said, âSince when?â
Aunty didnât answer, but when Uncle came in for lunch, he found her packing the car. âWhere are you going?â he asked, and didnât look very pleased about it when Aunty told him.
âYou canât take children to a place like that,â he said.
âWhat else am I to do?â said Aunty. âAre you going to take time off work and look after them? I donât think so. And my beloved sisters certainly arenât going to.â
She was in a foul mood, and it didnât get any better when theyâd set off. All the way through Aberystwyth she banged the steering wheel and cursed as if no one else had a right on the road. Usually she was such a careful driver, but today she kept beeping her hornand changing lanes without indicating.
They left the town behind and started down the coast road. The sun was shining and Mad Dogâs hopes began to rise. Perhaps the Aged Relative would turn out to live in a bungalow by the sea with a beach nearby where he and Elvis could go and play, which meant that, however horrible she was, they could always get out of her way.
A few miles down the road, however, Aunty took a sharp turn inland, leaving the sea behind and heading up into the hills. The road sheâd chosen went up and down like a fairground switchback and Mad Dog started feeling carsick. He tried to focus his eyes on the way ahead, but dizzying glimpses of sheer drops and the valley floor beneath him didnât help.
âHow much further?â he kept on asking.
âNot far now,â Aunty would reply.
It felt far to Mad Dog â especially after Aunty took a wrong turning and had to retrace their journey for several miles. Finally, however, the car plunged down into woodland, and the outskirts of a village came into view. They passed an empty railway station with a sign announcing that it was closed until Easter; a general store; a campsite set in a sunless wood; a tourist shop that had been boarded up; a series of old bridges, each built over the other and set back amongst woodland; and a tumbling waterfall that appeared to be the villageâs main tourist attraction but couldnât be got down to without going through a turnstile and paying money.
The waterfall was at the lowest part of the village, set next to a rather grand-looking hotel. Once past it, the car crawled its way up a series of hairpin bendsuntil Aunty pulled sharply left on to a gravel drive. Here a grey stone house loomed into view, its paintwork peeling, its gate hanging off its hinges, weeds growing up its path.
âWell, here we are,â Aunty said with a sigh.
She switched off the engine and got straight out of the car as if afraid of changing her mind if she hesitated. Mad Dog got out too, and immediately the sound of running water rushed to greet him from a cliff that stood behind the house. Everything was cast in its shadow. The house. The garden. Even the sign by the hanging gate.
THE DEVILâS BRIDGE B & B it said, and, handwritten underneath it, in capital letters, underlined heavily, were the words:
NO VACANCIES
8
The Man with Red Tattoos
It didnât take a man with red tattoos all over his chest to convince Mad Dog that the Devilâs Bridge B & B was not a place where he wanted to spend his half-term holiday. But the man didnât help. Before theyâd even got up the path, heâd materialised in the porch as if by magic and stood, hands on hips, shirt open, silver charms around his neck, glaring down at them, his hair as red as danger, his eyes as black as wrinkled prunes.
It was as if theyâd no right to be there. Aunty waved for him to come and help them with the luggage, but he took no notice and they had to manage on their own.
âWe have a room booked,â Aunty said when she reached the porch.
The man refused to get out of her way. She stood right in front of him, but he wouldnât budge. âYou must have got
Aunty didnât answer, but when Uncle came in for lunch, he found her packing the car. âWhere are you going?â he asked, and didnât look very pleased about it when Aunty told him.
âYou canât take children to a place like that,â he said.
âWhat else am I to do?â said Aunty. âAre you going to take time off work and look after them? I donât think so. And my beloved sisters certainly arenât going to.â
She was in a foul mood, and it didnât get any better when theyâd set off. All the way through Aberystwyth she banged the steering wheel and cursed as if no one else had a right on the road. Usually she was such a careful driver, but today she kept beeping her hornand changing lanes without indicating.
They left the town behind and started down the coast road. The sun was shining and Mad Dogâs hopes began to rise. Perhaps the Aged Relative would turn out to live in a bungalow by the sea with a beach nearby where he and Elvis could go and play, which meant that, however horrible she was, they could always get out of her way.
A few miles down the road, however, Aunty took a sharp turn inland, leaving the sea behind and heading up into the hills. The road sheâd chosen went up and down like a fairground switchback and Mad Dog started feeling carsick. He tried to focus his eyes on the way ahead, but dizzying glimpses of sheer drops and the valley floor beneath him didnât help.
âHow much further?â he kept on asking.
âNot far now,â Aunty would reply.
It felt far to Mad Dog â especially after Aunty took a wrong turning and had to retrace their journey for several miles. Finally, however, the car plunged down into woodland, and the outskirts of a village came into view. They passed an empty railway station with a sign announcing that it was closed until Easter; a general store; a campsite set in a sunless wood; a tourist shop that had been boarded up; a series of old bridges, each built over the other and set back amongst woodland; and a tumbling waterfall that appeared to be the villageâs main tourist attraction but couldnât be got down to without going through a turnstile and paying money.
The waterfall was at the lowest part of the village, set next to a rather grand-looking hotel. Once past it, the car crawled its way up a series of hairpin bendsuntil Aunty pulled sharply left on to a gravel drive. Here a grey stone house loomed into view, its paintwork peeling, its gate hanging off its hinges, weeds growing up its path.
âWell, here we are,â Aunty said with a sigh.
She switched off the engine and got straight out of the car as if afraid of changing her mind if she hesitated. Mad Dog got out too, and immediately the sound of running water rushed to greet him from a cliff that stood behind the house. Everything was cast in its shadow. The house. The garden. Even the sign by the hanging gate.
THE DEVILâS BRIDGE B & B it said, and, handwritten underneath it, in capital letters, underlined heavily, were the words:
NO VACANCIES
8
The Man with Red Tattoos
It didnât take a man with red tattoos all over his chest to convince Mad Dog that the Devilâs Bridge B & B was not a place where he wanted to spend his half-term holiday. But the man didnât help. Before theyâd even got up the path, heâd materialised in the porch as if by magic and stood, hands on hips, shirt open, silver charms around his neck, glaring down at them, his hair as red as danger, his eyes as black as wrinkled prunes.
It was as if theyâd no right to be there. Aunty waved for him to come and help them with the luggage, but he took no notice and they had to manage on their own.
âWe have a room booked,â Aunty said when she reached the porch.
The man refused to get out of her way. She stood right in front of him, but he wouldnât budge. âYou must have got
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