by John Moralee
The House on Willow Lane
Book One of The Secret Gateway novels
By
John Moralee © 2014
Cover image © John Moralee
All Rights Reserved.
The moral right of John Moralee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without the permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Chapter One
It all started the day Ryan Brewster lost his football. He was only a boy, back then, but it was something he would never forget, no matter how long he lived. It changed his life forever, but he did not know that when it happened, that strange summer day.
In a state of helpless horror Ryan watched his ball hit the top of a wall and disappear over the other side, where it hit something that sounded like glass breaking. A second later he heard the ball bouncing away until there was silence.
For anyone else the scruffy-looking football was nothing special. It was just an ordinary black and white ball you could buy in any sports shop, easily replaceable. But it meant much more than that to Ryan. It was his most prized possession – which was why he panicked when he lost it.
His father had given Ryan the ball as his ninth birthday present. All that year they had played with it in the park close to their home, his father showing Ryan the tricks and skills he had learnt as a professional player for Hobley United. Under his father’s tuition, Ryan had learnt how to play football better than all of his friends. His father had been so proud of him when he had tried out for the local Under Eleven team. Despite being the youngest and smallest boy at the try out, Ryan had been accepted because the coach had been impressed by his ability. With the help of his father, who had continued teaching him everything he knew, Ryan had dreamt of one day playing for England in a World Cup final – with his father cheering him on – but that dream had been destroyed three months earlier, the day his father died.
Losing his father had been the worst thing that had happened in Ryan’s life. His death had left an aching hole inside Ryan that nothing could fill. Afterwards, the football had been the one thing that connected Ryan to his past, easing that ache, keeping his father alive in his memory. To lose his most prized possession over a stranger’s wall was the worst thing he could imagine. The shock stopped his brain functioning properly. He stared at the wall in open-mouthed disbelief.
“No! How did that happen?” Ryan looked at Saffron for an answer.
Saffron had been his best friend since they were put together in Miss Dibley’s class aged five. He had other friends – mostly boys – but none were like Saffron. She had been there for him when his dad was in the hospital after the car crash. She had visited the intensive care ward. She had held Ryan’s hand at the funeral. He expected her to treat the loss of his ball as seriously as he did, but he saw she was trying not to laugh ... with little success.
“I don’t know, Ryan - but it sounded like you kicked it through a window. Is that what you meant by showing me some special moves?”
“This isn’t funny,” Ryan muttered. “My dad gave me that ball before he ...” He could not say the word ‘died’ because it was too painful thinking about it. “Look, I have to get it back, Saff. I have to! What am I going to do?”
Saffron stopped laughing. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll get it back. It can’t have gone far. We just have to figure a way over the wall.”
The wall. Ryan faced it like it was his worst enemy. Until now Ryan had never taken a good look at it, even though he must have seen it a thousand times. The wall started at the bottom of the lane and ran all the way to the top of the hill. It was twice Ryan’s height, made of old, slimy stones, laced with green moss and pale lichens. The mortar was crumbling in places due to its vast age. If he tried to climb it like the rock wall in his school gym - putting his fingers in the gaps between the stones - the wall was likely to collapse on him. A boy he knew called Stuart Jenkins had a similar thing happen. Stuart had ended up with six broken ribs and a fractured collarbone. Ryan touched the wall to see if it was sturdy enough to climb, but he pulled his hand away quickly.
“Ow!” he said, shaking his hand like I had been stung.
“What’s wrong?” Saffron asked.
“It’s freezing cold. It was like touching ice.”
“That’s impossible,” Saffron said. “It’s a sunny day. The sun must have been heating the wall for hours. It can’t be cold.”
“Tell that to the wall, Einstein. Touch it. I dare you.”
“Okay,” Saffron said fearlessly. She reached out and touched it – and pulled her hand back quickly. “Ouch! My fingers have gone numb!”
Very quickly, the air had gone cold around Ryan. He shivered. He stepped back into the warm air away from the wall. Saffron joined him. They both stared, afraid of stepping any closer.
“What’s going on?” she said, quietly, as though afraid the wall would hear her.
Ryan didn’t know. But as an experiment Ryan stepped forward. He could feel the air getting colder and colder the closer he was to the wall. The wall itself seemed to be the source of the cold, but he had no idea why. The wall seemed coldest where his ball had gone over it. There it was - unaccountably cold. It felt almost normal temperature a few metres in either direction. He told Saffron. She frowned thoughtfully.
“What are you thinking?” Ryan wanted to know.
“I think your ball must have broken something that’s now cooling the area around it, making the wall cold. That’s why the wall is so cold in just this place.” Saffron looked satisfied by her scientific explanation, but Ryan wasn’t. Her explanation didn’t get his ball back. Saffron continued: “I suppose we can climb over it at any point where it isn’t cold.”
“No, I’m not climbing over it at all,” Ryan said.
“Why not?”
“It looks too dangerous. There must be a safe way to get to the other side. This stupid wall can’t go on forever. Let’s look for its end.”
Ryan walked to the top of the hill, hoping the wall would end at the corner, but it did not. It continued around the corner. He and Saffron followed it around to the top of the next street, which was called Willow Lane. They had never been on the street before. There were some tall trees and big houses across the road, but he could not see over the wall on this side. The wall b
locked his view. However he did see a black gate about half way down the hill. The gate was built into the wall. As he approached it, he noticed it was made of wrought iron and appeared to lock from the other side. The gate had its own letterbox slit below a small brass plaque stating NO SOLICITORS. Ryan wasn’t sure what that meant.
“What are solicitors?” he asked Saffron because she was a walking dictionary. Sometimes she actually read one for fun.
“It’s another word for a lawyer -”
“That makes no sense. Why would someone put a sign up saying NO LAWYERS?”
Saffron sighed. “Before you interrupted, I was also going to say it also means someone who sells things. A salesman or saleswoman.”
“Oh, that makes more sense. I hate it when complete strangers ring my doorbell trying to sell things, like double glazing.”
There was also another sign next to a button. RING FOR DELIVERIES ONLY.
Ryan frowned. “I’m not delivering anything, but I suppose I should press this and see if anyone’s there?”
“Go on, press it,” Saffron urged, but she did not sound eager.
Ryan pressed the button. He heard nothing happen. “I don’t think it works.”
“Press it again,” Saffron advised.
He did. Nothing. “I think it’s bust.”
He pressed it again.
“Hello?” someone said. The voice came out of the gatepost almost frightening Ryan to death. There was evidently a hidden speaker. The sound crackled with distortion like music played on an ancient gramophone.
“Hello?” Ryan said back.
“I’m not expecting a delivery,” the voice said. It was a man’s voice, deep and resonant. It commanded authority, like a teacher’s. “What do you want?”
Something about the voice that deeply disturbed Ryan. For a second, he forgot what he wanted. The man’s hostility scared him.
“What do you want?” the man repeated impatiently.
“My ball,” Ryan said weakly.
“Your what?”
“My ball. It’s a black and white football. I accidentally kicked it over your wall. I think it might’ve broken something. I’m really sorry if it did, but I’d really like it back, sir.”
“I see. You kicked your ball over my garden wall. That was a very foolish thing.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Yes,” the man replied. “It certainly was.”
“Can I have it back please, sir?”
The man said nothing for an uncomfortably long time. Then he answered. “Wait there,” he commanded.
Ryan looked at Saffron. “Do you think he’s going to return it?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’ll do it.”
He knew her too well. He saw the doubt in her eyes. She was lying for his benefit. In all likelihood, the man was going to burst the ball because it had gone on his property.
They waited and waited. Ryan looked at his watch over and over. Five minutes passed. He was considering pressing the button again when the man spoke again, his real, undistorted voice coming from the other side of the gate.
“Here!” the man called out gruffly. “Catch!”
Instead of opening the gate, the ball appeared over Ryan’s head, sailing high over the wall. It was well out of his reach. As Ryan turned around, the ball landed in the middle of the road and bounced almost as high as the wall, then struck a lamppost, which sent it flying off at an angle down the hill at some speed. Ryan couldn’t believe it. It was rolling towards the busy high street. The ball would be ruined if it crossed that road in the path of a speeding car. He had to stop it.
“Saffron!” he yelled.
“I know!”
They both chased after it. The ball was some distance ahead, but Ryan ran as fast as he could until it was just in front of him. He tried to stop it with his foot, but the ball skidded away from him, continuing towards the traffic. Saffron was on the other side of the street racing to get ahead of it so she could intercept it as it rolled her direction.
“I’ll get it!” she promised, standing in its path. But she was too slow reacting. The ball slipped past between her feet. She fell over trying to grab it. It continued rolling towards the traffic. Rolling faster and faster. There was no way of catching it now.
But then Ryan had some luck. The ball hit a bump and spun up in the air, slowing itself down considerably. Ryan sprinted towards it as it began rolling down the gutter, which was filled with stones and rubbish that slowed further it down. The ball was almost at the bottom of the hill when Ryan pounced on it like a goalkeeper.
“Got you,” he said as he picked it up and hugged it to his chest, overjoyed to have it back. He could feel its coldness through his shirt. It was as though the ball had been lying in a snow bank for a whole winter. Weird, he thought. Sighing with relief, Ryan walked back up the street to Saffron, who was wiping dirt off her knees.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, though she looked angry. “I can’t believe that man just threw your ball like that. What an idiot!”
“He was probably mad because I broke something of his.”
“Ryan, that’s no excuse.”
“I know, but at least I have it back. That’s what counts.”
Saffron looked at the ball. “Is it all right?”
“It’s freezing cold, but it seems undamaged.” He bounced it to prove it. “See?”
Saffron nodded. “Just don’t lose it again.”
“I won’t, I swear.” He held onto it tightly. “I just want to get out of here.”
Hurrying up Willow Lane, Ryan and Saffron stayed on the far side of the street, but they kept looking back at the gate to make sure the man didn’t come out to chase them. He didn’t – luckily – but Ryan did notice it was possible to see over the wall from a distance.
He could see the slate roof of a large Victorian house surrounded by several tall trees – oaks and willows. More of the house came into view as he climbed the hill. Ivy covered most of the blood-red brickwork around the bedroom windows, which were closed by black velvet curtains.
“Creepy,” he said.
Saffron nodded in agreement. She began chewing her bottom lip, a thing she did only when nervous. “I wonder what kind of weirdo would want to live in such an evil-looking house. Look at the black curtains! I bet no sunlight goes through them at all. It’s a vampire’s dream home.”
“Yeah, I know – or a mad axe-man’s.” Ryan imagined a mad axe-man lurking inside, waiting for a chance to kill any solicitors who dared visit. The thought scared him. He didn’t want to spend another second looking at the house. “Come on – let’s go. We can play my new computer game.”
Saffron ignored him. She was staring at the house with a puzzled look. She was studying the bedroom windows.
“What’s wrong?” Ryan said.
She did not answer.
“Saffron?” he said. “Earth to Saffron? Hello?”
She answered without taking her eyes off the house. “I saw someone watching us.”
“The man?”
“No. It was a girl. I glimpsed her in that window, the one just behind the forked tree branches. Can you see the one I mean?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. He stared at the window, but could see no one. The curtains were closed. “I’m sorry. I can’t see anybody, Saffron.”
“That’s because she’s not there now,” she said. “She disappeared the moment I saw her, but I know it wasn’t my imagination.”
“What was she doing?”
“Nothing – just watching us.”
“What did she look like?”
“She was about our age, but I have never, ever seen her at school. She had long black hair and very pale skin, like she’s never been out in the sun in her whole life. She looked really sad.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because she was crying.”
Chapter Two
Ryan and Saffron lived on a modern h
ousing estate a few minutes walk from Willow Lane. When they arrived at Ryan’s home, Saffron stopped talking about the girl she had seen, though Ryan could tell she wanted to say more. Ryan unlocked the front door and stepped inside the sunlit hallway.
“Mum, I’m back!” he called out.
There was no answer, but that was not surprising. He could hear the television roaring in the living room. The room was dark except for the flickering glow of the screen. His mother was lying on the couch, blankly staring at an American talk show. The white-haired host wore an expensive designer suit that contrasted with the jeans and T-shirts of his guests, a family of hill-billies screaming bleeped-out insults in front of a cheering, jeering audience. Ryan’s mother did not notice Ryan and Saffron come in. Ryan was embarrassed to see she was still wearing her bathrobe at three-thirty in the afternoon. There was a blanket over her legs, covering the cast on her right leg, which had been broken in the accident.
“Hey, Mum!” he said, stepping in the way of the TV. It was the only way to guarantee her attention.
She looked up and half-smiled. “Heeeeyyyy,” she said in a tired voice. “How was school today?”
“Great,” Ryan lied. “I learned a lot of interesting things.” Another lie.
The truth was school had been boring, as usual, but his mother did not need to know that. In the past – before his dad’s death – Ryan would not have hesitated about telling the truth, knowing his mother wanted to hear it, but he did not want to burden her with his problems. She did not need to know that he had failed a simple maths test that morning because he had not slept very well the night before because of a nightmare about visiting his dad in the hospital. She did not need to know about how Greg Armstrong and his gang of juvenile offenders had bullied him during lunchtime. Neither did she need to know that he hated most of his lessons and always looked forward to the final bell, signalling his release from Hobley Comprehensive.
Unfortunately, his mother was too fragile to hear the truth. She missed his dad so much that she had suffered a mental breakdown. Because he had no living grandparents – they had died when he was very young, too young to remember them - his older sister Rachel had dropped out of Edinburgh University to look after her. For the last year, his mother had spent most of her time in bed, too depressed to do anything. Her doctor had given her pills to make her feel better, but she was still not well enough to leave the house or to return to work.
