ah,’ he says, his face creasing in amusement. ‘Yes. That’s a much more sensible name for a dog. If she had a puppy, would you call it Renesmee?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I answer. ‘That’s a stupid name for a dog.’
‘Or a baby.’
‘Yes, or a baby. I don’t know what they were thinking … Rick Grimes looks like he’s calmed down a bit now. Do you want to risk an introduction? Honestly, Bella’s a bit of a femme fatale in the canine world. I’ve seen her tame the world’s snarliest beasts with just one look. And she can run really fast when she wants to.’
I see him go through the possible outcomes in his mind: Rick falls in love with Bella and they live happily ever after creating puppies that have better names than Renesmee; Rick sniffs Bella’s bum and they become BFFs 4 Eva; Rick tears Bella limb from fluffy limb and much carnage ensues.
In the end, Bella makes up his mind for him. Obviously sick of the stupid humans and their nonsense, she gets up and walks confidently towards Rick. She gives him a perfunctory sniff, and Rick quivers a little but endures it. Satisfied she now knows everything there is to know about him, Bella lies down, and curls up into a bored ball, one gr
ey eyebrow raised at him in a provocatively nonchalant fashion.
This, I reckon, is where she always wins them over – with her sheer indifference. My friend Laura, from the café, has had two black Labs since I’ve known her. One, Jimbo, was a wonderful old gent who died not long after she moved here. Now, she has Midgebo, who is almost two but acts like a humungous puppy. Both dogs idolised Bella, while she simply pretends they don’t exist in her universe.
The man crouches down beside Rick, and tentatively lets his grip on his collar loosen just enough for him to reach Bella, but still keeping enough of a hold to drag him back if he goes all hell hound on her.
Predictably enough, Bella works her magic – and within seconds, this giant of a dog is her slave, licking her all over like he’s grooming her, before settling down next to her resting his enormous chin on her back. He closes his teddy bear eyes, and basically blisses out in the sunshine with his new crush.
‘Wow,’ Rick’s owner says. ‘I’ve never seen that before. If we’re out anywhere in public I usually have to muzzle him. He loves people, especially kids – he licks their heads like lollipops – but goes psycho on other dogs. This is a definite first. Thank you.’
He sounds extremely grateful, and I congratulate myself on having raised the dog version of Greta Garbo. I’ve learned to take small victories where I find them, in a life that sometimes feels full of whopping great defeats.
‘You’re welcome. Now that’s sorted – what’s your name?’
He stands up straight, and looks momentarily flustered, as he appears to really see me for the first time. The fluster turns into a frown as he takes in my appearance, and tries to figure it out.
‘Oh! Sorry. Got so caught up in dog world I forgot my human life skill lessons … I’m Tom. Tom Mulligan. I’m the proud new owner of this place …’
He gestures towards Briarwood, and it crosses my mind that he’s not much older than me – maybe thirty or so, if I had to guess. Even in its current state, this is a big house, sitting in a lot of land, and must have cost a decent whack. Maybe he’s a millionaire philanthropist playboy, or an internet mogul, or a Lottery winner.
‘Okay. Cool,’ I say, not inquiring further. I’m feeling nosy on the inside though – my brain is constantly jam-packed full of questions, but my own life is complicated enough that I’ve learned not to always ask them.
Everyone has their story – especially people who seem to wash up here on our little corner of the coast – but not everyone immediately wants to share them. Anyway, give him five minutes alone with Cherie and Laura, and they’ll have the lot out of him, pried from the depths of his soul by hook, crook and sticky buns. They’re like the Spanish Inquisition, with cans of squirty cream.
He’s staring at me quite intensely now, and clearly doesn’t have quite enough social grace to hide his curiosity. More and more I am starting to sense that he’s a man unused to much company, beyond himself and Rick Grimes.
‘Are you … working here?’ he asks, eventually, frowning.
‘I am. Giving the place a clean to make it spic and span before the new owner gets here. Or at least that was the plan.’
‘Right. Well, I hear the new owner’s a bit of a dick, and does things like turn up a week before he should, and camps out in the woods in a motorhome just so he can get used to the place …’
A motorhome. Well, that at least clears up some of the mystery of how and why he was skinny-dipping in the pond this morning. Not that he needs to know about that.
‘Your hair is a very, very bright shade of pink,’ he says, after a moment’s silence.
‘I know,’ I reply, fluffing up my pony tail with one hand. ‘Flamingo chic – it’s all the rage round here. Everyone in Budbury has bright pink hair.’
‘That’s not true, is it?’
‘Not even a tiny bit. Anyway … it’s been lovely to meet you, but I should probably get on. Those windows won’t clean themselves.’
He nods, and casts his gaze back up to the third floor of the building. To the room where he’d first spotted me, staring out at him from my grimy perch.
I turn to go, wondering if Bella will follow or if she’ll stay and hang out with Rick Grimes a bit more. She pretends to be aloof, but I think she secretly loves all the attention.
‘That used to be my room,’ says Tom as I wave and walk away. He says it quietly, almost so quietly that I miss it.
I freeze, and blink my eyes a few times before I turn back to him. His room? The room? If he’s about thirty, that’d make the age range right … wow. Could it actually be him? And if it is, how weird is all of this? I was literally only thinking about him minutes ago … again, I wonder if I’ve magicked him up. One minute he’s Edward Cullen, the next minute he’s the haunted room ghost boy from my childhood. I’d better be careful, or he might turn into the giant dough man from Ghostbusters.
He’s still looking up at the window, and looks lost in time, as though he’s being wrapped up in a blanket of memories. Much like I was not so very long ago. Something in his expression – wistful, melancholy, serious – tells me that a journey into the past is as unsettling for him as it was for me.
‘Really?’ I say, cautiously. I mean, I don’t want to come across as any madder than I need to when I say this. ‘When would that have been, about?’
‘I starting living here after my parents died in a car crash. Late 1999. I left in 2003, when I was sixteen. It was … well, odd as it might sound, that was the most stable part of my life for a long time. Looks like Dracula’s bachelor pad, I know, but it was a good place to live. The people who ran it were kind. They tried to give us what we needed. It wasn’t their fault that they didn’t have what I needed … Anyway. That’s a million years ago, and not at all interesting to anyone but me. Sorry.’
He physically shakes his head, as though he’s trying to dislodge the thoughts, and I massively sympathise with that. And I’m now also massively sure that this man – with his Godzilla T-shirt to complement my King Kong apron, and his crazy zombie-fighting dog, and his secret motorhome in the woods – is actually him. The Boy from the Room. Fate has brought us back together, and I’m glad that this time, at least, I didn’t scream in his face and run away.
‘This motorhome of yours,’ I say, eventually. ‘Does it come with a kettle?’
Chapter 4
From the outside, it looks like something the Famous Five would drive round in if they’d teamed up with the Scooby Doo gang. It’s a vintage-looking VW camper van, with the distinctive spare wheel on the front and a raised roof space popped upright. One half is painted bright, shiny red, and the rest is a rich, gleaming shade of cream. And while it might look vintage, I can tell it’s actually brand new from all the glistening chrome and this year’s licence plate.
It’s parked up in a clearing in the woodlands on the far side of the pond, a thick canopy of richly leaved trees hanging over and around it, sunlight streaming through the shade and reflecting off its glossy paint in strange, darting patterns.
It’s a beautiful spot – I remember my mum telling me about the ancient hazel trees here, and how they’ve been added to with oak and ash, creating this idyllic corner of what is an already beautiful area. The floor is carpeted with bluebells and anemone, in swathes of lilac and white and yellow; butterflies with orange tips to their wings are fluttering around, and the air is drizzled with the sound of birdsong.
I pause, and breathe it in, letting the joy of it all filter through. It’s all so green and perfect and warm.
‘Isn’t it exciting?’ I say to Tom, turning to smile at him. ‘How spring always comes around, every single year?’
He grins, and doesn’t look alarmed, which is a good start. I can’t help but feel happy, and the beauty of this luscious place is erasing the stresses and strains of the last couple of days. Many things might be wrong in the Willow-verse – but right here, right now, it all feels gorgeous.
‘It is,’ he answers. ‘Even for an indoor boy
like me. That’s part of why I did this … bought this van, came here. I could stay in the posh hotel on the coast, but I wanted to try and … I don’t know. Loosen up, I suppose.’
At first, I’m a little confused by that statement. I mean, he’s wearing a Godzilla T-shirt and hasn’t tied his shoelaces and has a dog called Rick Grimes. All the signs are pointing towards this guy being a mega-geek; one of those people who paints tiny figures of elves and goes to comic conventions.
Admittedly, he’d easily be the best-looking bloke at a comic convention – he could actually be an actor in one of those shows, like Supernatural or The Vampire Diaries, full of chiselled dudes with brilliant one-liners and tortured pasts. But still – he has that geeky vibe. Which is traditionally not one that needs any loosening up.
But as soon as I follow him into the camper, leaving Bella and Rick outside to sniff interesting pieces of wood and chase caterpillars, I understand exactly what he means.
Outside, it looks hippy – expensive, but hippy. Pure retro. Inside, there’s a completely different feeling. To say it’s tidy would be an understatement. Everything is put away; the surfaces of the small table and cooking area are spotless; the pull-down bed is made with corners so sharp you could poke your eye out with them, and there’s not a single sign of human habitation.
The front seats are covered in pristine cream leather, and the upholstery on the furniture looks brand new. Well, it is brand new – but if I’d been living here, it would all look a lot more messy by now.
There’d be a cereal box left out, or a book lying on the bed, or a pair of Doc Martens hanging from the ceiling, or some photos tacked up to the walls. I like my cleaning job – but in my own space, I like to be surrounded by a little bit of … well, me, I suppose.
After my mum’s diagnosis, which was a long and torturous journey in itself, we were warned that she might lose some of her spatial awareness as the condition progressed, and find even familiar places difficult to navigate. We were told to expect bruised hips from hitting tables, or confusion about which way a door opened.
Sunshine at the Comfort Food Café Page 3
