Dead Man at the Door

by Anthony Masters

  ‘No. I did see a bike, but I didn’t think much of it. I wanted to have a look at the sea. I’ve never been on this beach before.’

  ‘It’s special.’

  ‘The waves are amazing – and the noise.’

  ‘It’s often like this.’

  ‘Could I come fishing with you?’

  ‘Well –’ Ted hesitated.

  ‘Could I?’ asked Gary breathlessly. ‘I wouldn’t get in the way or anything.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Is this where the Watchers are?’

  ‘Don’t bother about them. I was silly to have told you all that.’

  ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘You weren’t at school.’

  ‘No, I’ve been sick.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Just sick.’

  ‘About the garage –’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I don’t have dreams any longer,’ Gary blurted out. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Dreams? What are you talking about? What dreams?’ The boy sounded quite indignant and some of his friendliness seemed to disappear.

  ‘It’s just that – I’ve been having weird dreams about the garage. About a man. And a baby.’

  Ted looked at him very intently. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Dad’s been getting lots of letters.’

  ‘Saying?’

  ‘He should pull the garage down. Destroy its foundations.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you write one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did so many people write?’ The questions gabbled out before Gary could stop them.

  ‘Because they know the place is bad. Islanders know things like that.’

  ‘But this is a modern place,’ stuttered Gary. ‘With factories and shops and roads and’ – he looked at the relentlessly churning ocean – ‘and all modern things,’ he finished lamely.

  Ted nodded. ‘See those cliffs. They’re full of fossils, years and years old. The shore hasn’t changed. Neither have the Islanders. Some of us, true Islanders, we’ve got knowledge. My parents have lived here all their lives and so have my grandparents and great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents. And so on. There are things that we know.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘What’s bad. What’s good. Things like that.’

  They were silent, for Gary had run out of questions. Then another one formed in his mind. ‘What’s bad about the garage?’

  Ted frowned. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘But why did you come up to me in school?’ The questions were welling up again, harder this time, more persistent.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He paused and then spoke quickly. ‘I wasn’t very well that day. I’ve been ill.’ For once his voice was weak and he stared up at the cliffs almost yearningly.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Gary said sharply.

  ‘Nothing.’

  But Gary was certain that he had been looking for the Watchers. Then he dismissed the thought abruptly. He was getting as superstitious as – and he heard his father’s voice chiming in his mind – ‘these Islanders’.

  They stood silently watching the surf. Then Ted seemed to come to a decision. ‘Want to come back to my place for a bit?’ The warmth was back in his voice.

  ‘Er –’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I’d like to. But I can’t be long – I said I’d be back.’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  ‘I’d like to come.’

  ‘OK.’ He began to scramble back to the rock to bring in his line.

  ‘Where do you live?’ But Gary’s final question was lost in the hollow booming of the relentless waves.

  When Ted descended again with his equipment the sun was sinking over the undulating horizon, a flaming red orb in a crimson sky.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Up the chine.’

  ‘There aren’t houses there.’

  ‘Want to bet?’ Ted grinned. It was a good smile, strong and bold, with a hint of mischief in it. Gary suddenly warmed to him. Despite his peculiar warnings and strange behaviour, could Ted be the friend he so desperately needed? And why had he been sick? What exactly was his sickness? The questions circled Gary’s mind painfully, but he knew he couldn’t ask any more. Not now. Not yet.

  They clambered up the steps of the chine in companionable silence. At the top, Gary was out of breath, but he could see that Ted was breathing quite normally. He must be very fit, he thought. He can’t have been that sick.

  They walked on up the headland path until they came to a dip. When he looked down, Gary could see a cottage. A rough track led away from it, presumably to the main road, and the building was surrounded by a garden of ferns and sea-kale and Sweet Betsy. Stones and rocks marked the boundaries.

  ‘It’s a coastguard cottage,’ volunteered Ted.

  ‘Is your dad a coastguard?’

  ‘Yes. My father’s family have always been coastguards. My mum’s an artist. Dad paints too – in his spare time.’ A girl of about twelve came out of the cottage and waved at them. ‘That’s my sister, Esmé,’ said Ted, smiling suddenly.

  ‘You’ve got a friend.’ Esmé stood in the trim sea-garden. Small and slight with long fair hair, she was very neat in dungarees and a bright pink T-shirt.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You don’t usually have one.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got one now, haven’t I?’

  Esmé looked at Gary doubtfully as if she was not sure that he really qualified. ‘S’pose so.’

  ‘She says what she thinks,’ said Ted, pushing past her. But he said it with a kind of pride. ‘Follow me,’ he commanded Gary. ‘Don’t let her put you off.’

  ‘I’m not stopping him,’ she said, looking directly up at Gary. She continued to stare up at him until he felt quite disconcerted. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said at last.

  Ted’s parents were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea. If the garden had been orderly, the kitchen definitely was not. Dirty cups and plates, some with food still on them, were piled up in the sink and there were drawings everywhere. Most of them were of Black Gull Chine. Ted’s father was very fat with a dark beard flecked with grey and smiling blue eyes, but his mother was slight like Esmé. They both wore overalls that were exotically covered in paint.

  ‘This is Gary,’ pronounced Ted.

  ‘Hello. Come and have some cake,’ said Ted’s mother.

  Ted’s father smiled and his smile was like Ted’s, confiding and oddly mischievous. ‘Glad to meet you, Gary. I’m Alan Roberts and this is my wife, Elaine. Hope you like fruit-cake.’

  No one said much as Gary ate three pieces of the delicious home-made fruit-cake and drank several cups of very strong tea, but it was not an awkward silence and he felt very much at home. There was a comfortable feeling to the kitchen, and as he ate and drank he felt relaxed enough to take the opportunity to look around. On the walls were more paintings and drawings, mostly of the sea and particularly of the rugged Channel coast. Much of the work was detailed; fossils of all sorts were a constant feature, many of them amazingly shaped, and wonderful rock-pools, dense with sea life of all kinds. Gradually he began to work out two very distinctive styles and he wondered which of the two parents had drawn which picture. There were many seascapes, but when he looked at them more closely, Gary could see faces in the waves. They were weird, not exactly frightening, but very captivating. His eye was drawn to a chalk drawing on rough paper. It showed the headland above Black Gull Chine. At least he thought he recognized it, but on the headland were shapeless, dark figures. There was no doubt about what they were doing. They were watching the beach below.

  Alan Roberts caught Gary’s eye. ‘That’s one of mine.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Like it?’

  ‘It’s – it’s a bit scary.’

  ‘Yes,’ h
e said slowly, ‘maybe it is. I haven’t seen you around before. Aren’t you Baxter’s boy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He’s done well. With the shop.’

  ‘It’s been hard work,’ said Gary, wondering whether he would say anything about the garage. But he said nothing, and there was an awkward silence. Was that a warning look from Elaine Roberts? Perhaps she hadn’t looked at her husband at all. At that moment, Esmé walked in.

  ‘We saved you some cake,’ said Elaine.

  ‘I’ve been making sure the gulls’ eggs are safe.’

  ‘She’s our nature warden,’ pointed out Alan.

  Ted, who hadn’t spoken for some time, said, ‘It’s Dad and Mum’s part-time job – protecting the birds on the headland for the conservancy people. Except Esmé does most of it for them.’

  ‘I like doing it,’ she replied fiercely.

  ‘And that’s lucky for us,’ said Alan, smiling again. ‘Maybe you should be going home now, Gary. It’s almost dark.’

  Gary looked at his watch. It was after nine and Mum and Dad would be getting worried.

  ‘I’ll run you back to your bike in the truck and collect Ted’s at the same time.’

  Gary suddenly realized he hadn’t thought about the bike at all, or even wondered why Ted hadn’t taken his home. He had been so engrossed in his new friend that everything else had gone out of his mind.

  ‘It’s a little bargain we’ve got,’ said Alan. ‘If he brings in some fish I run him back to his bike. And where are the fish?’

  ‘I was interrupted, Dad.’

  ‘Sorry,’ remarked Gary humbly.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Alan smiled again. ‘A new friend is better than fish for supper any day. Come on, son. I’ll take you back to the headland.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about the bike being stolen?’ asked Gary as they rattled up the track from the cottage in an old and very rusty pick-up.

  ‘We don’t get any thieves up here,’ said Alan firmly. ‘By the way, I’m glad you’ve turned up.’ His voice was very warm.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Ted needs a friend. Most of our friends’ children are grown-up.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘You’ve found the Islanders a bit clannish?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Well, my lad needs a friend,’ he repeated.

  ‘Doesn’t he have any – any others?’ asked Gary guardedly.

  ‘He’s not been well. Off school a lot recently, so he’s losing touch with the other kids.’

  ‘What’s been the matter with him?’

  There was a long silence as the pick-up bumped even more wildly over the rutted track. Then Alan Roberts said vaguely, ‘Bit of a virus, you know. He’s on the delicate side.’

  Delicate? Gary remembered Ted on the rock, fishing; the spray rising above him and his long dark hair blowing in the wind. Delicate?

  ‘I’d like to be his friend,’ said Gary.

  ‘Good. He’s into fishing. Do you like that?’

  ‘Never done sea-fishing.’

  ‘He’ll teach you. He taught Esmé. Ted’s a good teacher.’

  ‘Mr Roberts –’

  ‘Call me Alan.’

  ‘Alan – are the Islanders very superstitious?’

  ‘Not at all.’ There was a new edge to his voice and Gary wondered if he should continue. Then he decided that he would because his curiosity was so strong.

  ‘Who are the Watchers? Are they really drowned seamen?’

  ‘Has Ted been going on about this?’ The edge was still there, harder now.

  ‘No. Some boys were telling me at school,’ Gary lied, suddenly afraid of getting Ted into trouble.

  ‘It’s just an old ghost story. Nothing in it.’

  ‘And about Jackson’s Garage?’

  ‘The building your father bought? What about it?’ He sounded more controlled now and his voice was gentler.

  ‘Is that haunted too?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘My father got lots of letters saying we should pull it down. That it was bad.’

  ‘A few cranks.’

  ‘More than that. Is there a story about it?’

  ‘As I said, not to my knowledge.’ They were on the headland track now. ‘Here’s your bike – and Ted’s.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m glad you came along,’ he said, but Gary noticed his smile was suddenly rather uncertain.

  ‘Now where have you been?’ May Baxter asked Gary anxiously directly he arrived home. ‘Your dad and I have been worried half out of our –’

  ‘I’ve got a friend,’ said Gary quietly. ‘A new friend.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s called Ted and I’m going fishing with him. His mum and dad live in a coastguard cottage down by Black Gull Chine. His dad’s a coastguard but they’re both artists as well. Isn’t it great?’

  He was so enthusiastic that his mother had to smile. ‘Yes, Gary, it is great,’ she said affectionately.

  When he went up to bed, Gary noticed that his mother had installed the doctor’s recommendation – a substantial baby-gate – at the top of the stairs. Would he dream tonight, he wondered, or would the gate make it impossible? Oddly, tonight he was confident. He would dream. He must dream. He could hardly wait to get into bed.

  He was there. Waiting by the door between the yard and the garage. Jackson’s Garage. And the polythene was shaking and flapping as if an army was pounding across it. The banging on the door was desperate, relentless, and Gary found his terror as high as his curiosity. In heavy dream-running he struggled to the steel shutter, and this time his progress seemed to take even longer as the flapping polythene caught at his feet. Finally, he reached the shutter and the frantic drumming.

  ‘I’m coming,’ he gasped. ‘I’m coming.’ He wrenched at the shutter but it came up with frustrating slowness, and as it inched up, Gary could see that there was no one there. The street with its many Victorian buildings was in semi-darkness, but dimly he could distinguish a figure running away from him up a side street; Gary was sure that it was the young man, he could recognize his leather jacket, but he was calling out a name that he couldn’t quite make out. Suddenly, the young man reappeared, still running but making no progress.

  Then, behind him, Gary heard the crying of a baby. Pain stabbed him. Dimly, he could see the garage was full of cars. The polythene had disappeared and the cries were faint, so faint he could now barely hear them. Gary turned back to the road. The young man had gone and the street was brighter, as if it was flooded with early evening light. Behind him the cries ceased altogether. Then he heard the sound of an engine and a breakdown truck turned into the street. It was towing a car wreck. So twisted and torn was it that the car was hardly recognizable; it was simply a flattened tangle of metal. Only its back wheels were intact and the car was being towed along slowly, clamped behind the truck. Sometimes the dream – or parts of it – had been silent, but this time Gary could hear every movement. Someone was at the wheel of the breakdown truck – a man with a cigarette – and he was slowly driving up a suddenly populated high street. Gary stared at the clothes of the shoppers. They were almost modern but not quite; the same applied to the cars and delivery van that had also materialized. Almost modern but not quite.

  The breakdown truck continued to drive towards him as he stood by the steel shutter. Then he felt the presence of someone standing beside him and realized it was a mechanic. There was the sound of pop music behind them, but the tune was unfamiliar. The mechanic waved a lethargic hand in greeting to the man behind the wheel. Then, without warning, Gary suddenly woke up.

  It was weird – as if an overstretched elastic band had snapped or a tape in a cassette had suddenly broken. In a flash everything had gone and Gary was staring up at the cracks in his bedroom ceiling. He felt completely drained, utterly exhausted and terribly frustrated. The dream, now it had come back, confused him with its mixed-up time and mixed-up meanings. A
nd what did the strange cut-out mean? That the dream had gone as far as it could? That it had literally overreached itself? Would it come again? What did the car wreck mean? And the young man – and the baby? Gary’s head whirled, trying to put it all together in his mind and failing completely.

  Four

  The next week passed very slowly. Ted was still away from school, the dream did not return and Gary’s nights were long and his sleep light and disturbed. Each evening he meant to ring Ted, and then found an excuse to put it off. Eventually, on the Thursday evening he did ring, but there was no reply. So wrapped up was he in his frustration that he had begun to do badly at school and the following day was summoned by his Head of Year.

  Directly Gary entered his office, the teacher came straight to the point.

  ‘What’s up then?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Something’s up. What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Trouble at home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Late nights?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Being bullied?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then, what?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘But there is something, Gary. Isn’t there? You look permanently exhausted, you’re not attending to your work and I’ve had complaints from almost all your teachers.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to be – I’m trying to help you.’

  ‘I haven’t been sleeping.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Been to the doctor?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Ah –’ Mr Simmons looked relieved, as if he had come up with something tangible at last. ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘I’ve been sleep-walking. He said I was to take Horlicks.’

  ‘And have you?’ he asked, looking more doubtful.

  ‘Trying to.’

  ‘Would you tell me if there was anything wrong, Gary?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Here — or even at home?’

  ‘I definitely would, sir.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Mr Simmons?’ Gary’s voice was awkward.