The Stuff of Nightmares (19 page)

‘Go away! It’s not my fault. It’s not time,’ Nan shrieked as she spun round and round. I watched, terrified yet fascinated.

It took Mum and Dad ages to calm her down, and when we got home again they both raged at me for a good half-hour, made me write a sorry note to Nan and then stopped my pocket money for a month. I never tried that experiment again. It wasn’t until I was much older that I even dared to broach the subject. It was one time after school when I popped in for a quick visit. Nan had had a hip-replacement operation and it was taking her a long time to get over it. In fact, for the first time she looked her age. We usually played a game of football or dodge ball in her garden but she obviously wasn’t up to it. So we played a couple of games of backgammon (Nan’s favourite) and then dominoes before I plucked up the courage to ask her.

‘Nan, why don’t you like dripping taps?’

Nan opened her mouth – to rant at me, I think. But then her mouth snapped shut. She regarded me. ‘D’you really want to know?’

I nodded.

Nan was silent for so long, I wondered if she’d thought better of telling me. But then she said quietly, ‘Conor, some people don’t believe in anything they can’t see, can’t hear, can’t think about. Some people don’t believe in anything they don’t
want
to think about. Well, I used to be one of those people. I didn’t believe in Heaven or Hell, or demons or angels or anything like that. Shows what little I knew. I thought believing in things like that was like believing in the tooth fairy or Father Christmas.’

‘But you believe in all that now?’ I frowned.

‘I believe in ghosts, Conor.’ Nan’s laugh was bitter and brief. ‘And if ghosts exist, then so can all the other things we don’t yet understand.’

‘You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?’ I asked sceptically. This had to be a wind-up.

‘Conor, I know they exist,’ said Nan. ‘I
know
.’

‘How?’

Nan stared into the fireplace, watching the orange-yellow flames dance and sway. A faraway look came into her eyes. ‘Why not?’ she muttered to herself. ‘Why not?’

She turned towards me. ‘Conor, I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone before.’

I waited without speaking through another long pause. I didn’t want her to change her mind. Nan sighed, then she began.

‘I used to go to Ashville Secondary School. My best friend was a boy called Eddie. My teacher was Mrs
Tate
. Mrs Tate was tall and thin, with strawberry-blonde hair and almond-shaped blue eyes. I used to sit at the end of the second-to-last row in the class, closest to the window. And that’s how I spent most of my time, watching the world stroll past my window. Mrs Tate always used to say to me, “Amy, you should spend less time daydreaming about other worlds and more time living in this one. This life isn’t a dress rehearsal, you know.”’

‘Is that why you do all those really exciting things?’ I asked, remembering Nan’s various adventure holidays like abseiling and orienteering.

‘Partly. A small part,’ Nan replied.

‘What’s the big part then?’ I asked.

‘Mrs Tate arranged a day trip for the whole class to see a pantomime at the local theatre as a Christmas treat. We were all going to see the play in our last week at school in that autumn term.’ Nan smiled sadly. ‘I remember it seemed to snow every other day that December.’

‘“This outing will be extra special because we’ll have the chance to meet the actors and actresses after the performance and ask them lots of questions,” Mrs Tate said.

‘We were all so looking forward to it. Most of us had never been to the theatre before.

‘“You’re going to love it, I promise,” Mrs Tate told us enthusiastically. “
Jack and the Beanstalk
is a great pantomime. And what’s more, I’ve got reduced price tickets – less than half price. The price includes the
coach
trip there and back. We’ll have a trip across the river into town – won’t that be great?”

‘And just like that, she assumed everyone was going to go. And she was almost right. Everyone in the class signed up for the trip and all the money was paid. Except mine.’ Nan took off her glasses and absentmindedly cleaned them on her skirt before continuing. ‘I had no money. My family couldn’t afford it, so I couldn’t go. It was as simple as that. And I was the only one in my class who couldn’t go. D’you have any idea what that felt like, Conor? I don’t suppose you do. My clothes were always clean but never new. My shoes were polished, but always bought second-hand. My sister and I never went hungry but we were never stuffed full either. Our mum did her best, but money was always too tight.

‘I remember handing in the letter about the pantomime trip to Mum. “Mrs Tate wants all of us to go to see
Jack and the Beanstalk
. It’s not too expensive – she managed to get a huge discount on the price of the tickets. Can I go please?” I asked her.

‘Mum read the school letter, her head deliberately lowered as she read. I glanced at Alyson, who was glaring at me, sparks flying from her eyes. The look said that I should know better than to ask – but I’ve always believed,
Don’t ask, don’t get
.

‘“I’m sorry, Amy …” Mum began, still not looking at me.

‘“Mum, please,” I begged. “Everyone else is going. I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t go.”

‘“I’m sorry, Amy,” Mum said more firmly, raising her head to look at me this time. “I can’t spare the money to let you go to this.”

‘“It’s not that much,” I pleaded. “And I’ll get a job as soon as I can and pay you right back.”

‘“Amy, a penny is a lot of money if you don’t have it,” sighed Mum. “Alyson needs shoes and the electricity and gas bills have just come in. I’m afraid we really can’t afford it.”

‘I tried to bank down the slow flame building into a fire inside me. But it wasn’t working. The fire was growing, raging inside and it had to get out somehow.

‘“I hate this house and I hate the way we live,” I exploded. “I’m so sick and tired of not having any money. We never go anywhere, we never do anything – so what’s the point? I might as well just go to bed and not come out ever again. I might as well just
die
.”

‘“Amy, don’t be ridiculous,” Mum dismissed.

‘“It’s not ridiculous. I never go to the pictures with my friends at the weekend because I never have any money,” I yelled. “I never go to any of the parties I’m invited to because I can’t afford to buy any presents. It’s not fair.”

‘“Where is it written that life is meant to be fair?” Mum asked angrily. “Don’t you think I’m as fed up as you are about never having any money. I’m doing my best, Amy.”

‘“Your best isn’t up to much!” I shouted.

‘Mum looked at me, just looked at me – and all the hurt and pain in her face extinguished the flames
inside
me in less than a second. She turned and walked into her bedroom.

‘Alyson turned to me and started slow clapping. “Well done, pig-face. Well done.”

‘I stormed into the bedroom my sister and I shared and slammed the door. I’d known from the time I was given the consent form that it was a waste of time, but that still didn’t stop bitter disappointment from gnawing at me.

‘And it was even worse when my friends found out that I wasn’t coming. Mrs Tate asked me for my consent form and I had to tell her that Mum hadn’t signed it and wasn’t going to.

‘“Doesn’t she want you to see this pantomime?”

‘“No, it’s not that.” I rushed to defend Mum. “It’s just … we can’t afford it.”

‘“Oh, I see,” said Mrs Tate.

‘I just wanted a hole to open under my chair and swallow me up. All my friends turned to look at me.

‘“But you should go,” said my friend Eddie. “Everyone else is going. You belong with us.”

‘“Yeah, we should all go together,” Yvonne added.

‘Even Mrs Tate asked, “Amy, is there any way you could come?”

‘“No, miss,” I replied, wishing they’d all just shut up about it. I was feeling bad enough already and they were just making it ten times worse. Eddie was right, I
did
belong with them, but I just didn’t have the money. Didn’t he understand that if I could’ve gone, I would have?

‘When the day of the theatre trip came, I bunked off school. I wasn’t going to go and sit in another class so everyone would know that I was too poor to even go on a day trip. Alyson tried to tell me that being poor was nothing to be ashamed of, but that was what my head knew, not what my heart felt. So I bunked off.’

I frowned at Nan. ‘I still don’t understand why you don’t like the sound of dripping taps.’

‘I’m coming to that,’ Nan snapped. ‘Have some patience. Now, where was I? Ah yes! I spent the day in the library and walking around the town centre. I seem to remember I went to the park and stayed in the adventure playground until school was over, and then I went home. Mum didn’t know what’d I’d been up to that day, so that was the end of that – or so I thought.

‘You see, I didn’t know what had happened because I didn’t listen to the news that night – that was for boring grown-ups. I went to my room to do my homework, Alyson was out and Mum was busy using the sewing machine – so the radio was off all night. I skipped breakfast and headed off for school quite early. There were only a few people hanging around when I arrived and they were obviously very upset about something but I didn’t know them to talk to, so I headed for the library until the bell rang.

‘When at last I walked into my class, all my classmates were sitting in their places already. All of them – including Eddie, who was always late. That, if nothing else, should’ve told me that something was very wrong.

‘“Hi, Eddie.” I smiled, slipping in my seat next to his. “How was
Jack and the Beanstalk
?”

‘Eddie turned towards me and he looked so sad. “Amy, what’re you doing here?” he asked. His voice was so strange, kind of cold and far away and gurgly.

‘“I’m
supposed
to be here, Eddie. It’s my classroom too – remember?”

‘Eddie turned to look back at Mrs Tate. I looked around. No one was laughing or chatting or whispering. Everyone was deadly silent. The hairs on the back of my neck began to prickle.

‘Mrs Tate turned to me. “Amy, you must leave now,” she told me.

‘“No!” shouted Eddie. “She belongs with us!”

‘“She belongs with us!”

‘“She belongs with us!” The whole class was chanting now.

‘What on earth were they all talking about?

‘All at once, everyone in the class turned to look at me like I’d suddenly sprouted another head or something. But the frightening thing was, they all turned at the same time and looked at me in the same way. I mean,
exactly
the same way. The prickling sensation at the back of my neck grew. I looked at them and they looked at me and not one of them was smiling. And worse still, not one of them made a sound. I began to tremble inside, waiting for someone to say something, anything. The sound of the door opening had me practically jumping out of my skin.

‘“Amy, you can’t stay here,” said Mrs Corbin, the headmistress.

‘“That’s what Mrs Tate said.” I frowned. “Why can’t I stay? I know I didn’t come to school yesterday but—”

‘The headmistress looked shocked. “Amy, that’s not funny.”

‘“What’s not funny?”

‘I looked around. Everyone in the class was still watching me, not the headmistress.

‘“Eddie, what—?” I began.

‘“That’s in very poor taste, Amy.
Enough!
” Mrs Corbin shouted at me.

‘“She can’t see us,” Eddie told me.

‘“What?” I exclaimed. “I don’t understand—”

‘“Amy, we’re going to close the school for the rest of the day.” Mrs Corbin walked over to me and put her arm around my shoulders. “I know this must be hard for you but—”

‘“What’s hard for me?”

‘“Losing your friends like that,” said Mrs Corbin.

‘I looked around the class at all my mates, then back at the headmistress. I still didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

‘“Come on, Amy. I’ll phone your mum to come and pick you up,” she said.

‘“Mrs Tate, what’s going on?” I cried, truly bewildered. I turned to my best friend. “Eddie, is this some kind of joke you’re all playing?”

‘“Amy, our coach overturned on the way back from
the
theatre. We all ended up in the river,” Eddie told me. “And we couldn’t get out.”

‘The moment Eddie uttered those words, the clothes of each person in the class began to drip, drip, drip. Great big puddles of water on the floor. I just screamed and screamed and screamed …’

There was no sound in Nan’s room except the ticking of her clock on top of the telly.

‘And that’s why you hate the sound of dripping taps, because it reminds you of what happened?’ I managed to gasp out.

‘No, darling,’ Nan told me wearily. ‘When a tap drips in my house, my friends from school and Mrs Tate all come and stand before me. They stare at me and say nothing and their clothes just drip onto my carpets – except nothing ever gets wet. And I’m so tired of them watching me. I’m so tired …’

‘Why do they watch you?’ I asked, turning my head this way and that, as if to see them standing in the same room as us. ‘What do they want?’

Nan smiled. ‘They want me to join them. I should’ve been with them and somehow I think they feel cheated. They won’t rest until I’m with them. So I’ll jump from planes and I’ll ride motorbikes and I’ll hike up mountains, but I’ll never, ever do any activity that involves rivers, lakes or the sea. Not while they’re waiting for me. They’re never going to let me go and I—’

Out in the kitchen, we both heard the sudden but unmistakable sound of a tap beginning to drip … I
looked
around the room but could see nothing. Nan stared, her eyes wide and frantic. And then she started to scream.

I ran to the kitchen to turn off the tap, but no matter how tightly I turned it, it continued to drip. And in the living room Nan was still screaming.

‘Nan, I can’t turn it off!’ I shouted. ‘Nan?
Nan?
’

Then the screaming stopped. Somehow that was worse. My heart in my mouth, I ran back into the living room. Nan was still sitting in her chair, her eyes wide open. But she wasn’t breathing and I knew in that instant that she’d never breathe again. And the thing that will haunt me until I’m old and grey was the fact that her clothes were soaking wet and drip, drip, dripping onto her favourite armchair and the carpet below.