Haunted, page 14
'Skuits' seemed to appeal to viewers. There was a natural juxtaposition that was satisfying with the suit gimmick. After a few videos, the number of hits and subscribers quickly grew. I think Rebecca played a considerable part in the popularity. You could see in the first few episodes that she had wanted to be an anonymous camera operator, trying to create a filmic feel to the videos, but Ollie had broken that straight away, using verbal exchanges and playful confiscations of the equipment to bring her into the world, so that the videos had a much more authentic, home-made feel. You could see Rebecca become a personality within the films, even though it was reluctantly, and she and Ollie quickly became a very watchable double act – there was undeniable on-screen chemistry between them. What surprised me was how Ollie seemed like a totally different person when I wasn't around, despite the tired glances, he was more like his old self, and it was painful to see him like this. This was someone I seemed to have lost. It made me sad. There was also a hint of envy that Rebecca got to hang out with him.
I watched the latest video at my desk with the sash window open a few inches and the laptop as the only light in the room so that I didn't lure in insects. It was a humid, warm night, and the thick foliage of the trees near my window caught the light. A witches' broom was just visible. It gently scraped against nearby branches as the tree creaked in the slightest of breezes.
I heard Rebecca laugh off-camera, and I suddenly felt very lonely. For once I really did feel like the sick kid on the sidelines. It was hard not to feel bitter, and I could feel dark thoughts bubble to the surface. The idea that Ollie was doing all this on purpose just to spite me, doing it to show me how pitiful I was, how much better than me he was, how he could make Rebecca laugh so much more easily than I could, and how he could put it on display for the whole world to see. I suddenly heard a creak in the darkness around me, like the sound of the branches had somehow moved into the room. I turned the volume down and looked around. There was a faint scraping coming from somewhere, but I couldn't pick it out exactly. I turned back to my desk. Only then did I notice that the door to the Golden Cupboard was open.
I sat stock still. The door had been closed only moments before. I knew it. And now the small box sat there ominously in the semi-darkness, the open door obscuring my view inside. I watched the tiny door with dread. It had been a long time since I'd found this door open. It had remained shut ever since the night I defeated the monster. But now it was open, and I had a horrible feeling all of a sudden that if I tried to close that door, something would reach out to grab me.
My heart was speeding. The air felt thick. I heard a scraping even closer than before. It felt like it was right behind me. The old dread crept inside me. Then I saw the claw.
It slowly emerged from behind the door, black shadowy fingers with white claws that dug into the desk, pulling at the wood as if they were dragging some huge weight behind them. I screamed and jumped up. I ran to the light switch and slammed it on, throwing the room into light. I scanned the room in fright, but there was nothing to see, not at the desk, not anywhere else. Everything was normal. All I could hear was Mum and Dad arguing. My heart raced.
What the hell had just happened? Since the night I had walked through the ominous door at the end of that sickly-grey corridor and banished the monster, I had been fine and – realising that I had nothing to fear – my technique for healing myself had changed. I had not gone for the laser-firing spaceships, instead I had imagined the tumour slowly dissolving, my mind too powerful for it, too potent. Instead of it attacking my brain, my brain was attacking it, absorbing it, taking it in like I had taken in my fear. The tumour was an ice-cube and my mind was hot tea, corroding and eating away at the dense lump. I still had nightmares from time to time, visions of terrible things half-remembered that always left me with the feeling of dread when I woke. It was never going to be a quick process, but I knew it would work. I had found certainty. Until now.
I could still hear Rebecca's faint laugh coming out of the speakers as I stared at the desk, unable to understand. None of this was real. It was all in my head. It had to be. I shut my eyes and focused the hot energy of my brain power onto the cold tumour, eating away the black lump, absorbing it.
'I mean, he's right. The scans will just show us what we know,' I could hear Dad say forcefully. 'He's got a positive outlook at the moment. Don't ruin it for him.'
This was the first open disagreement between Mum and Dad I could recall in a long time, arguing like they used to. Something was beginning to change.
'It's been months. What if they're wrong?' Mum replied sternly.
'It's his decision,' Dad said. 'You've got to let him live his life.'
I wondered if Ollie could hear the discussion from his room. It was odd not to be able to turn to him at these times. But, despite the loneliness of having the room to myself, I had found some new comfort over the last few months. The fact that a genius had lived in this house before me, that he had shared these walls and corridors, walked the same floors, it gave me a sense of belonging and made me feel closer to the building again, like I had when I was younger, when the creaking bones of the house had been a reassuring noise and my mind felt in tune with my home. The news of Hawksmoor living in the very same rooms as me, the idea that he had heard the same noises, stared at the same ceiling, felt the same draughts, breathed the same air, it had come at a good time; it made me feel recalibrated and only added to my closeness to the building. Along with the banishment of the monster, it felt like I was back in control. Like I was home. I had to hold onto that. I had to stay strong. The claw was not real. A trick of the light. It was pixels on a screen you imagine into something else.
It was just in my head.
* * *
'How the hell are you doing fourteen GCSEs?' Darren said, looking over my shoulder at my form.
I didn't bother answering. We were all gathered together in a corner of the classroom. Rebecca was talking to the teacher at his desk with some of our other classmates.
'Why, because he's sick?' Simon asked.
'No. Because it's ridiculous. He hasn't even got any testicles yet and he's doing fourteen GCSEs. It's not natural.' He looked at me. 'You know what I was thinking the other day? Maybe it's the tumour that makes you so smart. You ever thought about that?'
'Why the hell would you say something like that?' Simon replied. 'What the hell is wrong with you?'
Ollie came and sat on the end of the bench.
'Look, hear me out, maybe it isn't a tumour at all, that's what I'm saying. Maybe it's like some alien thing, maybe it's like an anomaly or something. Some extra brain compartment. Some mutant shit like the X-Men. Or some parasite, giving you extra power. Maybe you always had it and they just never knew. You ever thought about that?'
He tapped the side of his head. Simon punched him on the arm.
'Anomaly? That's a big word for a dumbass like you, maybe you've got one too, maybe we should get you to the doctor, maybe it's contagious.'
'Good one. But remember those guys at the football, thingy's dad and his uncle, they were saying the same thing.'
'Jesus, why would you say that?' Simon said, looking a little embarrassed.
'What? It could be a good thing.'
'I take it back. Whatever he's got, you've got the opposite,' he said firmly.
I glanced at Ollie. He was studying me with a flat expression. I went back to my form.
I didn't mind the conversation. The joking actually made me feel better. The sheer fact that people I knew this well could take my sickness so light-heartedly confirmed that things were changing, that my death was no longer the first thing on their minds.
After school, Mum took us all to a burger restaurant. It was my favourite place to eat in town.
'Back again, Jacob,' the owner said, smiling, as he handed out menus and we all shuffled into a booth. It was obviously meant to sound friendly, but there was something about the way he said it that annoyed me. A hint of something in his demeanour. Like I'd overstayed a welcome, or done something I shouldn't have, or that I was somehow false, and I found it difficult to enjoy the meal.
* * *
Being two years younger than everyone else made sports day a non-event for me. I was at the age where two years really mattered. Between thirteen and fifteen most boys have begun to go through puberty, so almost all of my classmates were some way ahead of me physically. I had been offered the opportunity to race with children my own age, but even though this made sense, I thought it would only add to the separation between me and my classmates, just another way to set me apart from them, a sign that I was different. So even though I was the only child left in my year who hadn't started puberty, I chose to stick with my own, even though it meant the likelihood of winning anything was nil.
For Ollie though, sports day was a time to shine. He had all the physical attributes you needed to be a success. I stood with Mum and Dad as we watched him prepare for the one hundred meters. They had already watched my paltry efforts in the long jump, the one event I participated in this year. They had cheered and clapped despite my poor showing. Now it was Ollie's turn.
There was a healthy murmur of excitement and chatter amongst the crowd. We were lined up behind a rope along one side of the track. Rebecca came and joined us as we waited for the start. She had come second in her long-distance race earlier – the event wasn't a specific standard length, just twice around the perimeter of the school field, between two or three kilometres I would guess – I think she could have won, but she seemed pleased with where she came.
'Ooo, this is exciting,' she said, putting a hand on my shoulder. It emphasised our size difference – she'd grown a lot more than me over the last couple of years, and it made me feel like a little brother. I didn't particularly like it.
'I think Oliver will win this year,' one of the other parents said to Mum.
'Really,' she replied, as if it was a genuine surprise.
'Well, good luck,' the other parent said, moving on.
I was about to add something to what the woman had said, but something stopped me, my train of thought derailed. It took me a moment to realise what it was. The woman – she hadn't asked about me. She hadn't even looked at me. She had shown no concern for my well-being at all. No desire to find out how things were going. I couldn't remember the last time this had happened. A strange sensation began to come over me. This was exactly the type of thing I had wanted to happen for some time, to be treated normally, as if nothing was wrong. It was everything I wanted to achieve. I smiled, but my grin was wavering, something else was nagging at me too, stopping my smile from becoming fully formed. An odd sensation. It took me a while to pinpoint it, but eventually I realised what it was – by making myself get better, people would stop caring about me as much. My achievement, my mental prowess, this impossible thing I was doing by the power of my mind alone, this incredible feat, it would deprive me of affection, of care. It was inevitable. There seemed something painfully ironic and unpleasantly truthful in that.
'On your marks, get set, go!' the starter yelled.
Ollie burst off his marks and was quickly at the front as the crowd roared into life. But running fast earns you cheers and acclaim. Where was the justice in that? Where was the fairness? This was nothing compared to what I was doing.
Ollie was stretching his lead, pulling away from the pack as the fervour in the crowd built.
'Come on, Ollie,' I shouted, and Rebecca joined in with me. 'Come on, come on,' we shouted together at the top of our voices as Ollie sped down the track to victory.
He was meters from the winning line, the crowd roaring, first place was there for the taking when suddenly, to gasps from the crowd, he tripped.
It was a calamitous, spectacularly ungraceful fall; he clattered to the turf in a tangle of his own limbs, and the mixture of shock and empathic gasps from the crowd only added to the awkwardness and his confusion. Ollie was so dazed that it took him a moment to work out what had happened. He got up and ran for the line, but it was far too late, every other competitor had shot past him, and he crossed the line dead last.
He milled around with the other runners and brushed himself down. The crowd all murmured. Mum and Dad looked at each other; then, with Rebecca in close attendance, they went over to him. I followed, hanging back, but I couldn't look away from Ollie. Something inside me was exploding. A question bursting to the front of my mind that sent torment through my system. Had I wanted him to fall? Had I subconsciously desired it out of spite and malice? Could my mind be that powerful? The thought was as frightening as it was exhilarating.
Did I do that?
* * *
It was past midnight when I heard Ollie sneak into the house. He had a key for the French windows so that the closest he ever got to Mum and Dad's bedroom was the landing, and once he was there, he was home free. But instead of going to his own bed, he came into my room. I could tell he had been hanging out with his friends because he smelt of cold autumn air, tobacco and cider. He didn't say anything at first, but he seemed to be where he intended; this wasn't a wrong turn. He went and sat on the window ledge. I was surprised by the visit. Ollie hadn't come into my room in a long time.
'You've been drinking,' I said.
'How could I have been drinking?' he replied.
'You hang out down the ramp.'
'So.'
'So, the kids that hang out at the ramp at night, they hang out to drink.'
'That's not why they hang out.'
'But they do drink.'
'Yeah.'
'And you've been drinking.'
'Yeah.'
'Mum and Dad will kill you.'
'Maybe,' he said.
Ollie leaned his head against the window. He looked weary, tired of life; I didn't like it.
'How are you feeling?' he asked.
It was odd – this should have been the question I asked him.
'Good,' I replied. I realised I hadn't been asked that in a long time. 'I use a different technique now, on the tumour – I never told you. I'm dissolving it, absorbing it. It's an ice cube and my mind is hot tea.'
Ollie turned his head, still resting on the glass. He sized me up.
'Something's working for you,' he said eventually.
'Yeah, but it's funny, I can see it in people's eyes now, when they talk to me, they're not sure what to do anymore. It's like a strain on people's sympathy or something. The longer and longer I live. It's like people can't maintain that level of sorrow. You know what I mean?'
'It's been a long time now. That's true. You must be doing something right.'
'And no one would say it, but sometimes I see it, it's hard to describe, like resentment almost, like they needed me to die for the story to make sense. Something like that. Like this long dragging out of a normal life is no good for them. It's a weird sensation. I know they don't mean it, but that's what it feels like sometimes.'
Ollie thought for a while.
'I've not told anyone that. I'm glad you came,' I said.
'You're not going to get your head scanned again, find out what's really going on?'
'Sometimes I think about it. But then I see that look in people's eyes, and I don't want to.'
It took a while for Ollie to reply.
'There's only me and you who really know, Jacob. Remember that. Only me and you.'
I wasn't sure what he meant by that, but he got up and left without saying anything more.
* * *
It's amazing how many different razors there are to choose from. I really couldn't decide. It was a shame Dad wasn't here to give some fatherly advice. Mum tried to be helpful, but she seemed overwhelmed by the simple concept that I was having to buy razors. She looked at me with an odd smile and damp eyes as we stood in the supermarket isle.
'I still don't believe it,' she said for the third time in as many minutes.
They'd offered to get me an electric razor for my birthday, but I preferred the idea of a wet shave. It seemed more of a gentlemanly pursuit. All the extra paraphernalia appealed to me.
I finally selected a simple twin-blade razor with an easy glide moisturising strip and some eucalyptus shaving oil.
'Have you thought about your placement over summer yet?' Mum asked on the way home.
I'd had offers from a number of places – banks, legal firms, a pharmaceutical company – but I was keen on something in the aerospace industry. I was pretty sure I'd be applying to Cambridge in October, the engineering department, so I wanted to see if it was for me.
'I've not decided yet,' I replied.
'I saw Alain the other day, and he offered to talk to you about his firm. The office is in Canada Square, fortieth floor, quite a view I'm told.'
Alain had saved the mobile library that time, so although I wasn't interested, I thought it would be impolite to refuse. It would be bad karma.
'Sure,' I said, and Mum seemed pleased.
'Let's stop in on the way back. See if he's home,' she said chirpily.
The gates to Alain's house had lions on top of the brick posts. They opened automatically as we arrived. I didn't know whether someone had spotted us or whether Mum had a sensor in her car that caused them to open. The house was modern and large but didn't have much character. The front porch had Roman columns, but the whole thing looked stuck on to the plain, red-brick facade. The house felt like a larger version of Rebecca's house in the estate at the other end of the village, just with a few extra adornments and features.
It was impressive inside though, open-plan and expensively furnished. There was a large conservatory at the back that looked out over a heated pool. I sat down in a cushioned wicker chair as Alain brought a tray with glasses and a pitcher of iced lemonade from the kitchen.
'How are you feeling?' he asked me as he poured the drinks.
