The World House (18 page)

  "Be quick then," suggested Pablo, looking around nervously as the lights continued to dim.

  "The toys," said Elise, "wouldn't you know it? It's the fucking toys!"

  One by one the stuffed animals were beginning to move, stretching their soft furry limbs.

  "Screw that," said Tom with a laugh, "we've just faced off giant snakes – you think teddy bears scare me? I'll organise a picnic, that'll get them off our backs." Beneath him the snake twitched again and he wriggled faster. Once his feet were clear, he rolled off and slid into the ball pit. The snake's tail flicked slightly as Tom clambered out and headed over to Pablo and Elise. The stuffed animals were getting to their feet; a large purple bear roared at Pablo, exposing ridiculously large teeth.

  "OK," said Pablo, "we go now."

  The snake thrashed in the doorway, pulling itself back into the room. It veered widely, out of control, the antlers in its skull having damaged its brain.

  "Yeah, go now," said Tom, backing towards the far side of the room, "good plan."

  The snake threw itself towards them, landing off to one side where countless toys jumped on it and began to bite and chew.

  Skirting the games board, Tom, Elise and Pablo ducked through the archway just as the lights gave out altogether.

 
 
 

"Oh my God," said Alan, "that's unbelievable." He stuck his hand between the branches of the palm tree and stroked the glass beyond it. "
Unbelievable
," he repeated. "We're inside some kind of structure… a greenhouse perhaps."

  Behind him Sophie gave a loud moan and sat down on the floor, closing her eyes and humming. He ran over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. "It's OK, honey," he said, "don't panic."

  It hadn't taken him long to realise that Sophie's manner wasn't down to shock but a symptom of something deeper. Knowing that didn't help him figure out how to deal with it, mind you, but he figured a bit of gentle support could do no harm. She wriggled out from under his arm, humming even louder, so he stepped back to give her some space. She immediately became quieter so he guessed he'd done the right thing.

  A few feet away the undergrowth started to rustle. They had been surrounded by noises as they'd walked, movement in the bushes around them and in the trees above their heads. He'd tried to dismiss it as nothing to worry about, not wanting to scare Sophie, though in truth he was terrified. If a hungry animal had their scent he didn't fancy their chances much: a fat guy and a special-needs kid wouldn't make the hardest dinner to catch.

  There was a high squeal and the bushes parted to reveal a fat boar, its tusks a chipped nicotine yellow, the hair on its back matted by mud into a spiky Mohican. It stared at them for a moment then squealed again and charged. A man burst out of the trees and dropped on the boar with a yell. Brandishing a wooden stake, he stabbed aimlessly at the creature, his own frenzied shouts matching the animal's panicked screams. Alan instinctively turned away in disgust, though the noise turned his stomach just as badly as the glimpse of spurting blood had done. As an afterthought he dropped down in front of Sophie to block her view, though she didn't appear aware of what was happening, still humming in her own private world. The noise stopped, the animal finally dead. Alan turned to face the savage-looking hunter, hopeful that he wouldn't prove a danger now that he had something for his fire. The man didn't appear threatening, in fact he seemed confused, staring at the dead beast as if it was something he'd stumbled upon rather than created. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and pulled himself together.

  "Hey," he said, tugging a spectacle-case from the pocket of what – now Alan looked closer – appeared to be a pair of badly torn pinstripe suit-trousers, "sorry about that." He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from another pocket and wiped the boar blood from his hands and cheeks. He opened the spectacle-case and placed a pair of thick-lensed glasses on his nose. "Couldn't afford to damage these puppies, blind as the proverbial without them. I'm somewhat of a blunt instrument when it comes to hunting, though – keep clouting the bugger till it lies still."

  Alan stared at the man, taking in all the bizarre details: those pinstriped trousers, the headband that was surely once a red silk tie, the tatty brogues, toes open to the elements, sock-suspenders yanking on holed and dirty argyles.

  "Oh, forgive me," the man continued, "lost all my social graces. Toby Whitstable, 1984, London, housebound three years." He stuck out his hand and Alan – on reflex – shook it.

  "Alan Arthur," he replied. "Not sure I follow the rest."

  "Ah! Newcomer, eh?" Whitstable chuckled with a snort not unlike the boar he had just slaughtered. "Just the way of things in our tribe. Name, year in the real world when you were taken, where you were taken from and how long you've been here. Sort of name, rank and serial number."

  "Oh, 2010, Kissimmee – that's in Florida, in case you didn't know – and…" he checked his watch "… about an hour."

  "I say! A real spring chicken! Fab I bumped into you, and who do we have here?" he looked over Alan's shoulder at Sophie, who had stopped humming and was now staring at them.

  "I don't know her name, she's…"

  "Sophie," she said, "three is good."

  She stood up and walked over to them, silent again.

  "Oh," said Whitstable, "yeah, three's super isn't it?" Not quite sure what else to say, he grinned inanely for a moment and then regained his stride. "So, you two had better follow me, I guess. It's not safe out here on your own, especially not with nighttime on its way…"

  "Night?" Alan looked up at the canopy above them.

  "Oh yes," Whitstable replied, "not long now and only a fool or a spring chicken would wander around out here then." He walked over to the dead boar and lifted it on to his shoulders with surprising ease. "Get piggy here on the go and there'll be grub all round, eh?"

  Seeing little choice in the matter Alan nodded and turned to Sophie. "That all right by you, Sophie?" She nodded.

  "Brill! Follow me then." Whitstable strode off into the vegetation, Alan and Sophie a little way behind.

  Alan tried not to stare at the dead boar as they walked. Its fat purple tongue swung from the corner of its mouth as Whitstable marched. He dearly hoped he wasn't going to be expected to eat some of it.

  "You say you've been here three years?" he asked, moving next to Whitstable so he wasn't staring at the boar.

  "Amazing, eh? I worked in the City, financials, now look at me! Gone native!"

  "You came here through the box?"

  "That's right, bought it off a stall in Portobello Road, thought it would be a stellar gift for Monica – that's my wife… well,
was
my wife… you know. Next thing I know, here I am, utterly bemused, no idea what's going on."

  "It's quite an experience."

  "Absolutely! I'm lying arse-up in a giant fern, thinking I've gone doolally. Lucky for me I was found by a couple of the boys and they were able to show me the ropes. Bit like I found you."

  Alan looked over his shoulder at Sophie. "You OK, honey?" he asked. She didn't respond, didn't even seem to hear him.

  "Bit on the slow side," said Whitstable. "Knew someone at school like it, always laughing but none of us could see why. Not much to laugh about licking windows all day."

  "I don't know what her condition is," Alan replied coldly.

  "Oh, hey… no offence. I get a bit confused with some of the changes since I left, everyone tells me I'm tactless."

  "It's fine."

  They didn't talk for a while. Whitstable whistled "Club Tropicana" rather loudly to break the silence. Alan noticed that the light was beginning to fade, the shadows deepening between the trees.

  "How much further?" he said. "It's getting pretty dark."

  "We're there," Whitstable replied, tugging a large bush to one side to reveal a hole in the ground shored up with wooden props and a tarpaulin.

  "Underground?"

  "Absolutely," said Whitstable, "keeps us out of sight of the beasties."

  Alan looked at Sophie, who was staring past them at the cave mouth. "You OK, Sophie?" he asked. "Not scared of the dark, are you, hon?"

  She didn't reply, just kept staring.

  "Do… not… worry…" Whitstable said, as if trying to communicate with an unruly dog, "no… scary… in… dark."

  "She can understand, for Christ's sake," Alan hissed, "you don't have to talk to her like she's an idiot."

  "Just trying to help," Whitstable replied, offended. "I could have left you out there, you know?"

  "I know," said Alan, "you're a saint, just let me talk to her, OK?"

  "Whatever, make it quick. I'm not staying out here any longer than I need to, not once the light's gone."

  Alan nodded and went over to Sophie. "Hey, honey," he said, "I know you don't like the look of it, can't say I fancy it much myself, but we can't stay out here, it's too dangerous." She didn't look at him. "Sophie? Sophie honey?" She turned to look at him, a confused look on her face as if she hadn't heard a word he'd said. She stared for a few seconds then smiled and walked past him into the tunnel.

  "After you then," Whitstable muttered, turning to follow her.

  Alan shook his head, exasperated. He followed them inside.

  The tunnel was narrow but not as long as he had imagined. Once past the opening, they turned a sharp corner, light streaming in from ahead.

  "Well hidden, eh?" said Whitstable.

  The tunnel opened out into a huge chamber. A network of thick ropes criss-crossed the beamed roof with lit torches hanging from it. In the centre of the roof a vent hole sucked smoke up from a roaring bonfire into which people as wretched-looking as Whitstable were poking wrapped parcels for cooking. There were around thirty people in all, though it was difficult to be sure as the various shadowy piles in the dirt might be sleeping natives or stacks of clothing. Some people worked at knocked-up tables, fashioning tools or weapons, some were simply sitting around, staring into space and thinking their own thoughts. It had the air of a refugee camp. Everyone was thin, dirty and rough.

  "Home is the hunter!" Whitstable called. Several people looked towards him with undisguised enthusiasm at the boar he carried.

  "Toby!" An emaciated woman came running over, rubbing her hands at the sight of the fresh meat. "We were getting worried, it must be nearly night by now."

  "I've not been caught out yet, Lauren. Toby Whitstable is a man that keeps his promises!"

  "And you've brought company, I see?"

  Alan introduced himself and Sophie, who had walked past them towards the fire. She stared at the flames, muttering under her breath.

  "They've just arrived, poor things," said Whitstable "Least we could do was offer them a warm welcome, I thought."

  "Of course," said another woman, much older than the first, "they are welcome to a meal and a bed." She turned to Alan. "Stefania D'Amaro, Milan, 1973, housebound four years."

  "Alan Arthur, Kissimmee, 2010, housebound just this afternoon. I can't speak for Sophie, she keeps herself to herself, but we're touched by your hospitality."

  "It's all we have. Come and join me closer to the fire."

  They walked over to a table where she had been working. A dress, half-stitched, was draped over the back of her makeshift chair. She gestured to Alan to pull up a stool as she continued absentmindedly to fix the hem of the dress.

  "You speak excellent English," said Alan, settling on to his seat.

  "My husband was an American like yourself," she explained, "and I could never get him to learn Italian."

  "You've built yourselves an impressive camp."

  "It's wretched, but then our resources are limited."

  "You've got heat and light, that's the main thing."

  "The fire never goes out, nor the torches… don't ask me how, it's quite impossible but we've given up trying to understand it."

  "As long as it keeps working, why should you?"

  Stefania shrugged. She had little interest in discussing herself, it was him she wanted to talk about. "So tell me – it's traditional – how did you come to find yourself here?"

  Alan related his story, the years he had searched for the box, the reports he had read from those who had been stolen away by it and yet found escape. This, in particular, was of great interest to Stefania.

  "We had no idea there might be a way out," she admitted.

  "I have to say a jungle was never mentioned," said Alan. "The reports were of a house – this wasn't at all what I expected."

  "Perhaps the box can take you to many places?"

  "Perhaps… but the glass surrounding the jungle, maybe there's something beyond that?"

  Stefania waved the idea away. "We avoid the barrier. A few people have tried to break through but they learned to regret it. There are… monsters beyond the glass, in the darkness… they drag you away, never to be seen again."

  "A dangerous place."

  "And yet it is one you actively sought to find? I must admit I find that strange."

  Alan nodded. "I can see that. It's difficult to explain…"

  "Well, please try!" Stefania laughed.

  Alan smiled and wondered where to start. "When I was a young man something happened to me, an accident… I was found wandering along the roadside with no memory of how I'd got there, who I was… anything at all, in fact."

  "Amnesia."

  "Yes, though I had one hell of a time trying to convince the authorities of that. It doesn't tend to happen, you see, outside movies anyway. People just don't forget great chunks of their life, not for long anyway. I was in a clinic for a while, lots of specialists… came to nothing."