The Kim's Game E-Book

Stephanie Percival

• Herausgeber: Cinnamon Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 391

Beschreibung

When Henry Bennett, (Hal), returns to his childhood home of Leverbridge he hopes that he will meet the love of his life, Lizzie, again: his childhood sweetheart who jilted him at the altar. Instead he finds that she has been pronounced dead after being missing for 10 years. Unable to put the past behind him, Hal is drawn into events he would prefer to forget, including the discovery of the remains of Alicia, who disappeared aged six when Hal was a ten-year-old, in the grounds of Leverbridge Manor, close to Hal's home at the Gatehouse. As Hal's life unravels, it begins to resemble a 'Kim's Game', a memory game in which items placed on a tray are removed one by one. What did happen to Lizzie? What are the dark secrets of the family at the Manor? What is lost and what remains? A gripping debut novel, part thriller and part character-study, The Kim's Game is an utterly convincing read.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title

Copyright

A note on ‘The Kim’s Game’

What Remains 1

What Was Taken 1

What Remains 2

What Was Taken 2

What Remains 3

What Was Taken 3

What Remains 4

What Was Taken 4

What Remains 5

What Was Taken 5

What Remains 6

What Was Taken 6

What Remains 7

What Was Taken 7

What Remains 8

What Was Taken 8

What Remains 9

What Was Taken 9

What Remains 10

What Was Taken 10

What Remains 11

What Was Taken 11

What Remains 12

What Remains 13

What Was Taken 13

What Remains 14

What Was Taken 14

An Empty Tray

THE KIM’S GAME

STEPHANIE PERCIVAL

Published by Cinnamon Press

Meirion House

Tanygrisiau

Blaenau Ffestiniog

Gwynedd LL41 3SU

www.cinnamonpress.com

The right of Stephanie Percival to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988. © 2017 Stephanie Percival. ISBN 978-1-78864-027-5

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP record for this book can be obtained from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publishers. This book may not be lent, hired out, resold or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior consent of the publishers.

Designed and typeset in Garamond by Cinnamon Press. Cover design by Adam Craig © Adam Craig.

Cinnamon Press is represented by Inpress and by the Welsh Books Council in Wales.

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Welsh Books Council.

The Kim’s Game is a game or exercise where items are placed on a tray, memorised, then they are covered up and one is removed, and the players have to identify the missing object. The name is derived from Rudyard Kipling’s 1901 novel Kim, in which the hero, Kim, plays the game during his training as a spy.

What Remains 1

Serendipity is a lovely word—being in the right place at the right time. That’s how it felt then. But with my history I should have known better than to associate the word with me.

I was lolling in a deckchair, appreciating the gardening skills of my old friend. He had succeeded in making a haven of loveliness on the handkerchief plot of ground. There was something liberating about sitting in someone else’s garden enjoying the noises of the adjoining countryside. I had only been here a couple of days but already the rash on the back of my hands was clearing up.

I had even removed my prosthetic foot and was allowing the stump to bathe in the warm summer light. It was a strange sensation as if my missing foot was being stroked and so much more pleasant than the phantom pain I sometimes experienced. The space where my foot should be was a reminder of what I was missing. The single cloud in the expanse of blue above covered the sun and in the brief interlude of shadow I felt worn. I had turned thirty last month. Maybe it was being back here or perhaps just the unusual sensation triggered by my missing limb. Sometimes in my dreams I was complete again. It was the same with the list of other lost things in my life; phantoms which hovered about me. I fought against the thoughts which I knew would lead me down a familiar path to despair. However, the sun chose that moment to reappear and taking a deep breath like a sigh, I became absorbed again in the soothing sounds of the garden.

In the newspaper headlines the only blight on the perfect summer horizon seemed to be the hosepipe ban and warnings about drought conditions, but that wasn’t of concern to me. I’d leave Tom to worry about that when he returned from his holiday. Now that was another fortuitous happening. It was only a couple of weeks ago, as I had been listening to the radio in my bedsit, when the phone had sounded. It took me a moment to understand the signal, so rarely did the land-line ring. I prepared to pick it up and say a polite but firm ‘No,’ to whichever telesales person had found my number, but instead was confronted with ‘Hi, Hal!’

Telesales people invariably asked, ‘Can I speak to Mr Henry Bennett?’ My clients also used Henry and generally contacted me via e-mail.

‘It’s Tom,’ came the excited voice. ‘You remember?’

Of course I did. Though I hadn’t spoken to Tom in several months, probably more than a year, he would be considered my best friend. In fact, he had been Best Man at my wedding that never was. It took some persuasion for me to accept his invitation to house and dog sit whilst he took the family on holiday. He apologised for it being short notice but Tom had won the holiday and couldn’t change the dates. ‘How would I ever be able to take the family to Florida otherwise?’ So it appeared good fortune had shone on us both. I had nothing better to do, could keep in contact with my few clients electronically. And so here I was, back to my childhood village, a place I had tried to forget during the past ten years.

Closing my eyes against the innocence of blue sky I felt the warmth and brightness on my eye lids. Serendipity, there it was again, not far from my thoughts.

This time the sense of comfort was short lived as a sudden sharp gust of wind eddied around me, causing the hedgerow to rattle and set off a blackbird to pipe a warning. I shivered and opening my eyes pulled a fleece around my shoulders.

The breeze continued to blow. It came in little gusts as if trying to build up to something more. After several moments of movement which riffled the edges of the newspaper on the table, it finally blew hard enough to turn the last page over.

I reached forward to replace and fold the paper up, but as I did so, a name caught my eye.

Charles Maurice Manning. It was under the obituary heading.

I shuddered. So he was dead. And some tiny part of me was thankful. The trouble was the name also caused a disturbing ripple in my thoughts, because it led straight from him to his grand-daughter, Lizzie.

The mere thought of Lizzie created a current of tension in me, one of those energies which breached both pain and pleasure and was so discomfiting I tried, without much success, never to think of her.

Picking the paper up, I read the funeral was to be held in two days time at the village church. The paper trembled in my grip.

I told myself not to go, but knew it was another step I could not avoid and on Tuesday 20thJune I’d be at the church at midday. I would have a little time to build up to it, to face my past and the place of my most desperate humiliation. But somewhere I felt a spark of joy at the possibility I might see Lizzie again.

Thankfully at that moment Barklay, the collie, came snuffling around the table. I was glad of the distraction and stopped scratching the back of my hand, patting the dog instead.

‘Let’s go for a walk then, boy,’ I said, and having replaced my foot, went to get the lead.

We took the top path which circled the village through a woody copse. The breeze didn’t penetrate here and instead of the tree shade giving some relief from the heat it appeared to intensify it, so the air was sticky and cloyed with pollen. At one point the trees grew thin and led to a short grassy prominence, with a bench which overlooked the valley below. I sat down grateful for the opportunity to rest, and Barklay flopped down under the seat in the longer shady grass, panting.

There was a wonderful view down to the bowl shaped parkland below. In the distance the dark hills curved a protective arm round the Manning estate. Instead of the lushness I associated with it, the palette was more yellowed and parched, except for a halo of green circling the house itself demonstrating, in the well-tended lawns, the workmanship of Tom. The white buildings of Leverbridge Manor stretched out across the centre of the parkland like a smudge of melted snow. Heat haze rippled the atmosphere above it giving a strange appearance as if nature was trying to evaporate the building itself and leave nothing behind.

On Tuesday, with the heat and humidity increasing, I made my way up the steep incline to the church at the top. The area around the church was cobbled and as I walked I became aware of my footsteps. The cadence I had become used to was now uneven and the limping rhythm echoed under clouds becoming dense with the threat of a storm.

The toll of the bell pulsed into the sky but was reflected back by the greyness so it sounded louder and more mournful. And then there was a distant roll of thunder.

I sneaked in at the back of the church. It was a large church for what had once been a small village, but was full. I’d dressed in dark jeans, black T-shirt and leather jacket, which was my standard attire; I blended in well with the mourner’s in front of me. As I entered the air became thicker than the humidity outside, the scent of lilies was overpowering and even the candles in their sconces appeared to burn low as if they had limited oxygen.

There had been a smaller crowd here for my last visit, supposedly for a happier occasion. It was impossible for me not to compare the two. A summer day, when the jewel bright colours of the stained glass had shone with an intensity I had never observed before. I remembered thinking, as I dressed in my morning suit, I would absorb every moment of that day.

I had stood, on two good legs, at the front of the church and waited like a fool for what seemed like hours before Tom led me away and told me we’d stayed long enough. Lizzie’s grandmother, Grace Elizabeth, had a tear in her eye as the congregation were sent home. I had never been sure whether it was because the marriage hadn’t gone ahead or because of the humiliation. Until that day I had never seen Grace Elizabeth express emotion publicly. She would consider it weakness and I wondered whether she would shed a tear for her dead husband today. One of the last times I’d seen her had been across a court room when she had given a witness statement. She was a woman able to command respect. Though I didn’t like her, I had to admire her; after all she had acted as mother when Lizzie’s parents had died. I tried to peer around the pillar in front of me to catch a glimpse of her - Lizzie, the woman who had jilted me at the altar all those years ago, but never left my thoughts without leaving a trace of unqualified love.

From outside the noise of thunder again sounded, an ominous accompaniment to the organ music. A draught of warm air made the door creak beside me and I suddenly felt desolate. I had never discovered why she had not arrived at the church. The police had checked her plane ticket, the one to our honeymoon destination in Bali, and found she had used it. My nails caught the back of my hand. There was a drop of blood. But somehow the physical pain eased my emotions and stopped me from crying.

I could see an edge of the coffin and wondered what outfit Maurice Manning had been buried in. Perhaps his hunting dress. In the Manor there had been a portrait of him in his scarlet coat. When I had first seen it at the age of six, it terrified me. The figure was so vivid he looked as if at any moment he might jump from the frame and beat me with the whip he clutched in his right hand. On the fist and on his face was a trace of red, revealing what I thought of at the time as anger but later, when I knew him better, thought was intended to portray passion. I suspected the flush on his cheeks had now been erased by death, and I had difficulty imagining his face without it.

The service wasn’t lengthy, a couple of well-known hymns, to which I made no effort to contribute and some short prayers. The tribute was given by Nigel Phelps. I could not see him well, but from what I could tell he had filled into the middle aged man I had suspected he would. A little older than me, we had played together as children, but now his hair was thinning and he looked stout. He spoke well enough about Maurice Manning’s achievements as local landowner and business man, his work for the village and community and his role as master of the hunt. I watched the bowed heads on the front row desperately trying to work out which was Lizzie, but from my position I could not.

Organ music started to fill the church, and was accompanied by the movement of people as they stood in the pews waiting for the family to proceed to the church doors. I was aware of my heart thumping as I rose to join the end of the procession. I was trying to work out what I would say to her but although phrases whirled round my head they all seemed trite against the landscape of time. I flinched as I dug my fingernails into my wrist.

I was in front of the family, trembling as I shook the hand of Grace Elizabeth. Though the fingers were slender and pale, there was nothing fragile about the strength of the movement. If she recognised me she did not show it; not even a glimmer from the marble façade, a look she had perfected. Perhaps the stone like quality was even more noticeable framed by the black drapery of mourning. She was not a tall woman, but under her perfect make-up she achieved the appearance of unmoveable dominance.

Approaching the next veiled woman in line I didn’t dare lift my bowed head. But as I grasped her hand I realised something was wrong, and I looked to see the familiar features of Gracie, Lizzie’s identical twin sister. Nigel Phelps was the next person in the line-up and I felt my knees give slightly with the horrible sensation of disappointment. Lizzie was not here.

‘Where’s Lizzie?’ I asked.

‘I’m sorry?’ questioned Gracie. She regarded me for a moment, ‘Hal?’ I thought she was about to say something more, but I interrupted.

‘Where’s Lizzie?’ I demanded in a voice that was too loud for the occasion. An echo of my disruption remained, pulsing outwards, saturating the atmosphere with a single thought...Lizzie...Lizzie...Lizzie.

Gracie looked uncomfortable.

‘I’m sorry but didn’t you know?’ She hesitated. ‘Lizzie’s dead.’

I was on my knees and weeping, without noticing the boundary between standing and falling. Great shudders of grief shook my body and I gulped the air which gave no oxygen. I was aware of foot fall around me, and a cough of embarrassment. I had occasionally had panic attacks before, and the plunge into darkness was like being pushed into a pool of cold, stagnant water. I was drowning. Then an arm linked in mine and pulled me gently but firmly upwards and towards a pew. The woman who’d pulled me aside pushed a tissue into my hand and said, ‘There, There,’ as though I were a child. Gradually my breathing steadied.

She said, ‘It’s little Hal, isn’t it?’

I nodded; glad I didn’t have to articulate my name.

‘I knew I recognised you.’ She smiled. ‘Little Hal. I used to work at the Manor.’

She must have been around sixty. Her hair was silver-grey and scraped back into a bun. A small black beret was stretched on top. The face was familiar, but with the weight of despair clouding my thoughts, I could not think of her name.

‘Annie Taylor,’ she said, at my perplexed look. ‘Come on; let’s get you to the Big House for a cup of tea to settle your nerves.’

Annie, of course it was Annie.

Though I had mastered walking with my artificial foot some time ago, my legs felt unsteady as I walked into daylight. Outside was even warmer, as if the village had been draped with a canopy enclosing heat and muting sound. Annie was saying something to me but her words seemed to come from a great distance.

I was aware that again I had left the church feeling hollow, as if I was forced to grieve my fiancée and the future life I had been expecting for a second time. Obediently I accompanied Annie along the path to her car. She had still used the words ‘The Big House’ for the Manning estate.

It was a short drive to the outskirts of the village to access the main entrance. The metal gates were still in place, but open today. They had been modernised but still bore the Manning crest interlinked between the bars. I remembered tracing the letters with my fingers whilst kissing Lizzie goodnight. I would watch as she tripped down the drive until she was swallowed up by darkness, disappearing behind the copse of trees in the dip of the driveway. If I waited long enough, which I always did, I would be rewarded with a final sight of her shimmering under light spilling from the lamp in front of the main house. I always hoped she’d turn, notice me, and wave. But she never did.

Annie drove slowly through the gates giving me enough time to absorb the dilapidated state of the Gate House which had once been my home. It squatted in the wooded area behind the gates. The high wall bordering the gates and the canopy of trees kept it in constant shade. But when the sun shone, stray sunbeams managed to penetrate through, giving a fairy tale atmosphere. Ivy, undeterred by the drought was endeavouring to hide the building. The little I could see of the leaded windows showed an age of grime and there were old autumn leaves still in a pile by the front door, as if nobody cared for my former home. I must have physically shivered as Annie asked, ‘Somebody walking over your grave?’ I don’t think she realised the truth or the tactlessness of her words, but she patted my knee and said, ‘There, there.’

We continued our way down the drive, Annie driving at a stately pace. I was aware of her speaking to me, but ignored her chatter. Her voice seemed to emanate from a different world as if on this strange day I had been caught in a trick of time where my present existence and memories had become confused.

The copse of trees in the dip in the drive had aged. They too were draped with dark green ivy, giving a strangled effect, but below, summer undergrowth softened the ground. I had a sudden desire to stop and climb out of the car. I would wander the pathways of my youth. The tracks through the woods, the secret passageways in the garden, the walkways and follies and finally down to the lake. But I remained still as Annie took the driveway round to the less picturesque side of the house and parked there. I noticed the sign directing visitors to ‘The Stable Cottages,’ and guessed they had put the plan to turn the stables into holiday lets into action.

We went in the back door. Annie put her head in through a doorway where cookware clattered and voices could be heard, and asked, ‘Everything under control?’ I waited and when voices had assured her all was well, I followed her up a short flight of stairs into the rear of the grand hallway.

A knot of people was dispersing into the wider reception area, being served cups of tea from uniformed staff behind a long table. I joined the queue and was pleased to quench my thirst with the lukewarm beverage from fine china. But after the news of Lizzie, I craved alcohol to settle the uncomfortable sensation in my head; an old addiction entering my thoughts. I returned for another cup of tea and added three teaspoons of sugar. It would have to substitute.

Moving through the reception area to a smaller lounge I nearly dropped my cup. In front of me was the familiar face of Maurice Manning. The portrait had been given centre position on an easel at eye-level, as if he was in the room. The manner in which he carried himself and features which the portrait captured could not be ignored whether living or dead. He could have been summoning the hunt.

It was impossible to believe he was dead. Just as I could not believe his grand-daughter was dead. She had a similar charisma and colouring. I suppose they would be nick-named ‘ginger’ but their hair was more like gold. Feeling unsteady, I made my way to a window seat and placed my cup on a small table. I looked out of the window at the striped green lawn leading down towards the lake. It was only when somebody sat next to me that I became conscious of scratching the back of my hand again.

‘I’m so sorry you had to find out like this,’ said Gracie.

I looked at her and in the identical features could only see a ghost of Lizzie. Her hair was the same colour but lank. Gracie was too thin so her cheek bones jutted out in sharp ridges and her eyes were prominent without flesh to soften them. She was pale, as if she never went outside, whereas Lizzie’s skin always had a golden glow.

‘What happened?’ I asked, not sure I was ready for the answer.

‘We really don’t know. She went away after the wedding and never returned. Grandmama hired a private detective but there was never any news. She became another missing person statistic.’

I didn’t correct her about the wedding that never was but asked, ‘But did you have a funeral?’

‘No, I don’t think Grandmama could face it. But Lizzie was declared officially dead three years ago.’

Remembering Lizzie running down that green lawn towards the lake, so full of life I suddenly had the mad idea, maybe they had it wrong. ‘And you think she’s really dead?’

‘There’s no reason to think otherwise.’

‘But she’s your twin. Don’t you have a sixth sense about her?’

Gracie shrugged. ‘When we were small I always thought we did but not later. I only know if she was alive she’d have let me know, to stop this pain.’ As she spoke she pressed her hand across her heart and her skin looked even paler, taking on a green tinge, as if reflecting the view outside. I noticed a wedding band on her ring finger.

‘You married then?’

‘Yes, I married Nigel in 2004.’ So that explained his role as spokesman at Maurice’s funeral. But Gracie was saying more, ‘and we have a daughter, Eliza; she’s nearly six.’

I looked back at the garden. I’d been about six when I’d first been invited to play at The Big House. I had memories of those early days but though I had contemplated it often I could not remember my first meeting with Lizzie. Now I would never see her again, I wished I could.

Gracie moved away but I stayed by the window. The room had become more crowded with people standing around the portrait admiring it and speaking about Maurice in respectful voices. One or two people looked familiar. My childhood companions becoming middle aged. Although older, the Manning cousins were still conspicuous. Their aristocracy radiated from them, making everybody else look plain. Especially eye-catching was a tall blonde, Tara. She was beautiful, her hair tousled in a stylish crop. She was laughing too loudly, throwing her head back with her mouth open wide as if she were some actress who had stumbled into the room mistaking it for a theatre stage. A spiral of smoke drifted upwards from her cigarette. I would not have dared smoke in here; any moment I expected Grace Elizabeth to bustle through and extinguish the cigarette.

Being back prompted a stream of memories. We had spent time in this room as children. In heavy summer rain, water cascaded in ripples down the large window-panes. We’d played pirates and when we were exhausted with piracy had been forced to sit and play Kim’s game. Grace Elizabeth had insisted we play quietly and would bring random items in on a covered tray. We would try to memorise them and one by one they were removed. It was important to remember the object that had been taken but you could only do that if you recalled what remained. I was the poorest player, becoming easily distracted either watching the rain on the windows or stroking Maudie the black Labrador as she chased sheep in her dreams.

On the tray one day was a lovely snow globe; I could not resist picking it up and playing with it, dropping its weight from hand to hand. The miniature cottage within swirled in a snow-storm. I watched and let the flakes fall. The globe fitted perfectly in my hand, a cool orb on my sweaty palm. When the flakes were still again I continued to juggle it between my hands, more careless with each toss. I think it might have been Lizzie who warned me, ‘Stop that Hal, it’s very precious.’ I ignored her, caught up with the cottage and snow and the way the light made it glitter, as if I were a magician casting a spell in a story book. And then, just as Grace Elizabeth entered the room, I dropped it. It rotated in slow motion, a glassy eye blinking at me as it fell, its snowy precipitation whiteout. I heard the globe screech across the floor, it winked in the light before cracking like ice. Fragments of the cottage lay at my feet, like tiny bones amidst a slush of water. I thought Grace Elizabeth was going to slap me. She walked towards me with such purpose. Her words cut the air, straight to my heart, like a curse. ‘Henry Bennett! Look what you’ve done. It’s gone forever.’ For a moment everything was quiet whilst we all looked at the destruction I had caused. Then Grace Elizabeth continued, ‘Something precious has been lost because of your clumsiness. You must concentrate. If you are so easily distracted you will miss so many opportunities in life.’ She looked at me unblinking and I was aware of my eyes widening, as if my eyeballs might explode like the snow globe. I looked away and when I turned back she was already asking the others, ‘Are you ready for the next one?’

Suddenly, the atmosphere changed as a young girl ran into the room calling, ‘Mummy, Mummy.’ She had been dressed in a black frock but it only served in making her red hair more vivid and her freckled complexion more alive. She looked confused, staring up at tall adults trying to find her mother. Then she found Gracie and tried to get her attention.

She tugged at Gracie’s hand. Finally Gracie turned and said, ‘What is it? You know not to interrupt me when I’m talking.’

Gracie tried to continue her conversation with the woman beside her.

But Eliza would not be ignored. ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ she hissed in what she considered to be a whisper. Gracie turned and looked down at Eliza her forehead furrowed.

‘I will not tell you again Elizabeth!’ She again tried to turn back but the audience was fully entranced by the floor show.

Eliza had begun to sob. Still looking up at her mother she sniffed and taking a deep breath managed to choke out the words, ‘But Mummy, we found something in the garden.’ She had large eyes like her mother’s and these stretched even wider as she said, ‘It’s a body.’

If the room had been quiet before it was now completely silent. Even Maurice Manning in portrait appeared more attentive. It was so still we could have been playing a game of musical statues. Thunder rumbled again, prowling the ridge of the estate, getting ever closer.

Grace Elizabeth arrived in the doorway asking, ‘What’s going on?’

People moved back, allowing her passage through to Gracie and the child, her stick tapping on the parquet flooring.

‘Where did you find this body?’ she asked, and looking around at the staring faces of her guests she said, ‘It’s probably the pets’ grave yard; the ground has become so dry. Come on Eliza, you show me,’ she said firmly, taking the young girl’s hand.

We made a curious procession as we trooped outside. The little girl with the red hair holding the hand of the old woman in black, a couple of children, then the rest of us in our dark clothes moving forward under an ever darkening and restless sky.

We passed through a formal garden and a walled area behind the house, then took a pathway to the edge of the wood. Grace Elizabeth kept a good pace even with her stick and young Eliza dutifully walked beside her, still holding her hand.

As we walked down the slope the humidity increased so I found it was difficult to breathe, as if we had been walking at high altitude. In the glade, muted shadows rippled across the space known as Pet’s corner. There were stones marking various graves. I recognised Maudie’s name and also Box, the Jack Russell who had been part of the family in the days I had spent here. There were several other graves and the pathways through the plot had become ridged and furrowed due to the heat. I could sense the disappointment of the crowd as we realised what Grace Elizabeth said was probably true, the bones found were a family pet. However, Eliza led us deeper into the wood. She stopped under a beech tree, its full canopy of green barely moving but allowing the light to ripple over its contorted roots revealing a deep crevasse. Again I thought it was likely an animal burrow and there would be nothing to see. But then Eliza pulled something from the ground. Even to my untrained eye the long bone she held in her hand looked surprisingly human. Grace Elizabeth looked round, the stroboscopic light giving her skin an ancient mottling, for the first time I sensed she was anxious.

‘Oliver, are you there?’ she asked, requesting assistance from the family doctor. He stepped forward in his sombre suit. His hair a dense grey, his figure more stooped than when I saw him last. He nodded as he took the bone from Grace Elizabeth and murmured something to her, probably confirming what we all knew, that the bone was a human femur.

Grace Elizabeth clapped her hands; a startled pigeon took flight from the tree. I felt sick. Everybody listened.

‘It does look as if we have a human bone here. I’m going to contact the police. I ask you all to go back into the house now.’

There was no hope of a mobile phone signal there so the call would have to be made from the house. It was a measure of Grace Manning’s position in the village that there was not one dissenting voice. Everybody turned to leave, but I could not move.

I was unaware of time but was eventually conscious of large raindrops striking my face. The movement of rain and breeze rustled through the trees as if the elements were trying to close the wound below the tree roots and hide what should not have been disturbed. Somebody moved beside me. I knew it was Gracie. I could sense her freezing fingers through my leather jacket as she put her hand on my arm.

‘We’d better get back to the house,’ was all she said.

The rain was falling more heavily and my hair was plastered against my forehead. By the time we returned to the house I was shivering. Annie was waiting at the door shaking her head.

‘You’re going to make yourself ill,’ she stated, and it could have been a premonition because I already felt feverish. All I wanted to do was curl my body into warm bedding and inject myself with pain-killers.

What Was Taken 1

It is one of the unwritten rules of childhood that you will create the most terrifying games that test your strength and resolve to the limits and scare you witless.

As we prepared for the annual summer camp in the grounds of Leverbridge Manor little did we know we would excel this year. Nor could we know it would be the final camp. Much later Gracie said she’d had a really bad feeling about that night, but I think we all sensed it; everything was different.

Tradition held firm on the date being the third Saturday of July, but due to some flooding we couldn’t pitch the tent in the usual area of rough grass at the back of Leverbridge Manor lawn but had to go further up the ridge towards the edge of woodland. There had always been six of us. That year, not only was there a different official six who set out, but a seventh person joined us later. Those alterations skewed everything.

Lizzie and Gracie’s cousins were present, but Tara, at fourteen, had decided such games were beneath her; she was going to be self-sufficient in the groom’s digs above the stables working as stable hand, the job my mother had once done. Tara’s brother Leo was at the camp. At thirteen he was the same age as Nigel, the family friend who was always invited. Those two boys had spent several terms at boarding school and were in a particularly competitive mode; vying for the attention of the girls, and at the age of ten I didn’t understand that I was part of that rivalry too.

The final legitimate member was little Alicia, the twins’ youngest cousin. She’d been promised that when she was six she could join the ‘big’ children camping. When Tara decided not to accompany us there had been some talk of reneging on this arrangement, but Alicia was having none of it. ‘I’m going and you can’t stop me!’ she decreed, stomping off in her wellies before the parental argument could be finished.

‘We’ll take care of her,’ Lizzie and Gracie said in unison. So Alicia got her way.

Despite her age, Alicia was helpful when we put the tent up. It was a huge old scout tent big enough to hold twenty children. Alicia sorted the colour coded poles; she collected guy ropes and held tent pegs, not flinching when the mallet struck the top.

We were given the usual lecture by Grace Elizabeth, on being careful. No lighting fires, no going near the lake or walking in the woods. We half listened, knowing the rules had to be spoken before we could start the camp.

It was particularly windy that night and the tent rattled around us. The canvas made a booming sound like a slap of a giant’s footsteps. Inside, our shadows were enlarged by the torchlight so a circle of huge shapes mimicked us. As the canvas moved the shadows contorted, like grotesque caricatures.

I wasn’t surprised when Nigel and Leo started picking on me. Though I had lived on the estate all my life they saw me as little more than a servant. For the previous years we’d had Tara bossing us about curbing our boisterousness, but without her there might be no limit to the teasing.

‘So skivvy boy, why are you here?’ demanded Nigel, standing up and swaggering around the tent so his shadow captured me in its umbra.

Before I could reply Leo joined in, ‘If you were at school with us you could fag for us, Skivvy.’ They both laughed but only Nigel’s had an edge of venom to it.

‘What’s a fag?’ asked Alicia.

There was more laughter and Leo said, ‘Well, at school the older boys have a fag to do chores and run errands for them.’

‘Like a slave,’ added Nigel. ‘My own personal servant, eh Skivvy?’

He was not tall, but his stocky figure meant I could not escape the darkness of his shadow.

‘Are you really a servant, Hal?’ asked Alicia, innocently.

I still couldn’t speak.

‘No, of course he’s not,’ Lizzie said with some force. ‘Hal’s a friend.’

‘But his mother’s a servant,’ continued Nigel.

‘No, she isn’t, Nigel,’ said Lizzie, ‘She’s an employee. There is a difference you know.’

How long the bickering would have continued I don’t know but a moment later there was the hoot of an owl and the tent flap was flung open to reveal a laughing figure. The screams of the girls were very satisfying as Tom came into the tent and threw down his sleeping bag and pack.

‘Tom you scared us!’ said Lizzie.

‘I wasn’t scared,’ said Alicia.

Tom was my friend and I was pleased to see him, even more so because now I had risen a place in the pecking order. As the lowly gardener’s son, Tom did not belong in our group and was not invited. But I’d asked him this year. Had Tara been here I would not have dared.

‘You weren’t invited, Tom,’ Nigel said.

‘I invited him,’ I replied stubbornly.

‘We should vote on it,’ continued Nigel walking towards Tom.

‘No, wait,’ called Leo, ‘How about Tom tells us a story, a really scary one. If he scares us enough he can stay.’

Nigel shrugged, reluctant to give up the opportunity of a confrontation but intrigued by the idea. ‘Okay, but it better be good,’ he said as he sat back down.

Suddenly I was nervous for Tom; he wasn’t the story telling type. But I needn’t have worried. I was riveted by the awful tale he told of flesh eating plants taking over the world. As the wind continued to blow and the shadows of the trees moved over the canvas we were terrified, though none of us was prepared to show it. I could see Nigel’s usually healthy skin tone become pale in the lamplight. Only Alicia appeared more interested than afraid, and when Tom finished she asked him various questions about whether plants really could eat flesh. Tom answered her in detail about the mechanics of the Venus Fly-trap. I was impressed and the others must have been too because there was no further mention of votes or Tom leaving. However, the story telling had begun and we each told tales in turn, digging deep into our limited knowledge for the things which would scare us the most.

After that the dares began. It was tradition that the first two names drawn would go and get a midnight feast from the house. This had to be done secretly without disturbing any of the adults. Nigel and I were chosen. I followed him to the kitchen. We did not turn on the lights but the interior of the fridge gave illumination as I started filling my back-pack with cheese and ham, sausage rolls and tomatoes. When I turned, expecting to see Nigel packing his bag with bread rolls and cakes, I was surprised to see his torch spotlighting the key rack. He removed one and tiptoed towards the cellar door.

‘What are you doing?’ I hissed, closing the fridge.

‘Thought we’d have a real feast tonight.’ He unlocked the door and disappeared, taking the glow of torchlight with him.

I waited in the dark kitchen, more fearful as each moment passed. Every few seconds a new noise would make me jump. I told myself it was the wind catching window frames and doors. But I was certain I heard footsteps. It would be a real failure to be caught. I willed Nigel to hurry. Then I heard him and realised he was locking the cellar door. We ran outside and hid below the window as the overhead lights went on in the kitchen.

‘I think we’ve had mice,’ a loud voice said in the exaggerated tone of a fairy tale ogre. But though it had been close we had not been seen.

We hurried back to the tent feeling exhilarated.

‘Look what I’ve got!’ said Nigel swinging two wine bottles in the air like a band leader.

We had never had wine at the feast before. Had Tara been there she would have made us put them back. It was difficult to remove the cork but once that obstacle was overcome we all took a swig. It was Lizzie who stopped the bottle being passed to Alicia. ‘Not for Alicia,’ she said. Nobody argued, not even Alicia.

‘Good vintage,’ Nigel said as the bottle was passed round, trying to sound like an adult. The liquid was foul. It tasted sour and dry with bits of cork in it, leaving the tongue feeling rough. The bottles were covered in dust and felt horrible against the fingers. But nobody complained and everything started to seem funny.

Tom and Leo were picked for the next dare. Ignoring the rules, it was decided they had to swim in the lake. We followed them across the expanse of grass down to the water. Trying to be quiet, we made our way through a gap in the surrounding bushes to a small shore.

‘I want to swim too,’ Alicia said, but she was told it was against the rules to do somebody else’s dare. She appeared to accept this.

Clouds scudded across the sky occasionally allowing a glimpse of moon to break through. The wind made wavelets on the usually placid water and the moonlight illuminated them into jagged teeth. But Leo and Tom did not hesitate; they stripped and stepped into the dark water, splashing about for a couple of minutes, trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb the inhabitants of the house. Then we all ran back to the tent trying to stop shouting and whooping at our bravado. When we returned the rest of the wine tasted better.

Lizzie and Gracie were picked next. They had to go to the Gate House and spy on my mother. It was not my suggestion and I felt uncomfortable with the idea. A slight nausea filled my head which I put down to the wine. Considering the Gate House was at the other end of the park, they came back quite quickly. Later I wondered if they’d really gone there at all. I had hoped they would return with bored expressions saying the lights were out or Mother had been sitting watching the television. But as soon as I saw the excited identical glow on their faces I realised they had seen something.

‘Hal’s mother’s with a man,’ chanted Gracie, she repeated the dreadful lie and began dancing round the tent. ‘We saw them snogging.’ She giggled and then, hugging her arms over her shoulders, she wiggled her back to us suggestively making horrible sucking noises, pretending she was kissing somebody. Even in the low lamplight my face must have taken on a stricken expression.

Lizzie was kinder though. ‘It’s true, Hal, somebody was there,’ she said. But she didn’t elaborate on the kissing.

I had to get out of the tent and lunged into the dark night. I was going to run away but I only got a short distance before I was sick. I went back into the tent wiping the bitter spit on my sleeve. Nobody said anything but Nigel looked at me with a smirk across his face. If my head hadn’t been spinning I might have punched him.

We had made the unspoken decision that we’d had enough and I was making myself comfortable in my sleeping bag, when a voice said, ‘It’s my turn.’

We had forgotten Alicia. All of us were tired with heavy heads, unused to the consumption of wine.

‘It’s my turn,’ she said a little more firmly.

‘You’re too young,’ somebody replied.

‘That’s not fair. I couldn’t have the wine, and now I want to do a dare.’

Alicia was standing up. She had her wellies on and was waiting by the tent flap ready to go, with her arms crossed tightly in front of her. In my fugged brain I thought she had suddenly grown tall and was towering over us like some powerful queen. Leo must have had a similar vision because he said, ‘Alright, go on then. What do we want her to do?’

It was some moments before the dare was given.

‘I know,’ slurred Nigel, giggling to himself, ‘Seeing as Tara has decided she likes horses better than us, this is what you’ve got to do. Go to the stables and get some horse dung, then get into Tara’s rooms and try to put it as near to her bedroom as you can.’ He finished with a strange gurgle which I presumed was laughter at the thought of Tara waking to a pile of horse shit outside her door.

It seemed funny at the time, several of us joined in with his merriment. It was only Lizzie who suggested, ‘Shouldn’t one of us go with her?’

‘We’ve all done our dares,’ came the reply, ‘She’ll be fine.’

We were numbed with alcohol, my eyelids were heavy and I could already hear the faint snoring from Tom’s sleeping bag.

We let Alicia go.

The track of time slipped as we waited. I dozed until Lizzie said, ‘Where’s Alicia? She should be back by now?’

Leo said, ‘I expect she’s gone back to the house.’ His voice sounded reasonable.

Then Nigel added, ‘Yeh, she’ll have got spooked. She’s only little.’

We were too stupefied with wine to recognise that Alicia would never have given up. Had I been sober I would have done something. As it was, I drifted back to sleep.

I woke early, the sound of rainfall pattering the canvas like agitated finger drumming. My head ached, my mouth was sour. My first thought was to get Tom away before he was noticed. I shoved him and after some grumpy words he appeared to be awake.

‘You’d better clear off,’ I told him. He didn’t argue, just packed up his belongings.