‘You lay one hand on her and I’m calling the police,’ I warned him.
And I meant every word. And Dad knew I meant every word. I glared at him, making no attempt to hide the loathing I felt. He let go of Mum, who fell, half on, half off her chair. I was vaguely aware of her crying and trying to pull me away from Dad but I wasn’t about to move. Dad stared at me, breathing just as hard as I was. And then, without warning, he hit me. Hard and fast and sharp as razors – he hit me.
I was down on the ground and my head was ringing and I had no idea how I’d got there. Mum was at my side in an instant, screaming words I couldn’t hear at Dad. The ringing in my ears began to subside, but I still couldn’t make out a word she was saying. Then I realized Mum was screaming at Dad in her home language, the language I understood and could even speak a little, though Mum and Dad wouldn’t allow me to use it in the house. And all the time Mum screamed at Dad, Dad didn’t say a word. The pitch of Mum’s voice grew lower as she spoke, making her easier to understand, but she wasn’t letting Dad off. In a voice brittle with sadness, she asked him what had happened to the man she fell in love with; where had he gone? Dad looked at her for countless seconds before he slammed out of the room, then out of the house.
He didn’t come back for three days, and when he did, he tried to smile and joke with me as if nothing had happened. I swore then and there that no man would ever hurt me again and get away with it. Never ever. But that was enough for Mum. She waited until the school year ended and Dad was away at some conference or other for the week. She emptied their joint savings account, then we packed up and headed for Mum’s home country. I was sorry I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye to all my friends, but to be honest, it was worth it to get away from him.
We’d been in this country for a little over eighteen months when the civil war started. A war between those who wanted their own separatist state against those who insisted that the country shouldn’t be divided. And the country was already so small, little bigger than a question mark on any world map. The war was brutal and bloody and the rest of the world just wasn’t interested. But then the separatists got hold of chemical weapons and some lunatic actually used them. That’s when the rest of the world started paying attention, but by then it was too late. Our rain had become lethal, and unlike people, the rain didn’t discriminate. My mother had called it the Sad War; I thought the name apt. Some of the people I met on my travels were sad – remembering how things had once been. More people were unfriendly, belligerent even. I could understand that. In these times it was the only way to survive.
I felt a drop of rain on my cheek. A second or two and then the pain began, like a red-hot needle thrust into my skin.
Find shelter, Robby. Find something fast.
Another drop on the sleeve of my leather jacket. A tiny, perfectly round hole appeared in the material. My heart was screaming at me to get undercover. That’s when I saw it – a light up ahead. I pelted for it, ignoring my aching legs, the pain in my ankles. I turned my face to the sky and sniffed. The rain was closer; the sky beyond the trees was rapidly turning to darker shades of grey. At last the light I’d seen revealed its source. It was a house, more like a cottage really, with a light on in one of the ground-floor windows. I didn’t care about that. It was shelter. I would take my chances with the occupants. In the rain I had no chance.
I banged on the door, again and again. I felt a raindrop wet on my cheek. The pain arrived only a fraction of a second later. Another red-hot needle. I panicked, felt for the door handle and turned it. Thank God it was open. Another scalding raindrop fell on my forehead before I stumbled across the threshold. Kicking the door shut, I leaned against it, forcing myself to calm down. I was inside now. Safe?
‘Hello? Is anyone home?’ There was no answer.
‘Hello?’ I shouted again, looking around with tired curiosity. It wasn’t particularly clean. It smelled musty, uncared for … but it was dry and that was all I cared about. I entered the closest room, the room with the light.
‘Hello,’ I tried again feebly. Maybe the house was empty. I hoped so. I wanted to be alone, to relax for the first time in weeks. The occupants were probably sheltering from the rain somewhere. I couldn’t help but wish they got caught in it; then they would die and the house would be mine. The thought made me squirm inwardly with guilt but it didn’t stop me from thinking it.
The room was quite large, its walls a dingy yellow-brown. What light there was came from a fireplace and two candles on a battered, three-legged stool. Opposite the fireplace was a light-coloured settee, possibly once beige or maybe even yellow but now grubby and worn, with the stuffing appearing in odd places through the cushions. Still, it had to be more comfortable than the hardwood floor, so after taking off my backpack I sat down and continued to look around. The only other furniture was a tiny table beneath the one small window to my right. I leaned my head back and sighed softly. I was right. The settee was soft, the fire was warm and I was out of the rain. I closed my eyes gratefully.
Suddenly my head was yanked back and something sharp and cold pressed against my throat. Instantly I knew and felt that it was a knife – with a very sharp blade.
‘Who the hell are you?’
I couldn’t see the man behind me. I was too frightened to turn my head. Besides, the tiniest movement on my part and he would cut my throat, that much I did know. Hell! He might cut my throat anyway.
‘Answer me,’ the man demanded again. ‘Who are you and what are you doing in my house?’
‘I … my name’s Rob … Robby. I’m fourteen … It started to rain. I came in for shelter. I’m … tired. I didn’t mean to trespass …’ The knife moved fractionally away from my neck.
‘I want you out of my house … now,’ the man said harshly.
‘But … but it’s raining,’ I protested. ‘I’ll die if you send me out there. Can’t I just stay until it’s over?’
‘The rain is your problem, not mine. And besides, it might last for a week or more. You’re certainly not going to stay here that long.’
‘It won’t be for that long,’ I argued eagerly. ‘It’s only going to last two days, then I’ll be on my way.’
‘I don’t want you in my house for two minutes! And how d’you know it’s only going to last for a couple of days?’
‘My nose told me,’ I replied reluctantly, feeling foolish. ‘I can always tell when rain is coming and how long it’s going to last.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘It’s true.’
‘You can’t stay here—’
‘Please … please …’ I begged, wishing I could turn my head to look at him. ‘I won’t be any trouble. I can cook, clean, chop wood …’
‘In the rain?’ he said scathingly.
‘I won’t be any trouble,’ I argued. ‘Please …’
Inside the room, the silence echoed around us. Outside I could hear the rain sheeting down now.
‘Please,’ I tried again.
‘I’m going to move the knife away from your neck now, but one false move and you’ll be dead before you can blink.’ The tip of the knife was reapplied with force to my neck. ‘D’you understand?’
‘I get the point,’ I replied.
The knife left my throat and I heard him move out from behind the settee. Slowly, carefully, I raised one tentative finger to my throat. When I examined it I was chastened but not terribly surprised to see blood. I had a slight cut, and it hurt. Still, that was better than not feeling anything at all … ever again. I remained seated as the man moved to stand before me. I recoiled deeper into the settee at the sight of him. The candles cast strange, dark shadows over his face, but even in the strong sunlight I would have given this man a wide berth. He was tall, at least six feet, with dark hair flopping across his forehead, and he had hard, icy eyes. I guessed he was over thirty and under forty. His face was the meanest I’d seen in a long time, and it had nothing to do with the deep scar running from just below the corne
r of one eye and across his cheekbone. I glanced down at the knife, which he still held in his hand.
‘What did you mean when you said your nose told you it was going to rain?’ he demanded.
‘I can smell it,’ I said. I decided that with this man it would be prudent to keep my answers direct and to the point.
‘How old did you say you were?’
‘Fourteen,’ I replied – too quickly.
His eyes narrowed. ‘How old?’
‘Seventeen,’ I said reluctantly.
‘I thought you didn’t look fourteen. But isn’t your voice a bit high for a seventeen-year-old?’
‘I know.’ I frowned. ‘That’s why I tell everyone I’m fourteen. I’m lucky though. My voice may not have broken yet but that’s the only side-effect I’ve suffered from the chemical fallout. I’ve seen people who’re a lot worse off than me.’
Shut up, Robby. You’re rambling! Short, concise answers.
The man continued to scrutinize me. I shifted on the settee, suddenly aware of every lump and bump in the cushion under me. Wasn’t he going to say anything? Why didn’t he say anything?
‘I’ve travelled a lot since my mother died,’ I continued, more for the sake of saying something than for any other reason. ‘I don’t like to stay too long in one place—’
‘You talk too much.’
He wasn’t the first person to tell me that. But something in the way he said it sent ice crystals dancing through my veins and made me shut up immediately. That’s my trouble, you see. I don’t like silences and I always try to fill them. The man walked to the window, his eyes rarely leaving my face. I watched as he closed the inside wooden shutters.
‘Now I won’t get any more uninvited guests,’ he said stonily, glaring at me.
‘Er … what’s your name?’ I asked. ‘I’ve told you mine.’
‘What’s it to you?’ he snapped. ‘Anyway, you won’t be staying here long enough to make use of it.’
‘I’ve got to call you something while I’m here,’ I pointed out.
Besides, I knew the rain would last for five days, not two, but I had sense enough to realize that if I told him the truth he’d want me to leave immediately. Two days under his roof he might tolerate; five was asking a bit too much. But once I’d been here two days, I could stretch it to another three.
‘Carter,’ he said suddenly.
‘What? Your name is Carter?’ I queried. ‘Is that your first or last name?’
Carter strode across to where I was sitting, grabbed the top of my jacket and pulled me out of the settee towards him. ‘Listen, Rob or Robby or whatever the hell your name is. Let’s get a few things straight. If you want to stay here, you’ll keep out of my way and you won’t talk so much. I don’t like a lot of questions. Get it?’
I nodded vigorously.
He released me and I slumped back onto the settee.
‘Does that mean I can stay?’ I asked immediately, straightening my clothes.
Carter’s glare became even more penetrating. ‘Only until the storm passes,’ he said at last. ‘But first let me see what’s inside your backpack.’
‘Why?’
‘Damn it! Stop answering everything I say with a question.’
Without another word I reluctantly emptied my backpack out on the seat beside me. Some bunches of herbs and a pouch filled with nuts and berries fell out first, followed by a dented flask of fresh, uncontaminated water and lastly two books given to me by my mother: the Bible and a science-fiction novel.
‘What are you looking for?’ I frowned as Carter rifled through my belongings. ‘If it’s jewellery or weapons or alcohol, you’re going to be disappointed.’
‘I’m glad you don’t carry weapons,’ Carter said brusquely. ‘Because I don’t want to have to fight off some maniac in the middle of the night with a knife in his hand.’
‘You’re the one who tried to slice my neck – remember?’ I said indignantly.
‘I may still do it,’ Carter said belligerently.
I shut up. What was the man’s problem? I ran a nervous hand over my head, my hair so short as to be practically non-existent. After searching my bag a second time, Carter walked over to the table and sat down. He removed a small pot from the shelf behind him and, using a wooden spoon, began to eat.
‘Aren’t you going to offer me any?’ I wheedled.
I couldn’t believe he was going to sit there with me watching and not offer me a mouthful. He glared at me before silently turning back to his food, shoving another spoonful into his mouth. Casting a filthy look in his direction, I repacked my belongings, everything except the herbs, which I munched on slowly. I watched the steam rise from Carter’s bowl. I hadn’t eaten hot food in a long time.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ he snarled, retrieving another small wooden bowl from the shelf. ‘You can have some, but only because I’m tired of you staring at me.’
I almost ran to the table. This man was so tetchy, he’d probably change his mind before I’d tasted a morsel. Carter poured about four spoonfuls from his bowl into mine. I scrutinized the orange-greeny-brown puddle before me.
‘Has this been regurgitated?’
‘If you don’t bloody want it, just pass it back.’ Carter snatched at my bowl, only I got to it first.
‘I didn’t say I didn’t want it,’ I said. ‘And I trust that this is just a taster. I mean, if this soup – is it soup? – is OK, will you give me some more?’
Carter stared at me, his expression hovering somewhere between thunderous and incredulous. Then, unexpectedly, he started laughing – a low, reluctant, rumbling sound.
‘You have more goddamn nerve than any ten people I know,’ he muttered. ‘No, you can’t have any more.’
‘Can I have a spoon then?’ I asked, after searching my side of the table for one. Carter took a spoon from the shelf behind him and slammed it down in front of me. ‘Boy, you are turning out to be more trouble than you’re worth.’
‘My name is Robby, not Boy,’ I said, picking up the spoon and tasting the puddle in my bowl. Instantly I began to retch. It was disgusting. ‘What the hell is this?’ I asked angrily.
‘If you don’t like it, just give it back,’ Carter ordered.
‘With pleasure!’ I pushed the bowl away from me. ‘I could make it better than that with one hand tied behind my back and one eye closed.’
‘Well, tomorrow you’ll get a chance to prove it,’ Carter said silkily. ‘If you stay here, you’ll have to earn your keep. Tomorrow you’ll get your chance to cook and clean.’
I looked around the dingy room. ‘I couldn’t do any worse than you.’
‘Robby, you are this close’ – Carter held his thumb and index finger tight together under my nose – ‘to getting your arse kicked out into the rain.’
We watched each other for a few moments.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I go a bit too far.’
‘I’m surprised you’ve managed to live this long.’ Carter shook his head, returning to the muck in front of him.
‘So am I,’ I admitted. I turned to stare at the wooden shutters covering the window, listening to the sound of the rain beyond.
‘Why did you say that?’
I turned to find Carter watching me curiously. I shrugged. ‘I travel a lot. I told you. I’ve almost been caught in the rain on more than one occasion.’ Again we watched each other. ‘I watched someone die in the rain once,’ I continued quietly, looking away again. ‘I was in a house full of people when it started – the only house for miles with a decent roof. A woman arrived … she’d been caught in it. She pleaded with us to let her in, but the man who owned the house bolted the door and stood guard over it with a knife in either hand. He wouldn’t let anyone near it. She’d been out in the rain too long. I watched with five others through a side window. She kept banging on the door, screaming. The skin blistered on her face, her arms … Then it began to peel right off, dropping with the rain. I watched the rain bu
rn, then wash the flesh off her. It rained for a whole day. When it stopped raining all that was left of her was sludge …’
‘She shouldn’t have been stupid enough to let herself get caught in it,’ Carter said harshly, picking up my bowl to finish what I hadn’t started.
I watched him, careful to keep any derogatory expression off my face. I remembered the woman’s husband, safe inside with us, begging for her to be let in. When the woman’s screams faded, so did the man’s pleas. Finally he fell to his knees and sobbed. I had watched his wife die … I watched him survive. That’s the way it worked.
I walked back to the worn-out settee and sat down. Picking up my herbs again, I started to munch. ‘Is this where I sleep tonight?’
Carter glanced at me. ‘You can sleep where you please. But I warn you, I’m a very light sleeper and I always sleep with a knife close by.’
‘Is that how you got the scar on your face?’
Ignoring my flippant question, he continued, ‘If you try anything, anything at all, I’ll slit your throat first and ask questions later.’
‘Were you born anti-social, or did the war do this to you?’
‘If you had any sense,’ Carter said curtly, ‘you would cultivate the same attitude. Your age might’ve brought you some sympathy before, but now you’re getting old, just like the rest of us. If you don’t toughen up, kid, you’re going to get trampled underfoot.’
‘I can take care of myself,’ I told him sternly. ‘The last person who thought otherwise is now dead.’
‘You don’t look as though you could kill a fly – not that there are that many left in this country,’ Carter said disdainfully.
One good thing to come out of the war? I wondered. Though the fish and frogs who had to live on flies might not agree with me. The animals alive nowadays had cultivated the same sixth sense as me when it came to the rain, and they always headed for shelter hours before it started. The chemicals in the atmosphere weren’t supposed to kill any living creatures except humans, but maybe the animals knew more than the scientists. I watched Carter stand up and walk to the door.
The Stuff of Nightmares Page 8
