The Summer We All Ran Away

by Cassandra Parkin

  “Because they made me,” said Davey.

  Simon laughed. “They can’t make you,” he said.

  “Of course they can. They pay my fees.”

  “Okay, so they can make you fill in something on a form, and they can make you come here five days a week, and they can make you turn up to classes. But they can’t actually make you learn it, can they?” He blew a smoke-ring over Davey’s head. “They can’t make you write the right answers down on the papers. You straight boys are so unimaginative.”

  “You were a s-s-s-straight boy yourself till three weeks ago,” Davey protested.

  “No, I just hadn’t told anyone. Just fucking flunk the exam, dimwit. And what the hell can they do about that?”

  “Turn over your papers, please.”

  Davey stared at the paper. A curious exhilaration came over him.

  “I just don’t understand it,” said his mother tearfully. “How could you have failed?”

  “I t-t-t-told you I was no good at maths. I really did tell you,” he repeated uneasily. “Anyway, an E’s technically a p-p-p - ”

  “Mr Bell said you should get a C at least, a B if you worked hard.”

  “Mr Bell’s a fool,” said James. His voice was calm, but his expression was furious. “We’re paying a fucking fortune for our son to be taught by a fool.”

  “James,” said Helen.

  “I’ve a good mind to go and sort this out face to face.”

  “It w-w-won’t do any good,” said Davey. “It’s not the s-s-school, it’s the p-p-p-person who m-m-m-marked the p-p-paper who f-f-f-f - ”

  “Just spit it out, will you!” James yelled.

  “I’m s-s-s, I’m s-s-s-s-”

  “We’ll get you a tutor,” said Helen loudly. “You can resit in a year.”

  “Turn your papers over, please.”

  Davey stared blankly into space for ten minutes. On the one hand, his future. On the other hand, his mother’s face.

  He took a deep breath.

  It was late, and Andrew was tired, but he had ten more papers to mark. Seychelles, he repeated to himself grimly, the money’s going in the Seychelles fund. Trip of a lifetime. You only get married once. He sighed and picked up another paper.

  A quadratic function is defined by

  f(x) = x2 + kx + 9

  where k is a constant. It is given that the equation f(x) = 0 has two distinct real roots. Find the set of values that k can take.

  Lower sixth year at school at £7,000 fees a term = £21,000

  Repeat Lower Sixth year at school at £7,000 fees a term = £21,000

  School uniform for two years at £2,000 a year = £4,000

  Private tutor at £100 an hour, three hours a week for 38 weeks = £11,400

  Total my stepfather has wasted on trying to turn me into someone I’m not: £57,400

  I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this.

  He flicked hastily through the rest of the paper, but all the rest of the answers were blank. Well, at least that was an easy one to grade. He scribbled a U on the front in red marker and dropped it onto the pile.

  chapter eleven (now)

  The bathroom was cold. A deep chill radiated off the tiles and soaked into Davey’s bones, like the opposite of sunlight. He wrapped the thin towel around his shoulders as he cleaned his teeth. Several times, he turned to check the door was still shut. He was trapped in a huge, isolated house, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, with four people he knew absolutely nothing about, united only by their fear of the outside world and the need to hide away. On the other side of the door, in the room he called his, was Priss. Reluctantly, he opened the door to the dim bedroom and made his way by touch and memory across the carpet.

  “You’ll have the enamel off your teeth,” said Priss from the darkness.

  “Are you, are you in my bed?” Davey asked. His heart was racing.

  “Yeah, but don’t get any ideas, right? I was cold.” The covers slid back. “Come on, get in.”

  “I, I d-d-d-d-don’t think I should - ” the hammering of his heart was painful. It was too dark to see if she was still dressed. He wondered what on earth was wrong with him that he was even thinking of turning her down.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got clothes on.” Priss’ fingers clasped his arm. Davey slid beneath the covers, where he lay stiffly, like a corpse. Priss scooted closer and huddled against him.

  “That’s better. Even the sheets are cold tonight. God, will you fuckin’ relax already?” She’d said she was dressed, but he could feel the warm skin of her thigh against his. “You’re really bad at being touched, do you know that?”

  “No I’m not, I just wasn’t expecting to f-f-f to f-f - ” He thumped the bed in frustration.

  Priss snorted with laughter. “That’s just too easy, mate. Chill out, I’m not in the mood anyway.” Her hair tickled his face. Shyly, he reached up a hand and smoothed it down. He could make out her profile in the dimness, and hear the click as she chewed furiously on her thumbnail.

  “Are you scared?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “Are you?”

  “If I tell you something do you swear not to laugh?”

  “Okay.”

  “I think,” said Priss, very distinctly, “this house is haunted.”

  Davey lay rigidly and tried to think of something to say. After a minute, Priss thumped him furiously in the stomach.

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  “Stop fuckin’ humouring me!”

  “I’m not, I never said a word - ”

  “You didn’t need to. I can feel you doing it.”

  “Well, look, you’ve got to admit - ”

  “I don’t mean like spirits. It’s like Kate said. Old houses have bad memories.”

  “No they don’t. It’s a building, not a person. Ow!”

  “Serves you right. There’s only room for one assertive person in this bed.” She threw back the covers and flicked on the bedside light. “Get up, I’ll show you.”

  Priss was wearing a skimpy t-shirt and, quite possibly, nothing else. Davey felt a bead of sweat crawl down his spine like an ant.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! And don’t argue with me or I’ll fuckin’ do you.” She got out of bed and he saw the flash of her white cotton knickers.

  “But what are we - ”

  “Look.” Priss’ face was chalky white and her eyes blazed. “What happened this afternoon, that’s got to be the biggest reason on the planet to get out of here, right? So why are we all still here? I’ll tell you why, mate. It’s because we’re all bein’ haunted by this place. It’s got into our heads, and we won’t get away from it, ever, until we find out what happened.”

  Davey got out of bed. His jeans and t-shirt were still faintly warm. “This is even stupider than your murder theory.”

  She pressed a pencil-thin torch into his hands. “Here.”

  Davey padded wearily down the corridor after Priss and wondered what the boys from school would have to say about the long, slender lines of Priss’ pale thighs, and the sway of her hips as she walked. Why was she always so naked around him? Was it an invitation? He would love to think so, but he suspected she did it because she knew perfectly well she was in charge, and could look and behave as provocatively as she liked. She opened the door to the Dark Side and held out an impatient hand for the torch.

  “We promised not to go in there,” he said.

  Priss shone the flashlight onto the peeling ruin of the wall. “It’s a bad, wicked world, mate.”

  “But what if - ”

  “Shush, I’m trying to count.” They were picking their way down the corridor now, dust coating the soles of their bare feet. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Or is the one on the landing one as well?”

  “But why are you - ”

  Priss paused by a window and peered out. “If I bung you five quid will you shut up? Six. Okay, so now we go through this door -
”

  “But where - ” he tried as they padded delicately across the frayed rectangle of carpet.

  “Have you got a death wish?” She flung another window open and hung perilously out for a moment. “Big bush with red flowers. Right, this is it, got to be.” She shone the torch onto the wall opposite. “Help me look.”

  “But what are we - ”

  “You,” said Priss, “are slower on the uptake than my nanna and she’s got fuckin’ Alzheimer’s. There’s a door here, thicko, a hidden door. And we’re going to find it.”

  Davey stared at the wall. “No there isn’t.”

  “Yes there is! I said to you ages ago, this house doesn’t match up! There’s a whole bit of it you can’t get to from any other part! It’s here, it’s got to be, I counted the windows - ”

  “Are you, are you sure? Or do you just think there might be?”

  She took one hand off the wall so she could give him the finger.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said. “We should go back to bed and - ”

  “Got it! Give me your hand.” She rubbed his fingertips along the paper. “Feel that? That goes all the way up from the floor, and then along the top. And then underneath.” She guided his hand across and banged his knuckles against the surface. “Wood. See?”

  “Oh,” he said wretchedly.

  “Right. Let’s get it open.”

  Priss looked young and vulnerable. Her toenails were painted black, and she had a silver ring on each middle toe.

  “We shouldn’t,” he said. “It’s private.”

  “Yeah, good point. ’Cos it’s not like we’re, I don’t know, already fuckin’ living here without permission or anything, is it?”

  “I just, what if - ”

  “There’ll be a catch you press, I’ve seen it on films.”

  “No! What if there’s someone in there? Someone bad? You’re n-n-n-not opening this Priss, you’re just n-n-n-not doing it, I won’t let you.”

  He took the torch out of her hands and switched it off. Then he leaned firmly against the concealed doorway, spreading his arms to stop her reaching past him. Beneath his shoulder, something clicked. The door flung itself open, propelling him into a dark, dusty space on the other side, Priss stumbling after him. Then, just as suddenly as it opened, the door swung shut again, slamming back into position with a deafening bang.

  It was absolutely pitch black.

  “Shit,” said Priss, coughing. “It’s blacker than Lucifer’s arsehole in here. Get that torch on.”

  This was the centre of the mystery, the house’s secret, rotten heart. Sick and wretched, he flicked the switch. A reedy stream of light poured out. Dust lay on the carpet like felt.

  “We should go back.”

  Priss was already trying door handles. As he watched, she slipped through the nearest door. He followed her, afraid to be left on his own. The bedroom was dirty and neglected, like a room in a deserted hotel. The walls wore an ordered geometric pattern of greens and yellows that Davey didn’t like looking at. He moved the torch away and ran its bright finger over a crumpled bed, yellowing sheets bunched halfway down. The green silk eiderdown had coiled itself voluptuously on the floor. A glass of fluff and mould lurked on the bedside table. A cream silk slip, stained and torn, huddled at the end of the bed. The air was musty and cold.

  “Like a crime scene in here,” said Priss. Davey was surprised to hear a tremor in her voice. “I wonder if the rest of the house would be like this without Kate cleaning it up?” She flicked the light switch. “Bulb must have gone. D’you reckon they put guests here they didn’t like? Or did they lock up mad old Auntie Ivy with a bottle of gin and a nice young man for company?”

  The bathroom, with a white suite and garish orange tiles, was even colder than the bedroom and smelled of damp. Priss grimaced, and forced the window open. She was openly shivering now, and her fingers were turning blue. Davey looked around for something to wrap her in. A lone towel hung stiff and crumpled from the rail. When he tried to unfold it, black mould fell from its crevices. He shuddered and dropped it on the floor, then went back to the bedroom for the green eiderdown.

  “I’m alright,” said Priss. Davey wrapped it around her anyway. She was vibrating with cold like a plucked guitar-string. She leaned gratefully against him for a minute before shuffling over in her huge green cocoon to look in the medicine cabinet. A disorderly crowd of plastic containers rattled joyously down into the sink. Priss turned them over in fascination.

  “Aspirin. Valium. Lithium. Dexedrine. Hey, look, Excedrin. Like in The Shining.”

  Davey watched as Priss shook out a handful of white tablets. “I don’t think you should take that.”

  “Oh, you think? I just want to see.” She poured them back and returned to her rummaging. “Whoever lived in here was proper fucked up - ow!”

  “What? What?”

  Priss was shaking her hand frantically. A huge spider, its fat body hanging in a hammock of tangled legs, fell to the floor. “That bastard spider bit me,” said Priss, outraged. “Right, I’ll have it for that. Where did it go?”

  “Under the bath, I think, but you’ve got bare feet, you can’t stand on a - ”

  “Look at this!”

  The bath was blanketed with spider-silk. Spiders hung like clots from the sticky strands. About half were dead, with crisp-looking bodies and dry, brittle legs. Several others were parcelled up as meals for the stronger survivors.

  “That is fuckin’ messed up,” said Priss, with feeling. She reached for the shower attachment.

  “Don’t,” said Davey, feeling sick.

  “Why not? The water’s on.”

  “Just, let’s get out of here, okay?”

  “They’re evil.”

  “They’re only spiders.”

  “You don’t like ’em either.”

  “I just think we should get out of here.”

  “Are you worried they’re going to run onto your hand or something?”

  Davey tugged desperately at the green silk duvet. “Can we please just go?”

  Priss sucked the red welt on the side of her hand, and glared into the bath.

  “Okay, fine.”

  They picked their way back into the silent, desolate bedroom. Was he imagining it, or was the torchlight beginning to waver? Priss found a notebook on the bedside table.

  “Huh,” she said. “Listen to this.”

  There’s a certain kind of cold in this hour of the night

  The silence creeps around the curtains and coils around

  your knees

  The trees are lonely and the moon’s getting drunk

  So why not join in?

  Why not join in?

  “What does it mean?” asked Davey. Priss shrugged.

  “Here’s another one - ”

  He was nineteen years old and he took his umbrella

  Turned it upside down so he could sail it down the stream

  At Bristol docks he joined a crew to sail to Argentina

  All because he’d seen her face in his dreams

  “You reckon this place used to belong to a poet?”

  “I don’t think poets make that much money.”

  “No, good point.” She dropped the notebook back on the table and turned away.

  They returned to the corridor, picking their way gingerly through the dust. Behind another door, the torchlight slithered over a sage-coloured living room with a battered green sofa and two brown chairs that didn’t match.

  “Like being in a jailhouse,” said Priss. “Madwoman in the attic, maybe.”

  “Maybe it’s somewhere to hide,” said Davey.

  “Why hide back here when you’ve got a whole house out there - shit!” Priss gave a muffled scream and dropped the torch. Davey heard himself yell with fear. The torchlight had caught the outline of a woman, standing against the wall, not moving.

  “Who the hell are you?” Priss screamed, frantically scrabbling for the torch. “There’s fuc
kin’ two of us, so don’t you fuckin’ try anything - ” She grabbed the torch, flashed it frantically around.

  The woman stared silently back at them with wide grey eyes. She was tall and spare, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Her thick fair hair hung in an untidy tangle over her shoulders. She was naked.

  “It’s a painting,” said Priss in disgust. “It’s bloody realistic, though. Wonder who she is.” She padded over to it and ran her fingers over the surface reverently. “This is brilliant, it’s like those trompe l’oeil things. Come and see.”

  “In a minute,” said Davey.

  “Bare tits bother you that much?”

  “No! No. I just - ” he looked desperately around for inspiration. “I just want to see where the window looks out.” He pulled at the thick curtains, dust falling around him like grey rain, and discovered a hidden treasure.

  The lamp on the windowsill had a red hessian shade on a pale cream base. Its rosy glow flooded out from the windowsill and transformed the room into a warm bright haven. Gazing at it in perplexity he found himself consumed with a blurry but emotionally-charged memory of standing outside and seeing a red light in a window like a guiding star.

  “But it’s beautiful in here,” he said in wonder.

  “It’s better with the light on,” said Priss grudgingly. She tucked the torch into his front pocket.

  “I saw it,” he said. “I saw it. The first night I came here. That’s why I - ”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “Really?” He was surprised by how pleased he was at the synchronicity. “You saw it too? When? How long ago?”

  “Never you mind.” She was staring at the table. “It’s like a beacon. That’s what the Ingalls family did, isn’t it? Put a lamp in the window to call Pa home. Hey, look, another notebook.”

  Davey riffled through it. Page after page of hand-drawn staves, with notes and words crossed out, replaced and then replaced again. Little arrows summoned in errant words and musical phrases from the edges of the paper, and banished others to some unknown hinterland. Superscripts directed the reader to mysterious destinations. Some of the pages were so scribbled-over they looked as if they were written in code. The handwriting was familiar. After a moment he remembered the notebook called Landmark. He followed her gaze and saw her examining a stack of handwritten sheets.