A quarter of an hour later, they had made a cosy little den, and they lay down to rest. James turned off the torch and the cellar became utterly black.
‘Not scared of the dark, I hope,’ said Kelly.
‘Never have been,’ said James. ‘I like the dark. I’ve always felt that if you can’t see the monsters, then they can’t see you.’
‘I thought monsters could see in the dark,’ said Kelly with a chuckle.
‘No,’ said James forcefully. ‘They can’t.’
James drifted off into a troubled sleep, filled with dreams of eels and water and drowning and the sound of a boy screaming, and it was a relief when some time later Kelly nudged him awake and shone the torch in his face.
James sat up.
‘What time is it?’ asked Kelly, who had no watch of his own.
James looked at his wristwatch; it was half past twelve.
‘Then we’d best get going,’ said Kelly.
They carefully opened the trapdoor, left the derelict building and crept back outside. It was very still and very quiet, though the big floodlights still burnt in the compound.
Bats flitted in the air above them, swerving and dive-bombing after all the insects that were attracted by the lights.
The castle was absolutely dark now. All the windows were black slits.
‘Shall we risk the front door?’ said Kelly. ‘It’s always worth trying…’
But James was looking up at the Scots pine, which leant drunkenly out over the water towards the castle walls. High above them was an open window with a low stone balustrade outside it.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘That window’s open.’
‘Oh, that’s ideal,’ whispered Kelly sarcastically. ‘All we need is a ladder and a boat to get across the moat.’
‘No, we don’t,’ said James. ‘All we need do is climb the tree. Don’t you see? That big branch up there goes almost right up to the window.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Kelly. ‘We’re not climbing up there, we’ll break our bloody necks.’
‘No we won’t. It’s not that high. Don’t tell me you’ve never climbed a tree before.’
Kelly looked sheepish. ‘I’ve climbed a few drainpipes, and I’m no stranger to a ladder, but… well, there’s not a lot of trees round where I live.’
‘Well,’ said James. ‘As you would say – it’s a piece of cake. Just follow me and do exactly as I do and you can’t go wrong.’
‘Seriously, James,’ said Kelly. ‘I don’t like heights and I don’t trust trees.’
‘Follow me,’ said James, and he walked over to the big Scots pine.
The hardest part of climbing a tree is usually getting up to the lowest branch, and this tree proved no exception. After a few minutes of fruitless scrabbling and jumping, Kelly made a stirrup with his hands and hoisted James up, then James dangled down and grabbed Kelly by the hand.
‘Ready?’
‘Heave away!’
In a moment the two of them were sitting there, safely in the arms of the pine.
From here the next few branches were relatively easy, and they quickly gained height, but the tree was taller than it had looked from below, and the window much higher than they had assumed.
The tree had a strong, piny smell and was oozing resin, and soon their hands were sticky and filthy. Kelly was cursing and struggling, nervously testing branches that James had clambered up easily, and every now and then he chose to use a different branch altogether. The higher they went, the thinner the branches became, and they were covered in small, sharp twigs.
‘I’m not sure about this, Jimmy,’ said Kelly. ‘I’m not sure I can go on…’
James looked down; Kelly was perched on a very thin, dead branch that James had purposely avoided.
‘Don’t use that one,’ James said. ‘It’s too weak. Put your weight on that one there.’
But Kelly seemed frozen, his face almost white in the moonlight.
‘Come on,’ said James. ‘You’ll be all right, so long as you don’t look down.’
‘I can’t look down,’ stammered Red. ‘I can’t look up, I can’t…’
There was a terrible snap, Kelly swore, and then he was falling – down through the tree, smashing and bumping into branches as he tried to grab on.
Part Three: THE CASTLE
19
Alone
James climbed down the tree as fast as he could after Kelly, praying that he would be all right. Kelly crashed from branch to branch and finally managed to grab hold of one near the bottom. He hung there for one agonising moment, looking up at James, before, overcome with pain and weakness, he let go and thudded to the ground in the middle of a pile of rubbish.
He must have been terrified when falling through the tree, and it must have hurt like hell as the branches bludgeoned and whipped him and tore at his grasping hands, but he never once cried out or made any sound.
As James scrambled down after him, he wondered if he would have been so brave in Kelly’s place. He was about to jump from the last branch when Kelly gestured to him to stop.
‘Don’t,’ he hissed. ‘You’ll never get back up again.’
‘Are you OK?’ James asked as loudly as he dared.
‘No, of course I’m not OK.’ Kelly’s clothes were ripped and his hands and face bleeding from several nasty cuts and scratches. ‘I think I’ve broken my leg.’
James thought of his Uncle Max, falling from the drainpipe in Germany.
‘I’m coming down,’ he said.
‘No!’ hissed Kelly. ‘You go back up and carry on. I’ll get to the den and strap myself up with something. You’ll be back in less than an hour. In the meantime, I’ll try and think of some way out of this mess.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Go on.’ Kelly crawled away through the rubbish towards the abandoned building. Once he’d made it safely inside and James was sure that nobody had heard them, he started to climb back up the tree.
It was quicker and easier the second time. James knew the good branches and which ones to avoid. He was soon higher than he had reached before, and the higher he got, the harder it became. The branches were much closer together up here and getting dangerously thin. He had to go slowly and choose his route with care.
He broke a couple of dead sticks that were in his way, and squinted through the clusters of pine needles to try and get some idea of how close to the window he was. It had looked easy from below, but he now realised that the building was much further away from the tree than it had appeared across the water, and what he had thought might be strong branches were mostly too thin and bendy to carry his weight.
He decided that he would have to try to climb above the window and hope that a higher branch would bend down towards it.
He struggled on up through the tangle of small twigs and young limbs, feeling like Jack climbing the beanstalk towards the giant’s castle. At last, after some careful searching, he found a suitable branch. In fact it was probably his only hope, because it was the last branch that looked as if it would be strong enough to support him. He lay down on it, gripping it with his legs, and slowly slid himself away from the trunk and out over the loch.
He looked down at the black waters, so still now, but he could picture the eels beneath the surface, lying in the stinking mud at the bottom, their wide snouts sticking out, waiting patiently. His one consolation was that if the fall didn’t kill him, it would at least knock him unconscious, and he would know nothing about sinking down through the dark water towards those slimy mouths.
He suddenly felt very lonely. If he fell, Kelly wouldn’t come, and nobody else knew he was here. He was utterly alone.
He forced his eyes away from the water towards the wall ahead of him. The branch was bowing sharply now, and he found himself crawling downwards towards its tip, so that there was a very real danger of slipping forward and off the end. Best not to think about that.
Slowly he shuffled along. The castle was six feet aw
ay, five… four… The branch was swaying alarmingly. He felt like he could tip off at any moment.
He stopped.
The wall was still three feet away…
He didn’t move.
He knew it wasn’t going to work. The branch wasn’t long enough. It was too thin. If he went any further, he would be past the point of no return. He’d be stuck.
He glanced down, he was over the ground now, at the foot of the wall. That would be worse than hitting the water, eels or no eels. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, trying to calm the mounting panic.
And then he heard it.
First a creak. Like a loose tread on a staircase.
And then a crack.
He felt the branch shudder… It was splitting.
He looked hopelessly around for the break, but could see nothing. There came another crack, louder than before, and the branch jerked downwards another few inches.
He had no choice now; he had to get off the branch as quickly as he could, and that meant going forward. Quickly he pulled himself along. The branch had bent so much that he was now to the left of the window and below it. He could see the stonework of the wall quite clearly in the moonlight. Thankfully, it was more uneven than it had appeared from a distance so, if he could get to it, he might just be able to hold on… He had been rock-climbing a couple of times and knew roughly what to do, but how could he get any nearer? The branch wasn’t going to reach.
There came another crack and the branch jolted so quickly downwards that his legs were thrown off and he was dangling in the air, fifty feet above the ground, with the branch slowly slipping between his fingers. There was only one thing for it: he kicked out and swung towards the wall. His feet brushed against it, then he swung away, back out over the water. With all his might he swung forward again. Maybe the branch would hold, maybe it would break completely; it was in the hands of God now. He swooped up and his body slammed hard into the stonework. He grunted but, before he had a chance to try to grab on, he had swung back. The air rushed in his ears, and the ground below was a blur. He reached the end of the arc, stopped, hung there for one agonising moment, then swung forward, faster this time; but as he went he felt the branch above him snap completely. He let go of it and it dropped away. He thudded into the wall, arms and legs outstretched in a star shape, and desperately clung on with his fingertips and toes.
It was no good. He was slipping downwards.
He gripped harder and groaned between clenched teeth… A terrible image came into his mind: of his own father, clinging to a rock in France and letting go and falling and…
He stopped. He wasn’t falling. He was stuck to the wall. His feet had found a tiny ledge.
He let out his breath and pressed his face into the cold stone. His fingers were bleeding, the nails ragged, but he was secure.
All right. Now upwards. There was a handhold just within reach above him. Gingerly he stretched up for it, gripped tight, then moved one foot up, probing for a crack. Yes. He felt a piece of jutting-out stone. He tried it. It would hold. He pulled himself up. Good. Now another handhold, and another. That was all he had to do, just keep finding the holds and not think about anything else. One hand, one foot, then the other foot… At last his right hand felt something different. He looked up and saw a stone balcony, which offered him a couple of good, firm grips. He dragged himself up, held on with one knee, pulled, scrabbled, swung his other leg up and, thank God, there was the window. He grabbed the sill and hauled himself inside.
He’d done it.
He was safe.
For a long while he didn’t move; he just lay there, face down, on a dusty, threadbare rug, breathing heavily. He felt sick. His head was pounding and sweat was pouring off him, stinging his eyes.
Then it slowly dawned on him that, in fact, he was far from safe. If anything, he was in a more dangerous position than before.
Jack was inside the giant’s castle.
What was he going to do? Without Kelly he was lost. Their whole plan was shot to pieces. He knew nothing about creeping around houses in the middle of the night. Yes, he was in all right, but somehow he had to get out again. He couldn’t go back the way he had come. He had to find some other exit from the castle, and he had to find it without waking anybody.
He forced himself to his feet. There was just enough light from the moon through the open window to show him that he was in a short corridor that ran from the window into the heart of the castle. There were dark paintings hanging on the walls, and heavy oak doors were set into the cold granite walls on either side.
The building was absolutely quiet, like a mausoleum. Which meant that at least nobody had heard him. He crept along to the first door and put his ear to it. Nothing. Not a sound. Carefully he tried the heavy iron latch. It popped up with a small click and the door opened. James boldly pushed it back. The room was in total darkness. He fished Max’s torch out of his pocket and shone it into the blackness.
He jumped back in fright as the beam fell on the snarling face of a large wildcat.
Then he let out his breath and relaxed. The cat hadn’t moved. It was stuffed, frozen in anger, and falling apart. One back leg was missing and sawdust was spilling out from a long tear in its belly. James raked the room with his torch beam. There were several more stuffed animals: some small deer, a couple of foxes, and a collection of birds in a dusty cabinet. On a rail near the window hung a row of moth-eaten fur coats.
The rooms up here all seemed to be used for storage. Behind other doors he found old clothes and hats, battered sports equipment, mouldering books, paintings disfigured by patches of damp and mould, dull mirrors, broken furniture, boxes of papers that had been chewed by mice… the forgotten junk of countless generations of Hellebores. So when he came to the last door, he casually pushed it open and shone his torch in, expecting to find more rubbish.
Instead, the beam shone directly into George Hellebore’s sleeping face. James instantly shut the torch off, but not before George had stirred and mumbled something in his sleep.
James pressed himself against the wall and stayed utterly still, trying to quieten his breathing. George shifted uneasily in his bed then slowly settled down again.
James’s eyes slowly accustomed themselves to the dim light filtering through the thin curtains. He could make out a huge black wardrobe, a desk, an ancient four-poster bed, and there, in the middle of it, George, wearing a striped nightshirt.
James felt for the door handle, then delicately opened it and slipped out.
Without stopping to think, he hurried along the corridor and through the door at the end.
He found that he was halfway up a winding stone stairway, on a wide landing. This part of the castle was lit by gas wall lamps that gave off a dull, flickering, orange light. It was freezing and the air smelt of gas and damp. He shuffled forward and leant over the banisters. Far below was a marble-floored hallway with a black-and-white chequerboard pattern. All he had to do was go down the stairs and across the hallway, and he would be at the front door.
But what if it was open? What if he did get out without being seen? What would he have achieved? Could he really go back to Kelly and tell him that all he had discovered was a stuffed cat, some old furniture and George Hellebore asleep in his bed in a striped nightshirt? What would his friend say?
But then again, what exactly had he hoped to find? Alfie Kelly’s body hidden in a cupboard? A handwritten confession from Lord Hellebore lying on a desk? The real world didn’t work like that. You didn’t hide behind a door and hear the chief villain telling a crony exactly what he’d done, how he’d done it and what he was going to do next. It struck James that he had come up here unprepared, that he had had some vague schoolboy fantasy of solving a mystery with no real thought as to how he might do it.
He needed a plan.
A stupid thought popped into his racing mind. A joke, a riddle. A man, a plan, a canal, Panama! It was a palindrome; it read the same backwards as forwards.
Well, he had a joke, but not a plan.
Don’t get hysterical, James. Keep your mind alert. Keep it focused on what has to be done.
He did a deal with himself: he would go down and see if there was an easy way out through the hallway and, if there was, then he would set himself a time limit – say twenty minutes – to explore the castle before escaping. Yes. That was a good compromise.
All right.
And what if there wasn’t a way out? What if, as was more likely, the front door was locked or even guarded by one of Hellebore’s men? What then?
Then he would explore the ground floor until he found another way out.
OK. There it was – a plan.
Luckily, as the stairway was made of stone, there was no danger of creaking steps. Apart from the faint hiss and an occasional sputter from the gas lamps, the building was deathly quiet. In less than a minute he was at the foot of the stairs and he could see that there was nobody around, no armed guards, nothing.
As he had thought, this was the main hallway. The front door was reached via a smaller, wood-panelled porch. He took a step towards it and then froze.
It was a footstep. He was sure of it. He stood there without moving and strained his ears. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Feeding on his fear and creating phantoms?
No. There it was again. But it was no ordinary footstep. There wasn’t the click of a shoe; it sounded softer, more of a slap. There it was again, a definite slap and then a sliding sound. Maybe it was someone in bare feet? But whoever it was, James didn’t want to find out. He ran to the huge front door and grabbed the handle.
It was locked. Of course it was locked. And now he had wasted time. He hurried back into the main hall. The footsteps were getting nearer.
There were several different corridors leading off from here. James looked feverishly from one to another, but had no clear idea of where the sound was coming from.
Most of the corridors were relatively well lit, but underneath the stairs was a low arch, beyond which was empty darkness. He darted through the archway and waited.