Where Monsters Lie Page 6

  That morning my bedroom floor was empty. There was no card or bunch of flowers by my breakfast plate. I tried not to feel sorry for myself.

  When Dad said that it made more sense to get me something I wanted, that I should choose something and then he and Tommi would go and get it, I made myself smile brightly. I asked for a globe or an atlas of the world, and while they were collecting it, I went over to Finn’s for tea.

  I kept myself busy that day. I didn’t want to have time to stop and think about the legend that, despite everything, was growing in my mind. Every time we neared the loch I kept my eyes fixed upon the waters in case a monster was lurking there.

  I couldn’t stop thinking back to the night of the offering; I wondered whether we had done something different that had stopped it working this year. But most of all I thought of Mum.

  I started to have the same dream, over and over: Mum was being lured into the water by the monsters, her feet moving stubbornly forward into the icy cold even though her mind was screaming at her to stop. She would walk on and on until, finally, her head would disappear under the surface and it was as though she had never been there. I would wake up then, sweaty and cold all at once, and tell myself that it wasn’t real, that it was just another dream.

  ‘So Tommi’s OK?’ Kathleen asked me as soon as I’d settled myself at their kitchen table.

  ‘Ahm,’ I answered through a mouthful of birthday cake. It was chocolate cake. Our favourite, me and Finn. Covered in dark, rich icing and decorated with silver balls that spelled out effie and a lopsided 10.

  ‘I did the ten,’ Finn said, chocolate crumbs falling from his mouth.

  Next to the chocolate cake stood an equally statuesque carrot cake with finn written on it alongside another looping 10.

  ‘She sleeping OK?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I grunted, although I knew that the dark shadows under my eyes told another story. With Mum gone, I’d been upgraded from part-time to full-time carer to Tommi.

  Sometimes she slept so badly, I’d miss the school bus, and then Dad would mutter, ‘Well, I’ll tell Old Bill not to come in today then.’

  Old Bill and Mrs Daniels were taking it in turns to help look after Tommi while Dad was at work and I was at school. We wouldn’t have been able to manage without them, although I preferred it when Dad let me stay home or when it was the school holidays.

  Sometimes I wished we could do it ourselves, just Dad and me. Sometimes I wondered if we could raise Tommi on our own.

  I had my reasons.

  For one thing, having them there made the house feel a bit less like our own.

  I could always tell which oldie had been round that day because of the smell when I got home. If it was flowery and pungent, I knew it was from the perfume Mrs Daniels wore; if it smelled of bleach, I knew that she had been cleaning. But if it smelled earthy, smoky and of the outdoors, Old Bill had been there.

  I didn’t mind Old Bill looking after Tommi so much. He didn’t move things around. Mrs Daniels was always rearranging things. Organizing drawers. She got into a habit of tackling one bit of the house each time she came round.

  It started in the kitchen.

  Anything chipped, worn or deemed useless was thrown out. Even if it was the cup I had painted when I was five. Or the funny little spatula that looks old and stained but is perfect for lopping off the top of a boiled egg. Every day I would find things missing, and when I asked about them, I always got the same answer: ‘You don’t want that old thing, Effie! I chucked it out!’

  But I did want them, I thought. They were our old things, bits and pieces of our life when Mum was with us. If they were all gone, then what would we be left with? Would we start to forget her? I sometimes feared that I couldn’t remember her face exactly.

  ‘Tell her to stop messing with our stuff!’ I cried to Dad one night.

  ‘I can’t, Effie. She’s helping us out. It’d be rude.’

  ‘It isn’t. It isn’t rude to say Stop throwing away things that aren’t yours! Anyway, we don’t need her help. I can look after Tommi.’

  ‘Calm down, Effie. She’s doing us a big favour. This place is getting like a tip.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ I shouted. ‘No it’s not.’

  I ran into the kitchen and slammed the door behind me.

  The smell of freshly applied bleach burned my nostrils.

  It was hard to admit to Dad that we actually needed the oldies’ help; sometimes, even with Mrs Daniels and Old Bill helping us, things I hadn’t noticed when Mum was there weren’t getting done. Like our washing. Sometimes I ran out of clothes, and when I asked Dad where the clean stuff was, he looked at me vacantly, as though he wasn’t sure what I was talking about. One night I had to put a candle in the bathroom so we could brush our teeth because we’d run out of light bulbs.

  When things like this happened, I felt that I had to protect Dad, even though he was a grown-up and much bigger and stronger than me. I know it sounds silly, but it was like I was the one who needed to look after him now.

  One day, when Rosemary Tanner turned up and offered to do ‘a spot of cleaning or washing or whatever you need’, I overheard Dad telling her that we didn’t need any help. I felt a stab of annoyance because he had just run out of work shirts and asked me if I could put a wash on while he sorted Tommi out. He closed the door on Mrs Tanner without even asking her in.

  ‘We’re not that desperate, eh, Effie?’ he said.

  I smiled at him and shook my head. I was relieved that Rosemary Tanner wasn’t coming round, but I was surprised that Dad had turned down the offer of help when we needed it so badly.

  I didn’t tell Kathleen any of this, though. She looked at me, lines of worry etching her face, and said, ‘Have another slice of cake, pet. It is your birthday, after all.’

  ‘I’d better get going,’ I said. ‘They’ll be back from Abiemore soon.’

  ‘Give me a sec and I’ll wrap up the rest of the cake for you to take home,’ said Kathleen.

  Finn’s mouth opened in a wide O. ‘All the chocolate cake?’ he said, before he could stop himself.

  ‘Yes, Finn,’ Kathleen replied steelily. ‘You still have your own.’ She gestured towards the untouched carrot cake.

  ‘But it’s carr—’

  ‘Finn!’ she said sharply. Finn closed his mouth.

  Kathleen turned to start wrapping up the cake.

  I mouthed ‘Sorry’ to Finn, who mouthed ‘Don’t worry’ back and shook his head at himself.

  ‘Thanks for the flowers,’ I said, and held up the posy of wild flowers that Finn had picked for me; it was studded with the bird feathers that he had been collecting too.

  ‘Thanks for the notebook,’ Finn said. I had given him a small one that he could carry in his pocket and use for lists and plans for the raft.

  ‘Here you go, pet.’ Kathleen handed me the leftover cake, parcelled up in greaseproof paper and string. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘Happy birthday, Effie,’ Finn said.

  ‘And you too!’

  As I closed the door behind me, I heard Kathleen’s high laugh. ‘Finlay James Paterson,’ she was saying. ‘Your face. All over a chocolate cake. What? You don’t like my carrot cake, eh? You wee rascal!’

  ‘I couldn’t help it! I’m addicted to it!’ Finn squealed. There was more laughter and then, ‘Stop, Mum! Stop! Stop, please!’ He was laughing. I peered through the window and saw them there, lit up, for just one single moment.

  You know when you see an image, and for whatever reason you take a photograph of it in your mind? You don’t know what happens next, you only have that frozen picture in your head.

  The sun was setting and bathed them both in a bright orange glow. Kathleen, her mouth open in a wide red grin, standing with her arm raised as if she had just thrown something. Because she had just thrown something . . . it was the carrot cake! It was flying through the air.

  Finn’s face was screwed up tight, but smiling, the golden cake sailing towards him
.

  And the sound. Because with pictures you take with your mind you can hear things as well – they’re not silent like a piece of paper or an image on a computer screen.

  The sound of laughter and shrieks and screams.

  I turned away from them and trudged back to our house, which felt empty and cold – until Tommi came bustling through the front door and I buried my face in her downy brown hair. It smelled salty and sweet. As soft as the tufty little bird feathers that Finn had collected for me.

  And wet.

  Wet from my tears.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the legend.

  It was because of the loch.

  Whenever we passed by, I found my eyes drawn to the ripples, every dip and shadow, searching for something as slippery and slight as a story. Or as solid and real as my own mum.

  Finn would catch me staring and stand next to me, looking out over the water that moved and swayed and wouldn’t give up its secrets. After a while he squeezed my hand, urging me on; if he hadn’t, I was quite sure I would have stood there all day.

  ‘You’re thinking about it again.’

  I had already told him how the legend filled my mind. I kept remembering the night of the offering, the Tindlemas, the make-believe monsters that we so carefully and religiously kept at bay.

  ‘It’s because they all think she went in there. I wonder if anyone else thinks what happened to Mum had something to do with the legend.’

  ‘Let’s find out more about it. The legend,’ Finn said in the end. ‘We could ask someone.’

  ‘One of the oldies,’ I said.

  ‘Rosemary Tanner would know more, but . . .’

  ‘Old Bill,’ I said firmly.

  Finn nodded. We both liked Old Bill best out of all the oldies.

  That day we walked home as quickly as we could – no lingering at the loch or popping in to inspect the raft. We came straight back, keeping our heads down in the pattering rain.

  The first sound I heard when I opened the door was Old Bill whistling.

  We went into the kitchen to see a rapt Tommi sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching Old Bill do the washing-up. He had soap bubbles on his head, wearing them like a teetering crown, and was, I’m quite sure, about to throw one of our plates in the air.

  ‘Afternoon, Effie, Finn,’ he said gruffly when he saw us. In one movement he removed the pile of soap bubbles and looked at the clock that hung on the kitchen wall. ‘I’ll just finish this lot and I’ll be off.’ He gave a quick smile, and dunked another plate in the hot, soapy water.

  ‘’Fie!’ screamed Tommi in delight, as though she had noticed I was back earlier than I usually was.

  ‘Hello, poppet,’ I said, and kissed her on the head. Now that Old Bill had finished his performance, Tommi swiftly lost interest in the washing-up and toddled off into the living room, leaving just Finn, Old Bill and me in the kitchen.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but then a funny thing happened: no sound came out. My mouth felt dry, my lips numb; I was nervous.

  ‘Right, all done here. Cheerio, then,’ said Old Bill, nodding at me.

  Finn looked at me.

  ‘Tommi been OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Good as gold, she has.’

  ‘Great, great.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be off then.’

  ‘Wait!’ I almost shouted.

  Old Bill turned, frowning slightly.

  ‘Erm – can I . . . I mean, I wondered if you could . . . help us with something.’

  ‘I’ll try to. What’s troubling you?’

  ‘It’s to do with . . . to do with . . .’ But my words had got stuck. It was more difficult than I’d imagined.

  Old Bill nodded but he waited for me to elaborate, and I was struck by how rare it is for an adult to do that: to let you speak, without rushing to finish your sentence for you.

  ‘The legend,’ I managed to get out. ‘The legend of Mivtown.’

  Old Bill’s whole face creased into a frown, reminding me of a list that Finn had finished with and had scrunched up into a ball.

  ‘It’s just that . . . I’m not sure, but I wondered if you . . . I suppose I just wanted to know more. More about the legend,’ I finished lamely.

  ‘Well, all I know, Effie, is what I was told as a boy by my ma and da. They handed it down to me, just as their folk handed it down to them, by telling us the story. Usually at bedtime, if I remember rightly. I’ve lost count of how many times I was told that if I didn’t go to sleep, then the monsters would come for me.’

  I nodded, remembering how Finn and I had teased each other.

  ‘Your da’s not a – how do I put it? – not a fan of the legend, shall I say?’

  I shook my head slowly.

  ‘Not many folk are, these days. But the way I see it, the legend was just a story to keep you young folk safe and out of the water. You know how it goes . . . the monsters will lead you in?’

  Finn and I nodded simultaneously.

  ‘Well, it’s to stop children playing in the loch. To stop anyone . . . drowning. But the bit about the prophecy – I don’t buy that.’

  ‘What prophecy?’ I said, my voice ringing out and sounding uncannily, I thought, like Rosemary Tanner’s.

  ‘The bit about what would awaken them. You’ve never heard that?’

  Finn and I shook our heads.

  ‘Well, like I say, I don’t think there’s anything in it.’ Old Bill straightened a little uncomfortably. ‘But the story goes that a girl born in Mivtown will awaken the monsters. A girl born after a boy. Twins. But we’ve never had twins born here since, and I hope we never do or there’ll be no end to it.’

  ‘Twins?’ I said. I felt like I could hear my own heartbeat pulsing in my ears.

  ‘Yes,’ said Old Bill. ‘The girl is supposed to be the one who awakens the monsters, and then they will lead us all into the water. It comes from a curse. A family in Mivtown, they lost their wee boy in the loch. He drowned. It was just an accident, a terrible accident. He was a twin, and his sister, she grieved for him terribly. She was there when it happened. She invoked the curse.’

  ‘What are they meant to be exactly?’ Finn asked. ‘The monsters?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think there are actually monsters in the loch. But the wee girl, the sister, she thought she felt one in the water – its skin was slippery and cold to touch. But that could have been anything. She was traumatized by her brother’s death. I think it was just her mind playing tricks on her.’

  ‘So you don’t believe it?’ I heard myself asking.

  ‘I think it’s just a story to keep you young ’uns out of harm’s way. I certainly steered clear of the loch when I was growing up. I didn’t want the monsters to get me. But I suppose . . .’ Old Bill paused. ‘Well, as a wee lad I was told the story every night before I went to sleep. I mean, every night. I suppose I can’t’ – he seemed to struggle to find the right words – ‘get it out of my head. But does that mean I believe it? I’m not sure.’

  Finn and I looked at each other and Finn shook his head at me, so I didn’t ask any more.

  ‘I’ll be off now then . . .’ Old Bill said, clearly keen to escape my questions, before heading for the door.

  ‘Effie? Finn?’

  We turned to see that he had made it no further than the doorway.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is there any particular reason why you wanted to know this?’

  This was our chance to ask Old Bill about Mum. He might be able to help us.

  ‘No reason,’ I chimed. ‘No reason.’

  He frowned a little and then turned away, walking out into the rain that was still falling.

  Chapter Seventeen

  That night I took out the photograph of Finn and me as babies.

  Wrapped in our yellow blankets, we looked identical. Could it be? I asked myself. Could Finn and I somehow be the twins? Was I the girl born after the boy; the girl who would awaken the monsters fro
m the deep? Had Mum been led into the water? Was it because of me? Was she just the first?

  Finn and I didn’t have a chance to talk about it before Dad arrived home from work and it was time for dinner.

  Dad overcooked the fish fingers: they were hard and dry and tasted more of the orange crumbs on the outside than the fish in the middle. I doused mine in tomato sauce, so all I could taste was the tang of the ketchup.

  ‘Dad?’ I said, in a questioning sort of way.

  ‘Yes?’ he said back, mimicking me.

  ‘When Finn and I were born, who was first?’

  ‘Finn,’ Dad said, crunching up a mouthful of fish finger. ‘By just a couple of hours. At one point it seemed like you were going to come at the same time. Rosemary wasn’t sure what she was going to do.’

  ‘What did Rosemary Tanner have to do with it?’

  ‘She was the midwife – she delivered you both. Because your mum and Kathleen went into labour at the same time, and you both came quite quickly, there wasn’t time to make it to Abiemore, and Rosemary was the only midwife here. So she said that they had to be in the same house. And when it seemed like you and Finn were going to arrive simultaneously, we wondered if we’d all end up in the same room!’

  ‘Which house?’ I asked, amazed not to have heard these details before.

  ‘Kathleen and Rob’s.’

  ‘And we were born on the very same day?’

  ‘I know – what were the odds? Just a couple of hours between you.’

  ‘It is odd,’ I said, thinking aloud.

  Tommi started to climb down from her chair.

  ‘Where’re you going, Tommi?’ I said, pulling her onto my lap.

  ‘Down, ’Fie,’ she said, and started to wriggle, but I wanted to keep her close.

  ‘All right, sweet girl,’ I said, letting her slide down to the floor. ‘But don’t go far.’

  Tommi wandered into the living room and sat down by the doorway, just in sight.

  ‘Do you think she spends too much time by herself?’ Dad said.

  I glanced at Tommi’s back. She was talking to herself. Or perhaps she was talking to a collection of stones she’d found in the garden. Or to her favourite teddies, all sitting in a row. Or even just creatures she had cast out of the air itself.