‘Just an hour or so after you get home,’ she said. I must’ve pulled a face or something, because she followed up with: ‘I know, honey, but…well, the money’ll come in handy.’
I nodded and adjusted my face into something resembling a smile. ‘It’s fine,’ I said, then I stuffed some more cornflakes into my mouth to stop me saying anything else.
I chewed in silence for a few moments. Mum was watching me. I could tell by the way she was breathing she was building up to saying something.
‘You know you can’t tell anyone?’ she finally said.
I swallowed down the soggy milky mush. ‘About babysitting Lilly Gibb?’
‘No, about what happened. About any of it.’
‘I was kidding,’ I said. ‘I know.’
‘Right. Because they wouldn’t understand,’ she continued. ‘It’d cause…problems.’
‘You mean they’d think I was mental.’
She smiled. ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t think…’ Her voice cracked and her head suddenly dropped. When she looked up again she was ten years older. ‘It’s over now, sweetheart,’ she whispered. ‘You can put it behind you. We all can.’
I nodded in what I hoped would be a reassuring way. Inside, though, I knew she was wrong. ‘It begins.’ That’s what had been written on the card my dad had left for me.
Whatever was happening, it was far from over. Christmas had just been the start. I didn’t know what danger awaited me. I didn’t know what horrors I was going to face. I just knew something was going to happen, and I had a horrible suspicion it was going to happen soon.
‘Have fun!’ chirped Mum from the kitchen, as I pulled my red school jumper over my head, slung my bag over my shoulder and headed out into the hall. I got there in time to see a bundle of junk mail spew through the letterbox and spatter on to the mat.
‘Will do. Post’s here,’ I replied, kneeling to pick it up. ‘I’ll put it on the side.’ I flicked through the envelopes, looking for anything with my name on the front. There was nothing. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
As I moved to stand up, my gaze drew level with the letterbox. Two chubby fingers held it propped open. A pair of eyes stared in at me through the gap.
‘Um…hey, Hector,’ I said, recognising our postman from his grey eyebrows and wrinkled, weather-beaten skin. He watched me, unblinking. ‘You OK?’ I continued. ‘What…what are you doing?’
His gaze continued to bore into me, making me uncomfortable. Hector could be a bit quirky sometimes – that was part of what made him so popular on the street – but even for him, this was extra weird.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and lifeless, lacking its usual colour: ‘Peek-a-boo,’ he muttered. ‘I see you.’
Slowly, without another word, he let the letterbox creak back down into place. A second later, I heard him break into his familiar whistle as he walked back along the garden path.
Unsure of what had just happened, I stayed where I was – kneeling on the floor – until the whistling had faded into the distance. Hector’s weirdness shouldn’t have bothered me, but for some reason my heart was pumping like it was about to break out of my chest.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Mum. Her voice made me jump upright in fright. I turned and saw her standing in the kitchen doorway, her hands on the hips of her pale brown dressing gown. ‘You’ll miss the bus. You’re going to be late for school.’
Mum was right. I was late for my first lesson, English, though not by much. The fact I arrived only two minutes after class had started didn’t seem to matter to Mr Preston, though. He was lounging in his chair with his hands behind his head when I stumbled my way into his classroom.
‘Well, well, speak of the devil,’ tutted the teacher, swivelling his seat to face me. ‘We were just discussing you, Mr Alexander.’
I glanced at the neatly spaced rows of not-so-friendly faces sitting in front of me and felt my cheeks redden with embarrassment.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I offered, making a move towards the one empty desk in the class.
‘Not so fast there,’ Mr Preston said. His chair gave a squeak as he leaned forwards and stood up. His fingers brushed the polished surface of the motorbike helmet that sat, in pride of place, on his desk, then he shuffled lazily across to the blackboard.
Mr Preston is into motorbikes in a big way. I know this because he spends at least one whole lesson a week talking in excruciating detail about his own motorcycle. Once he joked that he loves the bike more than he loves his wife.
At least, I think he was joking.
The rest of the class and I watched as he chalked the words ‘What I Did in the Holidays’ on to the board.
‘To break us in gently, we were about to discuss what we did during the Christmas break,’ he explained, turning to face me. ‘Since you’re already up on your feet, perhaps you’d do us the honour of going first?
Chapter Two BILLY GIBB (#ulink_6d7df22e-2c77-560c-a133-b175dd3a83c6)
My cheeks felt like they were burning. I don’t like talking in front of people. I reckon if I’m ever forced to choose between speaking in public and having my fingernails torn out with pliers, I’ll have to give both options some really serious thought.
‘I didn’t do much,’ I shrugged, hoping that would be enough to get me off the hook. Of course, it wasn’t.
‘You didn’t do much?’ Mr Preston smirked. He half sat, half leaned on his desk, both hands now in his pockets. ‘Surely you can give us a bit more to go on than that?’
My mind raced. What could I say to get this over and done with quickly? I had to be careful not to reveal anything about Christmas Day itself, but I had to tell him something.
‘I…met a friend. A girl friend. I mean not a…Just a friend. Who’s a girl.’
As one, the class erupted into a chorus of ‘Ooohs’.
‘Who was it, your gran?’ called a voice from the back of the class. I recognised it as Billy Gibb. I’d know those smug tones anywhere.
Billy had a lot of muscle, but not much going on between the ears. He’d been kept back for two years in primary school, and so was much older – and bigger – than anyone else in class. The first time he had been forced to repeat the year on account of having had too many days off. And then, two years after that, he’d been kept back again. On account of being thick.
‘Quieten down,’ Mr Preston warned, giving the entire class one of his glares. As silence fell, he turned back to me. ‘I’m not sure if I want to hear the details or not,’ he frowned, ‘but carry on.’
I hesitated, boxing off in my head all the things I didn’t dare reveal about Ameena, the girl who had saved my life. I realised quite quickly that what was left wasn’t very interesting at all.
‘Nothing to tell, really,’ I said. ‘Just met her at Christmas.’
‘Where’d you meet her?’ demanded one of the other boys sitting near Billy.
Another pause. Telling them she’d saved me from being strangled to death on my front doorstep wasn’t really an option, even if it was the truth.
Christmas Day felt more and more like some distant, half-remembered nightmare. It had been no dream, though. It had happened. All of it.
I was alone in the house when he’d appeared, crashing through the living-room window in a shower of broken glass. Mr Mumbles had been my childhood imaginary friend. He’d been my funny little buddy, accompanying me everywhere I went. As I grew up I forgot all about him. Turned out he wasn’t happy about that.
When he came back he was different. Bigger. Stronger. His body and face twisted and disfigured. This time round he wasn’t interested in being friends. He had one goal and one goal only.
Killing me.
He would’ve managed too, had it not been for Ameena. She had appeared like an avenging angel, charging out of the darkness, swinging wildly with a baseball bat. She drove him back, buying us time to get away.
She’d stayed with me for most of the day, helping me when no one else could. How many times did she save my life? Twice? Three times? I couldn’t even remember.
