Which begged the most significant of questions: what had made Philip Kemmis so angry? Why did he try to attack us? And what really happened to him in the tower all those years ago?
FOUR
Aman wearing a white shirt, a vivid blue necktie and formal grey trousers strode out of the castle to meet them.
Oliver Tolworth watched his dad talk to the stranger. Dad pointed back along the drive; he did a lot of gesturing, no doubt describing how they’d been attacked by Psycho-Nut in the green dressing gown.
‘Did you notice,’ Oliver began thoughtfully, ‘that even though it’s blazing hot he was wearing gloves?’
‘You mean the lunatic back there?’ His sister scowled. ‘As long as he’s tied up in a straightjacket now he could’ve been wearing a ballerina’s tutu for all I care.’ She shuddered. ‘What if he’d pulled me out of the car, Mum? He might have—’
‘Well, he didn’t,’ Mum said gently. ‘We’re safe. That’s all that matters.’
‘But why gloves? Big, thick gloves?’ Oliver persisted. The lunatic with the glaring eyes had scared him. Oliver fully expected to see him bounding up the drive, waving an axe, screaming his head off, wanting blood.
‘I’m sure he won’t bother us again,’ Mum said. ‘Ah, here comes Dad.’
The man in the office clothes came, too. Smiling, he bent down at the windows so he could talk to them.
‘Hello. My name’s Greg Foster, head of admin. I’ll be looking after you while you’re here. Did you have a good journey?’
‘We were almost murdered.’ Oliver felt panicky again. ‘Someone started bashing the car.’
His mother reached back to squeeze his hand. ‘Don’t worry, he’s gone now.’
‘Your mother’s right. Everything’s under control.’ Greg’s smile was enormous. ‘I’ve picked out one of our most beautiful cottages for you. It’s a lovely old place: oak beams, stone floors, and a garden with its own stream. Right, if you follow me, John, I’ll show you the way.’
The man in the white shirt and impeccable blue tie collected a bicycle that was propped against the castle wall. Soon they were driving along after him as he smartly pedalled down the lane. Moments later, they arrived at a clutch of houses built from stones that were the colour of oatmeal.
Everything seemed to get back to normal after that. Oliver soon put the drama of the Car-Hater’s attack out of his mind. He was excited about the bedroom he’d been given, which filled the entire attic of the house. Straightaway, he loved the sloping ceilings and the big windows that had views of the wild moorland, with their masses of strange boulders. He remembered what his father had said about imagining the rocks were dark knights on the march. Stone ghosts, alien invaders, man-hunters … Oliver’s own imagination kicked in. Already, he wondered how he’d react if he woke up one morning to discover that those dark sentinels had crept up to his home during the night and were shuffling closer to the door. A potentially frightening image indeed; however, he was too busy to get obsessive about it.
All the family joined in to help unpack the car. After they’d finished, Vicki stalked about the house trying to find a signal on her phone. Oliver knew that his sister had gone crazy for boys – in fact, one boy in particular – so she’d be pining for a text from Lee. Meanwhile, his mother and father were pleased to find the fridge packed with food; they shone broad smiles at one another when they noticed a bottle of white wine cooling on the bottom shelf.
‘I’m sure we’re going to love it here,’ said his mother happily and kissed Dad on the lips.
Those contented words put Oliver at ease. His adventurous nature was returning. This faraway place excited him. He wanted to see the suits of armour and Egyptian mummies that his dad had told him were in the castle. There’d be dungeons, too, wouldn’t there? Maybe swords and maces and shields – yeah, all kinds of cool stuff. He just knew this was going to be amazing.
Oliver Tolworth explored the garden, testing low branches for his signature monkey-swing. Then he headed down the lawn to inspect the stream. From there he could make out more cottages, which stood beside the lane. Beyond those were trees and broad meadows before the land rose up towards the moor.
Nobody else was in sight. There were no sounds other than bees going buzz-buzz amongst the flowers and birds singing in the trees. Oliver allowed his imagination to flow. In no time at all, he pictured himself as Lord of the Castle. In his mind’s eye, he wore shiny armour with a steel helmet. Happily, he picked up a stick as barbarian warriors in the form of stinging nettles launched their ferocious attack on him.
‘Dush! Wha! Splat! Die, die, die!’ He hacked the tall plants down with heroic swipes of the stick. ‘Drive them back into the sea … Save the maiden … Die!’
So often, when he was alone, Oliver slipped into a dream-world that could easily seem more real than the one everyone else inhabited. Of course, he enjoyed the company of friends. Being alone, however, was special. Being alone with your dreams was a magical place – there were worlds of wonder, adventure and excitement.
‘Who are you?’
The male voice startled him. Crazy-man, thought Oliver in panic. Crazy-man’s going to get me! He spun round to find a figure walking alongside the stream. Oliver expected to see the fierce psycho in the dressing gown; those ominous hands in leather gloves reaching out.
Instead, a boy approached who didn’t seem a great deal older than Oliver. The stranger wore jeans and a red polo shirt. He had black hair and big, bristly eyebrows that formed black arches above his eyes. Oliver stared at him, saying nothing. After the psycho’s attack on the car, Oliver was wary of anyone new in this place. After all, the countryside here could be crawling with weirdos eager to do him harm.
The boy used stepping stones to cross the stream. He stopped five paces from Oliver and stared at him. ‘I’m Fletcher Brown. I’m twelve.’ The boy’s voice was loud and strangely emphatic. ‘My dad’s the caretaker. We live in the gatehouse. My mother’s in hospital, dying.’
Oliver continued to eye the visitor with a large dollop of suspicion. This boy wasn’t like any kid he’d ever met before. Even at eleven years old, Oliver realized that there was something not quite right about Fletcher Brown. After all, the boy had declared that his mother was dying in such a matter-of-fact way that he could have been telling Oliver that she’d just popped to the supermarket.
‘What’s your name?’ the strange boy asked.
‘Oliver Tolworth.’
‘You’re new here.’
Oliver nodded.
Fletcher continued in that blunt manner: ‘I was born here. I know all about the castle and the moor. I know secrets. Big secrets. Secrets you wouldn’t believe until you see them with your own eyes. Are your parents still alive?’
‘I’ve got to go. My mother wants me.’
‘Not yet.’
Oliver flinched. He’s not going to let me go. ‘I’ve got to go home,’ he said, trying to keep calm. He mustn’t reveal he was scared. Bullies smell fear – and fear provokes bullies to do their worst.
‘Stay here. I want to show you something.’ The unsettling stranger drew an object from his pocket. ‘My phone’s fantastic. It’ll be miles better than yours.’
Oliver nodded, while making a grunt that sounded vaguely complimentary.
Fletcher gave a self-satisfied nod. ‘Do you know, if I was on the Moon and phoned you it would take one point three seconds for the signal to reach here? If I called you from the Sun it’d take over eight minutes. If I phoned from the centre of the galaxy you’d never hear what I had to say, because you’d be dead. Even though my voice would be travelling at the speed of light, it would take twenty-five-thousand years to reach the Earth. You’d be in your grave – just bones and teeth and shit. Oliver, I’ve decided something important about you.’
Oliver’s blood ran cold. ‘Decided what?’
‘I’ve decided to make you my friend.’
Fletcher offered his hand. In the circumstances, it see
med wisest to play along, so Oliver shook it.
‘Oliver. Do you want to see secret things?’
He’s going to take me away. Thoughts of being led to a place where nobody could hear his screams sent a flurry of panic through him.
Fletcher moved closer. ‘See? I took photos with my phone. I wasn’t allowed, but I took them anyway. They’re secret, so don’t you dare tell anyone.’
Without thinking, Oliver reached out to take the phone.
‘Ah! Ah!’ Fletcher tugged the phone away. ‘Look with your eyes, not with your fingers.’
Oliver found himself staring at a photograph of a sign reading: ‘DANGER! KEEP OUT!’ The buzz of insects seemed to grow louder, as if to emphasize how alone Oliver was here by the stream. If Fletcher decided to hurt him, he knew he could do nothing to stop it. The boy was a lot bigger than Oliver; certainly stronger. Nor would his shouts bring anyone quickly enough to save him. This was a big garden, and the house seemed a long way away. Best play it cool. Show an interest in the photos – after that, get back to Mum and Dad as fast as you can.
Fletcher gave Oliver a searching look, as if hunting for indications of treachery. ‘I’m showing you these private photos because you’re my friend. If my dad knew I’d climbed into the mummy room, he’d kill me.’
‘I have to go home.’
‘No!’ Fletcher grabbed Oliver’s arm. ‘You haven’t seen the best ones yet. Look.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘Death mask.’
Oliver found himself staring at a smooth, gold face with wide, lifelike eyes and a solemn mouth.
Fletcher revealed the next image. ‘Without death mask.’
The whisper of the stream and hum of insects vanished. The sounds of the garden seemed to be stolen away by the face on-screen. If the gold death mask had been the essence of serenity, then this horror was its absolute reverse. Open cracks in the mummified flesh formed veins of shadow that wormed from forehead to jaw. The upper lip had shrivelled back into a snarl. Gaping eye-sockets glared with violent anger. That’s what Oliver was sensing right now. He understood with frightening certainty that he’d crossed a line. Although he couldn’t articulate the emotion, he knew with all his heart that he shouldn’t have seen the picture of the mummy. The cruel voice of childhood premonition warned him there’d be consequences … That meant punishment, revenge and suffering. Oliver was being blamed for looking. Blamed for gawping at naked bone, which poked through broken skin. There was rage in the face of that ancient corpse. Out-and-out murderous rage.
Oliver’s heart thudded as he stared Death in the face.
Then Fletcher leaned forward to whisper these chilling words: ‘When people sleep, that’s when the mummies wake up.’
FIVE
Philip Kemmis had seen the car arrive. Instantly, he’d recognized his childhood friend, John Tolworth, even though they hadn’t met since that fateful night thirty years ago.
He had seen terrible things in the car with John – three figures bound in the wrappings of mummified corpses. Their withered faces were a mass of ugly, cracked flesh, while their eyes had stared out through the car’s windows in hatred. The three mummies were evil things. Somehow they’d tricked their way into the vehicle. Why hadn’t John seen them for what they were? They were hideous things that had died three thousand years ago. Why hadn’t his old friend known that loathsome Egyptian mummies rode in the car with him?
Philip had tried to warn John. He’d pounded on the car’s windows. He’d desperately attempted to pull open the back door so he could drag at least one of the vicious creatures out. To his shame, he’d failed. John had driven away, not realizing that he carried a cargo of death with him: three grotesque figures, clad in the wrappings of the grave. They would destroy John, just as they’d destroyed Philip’s life all those years ago.
Philip sat on a bed in the gatehouse apartment that had been his home for twenty years. Through the window he glimpsed Baverstock Castle in the distance. Figures moved behind windows in the tower. He knew what those shapes were. His enemy was stirring.
At that moment, the bedroom door opened. A husk of a man stood there. One covered with a criss-cross pattern of bandages. The tar-like odours of bitumen that had been used to help preserve the corpse all those years ago in Egypt flooded the room. He stared in horror at the grim totem as it lurched towards him.
‘Philip … It’s alright, it’s me.’
The grim apparition of the mummified man vanished, and Philip sighed with relief. He realized he was mistaken … a trick of light, or perhaps the shock of seeing his old friend again in the company of those things.
The white-haired man was David Brown. He occupied the other apartment in the gatehouse with his wife and son. The wife, though … Something bad had happened to her. Philip struggled to remember. Yes, that’s it. She’s in hospital – the mummies from the castle must have hurt her in some way. Perhaps poisoned her food … or even infected her with microbes that oozed from their bones.
‘Philip.’ David’s voice was sympathetic. ‘You’ve not taken your pills again, have you?’
Philip’s entire body twitched in a single convulsive spasm. He hated the medication. It robbed him of his senses.
David continued, ‘I can tell, you know? You’re agitated. And you must have scared that family half to death when you ran after their car like that.’
‘Family? Did you see what was in the car with John? I did. I’ve got to tell him before they hurt him.’
‘Here, Philip. Take your pills. You don’t want to go back into hospital again, do you?’ The white-haired man spoke kindly. ‘Here, let me help. Hold out your hand.’ He picked up the blister pack from a table and pushed two pills through the foil into Philip’s palm.
‘My friend’s come back. I should talk to him as soon as I possibly can.’
‘Of course, Philip. Take the pills first. Here’s a glass of water.’
‘He needs me. He’s in danger.’
‘Swallow the pills. Don’t get yourself all worked up again.’
Philip washed the pills down with a gulp of water. ‘Did I tell you what happened to me, David?’ He lifted his arm to show the stump that ended at the wrist. ‘Did I tell you how I lost my hand?’
‘Yes, Philip. You told me. Now lie back, give the pills chance to work.’
Philip put his head down on the pillow. His heart thudded loudly. He was thinking how he could save his friend, and how he’d destroy those three obscenities that John Tolworth had unwittingly carried in his car.
SIX
Eleven-year-old Oliver Tolworth walked across the lawn in the direction of the house he’d be living in for the next four weeks. The strange boy, Fletcher Brown, mooched along with him with his hands clasped behind his back, humming to himself. Oliver had been shocked when Fletcher showed him photographs of the mummy’s face. The face had been ghastly. Oliver had been ready to run away from this peculiar child who had so casually claimed that his mother was dying in hospital. However, Fletcher had put the phone back in his pocket and pointed out a roe deer that had come out of the woods to drink at the stream. Seeing the animal had amazed Oliver so much that it had driven the image of the gruesome face from his mind. Fletcher had then told Oliver about foxes and badgers that could be seen prowling the area at night. After a while, Oliver had begun to relax in the boy’s company. He didn’t seem so strange after all … OK, a bit strange, but Oliver was tolerant of eccentric children. Didn’t one of his best friends always keep at least two live mice in his coat pocket? Some kids did funny things, for sure. That didn’t make them nasty, just different.
As they walked, Fletcher said, ‘There are lots of secrets around here. I know what they are.’
‘Like what?’ Oliver was interested.
‘There’s secret stuff about the graveyard.’
‘What is it?’
‘I won’t tell you …’ Fletcher gave a funny half smile. ‘I’ll show you.’
At that moment, Oliver’s father appeared a
t the patio doors. ‘Ollie? Want to give me a hand unpacking?’
‘Who’s that?’ asked Fletcher.
‘That’s my dad.’
‘What’s his secret?’
Oliver shook his head, puzzled. ‘He doesn’t have any secrets. He’s just my dad.’
‘Everyone has secrets, Oliver. Everyone.’
Oliver’s father smiled at Fletcher. He always welcomed Oliver’s friends and was probably the easiest-going dad in the world. That’s what Oliver told himself, anyway. However, before he could say, ‘This is Fletcher. He’s my new friend,’ Fletcher had slipped quietly away. Oliver merely shrugged. Maybe his new friend was shy?
‘Who was that, Ollie?’ asked his dad.
‘Oh, just a kid. He’s going to show me where some foxes live.’
‘Ah, getting to know the locals. Good idea, Ollie. I’m glad you found a friend so quickly. What’s he called?’
‘Fletcher.’
‘Can you give me a hand? Mum wants to put the clothes away before we have something to eat.’
‘Yeah, OK.’
Before Oliver reached the house, the man in the shirt and tie, who’d shown them the way to the cottage earlier, pedalled up the drive on his bicycle.
‘Hello,’ the man said pleasantly. ‘Are you settling in?’
Oliver’s dad smiled. ‘Yes … we’re getting there. It’s a lovely cottage, by the way. Those views of the moor are amazing. And Oliver here has already found a new friend.’
‘Good, good. He’ll be entertained, then. Is it Mark Oldfield from next door? His mother’s our bones expert.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Oliver told him. ‘He’s Fletcher Brown.’