I wanted to walk up to the top of the Gorge, let the clean winter air launder my lungs and throat, but Charlie spotted an arcade centre called The Sunspot and wanted to go in there, so we did that for an hour. I didn’t mind; it was warm and there was tinsel draped across most of the fruit machines. It still felt like Christmas.
‘Which one do you want to play? Gears of War? Call of Duty? Guitar Hero?’
‘Death on Castle Mars,’ he said, without hesitation. As the name suggested, it was about a castle. On Mars. And there was a lot of death. The player was this extremely muscly soldier with a neck as thick as a tree stump and covered in tattoos, gun straps and strings of bullets and he had to run in and out of all these spooky corridors, machine-gunning aliens until they burst into flames.
‘I’m brilliant at this,’ he said gleefully, pumping the slot full of pound coins. ‘I’m up to level seven at home. I played it for seventeen hours straight last week. I haven’t got this version though. Dad’s getting me it for Christmas.’
‘Cool,’ I said, and hung around the machine for what seemed like an age listening to him yell things at the screen like: ‘Stop running. You know you can’t outrun me. I’m too quick. I’m just too damn quick for you’; ‘Oh I’ve got you now, Busta Rhymes’; ‘Yes! Yes! YEAAAAS!’; ‘Eat lead! ‘; and, ‘You are deader than dead now, Martian Mike’. All of which would be followed by him gritting his teeth and punching the air when the scores flashed up. He only stopped, begrudgingly, when a man came over and started queuing for a turn. I think he’d have happily stayed there all day.
Halfway up Gorge Road, there was a sign for ‘The Beast of Bathory Museum’.
‘Can we go in there?’ I said to Charlie, who was looking in the window of the fancy dress shop next door.
He looked at the sign. ‘It’s pretty crap,’ he said. ‘It’s only, like, one room. I haven’t been in there since I was a kid. Probably hasn’t changed.’
‘I’d like to,’ I said.
He shrugged and followed me up the steps to the museum. He was right too; it was just one room. A room with a large, glass-topped table in the centre. The walls all around detailed the history of Beast sightings, sites of corpses ascribed to the Beast and alleged victims. A little old man was seated on a chair by the entrance with a small tin marked ‘Donations’, and Charlie and I both put in some coins. He nodded thanks.
The first sign on the wall was entitled ‘The Strange and Colossal Predator’.
Since just before the First World War, there have been over forty-six reported sightings of a strange and colossal predator, roaming the fields and villages. Despite official inquiries purporting to disprove local lore as nothing more than superstition and scaremongering, many people in Bathory maintain that one or more large black animals stalk this area.
The second sign was entitled ‘Sightings and Eyewitness Reports’. I caught the words ‘large wolf’ and ‘as big as a horse’. There was a mocked-up drawing of what an eyewitness claimed to have seen. It looked like a picture Tabby drew in Prep a few nights ago.
It is feasible, said a quote from someone from the Government who checked the area out in the late eighties, that a turn-of-the-century entrepreneur who lived in the area and privately owned a small group of big cats may have let them go when he was thought to be contravening the laws of the Dangerous Wild Animals Act, and that, since the early part of the twentieth century, these animals have been living hidden in the Bathory countryside.
‘That actually makes sense,’ I heard myself saying, thinking back to Regan and her refusal to believe that the myth was just that: a myth. This was in front of me, in black and white, and seemed perfectly believable. I felt a bit ashamed of the way I’d spoken to her.
The third sign on the wall was entitled ‘Victims of the Beast’ and it talked about all the bodies of animals that had been found on farmland. I recognised a couple of the farm names—Daisy Brook and Willow Mead—they were the farms either side of the school.
Across the room, Charlie was laughing at a papier-mâché model a local primary school had made of the Beast. Its eyes were crossed and its teeth were wonky, with several chipped off. It did look pretty ropey, but behind it were black-and-white pictures of sheep lying dead in the fields, the black on their wool denoting blood, though it was hard to tell as the photos were so grainy.
Over the last century, a total of 128 sheep and lambs have been killed by the Beast of Bathory, the sign read. Fifty-seven cows have been reported killed or with mysterious long scratch marks on their hides. But perhaps most chillingly of all, seven people, mostly hikers and travellers, have been reported missing, having been last seen in the Bathory area.
‘Blimey,’ I said aloud.
‘What?’ said Charlie, who was now looking into the glass tabletop. Inside it was a scale model of Bathory village and the surrounding areas of Gunness-on-Sea, Toppan and Barfield. All around were little red dot stickers.
‘What do those mean?’ I asked him.
He read the little sign: ‘“The dots denote where traces of victims, both man and creature, have been found”.’
‘Traces?’
‘Yeah. Body parts and stuff, I guess.’
‘I thought it was just a couple of tourists last summer and a walker last winter. That’s what Mrs Renfield said in the shop.’
‘Yeah, but they found evidence of them,’ said Charlie. ‘They never found the others.’
‘They’re all near the school,’ I said on a long exhale. ‘The fields. The woods. The farmland.’ The dots encircled Bathory School. I was starting to feel just the slightest bit ill.
‘Took that one too,’ said a voice not coming from either of us. We looked across at the little man by the door with the collection tin. ‘Last week. Fella in the village. The Beast what did for him ‘n’ all.’
Charlie leaned in and whispered, ‘Don’t worry, he has to say that for the tourists.’
‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘I saw him carried out his cottage. Covered in blood.’
I felt a sense of dread, as though a heavy cloak had been thrown upon my back.
The old man continued, scratching his pepper-stubbled chin. ‘You don’t go walkin’ at night. You keep your doors locked. You don’t go lookin’ for it in the winter. Winter’s when he takes ‘em. Takes ‘em back to his lair. Stores ‘em up. Feeds on ‘em till spring.’
I didn’t understand. ‘Why would it hunt in the winter? Surely it would spend the summer hunting, and then in winter—’
‘Not this un, lassie. Winter’s when he comes out. He don’t hunt when the tourists are about, do he? Always in the wintertime. Always this time of year.’
Another of the signs read, ‘Theories about the Beast of Bathory’. The page was split into four different headings: ‘Prehistoric Legend’, ‘Escaped Zoo Animal’, ‘Alien Cross-Dimensional Traveller’ and ‘Native Wildcat’.
‘So what do you think the Beast is?’ Charlie asked the man.
He shrugged. ‘Could be any of ‘em.’
‘Even an alien cross-dimensional traveller?’ I laughed, even though it wasn’t funny.
The old man gripped his chin and stared straight ahead. ‘I don’t know, lassie. You just heed my words. Don’t go lookin’ for it. Don’t go bein’ a hero. You hear anything or see any sign of it, you call the police proper quick. That’s what the others didn’t do. That rambler and those tourists. Don’t believe the other stories. That thing’s real all right. It’s evil, straight from the jaws of Hell.’
‘Yeah, can we go now?’ I muttered to Charlie.
‘Thanks for your … time,’ said Charlie, as he guided me back through the door before him and down the steps.
‘Whoa, that was intense,’ I said, as soon we were safely back outside in the freezing cold air. ‘Better not tell Regan about this place. She’ll want to move in.’
‘He’s been in there years, that old bloke. “That thing’s evil straight from the jaws of Hell, I tell thee!”‘ he mocked.
‘Stop it,’ I said, pushing him so he stumbled on the pavement.
‘You got a bit scared then, didn’t you?’ He smiled.
‘I did not.’
‘Oh, you so did,’ he laughed. ‘You couldn’t wait to get out of there.’
‘That’s so not true!’
‘So you don’t want me to hold your hand then?’ he said.
I looked at him. ‘I didn’t say that.’ I reached for his hand and held it in my own.
He was shaking. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Are you cold?’
‘Yeah. And nervous.’
‘Nervous about what?’
‘About, I dunno, you. I dunno. I like you.’
I smiled at him and held his hand tighter. ‘I like you too. So you can stop shaking.’
We walked a little further down the street, holding hands all the while, though he didn’t stop shaking. He was obviously frozen to the bone. I spied a shop that sold Bathory souvenirs and fossils and gemstones so we went in to get out of the cold. I had always been a bit of a magpie when it came to shiny objects and rocks, even when they were no more than bits of overpriced tat. For that day only, they would be precious jewels.
‘I’ll be over here,’ said Charlie, heading towards a vast wall of local ciders and local chutneys as I made a beeline for a home-made jewellery display. There were some beautiful pieces—amethyst rings, quartz bracelets, tourmaline earrings and brooches, and all sorts of different unpronounceable rocks strung together as necklaces with tags claiming they ‘helped aid fertility’ and brought the wearer ‘peace and harmony’ or ‘a long-lasting marriage’.
There was the most stunning bluey-green necklace of little smooth rocks strung together on a wire. The tag said the rock was called ‘Howlite—a calming stone used to relieve stress and restore order to the wearer’s life. Wear the Howlite to absorb worries and your peace shall be restored.’
‘Ha, fat chance,’ I said, seeing the back of the tag also read twenty-three pounds and I only had ten pounds in the world. I put it back and decided to buy something for Charlie as a gift for bringing me out for the day. I spied some novelty car air fresheners in the shape of the Beast of Bathory and I remembered the football-shaped one in his car, which had run out of smell. I decided to buy one, plus a small button badge that said ‘I’ve Seen the Bathory Beast’ for my collection. I never could resist a badge. I caught up with Charlie by the tills.
‘Pick a hand,’ I said, holding out both fists out before him.
He looked at me. ‘Okay.’ He touched the top of my left hand. I opened it, empty. I opened the right and handed him the air freshener. ‘Aw, sweet,’ he said. ‘Mine’s just run out. You didn’t have to get me that.’
I shrugged. ‘Just a tiny thank you, you know, for today.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He smiled.
We walked up the entire length of the road running up through the Gorge and looked into all of the shops. Charlie went in the phone shop to see about a new SIM card for his Samsung, and I helped him choose some Christmas presents for his mum and sister in a lovely high-end gift shop called Seymour’s, then we went and got something to eat.
The tiny tea room we both liked the look of was halfway down the Gorge on the other side of the street. It was up a short flight of stone steps and from the window it had a great view of the village and the little bridge crossing the river. The place was called The Wishing Well and there was a wishing well by the entrance. Legend had it that wishes came true if you made them there. I knew exactly what my wish would be.
‘It’s just another money-making scheme,’ said Charlie, as a lady in full maid’s regalia greeted us and showed us to a table for two in the corner, right next to a little inglenook fireplace and the window with the perfect view. ‘The bloke who owns this place owns most of the tea rooms and shops in the Gorge. He’s loaded.’
‘That’s very cynical,’ I said, pinning my Beast badge to my jumper in the empty spot where the Head Girl badge would have gone.
He handed me one of the little leather-bound menus. I noticed his hand was still shaking. The barometer on the wall said two degrees centigrade. ‘I’ve made about a dozen wishes in there over the years and none of them have ever come true.’
‘What were your wishes?’ I asked.
He frowned. ‘I can’t tell you.’ His leg was jiggling under the table.
‘Why not? If it’s just a cynical money-making scheme, then it doesn’t matter if you tell me, does it?’
His eyebrows rose. ‘I guess you’re right. It was usually material things, like I wanted a scooter a couple of years ago. And I wished my dad got over his cancer.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yeah, but …’
‘There you go then.’
‘I never got a scooter for my birthday though.’
‘Did you get money?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what did you buy with your money?’
‘Well, I bought a scooter but it wasn’t bought for me, so the wish doesn’t count.’
‘I think you’re underestimating the power of the wishing well,’ I said, looking at a picture on the wall conveying the history of the restaurant. ‘There, see?’ I said, pointing up at the picture. ‘“People who’ve visited the wishing well over the last seventy years have reported wishes coming true when they’ve thrown coins in the water, from finding lost objects to relatives recovering from illness and even miraculous conceptions!” See, told you.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ he said, both legs jiggling now.
‘Weren’t you the one telling me to have faith?’ I smiled.
‘I used to wish … my mum came back. She left us. I thought at first that the Beast had taken her in the night.’
‘Oh, Charlie,’ I said, speechless of anything useful. ‘She didn’t …’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘We found a note. She’d just left. Couldn’t stand it any more at home. There was a lot of arguing and stuff. She went to the city. She wanted me to come too, but I stayed with Dad and ran the shop. He needed me.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, Charlie.’
‘Yeah, well.’
‘Do you still see her?’
He shrugged. ‘Hey, do you want to know a secret?’
‘What?’
‘Dad didn’t give me the afternoon off. I snuck out.’
If I’d been a cartoon, my eyes would have popped out on stalks. ‘You lied to him?’
‘No, I just didn’t tell him. He thinks I’m out delivering turkeys.’
‘So who signed the consent form?’
‘Me.’ He grinned and his eyes twinkled in the café’s dim lighting. ‘I knew he wouldn’t let me take you out and I really wanted to see you.’
Something broke in my chest. ‘Aww. I wanted to see you too.’
‘Don’t laugh but …’ His head dipped and when I saw his eyes again they were sparkling. ‘I think we’re quite similar. I feel a connection with you, Nash. I’ve never felt it with anyone else.’
‘Me either,’ I said, cheeks flushing with heat. Just then, the Maidy Lady came over to take our order. Charlie ordered a flat white, which I’d never heard of, but he made it sound nice so I had the same. We also ordered two cheese toasties and a couple of the enormous iced Danish pastries we’d seen behind the chilled cabinet glass when we’d come in.
‘Got us through the Blitz,’ he said.
‘What, hardened arteries?’ I said.
‘Here,’ he said suddenly, reaching into his trouser pocket and presenting me with two clenched fists. ‘Pick a hand.’
I touched the top of the right one. He opened it and it was empty. I sighed and he opened the left one, revealing the little Howlite necklace from the shop.
‘Oh my God! I was looking at that!’ I cried.
‘I know. I got it while you were picking out that sheep thing for your little friend.’
‘Wow. It’s so pretty, isn’t it?’
‘Take it,’ he said. I did. I looked at it. Then I went to hand it back to him, but he frowned. ‘No, it’s for you.’
‘What? I can’t accept this, Charlie.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it was twenty-three pounds.’
‘So? Call it a Christmas present, if you like. I just wanted to buy it for you.’
‘Charlie …’
‘Look—’ he leaned in closer to me across the table and lowered his voice ‘—I really like you. And I know that it’s gonna be tough because you’re at the school and when you’re not at the school you live nowhere near here but … well, I’d really like us to … I’d like to be with you. Like, go out with you. If you want to, like.’
He looked so nervous. His eyes were wide and his hands were shaking and his leg was still jiggling under the table for all it was worth.
I couldn’t stop my mouth stretching into a smile. ‘I’d like that too,’ I said, clasping his frozen hand in mine. ‘But you don’t have to buy me stuff.’
‘Well, it’d look stupid on me, wouldn’t it?’ He smiled. ‘It doesn’t match my eyes.’
We were still grinning when the Maidy Lady brought over our coffees and food.
As we were leaving, it was snowing heavily and, on our way down the steps, I handed Charlie one of the two pound coins I had left from my change.
‘Here you go,’ I said, standing beside the wishing well.
‘Oh come on,’ he said, ‘you’re not serious?’
I closed my eyes, turned on the spot and threw my coin into the well, looking over the railing and peering in until I heard a faint but definite plop! when it hit water.
‘Done. Now you.’
Charlie trudged back up the steps and closed his eyes before chucking the pound into the air. Fortuitously, it headed over the lip of the well. We both waited for the plop! that time.
‘What did you wish for?’ I asked him.
‘To kiss you,’ he said, holding me gently around my waist. I couldn’t help noticing the burger van in the lay-by opposite. There were some wild goats eating the stale buns by the trailer’s wheels. I put my finger against Charlie’s mouth, just as he was approaching mine.
‘Not here,’ I said, and took his hand, leading him down the steps and along the pavement towards the little cobblestone bridge. I stood right in the centre and took his hand.
‘Here,’ I said and he leaned into me and we kissed away everything for at least five minutes. He kissed hard, but it was good. It was perfect and powerful and I felt it in every sinew, fibre and vein and didn’t ever want to let go.
I heard myself kind of yelp as he pulled away. He kept his forehead against mine.
‘You like me, don’t you?’ He grinned.
I nodded. ‘You like me too, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘We’ve still got some time before I have to get you back. Anywhere else you want to go?’
‘Um, yeah,’ I said, still panting slightly. ‘There isn’t an internet café round here anywhere, is there? I just want to see if there’s anything from Seb—emails or anything.’
‘Yeah. At the bottom of the Gorge.’
‘I haven’t had a sniff of internet since—I can’t even remember.’
‘Your wish is my command, my lady,’ he said with a sweeping gesture.
I dealt with all my usual admin when I had internet access—checked both email accounts for anything from Seb or Mum or Dad, checked Facebook for friend requests (four), checked Twitter for @mentions (lots, though mostly bots), checked Tumblr for any good posts to reblog (one of a cat falling into a swing bin and another of Alice in Wonderland smoking a joint which I knew Seb would like). I also had a quick look on the main BBC News site, just to see what else was going on in the world—an uprising in the East, a market downturn in the West and the finding of a dead mouse in a malt loaf. I had just clicked away from the main screen in order to log off, when my eyes caught a headline. My chest constricted.
‘Oh my God,’ I whispered, clicking back onto the internet and typing ‘BBC’ back into the search bar. It took me back to the news page. I scrolled down and searched all over for the headline again. I scrolled up. And there it was, right at the top, on the scrolling ticker tape. It felt like being in a dark tunnel when a juggernaut’s coming right at you, all honking loudly and screeching brakes.
Invisible hands clutched at my throat. I forgot how to breathe.
‘Charlie,’ I said.
‘Yeah, you all done?’
‘Yeah.’ I looked in my pocket for my last few coins. ‘I just need to print this off. Then, could you take me back to the school, please?’
‘Yeah, sure. Is everything all right?’
I nodded. At least, I think I nodded. I was no longer in control of my own mind. It was only on one thing—that headline. I needed to get back to school as soon as possible.