Beyond the Shroud (6 page)

We stared at each other in silence. All I could see was a dark silhouette in long winter pyjamas, but I could imagine the look on his face as clearly as if it was broad daylight. The smile … the shine of triumph in his eyes.

All the anger I'd been fighting surged up inside me in a giant wave. ‘Get away from me!' I hissed. ‘Leave me alone! I hate you!'

The figure took a step backwards. ‘S-s-sorry …'

I blinked. The wave of rage gurgled away like bath water disappearing down the plug hole. I gaped at him with my mouth open. It wasn't Weevil — it was Frankie, a little kid with a stammer, his bunny clenched under one arm. ‘Frankie?' I was out of the chair now, padding towards him in the cold light of the computer. He backed away from me, his eyes wide and frightened in his thin face.

‘I th-th-th-thought I heard a b-b-b-b-b-'

‘Shhhh. There's no burglar — only me. I didn't mean to yell. I thought you were … someone else. Frankie — no
one must know I was here. Don't tell, OK?' He shook his head wordlessly. I put my hand on his shoulder. He was shivering. ‘Back to bed now. Quiet as a mouse, huh? And remember — not one word to anyone. Promise?'

‘P-p-p-promise.'

He turned and stole away down the passage like a little ghost. I turned the computer off, covered it carefully with its sheet, closed the rec room door, tiptoed back to bed … and lay there in a cold sweat of relief, my heart hammering hard enough to wake the whole of Highgate.

I knew Q would come. Probably just after three o'clock, when I'd normally be getting back from school. Or during afternoon tea … or maybe just before dinner. One thing I knew for sure: he'd come.

I spent the morning locked in the bathrooms on my hands and knees, cleaning the shower stalls and toilets. I thought of the other kids at school: the end-of-term lip-synch concert … the staff-versus-kids softball match … the sausage sizzle. Most of all, I thought of Q roaring along the highway in the big green four-by-four, his bodyguard Shaw at the wheel, every second bringing them closer to Highgate.

Matron and Cook had pies for lunch, from the corner bakery. I sat by myself at the far end of the dining room, making my slice of bread and jam last as long as possible, breathing in the smell of rich gravy and flaky golden pastry. Matron didn't take her eyes off me once.

After lunch, though I knew it was way too early, I found myself starting to listen for the sound of the car. I was spring-cleaning the kitchen under Cook's supervision, and it was hard to hear anything above the sound of my scrubbing brush, with my head stuck in the back of
cupboard after cupboard. But at last I heard the slam of the front door, and the excited chatter of voices. Who wouldn't be excited, getting away from Highgate for two weeks?

Any minute now … any minute now, they'll come.

That whole afternoon my senses were on super-alert, my ears pricked for the sound of a car engine, or a door slamming. And there were plenty of those, as first one kid, then another was picked up by guardians or foster-families for the holidays. But when the doorbell rang, it was never for me.

By dinnertime my heart felt like a lead weight in my chest. My fingers were wrinkled up like old prunes, my eyes were red-rimmed and stinging, and my skin had a tinny, chemical smell of bleach and detergent that no amount of soap could wash away. Breathing in the fumes all day had given me a headache and left a strange, metallic taste in my mouth that made dinner — liver, onions and cabbage — taste even worse than usual. I pushed it round my plate, trying not to look at Weevil sitting opposite, chewing tidily, his face smooth with satisfaction. For once, I didn't finish my grey, greasy plateful. When at last dinner was over and I left the table to do the washing up, the hollow feeling under my ribs had nothing to do with hunger.

He isn't coming …

Chores finally over, I mooched into the rec room and over to my favourite chair. The stuffing was coming out here and there, and it had a funny, mouldy smell, but it was comfortable enough as long as you avoided the springs. I flopped down with my back to the room, opened my library book, and stared at the first page, sick with disappointment. The words blurred and swam and disappeared. My mind drifted … over the high wire fence of Highgate … over the roofs and twinkling lights of
Redcliff … over the dark countryside, to Quested Court and beyond: far, far beyond, to a land where rivers sang and twin moons hung in a purple sky.

The doorbell rang.

Instantly, my book jerked into focus again. My ears mushroomed as huge as an elephant's … my heart stopped beating, and my breath caught in my throat. My head hummed with the echoing silence of the listening room. Everyone who was leaving for the holidays had already left … so who could this be?

Matron's footsteps marched down the passage to the front door:
clack clack clack clack.
The key turned in the heavy lock; the bolts drew back: one … two. The door creaked open.

The minutes dragged by. I imagined raised voices … shouting … Shaw bursting into the room with Sabre bounding and straining at his leash, teeth bared … an escort of uniformed policemen with a warrant for my instant release … the sound of a car drawing away, and Matron appearing in the doorway, cane at the ready.
Please — not that.

But there was nothing — nothing except the murmur of the television and the subdued, curious whispers of the other children.

Then, after what seemed a long, long time, the doorknob turned. The room froze, every eye on the door. It opened. A tall, dishevelled scarecrow in scuffed corduroys and a baggy green sweater stepped hesitantly into the room, searching it with eyes that were mild and interested behind smeary specs.

Q.

Behind him, a hulking giant of a man, shoulders so wide he turned automatically sideways as he entered the room, head ducking under the lintel of the door. Shaw, bald head gleaming under the electric light, face impassive
as ever. Stopping just inside the doorway, arms folded, surveying the room through narrowed eyes.

Then I was standing, my book falling to the floor … crossing the room as if I was walking on clouds … arriving in the safe haven of Q's open arms with a feeling like coming home.

Ten minutes later we were coasting down the hill and through the centre of town, heading for the northern highway. I gazed out at the lights flashing by, hardly able to believe it was true. Here I was, cocooned in leather-scented luxury, music playing softly on the stereo, leaving it all behind …

Weevil, stunned, his face as blank as if he'd walked into a wall. Scuttling up to Q as we headed for the front door, reaching to tug at the frayed hem of his jumper — ‘Excuse me, Mr Quested sir, excuse me —' while Q smiled down at me, shepherding me protectively to the car, not even noticing Weevil was there.

The look on Weevil's face as we roared away down the driveway, gravel spurting from the tyres.

Matron's closed door.

‘
Matron!
She'll be so mad! She'll kill me when I get back! What did you say to her? You didn't tell her, did you? About the e-mail?'

Q's slow, peaceful smile. ‘Relax, Adam. Don't worry your head about her. I don't like what I sense about that woman, to be honest, and I don't like the feel of Highgate. I think you've had a tough time, one way and another, you poor fellow. Places like Highgate aren't run like that any more, or shouldn't be — this is the twentieth century, after all.'

‘The twenty-first century, ain't it, Q?'

‘A minor detail, Shaw — but thank you all the same.
My point is, you can't run a children's home like a prison. There are laws in place to prevent it. I shudder to think what a competent investigation of that place would turn up, starting with an audit of the finances … tempting, isn't it, Shaw? I said as much to your Matron … and I do believe she felt I had a point. Seemed quite happy to allow you to come with us, in fact. And now, my boy, sit back and relax. The holidays are here — and Hannah and I are going to make sure you enjoy every minute.'

It was as if a heavy weight was slowly lifting off me, growing lighter with every turn of the wheels. Most of that weight was Weevil. He was stuck back there at Highgate whether he liked it or not — there was nothing he could do about it now. I wouldn't see him, or even need to think about him, for two whole weeks.

I was in the middle of a detailed description of my gladiator project when a huge yawn just about cracked my jaw. Q smiled down at me. ‘It's late, I know. So rather than drive all the way through to Quested Court tonight, I thought we'd stop off at a little country hotel a couple of kilometres further on. I've stayed there once or twice — the rooms are comfortable, and the food's not bad. We'll make an early start in the morning, and be back home in time for lunch.'

Home.
It was a word I'd never have dreamed of using to describe Highgate, even though I'd lived there all my life. But somehow it fitted Quested Court perfectly — and it
warmed me even more than the prospect of a cosy bed. But suddenly a thought came into my mind — an unwelcome thought I tried to push away before it took root and grew.

Quested Court: Q's home. A place where he and Hannah were safe and private, surrounded by the small group of people he trusted completely — almost like family, he'd told us once. A place where I'd felt safe.

But one of them had been in my room that night.
Though I hadn't actually seen anyone, I knew it had been someone in Quested Court. But who? Not Q. Not Hannah. Not one of the other children, I was sure. That left the adults. Shaw: solid, reassuring, reliable, hands steady on the wheel as he guided the big car safely through the rushing darkness. Nanny, who loved Hannah like her own child, and who'd looked after Q himself when he was small. Withers, the accountant. I'd never met him, but I knew Q trusted him completely. Veronica Usherwood, Marketing Manager of Quest Enterprises. Brisk, businesslike, efficient; someone Hannah once told me
would like to be her mother
… but who neither Hannah nor her little cat Tiger Lily liked. Someone whose eyes I had noticed more than once resting on me with a cool watchfulness I didn't even begin to understand.

I ought to tell Q. But how could I — and what was there to tell? How did you tell your host that you believed someone in his home had … spied on you?

Now or never. I took a deep breath. ‘Q —' I began hesitantly.

At that moment, the car slowed, and the indicator flicked on. ‘Ah — here we are,' said Q with satisfaction.

Perhaps that was the answer: you didn't tell him.

As Q had promised, we made an early start the next morning, fortified by a scrumptious breakfast of bacon, eggs and something I'd never had before called devilled kidneys. ‘Food fit fer a king,' Shaw declared with his mouth full — and he was right. Several cups of steaming coffee and frothy hot chocolate later, we were off.

Early morning mist lay in thin veils across the road; the long grass sparkled with dew, and everywhere birds wheeled and spun in the clear air. As before, Shaw drove, leaving Q and me to relax in the back, dreaming, gazing out of the window, and occasionally talking about whatever came into our heads. Now, in the bright light of morning, the memory of that night at Quested Court dissolved like a forgotten dream.

Q was working flat out, he told me, often late into the night. The newest title in his award-winning Karazan Series was underway, and going well. ‘Top secret still, of course, Adam,' he said, almost shyly. ‘This will be the last one — the most powerful yet, and the best. The culmination of all my years of work … sad in a way, I suppose. But everything has to come to an end, and every end is a new beginning.' Something about his words sounded familiar … and unsettling.

‘Yeah, I guess,' I mumbled. It was weird to think of Q writing another Karazan computer game. Sure, it was a world he'd invented, out of his imagination: a pretend world to thousands of kids all over the world. But not to me. Because it was a world I'd been to, whose air I'd breathed and whose food I'd eaten … a world with people in it as real as I was. But Q hadn't been there. Did that mean it was still a game to him?

And how did the computer-game fantasy tie in with the reality of Karazan? If Q invented something in his game — the game he was working on now — did that mean it would suddenly appear in Karazan, like magic?
Could he influence things that happened there … or did his games operate in a different dimension from the real world Karazan had become — in a simple world of make-believe?

The thought of a new Karazan computer game gave me a strange feeling of unease … a queasy, uncomfortable feeling under my ribs … a kind of superstitious dread. I knew I'd struggle to explain the feeling to anyone, even Q. I didn't even begin to understand it myself. For a second I thought of asking what the new game was called … but ‘top secret', Q had said, and I didn't want to pry, so I pushed thoughts of Karazan out of my mind, and went back to watching the world go by.

The last time — the only other time — I'd made this journey, I'd been fast asleep, a stowaway in the back of a horsebox. Now, I drank in every detail of the scenery as it scrolled smoothly past the window. It wasn't often I had the chance to get out of the city, and I was determined to make the most of every moment.

We stopped in Cranmer for a break, another cup of coffee for the grown-ups, and a cold drink and an iced bun for me — crammed with raisins, with thick white icing on top that cracked into slabs when I bit into it.

And then it was only an hour and a half to Winterton. The big car gobbled up the kilometres to Quested Court as effortlessly as I'd gobbled up my bun. I smiled to myself when I remembered my endless walk along this same road — wet, bedraggled, and very unsure of my welcome.

Today couldn't have been more different. The sun was shining, the huge gates stood open, and Quentin Quested himself was beside me, as impatient as I was to arrive. The car slowed and turned into the driveway. I'd pictured Hannah waiting by the gate, swinging on it, maybe … the same gate I'd had to climb over in the pouring rain two months before.

I could tell Shaw was half expecting her to come darting out from the woodland that lined the drive — he slowed down to a crawl once we were through the gate, and in the rear-view mirror I could see his watchful bodyguard's eyes scanning the trees, alert for any movement.

Beside me, Q was leaning forward in his seat, eyes glowing with anticipation behind his cloudy specs. ‘You won't believe how she's grown, Adam,' he was telling me for the zillionth time. ‘Taller, stronger every day — a sturdy, healthy little girl with rosy cheeks —
rosy
— the first time I've ever understood the true wonder of the word. And her hair, wait till you see her hair — fluffy and golden, like duckling down. You won't recognise her! And we never get a moment's peace, of course. She was full of mischief even before, when she was so ill … well, you know that as well as anyone. But now she's …
bubbling
with nonsense, overflowing with the joy of life. And we have you to thank for it. And surprises! She's such a one for
surprises
— just you wait! She's been living for this visit ever since you left — she talks about you every single day. You — and the other four. My little Chatterbot … what you did for her can never be repaid, Adam. Never.'

Finally Shaw drew up outside the huge old house and we all piled out, stretching the stiffness of the long drive out of our arms and legs. Sabre, Shaw's fearsome-looking Rottweiler guard dog, waggled over to say hello. I patted his heavy shoulder and pulled his ear; he looked up at me, forehead crinkled in a worried frown, and gave a funny little whine.

Q bounded up the steps to the heavy wooden door. ‘Hannah! Hannah!' he called. ‘Chatterbot, look who's here! We're home!'

He flung the door open.

An elderly, dry-looking man like a kindly vulture stood framed in the doorway, his smile of welcome fading into
an expression of dawning bewilderment.

‘Withers!' cried Q. ‘Come and say hello to Adam! Hannah! Where's that little monkey hiding?
Hannah!
Has she been making your lives a misery while we've been away? I was sure she'd be up at the gate …' Like a wind-up toy running down, Q's voice trailed off and stopped. He stared into Withers' face for what seemed a very long time. ‘Where is she?' he breathed.

Withers cleared his throat: a soft, apologetic sound like rustling paper. ‘But Q,' he said, ‘Hannah — she went with you to fetch Adam, yesterday afternoon.'