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"Come in," stage-whisper-hissed a small chorus of hushed voices. Alarmed, I opened my eyes and found myself standing in the dining room doorway, behind the half-closed door to Mum's room. I slid the door open the rest of the way. Aunt Bea, Doc Vassel and Mrs Kroker were crouched at the head of Mum's bed like the three wise men re-enacting the Nativity. Mum lounged on her back in the middle of the daybed, her eyes closed.
The room looked like it had been ransacked. The tall reading lamp lay broken, its stand snapped in two, its shade soiled and torn. Yellow peonies - Joke's flowers - were scattered all over the room, and dirty, wet streaks on the one plastered wall tracked like a slug trail where the vase had shattered against the wall. Lemons had been ripped from the boughs of the potted trees and shredded with what looked like teeth. Funny black markings were scrawled across the ceiling, like a trampolining toddler had been let loose with an outsized marker.
"Blackgum attack?" I muttered under my breath. My heart pounded against my upper ribs.
"No-one - and nothing - has been in or out of this house, except the people in this room," said Uncle Gerry half-materialising beside my right ear. "I don't know or how or when exactly you and the other boy came home. But I swear to you. Your mother's been safe at all times."
Three shiny faces read my concern and smiled up at me in unison a little too brightly. Mrs Kroker's grin, far too happy to be real, scared me the most with its trembling intensity. And as much as I liked Doc Vassel, I hated morning house-calls to Sub Rosa. It usually meant something was wrong with Mum.
"It's OK," said the doctor, dropping his false smile, beckoning me in. "She's fine."
I stepped into the room and grimaced. My body ached all over, especially my right ankle, which I'd twisted in my useless hero-diving onto the stage to fight the Giant.
"You were walking in your sleep," whispered Uncle Gerry. I swung around and squinted. He wasn't exactly invisible, but it was hard to see more than the faint outline of his beer belly over bones.
"How long have I been standing here?" I whispered.
"You just got here," said Uncle Gerry, his ecto-skin pulsing, and becoming a little more tangible, his face drawn. "I was worried you'd fall down the stairs. I kept calling your name but they always say be careful not to wake a sleepwalker- "
"Who are you talking to?" said Aunt Bea, cutting over her late husband's speech, pretty much as she'd done all their married lives. "I told you Doctor. All this sleepwalking and whispering to himself, it's getting worse."
"Beatrice," said Doc Vassel, polite but firm. "As I said on my last visit, the walking is more likely to happen when the lad is stressed. And he's got every reason to be after the fire last night."
"Fire?" I asked.
"Don't tell me you've got amnesia now as well as the sleepwalking and invisible friends. How am I supposed to live normally in a house full of -". Aunt Bea stopped herself, and looked down at Mum, her face crumpled with guilt.
"Crazy people, you mean," I said. "How are you supposed to live in a house full of crazy people?"
"No-one thinks that," said Mrs Kroker, glaring at Aunt Bea, then smiling at me, again too hard. "Everyone has had a terrible night and not enough sleep. We lost you and Joke in the confusion."
"It was your fancy lighting that did it," snapped Aunt Bea at Mrs Kroker. "The Town Hall's old electrics just couldn't take it. I told you so. It was lucky we remembered the fire extinguishers in the library. Two men are dead because of you."
Mrs Kroker blanched and Doc Vassel put his arm protectively around her waist. "No-one knows what caused it yet, Beatrice," he said. "We won't know until the fire crew have conducted an investigation and have interviewed everyone."
"After all the worry the boys put us through last night. No wonder your Mum took a turn."
"That's e-enough!" shouted Doc Vassel. "Bridget didn't even know he was m-m-missing. How could she?" Aunt Bea held her ground and Doc Vassel's eye. For a moment, I thought he was going to slap her.
"What happened to Mum?"
"This isn't like Beatrice," whispered Uncle Gerry, half to himself. He stood right behind her, his eyes wide open, like he was trying to peer into her head. "She loves you, Paddy. And she love's your Mum. She's just scared."
I wasn't so sure, but the only thing that mattered to me at that moment was Mum's health.
Doc Vassel released Mrs Kroker, ambled around to the side of the bed, stooped down and examined me. "As far as we can tell," he started. "Around the time of the fire -"
Suddenly, and without warning, I lost control. "There was no fire," I cried. "They've just made you forget, turned it into an accident. That's how they work. They keep attacking us. And you all keep forgetting, like goldfish swimming round and round in a bath, while the water drains out. But I remember. I know what's going on."
"See," said Aunt Bea, rolling her eyes at the doctor. "What I told you. Paranoid hallucinations, thinks he's got some special faculty the rest of us are too average to understand. The boy lives in a fantasy world. Always has."
"Beatrice," said Mrs Kroker quietly, a haunted, but hard, glint in her eye. "Why don't you just shut up and let the boy finish. Paddy: what do you remember that we've all forgotten?"
Aunt Bea was stunned. Her jaw dropped open like a sunken treasure chest lid flipping open with the tide on a coral reef.
"Tim," I said, tears welling in my eyes. "I remember Tim, Mrs Kroker. And I think you do too."
Aunt Bea shook her head with disapproval. Mrs Kroker started to shake all over. "No," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "I don't - I can't - remember. Please tell me about Tim. Tell me everyth -"
"Paddy," interrupted Doc Vassel, gripping my shoulder a little too tightly, staring almost hypnotically into my eyes. "Look at me and listen. It's important. There is no boy called Tim. There is no 'they'. No-one is attacking you or anyone else in this town. No-one is forgetting anything that shouldn't be forgotten."
I said stubbornly: "Sorry, doctor but that's just not true."
"I'll tell you what's true," said Doc Vassel. "You trust me, right?"
I nodded.
"I think you are trying to forget the fire. And you're trying to forget some of the other bad things that have happened recently. Your father's passing. Your Mum's illness. But it's important for you to know what's real, even if it's not easy to hear. Your Dad is gone to a better place. Your Mum is sick and needs to heal. There was a fire last night, Paddy, at the dance. People died. Mr Dixon, Mr Lyons and, perhaps, Joke's father, though we don't know that for sure yet. It was all a terrible accident. And you were there."
"No," I said, trying to pull away. "That's not what happened."
The doctor shook me gently. "I think you are trying to escape bad memories. I understand. But it's making you sick, Paddy. The sleepwalking, the headaches, the fantasy world you're so desperate to defend against the evidence. All symptoms of you trying to duck reality. To avoid your real problems. Listen, Paddy: your Mum needs your help in this world. She needs you here and now. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
I did. It all sounded so sensible, so logical. What if I had imagined the whole thing: Mr Seth, the Blackgum, the Scattersmiths, Platto, the Witches, Uncle Gerry's ghost, the Zealtor still hiding out somewhere in Quakehaven, ready to launch his attack. It did sound far-fetched. Just like a world made up by a scared, lonely boy living in a haunted house in a back water town. Just like one of dad's penny dreadfuls. Maybe I was just stressed and sleep-deprived and recovering from a trauma. Like a fire.
Then I saw Mrs Kroker's face, and knew it was all real. Tim was real. My other friends - Mr Tangen, Justine and Mick - they were real too. So were Mr Dixon and Mr Lyons, and they hadn't perished in a fire. They'd been murdered by monsters. Blackgum under the control of the Zealtor. Killing my friends and townsfolk in cold blood, then making them forget.
I knew also that there was no way I could make Aunt Bea or Doc Vassel believe me. Not yet.
/> "You're right," I said to Doc Vassel, not daring to look at Mrs Kroker. "There was a fire last night. Joke and I escaped, somehow got back to the house, walked, I guess. I remember it now. I'm sorry for making up all that stuff. I was scared."
"Understandable," said Doc Vassel, mussing my hair. No-one is angry."
"Good job, Doctor," said my Aunt, smiling. "Welcome back to earth, boy. And it's about time too."
I straightened Mum's pillow. "Now tell me - honestly - what happened to Mum? I've been straight with you. Don't beat around the bush."
"As far as we can tell she was fine," said Doc Vassel, closing his eyes. "Your Aunt Bea had called just before the dance started and she was half asleep in bed."
"Yes," I nodded. "She was asleep when Joke and I left, it would have been around seven."
"Well, the best we can figure is that she remained asleep until around the time of the fire - about nine. Something must have woken her, maybe the fire truck sirens and the commotion. She must have jumped out of bed, knocking over the lamp - "
"I found her crouched in the corner against the freezing glass behind the curtain," said Aunt Bea. "Only her thin nightgown to protect her from the cold. She was shivering uncontrollably. But her skin was so hot when I tried to pick her up. Then she started babbling. That's when I called the doctor. Or tried to. He took his sweet time to return my call."
"I was helping the ambulance crew with the fire victims outside the hall," explained Doc Vassel. "A lot of them were in shock, some with smoke inhalation, some with burns. Annette and I came as soon as we could. When we got here, your Aunt was doing her best to stop your mother from hurting herself. Even with Annette to help out while I prepared a sedative, it was a struggle. We held her down until she fell back asleep, then we moved her onto the bed."
"What about the marks on the roof?"
"I think they're burn marks, Paddy," said the doctor. "Though we don't know how she got up there. They were there when your Aunt arrived. A bit of a mystery. Your Mum must have jumped up from the bed. And slashed at the ceiling with a cigarette lighter?"
"She doesn't smoke," I said dubiously. "No-one here does." The marks were thick and even. They didn't look like they had been made by a lighter. Especially, by a lighter applied by an upset woman jumping up and down on a bed.
"Matches, then?" offered Doc Vassel. "I know she likes to read by candle light."
"She's OK now, Paddy. But we have to think about moving her somewhere she can be watched 24 hours a day."
"You're not moving my mother to a mental asylum," I said, angrily, looking down at Mum's peaceful face. "Aunt Bea and I will look after her."
"I know you love your mother," said Doc Vassel. "But it's not fair to expect you and your Aunt to devote yourself entirely to looking after her. She needs specialist help. And you need to live your lives."
"What she needs," I said, smoothing out the bedspread and drawing the blanket down a little to ease Mum's breathing, "is some peace and quiet."
Mum sighed and turned her head onto the left revealing deep scratches gouged around the base of her neck beneath the light silver chain of her locket. Gently, I reached out and tugged on the locket chain's clasp to remove it. The lock was stuck, and I began to jerk at it with frustration.
"Leave the necklace, Paddy," said Aunt Bea. "I tried before and it's stuck. It will only hurt her more if you pull on it."
I released the locket and dropped my hand to my side. "I'm sorry, Paddy," said Aunt Bea, her voice breaking with emotion as tears streamed down her face. "Until tonight, I thought she was getting better, that our support was enough."
"It is," I insisted.
Aunt Bea hugged me tightly. "No, Paddy. It isn't. You didn't see her tonight: how close she came to really hurting herself. She needs full time medical care. And she needs to go somewhere that can give it to her. You know that. We can visit her every week. Or more than that; whenever you want."
"Your Aunt is right, Paddy" said Doc Vassel. "A short stay - say 3 months - at Avonlea Farm Clinic should do wonders. It will also give you and your aunt a much needed rest. Your continued episodes of sleepwalking tell me you need to rest." He turned to my Aunt. "Beatrice, I'm going to write Bridget a referral," he said reaching into for his bag and retrieving his pad. "And also a script for some pills for Paddy. These should reduce his sleepwalking and the daydreaming. Dampen his overactive imagination. Help him concentrate and focus on what's real."
Aunt Bea nodded. "Thank you doctor."
I couldn't believe it had come to this. Avonlea Farm! The kids at school called it Mental-ly Farm. The local nut house. They were going to send Mum to the loony bin! And they were going to put me on drugs that made it hard to think creatively, just like Tim.
Almost toppling over with fatigue, I bent down and kissed my mother's forehead. "I can't be part of this," I whispered, and for a moment I thought I could hear her voice echoing softly in my head:
"NonononoMustnotMustnotLetThemTouchNeverNeverNEVER!!!"
I bolted out of the room, hearing Mrs Kroker's voice, laced with sympathy: "Let him go, Beatrice. He needs some time alone to process it all."
A thousand years wouldn't be enough time to deal with everything, I thought, as I fled to my bedroom. Joke was nowhere to be seen. I was about to throw myself face down on pillow, when I froze.
Enthroned upon the middle of my bedspread sat Platto, repaired, his black fur glistening wetly under the yellow light of my chandelier. Between his clenched jaws was a pale green envelope.
Platto spat out the envelope like it was poison. On its face, emblazoned in red ink, were the words "Master Lee, Esq. Strictly Private and Confidential. To be opened by the addressee only. Urgent."
This is what the letter said: