Flower of Scotland (5 page)

The time was getting close and Jim tried to hide the smiles which were waiting to burst from his face. He tried to look serious as Bob brought the end nearer.

‘Are you a man?’

Jim didn’t need to watch the pencil. He knew that Bob meant to go through the old twenty questions routine, trying to track down the identity of the ghost. He wouldn’t get far enough, Jim knew that. He also knew that they wouldn’t believe the answer if they ever found it. He wasn’t really listening as Bob rattled through the rest of the questions.

‘Did you live in this castle?’

‘Did you die violently?’

‘Were you an old man?’

Jim smiled inwardly at that one. He could tell from Bob’s tone that he was getting frustrated. It was only a matter of time now. The blackness was drawing closer and the cold was biting into the lower half of his body but none of them moved, intent on Bob, intent on the floating pencil.

‘Were you married?’

‘Did you have black hair?’

The questions were getting more inane and Jim’s muscles tensed. It was very close now.

And then Bob did it. The frustration got too much for him and he asked the wrong question.

‘Who are you?’

And all hell broke loose.

The blackness surged forward - a wall of cold which froze all four into immobility as the pencil snapped in two pieces and the candle flickered twice before finally going out. Bob was the first to scream as something grabbed his hands, something cold and dead and ugly.

Jim pressed himself backwards against the wall and listened as the screaming got louder and Bob was lifted into the air. Within the blackness he could just see the eyes, the fiery red embers which grew brighter with each scream.

Bob was dropped to the floor where he cringed and wept like a baby as the blackness reached for the other two. It never got that far. As one the boys managed to push themselves upright and Jim could hear them, screaming still as they raced off down the hill. It was nearly time for the final act.

The blackness loomed over Bob as Jim moved towards it. ‘Back!’ he shouted. ‘Go back to your own place.’ The blackness seemed to shrink in on itself and the red embers dimmed. Jim bent down and helped Bob to his feet, noticing with a grimace that the boy had fouled his pants. He turned the boy round to face the blackness.

‘Look at this thing.’ he said to Bob. ‘Look at it and remember that I am the one who can control it.’ He held the boy’s head steady, making sure that he was looking straight at the "ghost" before he continued.

‘Remember. Anytime you feel like hurting me, anytime you feel like doing a little damage - just remember. Anything happens to me - this will be back.’

As if on cue the blackness raised itself, filling the room as its eyes blazed like two golden suns and a cold wind ruffled the boys’ hair.

Jim released the other boy. ‘Go now.’ he said and gave the boy a shove towards the entrance.

He listened until he was sure that Bob Kerr had gone before he moved forward to embrace his Dad, Dad who had died two years ago, Dad who still always looked after him.

The sun was trying to push its way through the watery mist as the pair left the house. Mike followed along slightly behind, falling into the same loping walk as the man in front of him. There was a slight chill in the air but he was wearing only a T-shirt, a pair of shorts and a battered pair of trainers. His parents had wanted him to dress properly and, naturally, he had declined. He felt cold and he wished he was older.

"It’s just not fair."

He kicked at the loose stones of the path watching them rattle and tumble down the hill. They had come to rest before he started muttering again.

"I never get to do anything. Just because I’m only thirteen. John Davies is twelve, but he gets to see all the great films. I bet his dad doesn’t think that films rot your brains."

The man slowed down and now walked alongside the boy. His upper body seemed to stiffen, the lines tightened at the corners of his mouth and the wrinkles by his eyes became visible. Mike didn’t have to look up, he knew the expression would be there - the one which said ‘I am right, you are wrong, I am an adult, you are just a child.’ He had been seeing a lot of that expression lately.

"That’s enough" his father said. "You are too young and that’s the end of it. When I was your age I…"

Mike had heard it all so many times before he believed that he could roll off the speech by heart. Better to stop him before he really got into it.

"When you were my age you probably were a swot. And there were no good films then anyway - just that boring black and white stuff. I bet you never had monsters and aliens and spaceships."

His father kept going in that slow reasonable voice that Mike was coming to hate.

"When I was your age I wasn’t allowed to see an X-rated film, and I don’t see that you should be any different. X-rated means that you have to be eighteen to see it, and you’ve got a few more years to go yet."

Mike couldn’t let it lie.

"John Davies gets to see them."

"Yes, you’ve said that already" his father replied, still in the same damned reasonable tone. "But John Davies also has a bad reputation, with the police, with the school and with other parents. I don’t think he’s a very good example for you to follow. Do you?"

"But that’s not the point" Mike said, close to crying now, trying hard not to let the tears show - if he cried he would lose the argument and he wasn’t ready to give up yet.

"That’s exactly the point. I’ve made a decision and you’re just going to have to like it. Come on, let’s go down to the lake and see if there are any fish."

The man put his arm out around his son’s shoulders, but the boy squirmed away.

"I don’t want to see your stupid fish and I don’t want to go to the lake. I want to see the film." He moved away from his father, eyes bright with tears.

"I wish I was older. Then you wouldn’t be able to tell me what to do. You’re just a boring old fart. I hate you."

He turned and ran down the hill, his tears blinding him as he left the path and headed into the thick blackthorn bushes on the left hand side. He pushed the branches away, not noticing the many scratches which blossomed redly on his arms and legs as he pushed his way deeper into the thicket.

He snagged himself hard on one branch and felt a firm satisfaction as there was a rip then a tear and his T-shirt was torn from waist to shoulder. Behind him he could hear his father calling, but he took no notice. He plunged in farther, forcing his way past the recalcitrant bushes, trying to get as far away as possible.

The chasing voice was fading behind him as he changed direction, following the contours of the hill. He knew there was a path somewhere around here, it was just a matter of finding it.

Stumbling on, he continued downhill, trying to avoid the bigger, more dangerous branches, giving no thought to where he was headed, when suddenly his feet failed him. They gave way beneath him, scrambling in the dirt for purchase as he tried to keep his footing. A large piece of earth crumbled causing him to fall awkwardly backwards.

He threw out his arms to try to get a hold of something - a tree, a rock, anything to stop the fall, but another clump of earth gave way and he plunged downward. His fall was short, but he landed hard, knocking the wind from his body.

He lay there for several seconds, gasping in great gulps of air as he tried to get his breath. Raising his head, wincing from the bruises in his neck muscles, he looked upwards to see where he had been.

He had fallen from a ledge which he could just see through the foliage above him. He was in what appeared to be a garden, but one which had been left to its own devices for too long. It was the size of a tennis court and was surrounded on all sides by a high wall, a wall of old red brick encrusted with entwining ivy and climbing mosses and rampant greenery. Rose bushes surrounded him, their wicked thorns waiting for him to get close enough to snare and trap and bloody.

Through their branches he could see a path, slightly less covered than the surrounding area. Pushing himself to his hands and knees, groaning at the pains in his body, he cautiously made his way through the foliage.

Some of the rose thorns tried their best to snag him but he was too agile for them and it wasn’t long before he was able to push the last branch aside and stand up. When he stood he was able to see a gate in the far wall, a huge black cast iron gate set in shadow under an arch of flowers. He hoped it wasn’t locked - he wasn’t sure whether he could get over the walls.

The sky darkened overhead and he looked up just as a deep black cloud covered the sun and cast gloom into the corners of the garden, softening the shadows.

The air was heavy and moist and silent, not even a bird called as he made his way to the gate. The rusted metal squealed as he pushed at it, harder then harder still till finally it swung open before him.

He was looking into another garden, similar to the one he had just left but larger, still with the overgrown rose bushes, still with the ivy encrusted walls and with a twin gate directly opposite him at the far end.

There was a figure, a bent, hunched over man, in the left hand corner. Mike called out to him.

"Hello?"

But there was no reply. Mike could hear a noise, a crackling and a rustling, but there was no sign that he had been heard.

He moved closer, noticing that the figure was an old man, clad in a workman’s overall.

‘Probably the gardener’ he thought to himself. As he got within five yards he spoke again.

"Hello. Can you tell me how to get out of here please?" But there was still no reply. He went to the old man’s side and touched his shoulder, then stood back as the figure turned round.

He wasn’t just old, he was ancient. His face was brown, a deep nutmeg brown that reminded Mike of the old sideboard at home - only the sideboard didn’t have as many lines on it.

Two deep black eyes were sunk into hollows but they sparkled with life. The worst thing was the mouth - Mike couldn’t take his eyes off it. The lips were thin, almost non-existent and they were pulled back over red, feverish gums in which three teeth sat, spaced at intervals in the rotting tissue.

The tongue which popped out when he looked up at Mike was gray and green and somehow slimy.

A hand came up to the wizened features, a hand which was even browner and was covered in even more lines than the face. It made a pass in front of the mouth and then a pass over both ears before the old man bent over his task once more.

Mike understood. Deaf and dumb, just great. How was he going to make his wishes known. He was about to tap him on the shoulder again when he realised what the old man was doing.

Suddenly he found if hard to breathe and the world swam mistily around him. He had to shake his head, hard, and look again, just to make sure.

In his left hand the man had a pointed stick of black, moss encrusted wood. He pointed at a leaf, a green fleshy leaf in the prime of its life. As Mike watched it started to go brown, from the edges first, a yellowing then a darkening spreading inwards along the veins, crackling and rustling as the leaf crumpled in on itself, drying out and finally falling lifeless to the ground to join the pile already there.

The stick pointed again, this time at a rose flower. The petals fell, one by one, drifting softly to lie redly on the brown earth below. He didn’t know why, but Mike found that he was crying.

He rubbed at his eyes with his forearm feeling the hot tears mix with the gritty earth and the slimy blood as he smeared his skin. When he looked up again the figure had wandered off, over into the centre of the garden.

He followed - he couldn’t think of anything else to do. For a split second he wished that Dad was with him. Dad was good at mimes and charades - he would be able to make the old man understand. And Dad was smart. He’d know what the old man had been doing. Some sort of chemical he supposed. Dad would know. But then he remembered the reason he had been running.

"I’ll get myself out of this" he told himself - and any anyone within earshot of his mutters. "Then they’ll know I’m not just a cry-baby child."

As he got closer he could see that the figure had bent over a pool and he could hear cooing, pigeon like noises coming from the festering hole which passed as a mouth. Something flashed, red and gold, and he watched amazed, as the foot long catfish jumped into the old man’s right hand. He was struck motionless as the stick moved upwards, but spurred himself into action as it came closer to the fish.

"No" he shouted, just once, just before his hand closed tightly on the black rod and his world changed.

It began slowly. He felt stronger and watched, amazed, as the scratches on his body healed, zipping themselves up and locking the redness back in.

Somewhere there was a splash as the fish returned to the water but Mike didn’t see it, couldn’t see it, was unable to drag his eyes from the changes taking place in his body.

He grew taller, then taller still, towering over the figure in front of him. He was getting older - fifteen, sixteen, then the old man pulled the stick from his grasp.

He looked at his palm, at the black streak left by the wood, then looked down into the black expressionless eyes below. Without thinking, he grabbed for the stick again. ‘Still not old enough’ was the thought that passed through his mind.

As the stick found his hand, the old man smiled and Mike could see a row of perfect white teeth pushing and jostling their way up through the pink gums. He grew ‘Just like Alice’ he thought - and grew and he tried to release the stick but it seemed stuck to his hand. He pulled at it and felt a lancing flare of pain and looked down to see the flesh of his palm and the wood of the stick had become one, inseparable whole.

The old man didn’t look so old anymore as Mike tried to push him away, tried to give the stick back, but he was beginning to feel weak. His skin darkened and fine lines were beginning to form and he could feel his body shrinking again. He cried, tears of relief ‘I’m going to be all right - it’s going backwards’. But his skin got darker and his legs got weaker and the man in front of him looked more and more like a boy until greyness began to mist his sight.