The House on Willow Lane (Secret Gateways Book 1)

by John Moralee

  Saffron sighed. “I’ve tried before. He won’t listen to me.”

  “Try it again, Saffron. Teach him. Make him use his brain now, when he’s still young enough to change.”

  She promised the professor she would try again when she got home. The next time Neal gave her his homework, she refused to do it. “Neal, I’ll show you how to do it – but I’m not just doing it. That’s over.”

  “No way,” her brother said. “Do it or I’ll tell Mum about what you did.”

  “Go on then,” she said. “Tell her. I don’t care any more.”

  Her bluff worked because she meant it. He reluctantly agreed to try it her way. They went through his homework assignments question by question. She didn’t provide any answers, but she helped him get them. In the beginning it was frustrating for the both of them, but after some time spent thinking, her brother began to understand what he had to do. When he did a whole question on his own, getting the right answer, he looked delighted.

  “Is that right?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she told him. “You did it.”

  “I wish my stupid teachers explained stuff like you. You’d be like a good teacher, sis – no offence.”

  “From now on,” she said, “I’ll help you with your homework if you’re really, really stuck, but you have try it yourself, okay?”

  “Okay,” he agreed. He seemed happy about it. “Thanks, sis. I’m ... I’m sorry about the ... blackmail.”

  She could hardly believe the change in her brother.

  Would it last?

  She hoped so.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was almost a month later. Ryan was in the changing room with the other boys in his class, getting ready for gym, when their PE teacher blew his whistle long and hard until there was deathly silence. He was a large, hairy man wearing a shiny blue tracksuit, a stopwatch dangling from his neck like a medallion.

  “Brewster,” the teacher said, beckoning him to come forward. He looked angry. “Come outside now, Brewster.”

  Ryan stepped out of the changing room into the corridor wondering what he had done wrong. “Sir?”

  “I received this letter today, Brewster.” He was holding a piece of paper from Hobley United. Now he knew why his teacher was angry. He had not mentioned the try-out to him because he didn’t want anyone knowing about it if he failed. “It’s the result of your try-out. A try-out you didn’t tell me about. Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this, Brewster?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I should have told you, but I felt embarrassed. I didn’t want you to be disappointed with me if I didn’t get in, sir.”

  “Forget the excuses, Brewster. You let me down, boy. Well, I suppose you expect me to tell you if you got in, eh? Well, maybe I should just tear this sheet up. Should I do that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I tell you what, Brewster. I’ll read what the coach has to say. You didn’t pass, Brewster. You failed miserably.”

  “Failed miserably?” Ryan could not believe it. Had the coach really written those words? Failed miserably? He had trained so hard for the try-out last week. He had felt sure he had impressed the selectors. To find out he had failed ... He felt like crying.

  “Ryan?” the teacher said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You should look at your face! I was only kidding! You got in!”

  “Really?” Ryan said.

  “Congratulations! You were accepted!” Suddenly the teacher was grinning, handing him the sheet of paper, which he read with stinging eyes. He had been accepted. His teacher had just been toying with him, not angry at all. Relief washed over him.

  “I’m proud of you, Ryan. All your hard work has paid off. One day you’ll be a professional footballer like your dad.”

  They went back into the changing room. “Boys, I have great news. Ryan has been selected by Hobley United for a special training programme. During the holidays he’ll get six weeks of intensive football coaching, including games against other clubs from around the country. He’ll be playing with the best young players in Britain. I’m really proud of you, Ryan. You’re stepping in your dad’s footsteps. Well done! One day you’ll be famous and I’ll be a poor couch potato watching you on TV.”

  His teacher started clapping enthusiastically. His friends joined in ... but not everyone was happy for him.

  Greg Armstrong glared and clapped sarcastically. Hate and jealousy twisted his face into an ugly mask. Ryan knew he would have to avoid him for days if he wanted to avoid trouble.

  All day, Ryan managed staying out of Armstrong’s way, but later his luck ran out.

  It was after school. Ryan was with Saffron taking a shortcut through the park to Mira’s house. They had just had pizza for tea at his house, where he’d picked up his football and changed out of his uniform. He was kicking his ball along as he walked, in a good mood, thinking about the future. One second there was nobody else around, but then, around the next bend, Greg Armstrong appeared on the path.

  He was leaning against a tree, a cigarette in his hand, several stubs on the ground by his feet. It was as though he had been waiting for Ryan, but that was impossible unless he had deliberately followed him from school. He had chosen the perfect place for an ambush. The trees and bushes on either side of the path made an impenetrable wall. At this time of day nobody else was around. Ryan and Saffron would either have to turn around and take another route – or pass by Armstrong. Armstrong sucked nicotine and a million poisonous chemicals into his lungs, then blew smoke through his teeth. His eyes were half closed, but he was watching them slyly.

  “What’s he doing here?” Saffron muttered.

  “I don’t know.” Ryan picked up his ball and hesitated. If Ryan had been alone, he would have gone back the way he’d come, but he didn’t want to look like a coward in front of Saffron. He didn’t think Armstrong would do anything with Saffron there as a witness. Ryan continued down the path, not making eye contact with Armstrong. They were almost past Armstrong when he blocked their way. He threw his cigarette at Ryan, shouting, “Incoming!”

  The flaming missile shot towards Ryan’s face. Ryan dodged it, but not before Armstrong used the distraction to slam his ball from his hands. Now Armstrong had his ball. His father’s present. He was laughing.

  “Thanks for the ball,” he sneered. “Think I’ll keep this.”

  He started walking off with it.

  Ryan was speechless with anger.

  “Give it back,” Saffron said. “It doesn’t belong to you.”

  Armstrong stopped. “Sorry, I don’t listen to girls. You want it back, Brewster?”

  “Yes,” Ryan said, breathing hard. “I want it back.”

  “Tough. You can’t have it. It’s mine now. Maybe I’ll make the team with this to play with.”

  “Let me have it back. It was a birthday present from my dad before he died.”

  Appealing to Armstrong’s conscience was a waste of time. He didn’t have one. “Me, I never had a dad to give me birthday presents. My dad ran off when I was a baby. You’re lucky you had a dad. Mine never gave me nothing.” He looked down at the ball. “This is a good ball. Bet it’s expensive. I guess it is wrong for me to take this off you. Tell you what, I’ll just sign it for you, then you can have it back.”

  Armstrong reached into his back pocket, pulling out something dull black. It wasn’t a pen. It was a flick knife. He clicked the steel blade out. It looked extremely sharp. “Some people like using pens. I like writing my name with this.”

  “Don’t,” Ryan pleaded.

  But Armstrong didn’t listen.

  He jerked the knife into the ball, bursting it with a painful sigh of released air. It deflated instantly. “Oh, dear, how did that happen?” Then, to make absolutely sure it could never be repaired, he worked the blade like a saw, cutting and cutting, tearing the ball into strips. He peeled it like an orange, tossing the strips at Ryan, challenging him to do something.

  Ryan’s
rage squashed any fear of Armstrong’s knife. He charged at him, yelling so loud that he could barely heard Saffron warning him about the knife. He caught Armstrong by surprise, knocking him to the ground, his fists flying. Ryan punched Armstrong in the face, drawing blood. He punched him again, splitting his lip. They wrestled on the ground, elbows, knees and fists pummelling. At first Ryan’s anger was giving him an advantage. He barely felt Armstrong’s punches. He was winning. But then, suddenly, he felt a cold fire in his chest. It was like a stitch, only much worse. The pain stopped the fight as abruptly as it had started.

  Ryan heard Saffron scream.

  Looking down, Ryan saw the knife buried in his ribs to the hilt. It made him feel squeamish. There was so much blood. He couldn’t believe he had been stabbed. The knife was proof of it, though. The knife was deep inside him, moving up and down every time he breathed. The pain was intense.

  Armstrong rolled away from him, looking as shocked as he was. He stood up, looking at his own clothes for blood. There was some on his shirt. His fingers touched it. He looked disgusted.

  “What have you done?” Saffron said.

  “He made me do it,” Armstrong said to her, his eyes huge and frightened. “This is all his fault. He started it. It was just a stupid football. He shouldn’t have attacked me. I had to defend myself. This isn’t my fault. You will tell the police that, right? You’ll tell them it was self-defence?”

  “I’ll tell them exactly what you did,” Saffron screamed at him, slapping him hard. “You stabbed my best friend! He might die because of you! Look what you did! YOU STABBED HIM!”

  “This isn’t my fault,” Armstrong said, shaking his head over and over. “This isn’t my fault. No, no, no ...”

  He ran off shaking his head violently, leaving Ryan bleeding to death. Saffron ran to him and bent over his body, tears and snot running down her face.

  “Don’t die!”

  His blood was running from the wound as fast as red paint poured out of a tin. She put her hands on it, trying to stop the flow. It didn’t help. He was feeling weaker, like he wanted to close his eyes and sleep. It would be good to rest. The pain wasn’t so bad now. Not so bad. It felt like it was going away ...

  He heard Saffron saying something.

  “What?” he said groggily.

  “Open your eyes,” she said.

  He hadn’t been aware they had been closed. He opened them and saw her above him like an angel, but angels didn’t cry. He felt the pain ripping into him. He grimaced. He saw his pain made her mouth quiver. “Ryan, listen to me. You’re not going to die. I won’t let you. You have to hold on. I’m going to get some help.” She fumbled for her phone. “Just hold on ...”

  They were the last words he heard.

  Then he died.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  When the great beast surfaced from the wild sea, the sky was the colour of iron and it was raining hard, the rain striking the water like bullets. Tongues of lightning flashed on the horizon among black clouds that were coming closer, bringing with them a deadly storm.

  Somehow, Ryan was seeing the strange world through the massive creature’s saucer-sized eyes. He was no longer in his own body, which he remembered had died back in the other world. He was the great beast, feeling the coldness of the water around him. He was on an alien world, a world with two suns in the sky. He didn’t know where he was, but there was something familiar in the middle distance, something jutting out of the endless sea.

  It was an island, the same island he’d seen in Mira’s painting. The strong current and violent waves were carrying him towards it. Even under a grey-black sky the golden palace looked beautiful, but the rocks underneath it did not. They were looming towards him with alarming speed. He knew it was impossible to avoid crashing into them. As soon as he realised that, the dream ended with Ryan opening his eyes ...

  “He’s awake,” someone said.

  “Yes,” another person said. “Thank God.”

  Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the light. The plaster ceiling above him swam into focus. He was in a four-poster bed with silky-smooth white cotton sheets, feeling extremely tired, like his limbs were made of lead. His head was resting on the most comfortable pillows he had ever known. He didn’t feel like moving. He could have gone to sleep and slept for days – weeks - months - but he suddenly remembered Greg Armstrong stabbing him, remembered the knife going into his chest. The pain! There was no pain now, though. Weird. It must have been just a nightmare, part of the dream he had been having, but how did that explain waking up here? Where was here, anyway?

  Ryan tried sitting up ... but he could not. His body refused to move. His head felt too heavy to lift off the pillows.

  “How are you feeling?” someone said gently.

  He recognised the voice.

  It was Mira.

  Now Ryan understood where he was. He was in one of the many spare bedrooms in her house. Mira appeared by his bedside. Saffron was there, too. He was very happy to see them.

  “How are you feeling?” she repeated.

  “Tired,” he said. His throat was dry. His tongue felt bloated. “What happened?”

  “Greg Armstrong stabbed you,” Saffron said. “You were technically dead for a couple of minutes, but we brought you back.”

  Then it hadn’t all been a dream.

  He could feel some bandages on his chest. “I can’t feel any pain. How bad is it?”

  “You’re going to be okay,” Saffron said reassuringly. “Don’t try to move yet. You’re very weak. You lost a lot of blood.”

  “I’m so thirsty ...”

  “Drink this,” Mira said. She raised his head with one gentle hand and held a glass of water to his lips. The water soothed his throat as it went down, but some spilled out of his mouth. Mira wiped it up with her fingers.

  “Go back to sleep,” Mira said. Saffron nodded. “Yeah, you need to get your strength back.”

  “Okay ...” he said. Ryan slumped back into the wonderfully soft pillows, closing his eyes. Someone pulled the sheets over him and turned off the lights. It was very quiet and dark. As he was slipping back into the warm embrace of unconsciousness, Ryan caught a few whispered words between his two friends, but he was too tired to worry about what they meant.

  “I feel bad, Mira. I should have told him everything. I don’t like keeping secrets.”

  “He’s too weak to hear it now. We must let him recover first, then we’ll tell him. He’s lucky to be alive again.”

  Saffron sighed. “I know, but the cost ...”

  *

  The second time he awoke feeling refreshed. He remembered another vivid dream about the golden palace in Mira’s painting, but it had been a pleasant dream. The great beast had been swimming just under the surface on a bright sunny day, basking in the warm sea, its belly filled with freshly caught fish. He wondered why he had dreamt about it again as he sat up without pain. He was alone, but a hot cup of tea was waiting by the bed with some ginger biscuits. He had them before getting up to use the en suite bathroom. His legs were rubbery as he walked across the room towards the doorway. He almost collapsed because he was feeling so light-headed. After using the toilet, he stood at the sink, splashing cold water into his face. The light-headedness was lessening the longer he stood up, his body adjusting to the loss of blood. A mirror above the sink showed his pale reflection. His eyelids looked bloodless, which, he supposed, was expected after bleeding a bucket of blood. He wasn’t wearing his shirt, just his underwear. He wondered who had removed his clothes, feeling embarrassed by the thought of Saffron and Mira seeing him with no shirt or trousers on. He looked at the big bandage over his wound. It was stained brown with dried blood, but it wasn’t hurting at all. He was tempted to peel it back to check out his wound, but he knew that could start it bleeding again or cause an infection. It was better to leave it on. Boy, do I look terrible!

  He was returning to the bedroom when he heard someone knocking on the door.

 
“It’s me and Mira,” Saffron said. “We heard you get up. Can we come in yet?”

  He saw his shirt – freshly cleaned and dried – on the back of a chair. His jeans were also there, also laundered.

  “Just a sec,” he said. He quickly put on his clothes. “Okay – I’m dressed.”

  Saffron came in followed by Mira. They looked pleased to see him looking healthy, but their faces showed another emotion, one he didn’t like. There was something wrong.

  “What is it?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “We need to tell you something,” Saffron said. “Do you remember how you got here?”

  He shook his head. “No. The last thing I remember was when you were telling me not to die. Good advice.”

  “You didn’t take it,” Saffron said. “You were bleeding to death and your heart stopped beating. You did die. I could think of only one way to save your life, so I called Mira. She knew what to do.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “What happened?”

  “My grandfather saved you life using a symbiont,” Mira said. “Saffron kept you from bleeding out while he rushed to the woods. He implanted you with a Jonah tapeworm, then carried you back here to recover. You should be fully healed in a few hours. You don’t need the bandage any more.”

  Very carefully, he removed the bandage and saw a faint pink mark where the knife had gone in. There weren’t even any stitches, like the time he had cut his elbow on some broken glass.

  “Wow,” he said. “That’s amazing. You both saved my life. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Thank you so much.”

  Saffron looked as though she were going to cry again. “Don’t thank us just yet.”

  “Why not?” he said.

  “The bad news is you still have the symbiont inside you,” she said. “It can’t be removed because you’d die without it. You’ve now got a symbiont for the rest of your life. Which means you’re like ...”

  “You’re like me and my grandfather,” Mira said.