sandwiches, crisps, Haribos and cans of cherry Tango. Suddenly, a head parted the flimsy wall, giving a terrible cry.
âWooooaoaaaaaaaaarrrrrggggghhh!â
âArgh! Jessica, donât scare us like that!â
âHa! What are you lot doing in here?â
âDad said we could make a den and sleep in here tonight.â
âHave they gone out?â
âYeah. Some dinner dance thing. Where have you been?â
âJust out, Beaky Boy.â
âCan you tell us a story, Jess?â
âOh, not another story, Ella.â
âYeah, please, Jess. Tell us a really scary one.â
âYou canât handle a scary one, Zane. We had to call your mum when I read you some Silence of the Lambs , remember?â
âI wonât cry this time, I promise. Please.â
âOK. Give me an idea, then, and Iâll tell you a scary story about it.â
âUmmmâ¦â
âCats!â
âCats? All right, then, Corey, cats it is. Hmm. Well, OK. Thereâs this Edgar Allan Poe story called âThe Black Catâ. Have I told you that one before?â
âNo. Tell us now!â
âOK, well, a long time ago, there once was this man who lived in this house with his wife and their catââ
âWhat was the cat called?â
âI donât know. Maybe Claude or something. Yeah, Claude. Anyway, Claude was black, black as night, and the couple who owned him loved him very much. Then, as time went on, the man started to drink way more than he shouldââ
âWas he sad about something?â
âYeah, heâd probably lost his job or something or he hated being married, something like that. Anyway, he started taking out all his problems on the cat. When he was drunk he got moody, and the cat was always around, rubbing against his legs and meowing for food. And one day, this cat got on the manâs nerves so much that he took it out into his back gardenâ¦â
*
The bus dropped us off on the corner of Long Lane, and we walked the rest of the way until we came to the grubby sign for Whitehouse Farm, me with a gnawing throb of dread in my chest. Weirdly, it hadnât changed at all in the years since weâd last been there. The mud-spattered jeep was still parked in a garage next door; the field opposite was still barricaded with three rusty shopping trolleys, linked end to end with rope. The sweet smells of hay and dung still hung in the air, and, despite my fear, I felt strangely happy to be back.
âGo on then,â said Max, nudging Corey forward. âGo and see if Mortâs there. Then we can go.â
Corey took one look back at the everlasting lane we had just walked down from the bus. I saw him take a deep breath. Then he led us inside, one by one.
âOh my GOD!â
FlapflapflapflapflutterflutterflutterScreeeeeech!
âGet it off! Get it off me!â
âAARGH!â
âWhat the HELL is THAT?â
âJesus!â
Hell had been unleashed, and we were in the middle of it. Things squawked and screeched at me from branches, flapping about beneath the corrugated plastic roof. There were living things everywhere; creatures, birds, things crawling over my feet. Rabbits, ferrets, cats and an earless Jack Russell terrier brutally shagging a wig. Everywhere you looked were scruffy, eyeless or legless animals: a furry, flappy, feathery nightmare.
âShut the door, quick!â a voice shouted, and Corey dived behind us to bang it shut.
All the way to Cloud, Iâd held on to one hope â that Fallon Hayes might not be home. That we could just ask Rosie if sheâd seen Mort, commiserate with Corey when she hadnât, then walk back to the pub on the main road and call a cab back into town. But the curt instruction had come from a girl â a long-legged, green-eyed girl with slightly buck teeth, a platinum blonde confusion of hair, and thick make-up. She had once been my best friend.
I took
âWooooaoaaaaaaaaarrrrrggggghhh!â
âArgh! Jessica, donât scare us like that!â
âHa! What are you lot doing in here?â
âDad said we could make a den and sleep in here tonight.â
âHave they gone out?â
âYeah. Some dinner dance thing. Where have you been?â
âJust out, Beaky Boy.â
âCan you tell us a story, Jess?â
âOh, not another story, Ella.â
âYeah, please, Jess. Tell us a really scary one.â
âYou canât handle a scary one, Zane. We had to call your mum when I read you some Silence of the Lambs , remember?â
âI wonât cry this time, I promise. Please.â
âOK. Give me an idea, then, and Iâll tell you a scary story about it.â
âUmmmâ¦â
âCats!â
âCats? All right, then, Corey, cats it is. Hmm. Well, OK. Thereâs this Edgar Allan Poe story called âThe Black Catâ. Have I told you that one before?â
âNo. Tell us now!â
âOK, well, a long time ago, there once was this man who lived in this house with his wife and their catââ
âWhat was the cat called?â
âI donât know. Maybe Claude or something. Yeah, Claude. Anyway, Claude was black, black as night, and the couple who owned him loved him very much. Then, as time went on, the man started to drink way more than he shouldââ
âWas he sad about something?â
âYeah, heâd probably lost his job or something or he hated being married, something like that. Anyway, he started taking out all his problems on the cat. When he was drunk he got moody, and the cat was always around, rubbing against his legs and meowing for food. And one day, this cat got on the manâs nerves so much that he took it out into his back gardenâ¦â
*
The bus dropped us off on the corner of Long Lane, and we walked the rest of the way until we came to the grubby sign for Whitehouse Farm, me with a gnawing throb of dread in my chest. Weirdly, it hadnât changed at all in the years since weâd last been there. The mud-spattered jeep was still parked in a garage next door; the field opposite was still barricaded with three rusty shopping trolleys, linked end to end with rope. The sweet smells of hay and dung still hung in the air, and, despite my fear, I felt strangely happy to be back.
âGo on then,â said Max, nudging Corey forward. âGo and see if Mortâs there. Then we can go.â
Corey took one look back at the everlasting lane we had just walked down from the bus. I saw him take a deep breath. Then he led us inside, one by one.
âOh my GOD!â
FlapflapflapflapflutterflutterflutterScreeeeeech!
âGet it off! Get it off me!â
âAARGH!â
âWhat the HELL is THAT?â
âJesus!â
Hell had been unleashed, and we were in the middle of it. Things squawked and screeched at me from branches, flapping about beneath the corrugated plastic roof. There were living things everywhere; creatures, birds, things crawling over my feet. Rabbits, ferrets, cats and an earless Jack Russell terrier brutally shagging a wig. Everywhere you looked were scruffy, eyeless or legless animals: a furry, flappy, feathery nightmare.
âShut the door, quick!â a voice shouted, and Corey dived behind us to bang it shut.
All the way to Cloud, Iâd held on to one hope â that Fallon Hayes might not be home. That we could just ask Rosie if sheâd seen Mort, commiserate with Corey when she hadnât, then walk back to the pub on the main road and call a cab back into town. But the curt instruction had come from a girl â a long-legged, green-eyed girl with slightly buck teeth, a platinum blonde confusion of hair, and thick make-up. She had once been my best friend.
I took