The Land of Roar Page 3

  And yet . . . it is very shadowy up here, and quiet, and Prosecco’s silver eyeballs are staring right at me. I take a step to the left. Prosecco’s still staring at me. Step to the right. He’s still staring. This is stupid. Prosecco can’t stare. He’s made of wood and doesn’t have functioning eyeballs, and Prosecco is not a he: Prosecco is an it, an inanimate object!

  That for some reason is rocking ever so slightly.

  I’m about to step forward when I have the uncanny feeling that someone, or something, is up here in the attic with me. Immediately I think of the shadow I saw at the window, the wizard, and for a second I actually feel weak at the knees. So I decide to do what Dad says he does whenever he feels scared. I laugh out loud.

  ‘Ha ha ha ha!’

  Wow. Dad is so wrong about that.

  I tell myself that it’s my mind playing tricks on me again, then I put my shoulders back and walk towards the camp bed. I’m a step away when I hear a tiny fluttering sound. I freeze and hold my breath and listen. I hear it again. It sounds like wings brushing against something, and wings remind me of the map, and of the wild-looking face grinning at me from the window of the Crow’s Nest.

  Crowky.

  I’ve thought a lot about Crowky since I found the map. It was Rose who invented him out of the two things I hated most in the world: scarecrows and crows.

  My scarecrow fear began when I once got lost in a maize maze. I’d run on ahead of my family and suddenly realised I was all on my own. Except for the scarecrows, and they were everywhere. I ran round a corner and saw a policeman scarecrow; I ran left and saw a Father Christmas scarecrow. I was about to start screaming when I spotted Mum on the next path. ‘Mum!’ I shouted, forcing my way towards to her and grabbing the sleeve of her denim jacket. Then her arm fell off.

  It wasn’t Mum. It was an Elvis scarecrow, and that’s when I started screaming.

  I swear to this day that their jackets were identical.

  I’d have probably got over the scarecrow thing if, later in the day, Rose hadn’t thought it would be funny to feed some birds by sprinkling crumbs in my hair. A crow landed on my head and got a bit stuck, and the next time we were in Grandad’s attic Rose came up with Crowky. She could do his voice really well, all scratchy and wicked. ‘I’m going to get you, Arthur Trout! ’ she’d rasp, filling me with dread. ‘I’m going to get yoooou! ’

  And it’s exactly that dread I’m feeling right now as I stand as still as possible, hardly daring to breathe, listening to every sound.

  A pipe gurgles. The window rattles in its frame. Outside, Grandad’s bonfire crackles. Then I hear it: a violent, wild fluttering as if something huge and feathery is trapped inside the camp bed.

  I turn and run for the door.

  Rose, I decide, is forgiven.

  ‘Arthur, are you telling me you’re scared of a camp bed?’ Rose’s laughter floats up to me as I stare at the ceiling, for once pleased that the room is lit by her stupid rabbit night light.

  ‘Not the camp bed,’ I say, ‘something inside it. It sounded like feathers. There must be a bird stuck in there.’

  Down on the bottom bunk, Rose snorts. ‘We were in the attic all afternoon. I think we’d have noticed a bird flying around.’

  ‘But it’s not flying around, is it? It’s in the bed.’

  ‘Maybe, or maybe you’re scared of the camp bed. I mean, you’re scared of lots of things, Arthur: scarecrows, crows, frogs –’

  ‘Says the girl who has to sleep with a night light.’

  Rose ignores me and carries on – ‘mushrooms, supply teachers, starting at Langton Academy, heights, Mum’s black pointy shoes, fire, raisins with stalks –’

  ‘I don’t like raisins with stalks, but I’m not scared of them, or any of those other things. When my class made a scarecrow I sewed on its button eyes and it didn’t bother me at all.’ It did. A bit. ‘Plus I was scared of Mum’s shoes when I was, like, two, not now. In fact,’ I declare boldly, ‘right now I can’t think of a single thing I’m scared of.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Then everything goes quiet on the bottom bunk. A bit too quiet. When Rose speaks her voice is as scratchy as a nail being dragged down a wall, ‘What about ME, Arthur Trout? Are you scared of ME?’ I might not have heard her Crowky voice for a long time, but I’d recognise it anywhere. It actually makes me need a wee. That’s how good it is.

  ‘Rose, I thought you said you couldn’t remember Roar? Because that’s where Crowky came from.’

  Silence. Then the scratchy voice says, ‘Rose isn’t here any more, Arthur. It’s just you and me. Now will you admit that you’re just a teeny bit scared of me?’

  And that’s when I think of a brilliant way to get back at Rose, for the voice, for messaging Mazen, for calling me a loser, for everything.

  ‘I am a bit,’ I say, ‘but not as scared as you are of . . . THE DARK.’ I lean over the side of the bunk bed, grab Rose’s rabbit night light and switch it off. Rose’s response is creative, fast and totally unexpected. She jumps out of bed, climbs the ladder and throws a cup of water in my face.

  ‘Rose!’ I shout.

  ‘HA!’ she screams back.

  Outside in the garden, Grandad yodels.

  Next morning, I eat my Crunchy Nut cornflakes sitting on the sofa in the garden. It was the last thing we dragged out of the attic and now it’s wedged between the patio and the plum tree and covered in ash from Grandad’s bonfire.

  The sky is blue and the sun is shining. A blackbird hops around in the bushes. It seems like a totally normal day, but I don’t feel normal. I drink the sugary milk from the bottom of the bowl. I feel jittery and uneasy and I can’t stop looking up at the attic window.

  Grandad wanders out of the house and blinks into the sunshine. He’s wearing a cardigan, an old T-shirt – the one that says ‘NO PROB-LLAMA!’ – and his painting shorts. ‘Hello, mate,’ he says. ‘Where’s your sister?’

  I nod towards the neighbour’s garden. Rose’s head appears above the wall, then disappears. There’s a squeak of trampoline springs, then her head pops back up, her hair flying out straight and long.

  ‘Rose, you’re not doing it right!’ cries Mazen. ‘You look like there’s something wrong with you!’

  ‘Not got anything to do?’ says Grandad. ‘Rose doesn’t fancy going to the beach?’

  ‘No. All Rose wants to do is jump and look at her phone.’ I think back to the damp night’s sleep I’ve just had. ‘Right now Rose hates me and I hate her.’

  ‘You hate each other?’ Grandad chuckles. ‘You two have always got along fine.’

  He’s wrong. We used to get along fine until Rose changed into that stranger I can see on the trampoline. But I don’t bother telling Grandad this. Instead I say, ‘Last night we had a fight.’

  ‘That’s normal. I remember your mum and Jack fighting like mad when they were little. They used to draw blood.’

  ‘Jack was a cat, Grandad.’

  ‘I know, but the point is they’d be cuddling on the sofa by bedtime.’

  ‘I’m fairly certain me and Rose won’t be doing any cuddling ever again.’

  He laughs and ruffles my hair. ‘Come on. While you’re waiting for Rose to stop hating you, we can get the camp bed down from the attic.’

  I get up, glance once more at the attic window, then with a heavy and slightly scared heart I follow Grandad back inside the house.

  It’s amazing what a positive effect sunlight can have on a room. If I ignore Prosecco glaring at me from the corner, there is almost nothing spooky about the attic right now.

  Grandad grabs hold of the camp bed and starts to heave. ‘I got this thing up here, so presumably I can get it down again. Do you think we should chuck it out of the window?’

  ‘Better not. It might kill Rose.’

  He laughs. ‘See? I knew you didn’t hate her! Now get over here and give me a hand.’

  But I don’t move. Instead I just stand in the doorway, staring at the rubbish old camp bed,
which was the start of the best game I ever played, a game that until yesterday I’d almost forgotten.

  ‘Unless . . .’ says Grandad, ‘you think we should leave the bed up here?’

  Yes, I want to say, leave it up here and let’s bring the swords and dressing-up clothes back up too. But what would be the point? Rose is never going to play Roar or any other game with me. ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s time to chuck it out.’ Then I grab the other side of the bed and start pushing.

  We’ve only moved it a couple of metres before Grandad has to stop to catch his breath. We rest against the camp bed while he has a puff on his inhaler. ‘Arthur,’ he says, ‘do you remember when you had a funny turn up here?’

  I think for a moment. ‘When I was crawling through the camp bed?’

  ‘That’s it! I came in and found you curled up on the floor. You had two teeth marks on your wrist.’ He points just below my hand at the pale scar I’ve had for as long as I can remember. ‘Rose said a dragon had bitten you, but I’m guessing she was the dragon?’ Grandad watches me, waiting for an answer.

  It must have been Rose who bit me that day . . . so when I look at my wrist why do I remember my fingers touching rough scales, then hearing a warning-growl followed by a flash of movement and then the shock of sharp teeth grazing my skin?

  With a start, I realise that this is what my memories of Roar are like. When I think about Win and Mitch, I don’t see me and Rose running around the attic talking to invisible mermaids and pretend ninja-wizards. I see a real girl swimming below the surface of clear water, her thick tail flicking from side to side, and a real boy sitting by a fire. The boy has wonky teeth and he’s grinning at me from under a wizard’s hat.

  I take a deep breath. ‘It wasn’t Rose who bit me . . .’

  Grandad turns to look at me. ‘Who was it then?’

  I rub the pale scar, trying to decide whether to carry on talking or shut up. But I can’t keep quiet. Everything that has happened since we arrived at Grandad’s is too strange. I have to tell someone.

  ‘I was standing by a dragon.’ My voice is loud in the silence of the attic. ‘The dragon had scales and chipped claws and smoke pouring out of its nose, and even though Rose told me not to, I brushed my fingers along its belly, and then . . .’ I look at Grandad, ‘it bit me.’

  Grandad has an unusual expression on his face – one that I’ve hardly ever seen before. He looks serious.

  ‘Grandad, why aren’t you laughing and telling me I’m talking rubbish?’

  He smiles and shrugs. ‘Because I believe you.’

  Everything has gone quiet, the birds outside, even Rose and Mazen on the trampoline. The sun shines down on my legs and something warm, like magic, creeps through me. ‘What do you mean?’

  He laughs. ‘Just what I said, Arthur: I believe you!’

  Grandad is winding me up. He loves playing tricks on us – he loves playing full stop – and this is just another of his games. And yet . . .  I know I saw a shadow at the window and heard the wings fluttering in the bed.

  Just thinking about the wings makes my heart speed up. I jump up and look at the bed.

  ‘What’s wrong, Arthur?’ Grandad clambers to his feet.

  ‘Yesterday I heard something coming from in there.’ I can’t take my eyes off the bed. ‘It made me think of someone in Roar.’

  ‘A bad person?’

  I nod. ‘A very bad person.’

  ‘And you think this person might be in the bed?’ Again I nod. Grandad puts his arm round me and pulls me close. His cardigan feels soft against my face. It smells of coffee and his shed. ‘Well, there’s one way to find out, Arthur. You need to crawl into the bed.’

  I stare at the sagging mattress, then back at Grandad.

  ‘What? You think I should just crawl in there?’

  Grandad nods. ‘And visit Roar.’ He says this like he’s suggesting a trip to the pier.

  ‘But Grandad, Roar was a game. Remembering a dragon biting me is my mind playing tricks on me.’

  ‘But what if it’s not, Arthur? What if you and Rose made Roar with your imaginations, then crawled through the camp bed and somehow found your way there?’

  I smile and shake my head. ‘If I crawl into that mattress, I’ll come straight out the other side and you’ll be standing there laughing at me!’

  ‘Well, if that happens, at least you know you imagined the funny sound and being bitten by a dragon, and can get on with turning this attic into a den.’

  ‘And if I do end up in Roar?’

  I can’t believe these words have just come out of my mouth.

  Grandad’s eyes go wide. ‘Now wouldn’t that be something?’ And then he actually holds the mattress open for me and says, ‘In you go!’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I glance out of the window to make sure Rose is still on the trampoline. There aren’t many things in the world she’d find more hilarious than the sight of me crawling through the camp bed trying to get to Roar. There she is, jumping up and down and trying to touch her toes. ‘I’m sure I imagined it,’ I say. ‘It was probably a bird in the chimney or –’

  A scuffle makes me turn round and I see that Grandad’s head and shoulders are stuck inside the mattress.  What is he doing? He must think that if he goes in first, I’ll follow. He pushes in his arms and then starts wriggling from side to side, trying to get his bum in too. Then I hear a faint cry of ‘Hear me roar!’

  The sight of a seventy-two-year-old man attempting to squeeze his body into a folded camp bed is like a slap in the face. What am I doing? Rose is right. I’m way too old for this. I should be learning to surf, or skating, or fighting stuff on the computer.  Anything would be better than playing in the attic with my grandad!

  When Grandad comes out the other side of the bed I’ll tell him I want to take the camp bed to the tip. It’s time for me to grow up, or I really will be eaten alive at secondary school.

  ‘Hear me ROOOOOAAAAR !’ Grandad cries, then with a final lurch he gets his bum and legs into the bed too. Then he just sits there, a big bulge in the middle of the mattress. It reminds me of the time I saw a nature documentary about a snake that had swallowed a pig. It’s pretty funny actually.

  ‘All right, Grandad. You can come out now.’ I try to give the bed a shake but it weighs a ton with him in there.

  Grandad’s hand pops out and waves around.

  ‘Are you stuck?’ I grab hold of his hand and his fingers wrap round my wrist and I start to pull. But he won’t budge, and now I’m laughing because Grandad has got me to play, just like he wanted to. ‘Come on. I might have done a wee in there, remember?’

  Suddenly Grandad’s fingers tighten round mine. ‘Ow!’ I say, still laughing. Then I sit down on the floor, put my feet against the bed and pull as hard as I can. But Grandad doesn’t budge and his big hand squeezes even tighter round mine. In fact, his fingers are going white from the pressure and my hand starts to hurt. ‘Grandad, stop it!’ Panic rises up in me as the pressure increases. It feels like the bones in my fingers might break!

  I pull harder than ever, but I’m not trying to get Grandad out: I’m trying to free my hand. ‘Grandad, you’re hurting me!’

  Suddenly he lets go and I tumble backwards. Then, with amazing speed, his hand shoots inside the mattress.  What? I cradle my squashed hand to my chest and stare at the bed. The lump has gone!

  ‘Grandad?’ I jump to my feet and circle the bed, patting the springs. ‘Grandad? Where are you?’

  Silence. My heart thuds against my ribcage. I grab the headboard, ready to pull the bed open . . . but something stops me. It’s the memory of Rose saying, Never open the camp bed, Arthur, or everything in Roar will disappear.

  I let go of the headboard.  Rose was talking rubbish, I tell myself.  There is no Roar; there can’t be any Roar. But I still can’t bring myself to open the bed. The attic feels unbearably hot and I’m shaky with panic. I brush a tear off my cheek. ‘Come on, Grandad . . . It’s a good joke, but you ca
n come out now.’

  I know I’m talking to myself. I know he isn’t in there.

  In a daze I check every corner of the attic, even under the bed, but except for Prosecco, the attic is empty. I tell myself that Grandad has to be in the bed and I kneel down, take a deep breath, and push my hand into the mattress.

  It’s horrible. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I feel around, desperately hoping that my fingers will touch some bit of Grandad, but my hand just keeps going further and further into the mattress until, finally, I do touch something. But it’s not Grandad’s trainers or hair. It’s a load of spiky, prickly stuff. I grab it and pull it out.

  When I uncurl my fingers I have to squeeze my mouth shut to stop myself from being sick. I’m holding a pile of yellow straw and greasy black feathers. I chuck the whole lot on the floor, then reach forward and pick up the largest feather. It’s inky-black and the quill is sharp and warm, as if moments ago it was attached to a living thing.

  A living thing with wings and stuffed full of straw.

  I jump to my feet. I have to tell Rose!

  As I walk across the garden – my heart still thudding in my chest and my hands trembling – I wonder how I’m going to do this. I can hear Mazen’s voice, shrieking at Rose and bossing her around. If I just say what happened, they’re going to collapse with laughter. Mazen is going to think I’m sad or crazy, or both. I pull myself on to the wheelie bin.  It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. What matters is that Grandad is missing. I’ve just got to tell Rose and then she will help me find him.

  I look over the wall. Mazen is standing with her hands on her hips, watching Rose. She senses my presence and her head swivels round like a velociraptor. She gives me a long, hard look, then turns back to Rose. ‘It’s your brother,’ she says.

  Rose lands on her bum, then bounces back to her feet. ‘What do you want, Arthur?’