Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1983

Copyright © Clive Barker 1992

All illustrations copyright © Clive Barker 1992

Clive Barker asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780006473114

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007397532

Version: 2018-11-05

PRAISE FOR

The Thief of Always

‘A great fable’ INTERZONE

‘Disturbing … Intriguing … A compelling novel … refreshingly comic’

TIMES EDUCATIONAL SUPPLEMENT

‘Gorgeous prose brimming with invention, the wonderstuff we’ve come to expect from the maestro of dark fantasy … A dazzling treasure of the fabulous and the wicked from a master storyteller who seems intent upon single-handedly spinning the myths and fairytales, both dark and wondrous, of our time’

NORTHERN ECHO

‘Clever, concise and traditional … Barker has a powerful talent for arousing apprehensions’

THE TIMES

‘Something for everyone here and an impressive excursion into childhood fears and delights’

MIDWEEK

‘Swiftly and vigorously told, it should be much enjoyed’

SUNDAY EXPRESS

‘Delightful, but with enough of Barker’s demonic flair to beguile fans of his more paint-the-room-red ventures’

GLASGOW HERALD

‘Will obviously attract at least as many adult as younger readers, and shouldn’t disappoint many of any age’

CITY LIMITS

Locus Best of the Year recommended reads:

‘In terms of artistic bravery and accomplishment, I was delighted to see what Clive Barker and Stephen King accomplished. Barker’s The Thief of Always is a lean fable for readers of all ages dealing with the taking of magic and the giving it back. It’s pretty wonderful’

EDWARD BRYANT

Dedication

To M. S. S.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

The Thief of Always

I Harvey, Half-Devoured

II The Hidden Way

III Pleasure and the Worm

IV A Death Between Seasons

V The Prisoners

VI Seen and Unseen

VII A Present From the Past

VIII Hungry Waters

IX What Do You Dream?

X Falling From Grace

XI Turnabout

XII What the Flood Gave Up; (And What It Took)

XIII The Fourth Part of Darkness

XIV Time Was

XV New Nightmares

XVI Back To the Happy Land

XVII Cook, Cat and Coffin

XVIII The Bitter Truth

XIX Dust To Dust

XX The Thieves Meet

XXI Tricks and Temptations

XXII Appetite

XXIII The War of Seasons

XXIV A Fledgling Thief

XXV The Vortex

XXVI Living Proof

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

The Thief of Always

I

Harvey, Half-Devoured

THE GREAT grey beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive. Here he was, buried in the belly of that smothering month, wondering if he would ever find his way out through the cold coils that lay between here and Easter.

He didn’t think much of his chances. More than likely he’d become so bored as the hours crawled by that one day he’d simply forget to breathe. Then maybe people would wonder why such a fine young lad had perished in his prime. It would become a celebrated mystery, which wouldn’t be solved until some great detective decided to recreate a day in Harvey’s life.

Then, and only then, would the grim truth be discovered. The detective would first follow Harvey’s route to school every morning, trekking through the dismal streets. Then he’d sit at Harvey’s desk, and listen to the pitiful drone of the history teacher and the science teacher, and wonder how the heroic boy had managed to keep his eyes open. And finally, as the wasted day dwindled to dusk, he’d trace the homeward trek, and as he set foot on the step from which he had departed that morning, and people asked him – as they would – why such a sweet soul as Harvey had died, he would shake his head and say:

‘It’s very simple.’

‘Oh?’ the curious crowd would say. ‘Do tell.’

And, brushing away a tear, the detective would reply:

‘Harvey Swick was eaten by the great grey beast February.’

IT WAS A monstrous month, that was for sure; a dire and dreary month. The pleasures of Christmas, both sharp and sweet, were already dimming in Harvey’s memory, and the promise of summer was so remote as to be mythical. There’d be a spring break, of course, but how far off was that? Five weeks? Six? Mathematics wasn’t his strong point, so he didn’t irritate himself further by attempting – and failing – to calculate the days. He simply knew that long before the sun came to save him he would have withered away in the belly of the beast.

‘YOU SHOULDN’T WASTE your time sitting up here,’ his Mum said when she came in and found him watching the raindrops chase each other down the glass of his bedroom window.

‘I’ve got nothing better to do,’ Harvey said, without looking round.

‘Well then, you can make yourself useful,’ his Mum said.

Harvey shuddered. Useful? That was another word for hard labour. He sprang up, marshalling his excuses – he hadn’t done this; he hadn’t done that – but it was too late.

‘You can start by tidying up this room,’ his Mum said.

‘But—’

‘Don’t sit wishing the days away, dear. Life’s too short.’

‘But—’

‘That’s a good boy.’

And with that she left him to it. Muttering to himself, he stared around the room. It wasn’t even untidy. There were one or two games scattered around; a couple of drawers open; a few clothes hanging out: it looked just fine.

‘I am ten,’ he said to himself (having no brothers and sisters he talked to himself a good deal). ‘I mean, it’s not as if I’m a kid. I don’t have to tidy up just because she says so. It’s boring.’

He wasn’t just muttering now, he was talking out loud.

‘I want to … I want to …’ He went to the mirror, and quizzed it. ‘What do I want?’ The straw-haired, snub-nosed, brown-eyed boy he saw before him shook his head. ‘I don’t know what I want,’ he said. ‘I just know I’ll die if I don’t have some fun. I will! I’ll die!’

As he spoke, the window rattled. A gust of wind blew hard against it – then a second; then a third – and even though Harvey didn’t remember the window being so much as an inch ajar, it was suddenly thrown open. Cold rain spattered his face. Half-closing his eyes he crossed to the window and fumbled to slam it, making sure that the latch was in place this time.

The wind had started his lamp moving, and when he turned back the whole room seemed to be swinging around. One moment the light was blazing in his eyes, the next it was flooding the opposite wall. But in between the blaze and the flood it lit the middle of his room, and standing there – shaking the rain off his hat – was a stranger.

He looked harmless enough. He was no more than six inches taller than Harvey, his frame scrawny, his skin distinctly yellowish in colour. He was wearing a fancy suit, a pair of spectacles and a lavish smile.

‘Who are you?’ Harvey demanded, wondering how he could get past this interloper to the door.

‘Don’t be nervous,’ the man replied, teasing off one of his suede gloves, taking Harvey’s hand and shaking it. ‘My name’s Rictus. You are Harvey Swick, aren’t you?’

‘Yes …’

‘I thought for a moment I’d got the wrong house.’

Harvey couldn’t take his eyes off Rictus’ grin. It was wide enough to shame a shark, with two perfect rows of gleaming teeth.

Rictus took off his spectacles, pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his waterlogged jacket, then started to mop off the raindrops. Either he or the handkerchief gave off an odour that was far from fragrant. The smell, in truth, was flatulent.

‘You’ve got questions, I can see that,’ Rictus said to Harvey.

‘Yeah.’

‘Ask away. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

‘Well, how did you get in, for one thing?’

‘Through the window, of course.’

‘It’s a long way up from the street.’

‘Not if you’re flying.’

‘Flying?’

‘Of course. How else was I going to get around on a foul night like this? It was either that or a row-boat. We short folk gotta watch out when it’s raining this hard. One wrong step and you’re swimming.’ He peered at Harvey quizzically. ‘Do you swim?’

‘In the summer, sometimes,’ Harvey replied, wanting to get back to the business of flying.

But Rictus took the conversation in another direction entirely. ‘On nights like this,’ he said, ‘doesn’t it seem like there’ll never be another summer?’

‘It certainly does,’ said Harvey.

‘You know I heard you sighing a mile off, and I said to myself: “There’s a kid who needs a holiday.”’ He consulted his watch. ‘If you’ve got the time, that is.’

‘The time?’

‘For a trip, boy, for a trip! You need an adventure, young Swick. Somewhere … out of this world.’

‘How’d you hear me sighing when you were a mile away?’ Harvey wanted to know.

‘Why should you care? I heard you. That’s all that matters.’

‘Is it magic of some kind?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

Rictus gave Harvey a beady stare. ‘I think you’re too inquisitive for your own good, that’s why,’ he said, his smile decaying a little. ‘If you don’t want help, that’s fine by me.’

He made a move towards the window. The wind was still gusting against the glass, as though eager to come back in and carry its passenger away.

‘Wait,’ Harvey said.

‘For what?”

‘I’m sorry. I won’t ask any more questions.’

Rictus halted, his hand on the latch. ‘No more questions, eh?’

‘I promise,’ said Harvey. ‘I told you: I’m sorry.’

‘So you did. So you did.’ Rictus peered out at the rain. ‘I know a place where the days are always sunny,’ he said, ‘and the nights are full of wonders.’

‘Could you take me there?’

‘We said no questions, boy. We agreed.’

‘Oh. Yeah. I’m sorry.’

‘Being a forgiving sort, I’ll forget you spoke, and I’ll tell you this: if you want me to enquire on your behalf, I’ll see if they’ve got room for another guest.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘I’m not guaranteeing anything,’ Rictus said, opening the latch.

‘I understand.’

The wind gusted suddenly, and blew the window wide. The light began to swing wildly.

‘Watch for me,’ Rictus yelled above the din of rain and wind.

Harvey started to ask him if he’d be coming back soon, but stopped himself in the nick of time.

‘No questions, boy!’ Rictus said, and as he spoke the wind seemed to fill up his coat. It rose around him like a black balloon, and he was suddenly swept out over the windowsill.

‘Questions rot the mind!’ he called back as he went. ‘Keep your mouth shut and we’ll see what comes your way!’

And with that the wind carried him off, the balloon of his coat rising like a black moon against the rainy sky.

II

The Hidden Way

HARVEY SAID nothing about his peculiar visitor to either his Mum or his Dad, in case they put locks on the windows to stop Rictus returning to the house. But the trouble with keeping the visit a secret was that after a few days Harvey began to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep at the window, he thought, and Rictus had simply been a dream.

He kept hoping nevertheless. ‘Watch for me,’ Rictus had said, and Harvey did just that. He watched from the window of his room. He watched from his desk at school. He even watched with one eye when he was lying on his pillow at night. But Rictus didn’t show up.

And then, about a week after that first visit, just as Harvey’s hope was waning, his watchfulness was rewarded. On his way to school one foggy morning he heard a voice above his head, and looked up to see Rictus floating down from the clouds, his coat swelled up around him so that he looked fatter than a prize pig.

‘Howya doin’?’ he said, as he descended.

‘I was starting to think I’d invented you,’ Harvey replied. ‘You know, like a dream.’

‘I get that a lot,’ Rictus said, his smile wider than ever. ‘Particularly from the ladies. You’re a dream come true, they say.’ He winked. ‘And who am I to argue? You like my shoes?’

Harvey looked down at Rictus’ bright blue shoes. They were quite a sight, and he said so.

‘I got given ’em by my boss,’ Rictus said. ‘He’s very happy you’re coming to visit. So, are you ready?’

‘Well …’

‘It’s no use wasting time,’ Rictus said. ‘There may not be room for you tomorrow.’

‘Can I just ask one question?’

‘I thought we agreed—’

‘I know. But just one.’

‘All right. One.’

‘Is this place far from here?’

‘Nah. It’s just across town.’

‘So I’d only be missing a couple of hours of school?’

‘That’s two questions,’ Rictus said.

‘No, I’m just thinking out loud.’

Rictus grunted. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m not here to do a great song and dance persuading you. I’ve got a friend called Jive does that. I’m just a smiler. I smile, and I say: come with me to the Holiday House, and if folks don’t want to come—’ He shrugged. ‘Hey, it’s their hard luck.’

With that, he turned his back on Harvey.

‘Wait!’ Harvey protested. ‘I want to come. But just for a little while.’

‘You can stay as long as you like,’ Rictus said. ‘Or as little. All I want to do is take that glum expression off your face and put one of these up there.’ His grin grew even larger. ‘Is there any crime in that?’

‘No,’ said Harvey. ‘That’s no crime. I’m glad you found me. I really am.’

So what if he missed all of the morning at school, he thought, it’d be no great loss. Maybe an hour or two of the afternoon as well. As long as he was back home by three. Or four. Certainly before dark.

‘I’m ready to go,’ he said to Rictus. ‘Lead the way.’

MILLSAP, THE TOWN in which Harvey had lived all his life, wasn’t very big, and he thought he’d seen just about all of it over the years. But the streets he knew were soon behind them, and though Rictus was setting a fair speed Harvey made sure he kept a mental list of landmarks along the way, in case he had to find his way home on his own. A butcher’s shop with two pigs’ heads hanging from hooks; a church with a yard full of old tombs beside it; the statue of some dead general, covered from hat to stirrups in pigeon-dung: all these sights and more he noted and filed away.

And while they walked, Rictus kept up a stream of idle chatter.

‘I hate the fog! Just hate it!’ he said. ‘And there’ll be rain by noon. We’ll be out of it, of course …’ He went on from talk of rain to the state of the streets. ‘Look at this rubbish, all over the pavement! It’s shameful! And the mud! It’s making a fine old mess of my shoes!’

He had plenty more to say, but none of it was very enlightening, so after a while Harvey gave up listening. How far was this Holiday House, he began to wonder. The fog was chilling him, and his legs were aching. If they didn’t get there soon, he was going to turn back.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Rictus.

‘I bet you don’t.’

‘You’re thinking this is all a trick. You’re thinking Rictus is leading you on a mystery tour and there’s nothing at the end of it. Isn’t that true?’

‘Maybe a little.’

‘Well, my boy, I’ve got news for you. Look up ahead.’

He pointed, and there – not very far from where they stood – was a high wall, which was so long that it disappeared into the fog to right and left.

‘What do you see?’ Rictus asked him.

‘A wall,’ Harvey replied, though the more he stared at it the less certain of this he was. The stones, which had seemed solid enough at first sight, now looked to be shifting and wavering, as though they’d been chiselled from the fog itself, and piled up here to keep out prying eyes.

‘It looks like a wall,’ Harvey said, ‘but it’s not a wall.’

‘You’re very observant,’ Rictus replied admiringly. ‘Most people just see a dead end, so they turn round and take another street.’

‘But not us.’

‘No, not us. We’re going to keep on walking. You know why?’

‘Because the Holiday House is on the other side?’

‘What a mir-ac-u-lous kid you are!’ Rictus replied. ‘That’s exactly right. Are you hungry, by the way?’

‘Starving.’

‘Well, there’s a woman waiting for you in the House called Mrs Griffin, and let me tell you, she is the greatest cook in all the world. I swear, on my tailor’s grave. Anything you can dream of eating, she can cook. All you have to do is ask. Her devilled eggs—’ He smacked his lips. ‘Perfection.’

‘I don’t see a gate,’ Harvey said.

‘That’s because there isn’t one.’

‘So how do we get in?’

‘Just keep walking!’

Half out of hunger, half out of curiosity, Harvey did as Rictus had instructed, and as he came within three steps of the wall a gust of balmy, flower-scented wind slipped between the shimmering stones and kissed his cheek. Its warmth was welcome after his long, cold trek, and he picked up his pace, reaching out to touch the wall as he approached it. The misty stones seemed to reach for him in their turn, wrapping their soft, grey arms around his shoulders, and ushering him through the wall.

He looked back, but the street he’d stepped out of, with its grey pavements and grey clouds, had already disappeared. Beneath his feet the grass was high and full of flowers. Above his head, the sky was midsummer blue. And ahead of him, set at the summit of a great slope, was a House that had surely been first imagined in a dream.

He didn’t wait to see if Rictus was coming after him, nor to wonder how the grey beast February had been slain and this warm day risen in its place. He simply let out a laugh that Rictus would have been proud of, and hurried up the slope and into the shadow of the Dream-House.

III

Pleasure and the Worm

WHAT A fine thing it would be, Harvey thought, to build a place like this. To drive its foundations deep into the earth; to lay its floors and hoist its walls; to say: where there was nothing, I raised a house. That would be a very fine thing.

It wasn’t a puffed-up peacock of a place, either. There were no marble steps, no fluted columns. It was a proud house, certainly, but there was nothing wrong with that; it had much to be proud of. It stood four storeys high, and boasted more windows than Harvey could readily count. Its porch was wide, as were the steps that led up to its carved front door; its slated roofs were steep and crowned with magnificent chimneys and lightning rods.

Its highest point, however, was neither a chimney nor a lightning rod, but a large and elaborately wrought weathervane, which Harvey was peering up at when he heard the front door open and a voice say:

‘Harvey Swick, as I live and breathe.’

He looked down, the weathervane’s white silhouette still behind his eyes, and there on the porch stood a woman who made his grandmother (the oldest person he knew) look young. She had a face like a rolled-up ball of cobwebs, from which her hair, which could also have been spiders’ work, fell in wispy abundance. Her eyes were tiny, her mouth tight, her hands gnarled. Her voice, however, was melodious, and its words welcoming.

‘I thought maybe you’d decided not to come,’ she said, picking up a basket of freshly-cut flowers she’d left on the step, ‘which would have been a pity. Come on in! There’s food on the table. You must be famished.’

‘I can’t stay long,’ Harvey said.

‘You must do whatever you wish,’ came the reply. ‘I’m Mrs Griffin, by the way.’

‘Yes, Rictus mentioned you.’

‘I hope he didn’t bend your ear too much. He loves the sound of his own voice. That and his reflection.’

Harvey had climbed the porch steps by now, and stopped in front of the open door. This was a moment of decision, he knew, though he wasn’t quite certain why.

‘Step inside,’ Mrs Griffin said, brushing a spider-hair back from her furrowed brow.

But Harvey still hesitated, and he might have turned round and never stepped inside the House except that he heard a boy’s voice yelling:

‘I got ya! I got ya!’ followed by uproarious laughter.

‘Wendell!’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘Are you chasing the cats again?’

The sound of laughter grew even louder, and it was so full of good humour that Harvey stepped over the threshold and into the House just so that he could see the face of its owner.

He only got a brief look. A goofy, bespectacled face appeared for a moment at the other end of the hallway. Then a piebald cat dashed between the boy’s legs and he was off after it, yelling and laughing again.

‘He’s such a crazy boy,’ Mrs Griffin said, ‘but all the cats love him!’

The House was more wonderful inside than out. Even on the short journey to the kitchen Harvey glimpsed enough to know that this was a place built for games, chases and adventures. It was a maze in which no two doors were alike. It was a treasure-house where some notorious pirate had hidden his blood-stained booty. It was a resting place for carpets flown by djinns, and boxes sealed before the Flood, where the eggs of beasts that the earth had lost were trapped and waiting for the sun’s heat to hatch them.

‘It’s perfect!’ Harvey murmured to himself.

Mrs Griffin caught his words. ‘Nothing’s perfect,’ she replied.

‘Why not?’

‘Because time passes,’ she want on, staring down at the flowers she’d cut. ‘And the beetle and the worm find their way into everything sooner or later.’

Hearing this, Harvey wondered what grief it was Mrs Griffin had known or seen to make her so mournful.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, covering her melancholy with a tiny smile. ‘You didn’t come here to listen to my dirges. You came to enjoy yourself, didn’t you?’

‘I suppose I did,’ Harvey said.

‘So let me tempt you with some treats.’

Harvey sat himself down at the kitchen table, and within sixty seconds Mrs Griffin had set a dozen plates of food in front of him: hamburgers, hot dogs and fried chicken; mounds of buttered potatoes; apple, cherry and chocolate pies, ice cream and whipped cream; grapes, tangerines and a plate of fruits he couldn’t even name.

He set to eating with gusto, and was devouring his second slice of pie when a freckled girl with long, frizzy blonde hair and huge, blue-green eyes ambled in.

‘You must be Harvey,’ she said.

‘How did you know?’

‘Wendell told me.’

‘How did he know?’

She shrugged. ‘He just heard. I’m Lulu, by the way.’

‘Did you just arrive?’

‘No. I’ve been here ages. Longer than Wendell. But not as long as Mrs Griffin. Nobody’s been here as long as she has. Isn’t that right?’

‘Almost,’ said Mrs Griffin, a little mysteriously. ‘Do you want something to eat, sweetie?’

Lulu shook her head. ‘No thanks. I haven’t got much of an appetite at the moment.’

She nevertheless sat down opposite Harvey, stuck her thumb in the chocolate pie, and licked it clean.

‘Who invited you here?’ she asked.

‘A man called Rictus.’

‘Oh yes. The one with the grin?’

‘That’s him.’

‘He’s got a sister and two brothers,’ she went on.

‘You’ve met them then?’

‘Not all of them,’ Lulu admitted. ‘They keep themselves to themselves. But you’ll meet one or two of them sooner or later.’

‘I … don’t think I’ll be staying,’ Harvey said. ‘I mean my Mum and Dad don’t even know I’m here.’

‘Of course they do,’ Lulu replied. ‘They just didn’t tell you about it.’ This confused Harvey, and he said so. ‘Call your Mum and Dad,’ Lulu suggested. ‘Ask ’em.’

‘Can I do that?’ he wondered.

‘Of course you can,’ Mrs Griffin replied. ‘The phone’s in the hallway.’

Carrying a spoonful of ice-cream with him, Harvey went to the phone and dialled. At first there was a whining sound on the line, as though a wind was in the wires. Then, as it cleared, he heard his Mum say:

‘Who is this?’

‘Before you start yelling—’ he began.

‘Oh, hello dear,’ his Mum cooed. ‘Have you arrived?’

‘Arrived?’

‘You are at the Holiday House, I hope.’

‘Yes, I am. But—’

‘Oh, good. I was worried in case you’d lost your way. Do you like it there?’

‘You knew I was coming?’ Harvey said, catching Lulu’s eye.

I told you, she mouthed.

‘Of course we knew,’ his Mum went on. ‘We invited Mr Rictus to show you the place. You looked so sad, you poor lamb. We thought you needed a little fun.’

‘Really?’ said Harvey, astonished by this turn of events.

‘We just want you to enjoy yourself,’ his Mum went on. ‘So you stay just as long as you want.’

‘What about school?’ he said.

‘You deserve a little time off,’ came the reply. ‘Don’t you worry about anything. Just have a good time.’

‘I will, Mum.’

‘’Bye, dear.’

‘’Bye.’

Harvey came away from the conversation shaking his head in amazement.

‘You were right,’ he said to Lulu. ‘They arranged everything.’

‘So now you don’t have to feel guilty,’ said Lulu. ‘Well, I expect I’ll see you around later, huh?’

And with that she ambled away.

‘If you’ve finished eating,’ Mrs Griffin said, ‘I’ll show you to your room.’

‘I’d like that.’

She duly led Harvey up the stairs. At the half-landing, basking on the sun-drenched windowsill, was a cat with fur the colour of the cloudless sky.

‘That’s Blue-Cat,’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘You saw Stew-Cat playing with Wendell. I don’t know where Clue-Cat is, but he’ll find you. He likes new guests.’

‘Do you have a lot of people coming here?’

‘Only children. Very special children like you and Lulu and Wendell. Mr Hood won’t have just anybody.’

‘Who’s Mr Hood?’

‘The man who built the Holiday House,’ Mrs Griffin replied.

‘Will I meet him too?’

Mrs Griffin looked discomfited by the question. ‘Maybe,’ she said, her gaze averted. ‘But he’s a very private man.’

They were up on the landing by now, and Mrs Griffin led Harvey past a row of painted portraits to a room at the back of the House. It overlooked an orchard, and the warm air carried the smell of ripe apples into the room.

‘You look tired, my sweet,’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘Maybe you should lie down for a little while.’

Harvey usually hated to sleep in the afternoon: it reminded him too much of having the flu, or the measles. But the pillow looked very cool and comfortable, and when Mrs Griffin had taken her leave he decided to lie down, just for a few minutes.

Either he was more tired than he’d thought, or the calm and comfort of the House rocked him into a slumber. Whichever, his eyes closed almost as soon as he put his head on the pillow, and they did not open again until morning.

IV

A Death Between Seasons

THE SUN came to wake him soon after dawn: a straight white dart of light, laid on his lids. He sat up with a start, wondering for a moment what bed this was, what room, what house. Then his memories of the previous day returned, and he realized that he’d slept through from late afternoon to early morning. The rest had strengthened him. He felt energetic, and with a whoop of pleasure he jumped out of bed and got dressed.

The House was more welcoming than ever today, the flowers Mrs Griffin had set on every table and sill singing with colour. The front door stood open, and sliding down the gleaming bannisters Harvey raced out on to the porch to inspect the morning.

A surprise awaited him. The trees which had been heavy with leaves the previous afternoon had shed their canopies. There were new, tiny buds on every branch and twig, as though this were the first day of spring.

‘Another day, another dollar,’ said Wendell, ambling round the corner of the House.

‘What does that mean?’ said Harvey.

‘It’s what my father used to say all the time. Another day, another dollar. He’s a banker, my Dad. Wendell Hamilton the Second. And me, I’m—’

‘Wendell Hamilton the Third.’

‘How’d ya know?’

‘Lucky guess. I’m Harvey.’

‘Yeah, I know. D’ya like tree-houses?’

‘I never had one.’

Wendell pointed up at the tallest tree. There was a platform perched up amongst the branches, with a rudimentary house built upon it.

‘I’ve been working up there for weeks,’ said Wendell, ‘but I can’t get it finished alone. Ya want to help me?’

‘Sure. But I’ve got to eat something first.’

‘Go and eat. I’ll be around.’

Harvey headed back inside, and found Mrs Griffin setting out a breakfast fit for a prince. There was milk spilt on the floor, and a cat with a tail hooked like a question mark lapping it up.

‘Clue-Cat?’ he said.

‘Yes indeed,’ Mrs Griffin said fondly. ‘He’s the wicked one.’

Clue-Cat looked up, as if he knew he was being talked about. Then he jumped up on to the table and searched amongst the plates of pancakes and waffles for something more to eat.

‘Can he do whatever he likes?’ Harvey said, watching the cat sniff at this and that. ‘I mean, does nobody control him?’

‘Ah, well, we all have somebody watching over us, don’t we?’ Mrs Griffin replied. ‘Whether we like it or not. Now eat. You’ve got some wonderful times ahead of you.’

Harvey didn’t need a second invitation. He dug into his second meal at the Holiday House with even more appetite than he had the first, and then headed out to meet the day.

OH, WHAT A day it was!

The breeze was warm, and smelt of the green scent of growing things; the perfect sky was full of swooping birds. He sauntered through the grass, his hands in his pockets, like the lord of all he surveyed, calling to Wendell as he approached the trees.

‘Can I come up?’

‘If you’ve got a head for heights,’ Wendell dared him.

The ladder creaked as he climbed, but he made the platform without missing a step. Wendell was impressed.

‘Not bad for a new boy,’ he said. ‘We had two kids here couldn’t even get half-way up.’

‘Where’d they go?’

‘Back home, I s’pose. Kids come and go, you know?’

Harvey peered out through the branches, upon which every bud was bursting.

‘You can’t see much, can you?’ he said. ‘I mean, there’s no sign of the town at all.’

‘Who cares?’ said Wendell. ‘It’s just grey out there anyway.’

‘And it’s sunny here,’ Harvey said, staring down at the wall of misty stones that divided the grounds of the House from the outside world. ‘How’s that possible?’

Wendell’s answer was the same again: ‘Who cares?’ he said. ‘I know I don’t. Now, are we going to start building, or what?’

*

THEY SPENT THE NEXT two hours working on the tree house, descending a dozen times to dig through the timbers heaped beside the orchard, looking for boards to finish their repairs. By noon they’d not only found enough wood to fix the roof, but they had each found a friend. Harvey liked Wendell’s bad jokes, and that who cares? which found its way into every other sentence. And Wendell seemed just as happy to have Harvey’s company.

‘You’re the first kid who’s been real fun,’ he said.

‘What about Lulu?’

‘What about her?’

‘Isn’t she any fun?’

‘She was okay when I first arrived,’ Wendell admitted. ‘I mean, she’s been here months, so she kind of showed me the place. But she’s got weird the last few days. I see her sometimes wanderin’ around like she’s sleep-walkin’, with a blank expression on her face.’

‘She’s probably going crazy,’ Harvey said. ‘Her brain’s turning to mush.’

‘Do you know about that stuff?’ Wendell wanted to know, his face lighting up with ghoulish delight.

‘Of course I do,’ Harvey lied. ‘My Dad’s a surgeon.’

Wendell was most impressed by this, and for the next few minutes listened in gaping envy as Harvey told him about all the operations he’d seen: skulls sawn open and legs sawn off; feet sewn on where hands used to be, and a man with a boil on his behind that grew into a talking head.

‘You swear?’ said Wendell.

‘I swear,’ said Harvey.

‘That’s so cool.’

All this talk brought on a fierce hunger, and at Wendell’s suggestion they climbed down the ladder and wandered into the House to eat.

‘What do you want to do this afternoon?’ he asked Harvey as they sat down at the table. ‘It’s going to be really hot. It always is.’

‘Is there anywhere we can swim?’

Wendell frowned. ‘Well, yes …’ He said doubtfully. ‘There’s a lake round the other side of the House, but you won’t much like it.’

‘Why not?’

‘The water’s so deep you can’t even see the bottom.’

‘Are there any fish?’

‘Oh sure.’

‘Maybe we could catch some. Mrs Griffin could cook ’em for us.’

At this, Mrs Griffin, who was at the stove piling up a plate with onion rings, gave a little shout, and dropped the plate. She turned to Harvey, her face ashen.

‘You don’t want to do that,’ she said.

‘Why not?’ Harvey replied. ‘I thought I could do whatever I wanted.’

‘Well yes, of course you can,’ she told him. ‘But I wouldn’t want you to get sick. The fish are … poisonous, you see.’

‘Oh,’ said Harvey, ‘well maybe we won’t eat ’em after all.’

‘Look at this mess,’ Mrs Griffin said, fussing to cover her confusion. ‘I need a new apron.’

She hurried away to fetch one, leaving Harvey and Wendell to exchange puzzled looks.

‘Now I really have to see those fish,’ Harvey said.

As he spoke, the ever-inquisitive Clue-Cat jumped up on to the counter beside the stove, and before either of the boys could move to stop him he had his paws up on the lip of one of the pans.

‘Hey, get down!’ Harvey told him.

The cat didn’t care to take orders. He hoisted himself up on to the rim of the pan to sniff at its contents, his tail flicking back and forth. The next moment, disaster. The tail danced too close to one of the burners and burst into flames. Clue-Cat yowled, and tipped over the pan he was perched upon. A wave of boiling water washed him off the top of the stove, and he fell to the ground in a smoking heap. Whether drowned, scalded or incinerated, the end was the same: he hit the floor dead.

The din brought Mrs Griffin hurrying back.

‘I think I’m going to go and eat outside,’ Wendell said as the old woman appeared at the door. He snatched up a couple of hot dogs, and was gone.

‘Oh, my Lord!’ Mrs Griffin cried when she set eyes on the dead cat. ‘Oh … you foolish thing.’

‘It was an accident,’ Harvey said, sickened by what had happened. ‘He was up on the stove—’

‘Foolish thing. Foolish thing,’ was all Mrs Griffin seemed able to say. She sank down on to her knees, and stared at the sad little sack of burned fur. ‘No more questions from you,’ she finally murmured.

The sight of Mrs Griffin’s unhappiness made Harvey’s eyes sting, but he hated to have anyone see him cry, so he fought back his tears as best he could and said:

‘Shall I help you bury him?’ in his gruffest voice.

Mrs Griffin looked round. ‘That’s very sweet of you,’ she said softly. ‘But there’s no need. You go out and play.’

‘I don’t want to leave you on your own,’ Harvey said.

‘Oh, look at you, child,’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘You’ve got tears on your cheeks.’

Harvey blushed and wiped them away with the back of his hand.

‘Don’t be ashamed to weep,’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘It’s a wonderful thing. I wish I could still shed a tear or two.’

‘You’re sad,’ Harvey said. ‘I can see that.’

‘What I feel is not quite sadness,’ Mrs Griffin replied. ‘And it’s not much solace, either, I’m afraid.’

‘What’s solace?’ Harvey asked.

‘It’s something soothing,’ Mrs Griffin said, getting to her feet. ‘Something that heals the pain in your heart.’

‘And you don’t have any of that?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Mrs Griffin said. She reached out and touched Harvey’s cheek. ‘Except maybe in these tears of yours. They comfort me.’ She sighed as she traced their tracks with her fingers. ‘Your tears are sweet, child. And so are you. Now you go out into the light and enjoy yourself. There’s sun on the step, and it won’t be there forever, believe me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I’ll see you later then,’ Harvey said, and headed out into the afternoon.

V

The Prisoners

THE TEMPERATURE had risen while Harvey had been at lunch. A heat-haze hovered over the lawn (which was lusher and more thick with flowers than he remembered) and it made the trees around the House shimmer.

He headed towards them, calling Wendell’s name as he went. There was no reply. He glanced back towards the House, thinking he might see Wendell at one of the windows, but they were all reflecting the pristine blue. He looked from House to heavens. There was not a cloud in sight.

And now a suspicion stole upon him, which grew into a certainty as his gaze wandered back to the shimmering copse and the flowers underfoot. During the hour he’d spent in the cool of the kitchen the season had changed. Summer had come to Mr Hood’s Holiday House: a summer as magical as the spring that had preceded it.

That was why the sky was so faultlessly blue, and the birds making such music. The leaf-laden branches were no less content; nor the blossoms in the grass, nor the bees that buzzed from bloom to bloom, gathering the season’s bounty. All were in bliss.

It would not be a long season, Harvey guessed. If the spring had been over in a morning, then most likely this perfect summer would not outlast the afternoon.

I’d better make the most of it, he thought, and hurried in search of Wendell. He finally discovered his friend sitting in the shade of the trees, with a pile of comics at his side.

‘Wanna sit down and read?’ he asked.

‘Maybe later,’ said Harvey. ‘First I want to go and look at this lake you were talking about. Are you going to come?’

‘What for? I told you it’s no fun.’

‘All right, I’ll go on my own.’

‘You won’t stay long,’ Wendell remarked, and went back to his reading.

Though Harvey had a good idea of the lake’s general whereabouts, the bushes on that side of the House were thick and thorny, and it took him several minutes to find a way through them. By the time he caught sight of the lake itself the sweat on his face and back was clammy, and his arms had been scratched and bloodied by barbs.

As Wendell had predicted, the lake wasn’t worth the trouble. It was large – so large that the far side was barely visible – but gloomy and drear, both the lake and the dark stones around it covered with a film of green scum. There was a legion of flies buzzing around in search of something rotten to feed on, and Harvey guessed they’d have no trouble finding a feast. This was a place where dead things belonged.

He was about to leave when a movement in the shadows caught his eye. Somebody was standing further along the bank, almost eclipsed by the mesh of thicket. He moved a few paces closer to the lake, and saw that it was Lulu. She was perched on the slimy stones at the very edge of the water, gazing into their depths.

Speaking in a near-whisper for fear he’d startle her, Harvey said:

‘It looks cold.’

She glanced up at him, her face full of confusion, and then – without a word of reply – turned and bounded away through the bushes.

‘Wait!’ Harvey called, hurrying towards the lake.

Lulu had already disappeared however, leaving the thicket shaking. He might have gone in pursuit of her, except that the sound of bubbles breaking in the lake took his gaze to the waters, and there, moving just below the coating of scum, he saw the fish. They were almost as large as he was, their grey scales stained and encrusted, their bulbous eyes turned up towards the surface like the eyes of prisoners in a watery pit.

They were watching him, he was certain of that, and their scrutiny made him shudder. Were they hungry, he wondered, and praying to their fishy gods that he’d slip on the stones and tumble in? Or were they wishing he’d come with a rod and a line, so that they could be hauled out of the depths and put out of their misery?

What a life, he thought. No sun to warm them; no flowers to sniff at or games to play. Just the deep, dark waters to circle in; and circle, and circle, and circle.

It made him dizzy just watching, and he feared that if he lingered much longer he’d lose his balance and join them. Gasping with relief he turned his back on the sight, and returned into the sunlight as fast as the barbs would allow.

Wendell was still sitting underneath the tree. He had two bottles of ice-cold lemonade in the grass beside him, and lobbed one to Harvey as he approached.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘You were right,’ Harvey replied.

‘Nobody in their right mind ever goes there.’

‘I saw Lulu.’

‘What did I tell you?’ Wendell crowed. ‘Nobody in their right mind.’

‘And those fish—’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Wendell said, pulling a face. ‘Ugly boogers, aren’t they?’

‘Why would Mr Hood have fish like that? I mean, everything else is so beautiful. The lawns, the House, the orchard …’

‘Who cares?’ said Wendell.

‘I do,’ said Harvey. ‘I want to know everything there is to know about this place.’

‘Why?’

‘So I can tell my Mum and Dad about it when I go home.’

‘Home?’ said Wendell. ‘Who needs it? We’ve got everything we need here.’

‘I’d still like to know how all this works. Is there some kind of machine making the seasons change?’

Wendell pointed up through the branches at the sun. ‘Does that look mechanical to you?’ he said. ‘Don’t be a dope, Harvey. This is all real. It’s magic, but it’s real.’

‘You think so?’

‘It’s too hot to think,’ Wendell replied. ‘Now sit down and shut up.’ He tossed a few comics in Harvey’s direction. ‘Look through these. Find yourself a monster for tonight.’

‘What’s happening tonight?’

‘Hallowe’en of course,’ Wendell said. ‘It happens every night.’

Harvey plunked himself down beside Wendell, opened his bottle of lemonade and began to leaf through the comics, thinking as he leafed and sipped that maybe Wendell was right, and it was too hot to think. However this miraculous place worked, it seemed real enough. The sun was hot, the lemonade was cold, the sky was blue, the grass was green. What more did he need to know?

Somewhere in the middle of these musings he must have dozed off, because he woke with a start to find that the sun was no longer dappling the ground around him, and Wendell was no longer reading at his side.

He reached for his lemonade, but the bottle had fallen over, and the sweet scent had attracted hundreds of ants. They were crawling over it and into it, many drowning for their greed.

As he got to his feet the first real breeze he’d felt since noon blew, and a leaf, its edges sere, spiralled down to land at his feet.

‘Autumn …’ he murmured to himself.

Until this moment, standing beneath the creaking boughs watching the wind shake down the leaves, autumn had always seemed to him the saddest of seasons. It meant that summer was over, and the nights would be growing long and cold. But now, as the drizzle of leaves became a deluge, and the patter of acorns and chestnuts a drumming, he laughed to see and hear its coming. By the time he was out from under the trees he had leaves in his hair, and down his back, and was kicking them up with every racing step.

As he reached the porch, the first clouds he’d seen all afternoon crept over the sun, and their shadow made the House, which had wavered in the heat of the afternoon like a mirage, suddenly loom, dark and solid.

‘You’re real,’ he said, as he stood panting on the porch. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

He started to laugh at the foolishness of talking to a House, but the smile went from his face as a voice, so soft he was barely certain he heard it, said:

‘What do you think, child?’

He looked for the speaker, but there was nobody at the threshold, nor out on the porch, nor on the steps behind him.

‘Who said that?’ he demanded.

There was no answer, which he was glad of. It hadn’t been a voice at all, he told himself. It had been a creak of the boards underfoot, or the rustling of dry leaves in the grass. But he stepped into the House with his heart beating a little faster, reminding himself as he went that questions weren’t welcome here.

What did it matter, anyway, he thought, whether this was a real place or a dream? It felt real, and that was all that mattered.

Satisfied with this, he raced through the House into the kitchen where Mrs Griffin was weighing the table down with treats.

VI

Seen and Unseen

‘WELL?’ SAID Wendell as they ate, ‘what are you going to be tonight?’

‘I don’t know,’ Harvey said. ‘What are you going to be?’

‘A hangman,’ he said, with a spaghetti grin. ‘I’ve been learning how to tie nooses. Now all I’ve got to do is find someone to hang.’ He eyed Mrs Griffin. ‘It’s quick,’ he said. ‘You just drop ’em and – snap! – their necks break!’

‘That’s horrible!’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘Why do boys always love talking about ghosts and murders and hangings?’

‘Because it’s exciting,’ Wendell said.

‘You’re monsters,’ she replied, with a hint of a smile. ‘That’s what you are. Monsters.’

‘Harvey is,’ Wendell said. ‘I’ve seen him filing down his teeth.’

‘Is it a full moon?’ Harvey said, smearing ketchup around his mouth and putting on a twitch. ‘I hope so, I need blood … fresh blood.’

‘Good,’ said Wendell. ‘You can be a vampire. I’ll hang ’em and you can suck their blood.’

‘Horrible,’ Mrs Griffin said again. ‘Just horrible.’

Perhaps the House had heard Harvey wishing for a full moon, because when he and Wendell traipsed upstairs and looked out of the landing window, there – hanging between the bare branches of the trees – was a moon as wide and as white as a dead man’s smile.

‘Look at it!’ Harvey said. ‘I can see every crater. It’s perfect.’

‘Oh that’s just the start,’ Wendell promised, and led Harvey to a large, musty room which had been filled with clothes of every description. Some were hung on hooks and coat-hangers. Some were in baskets, like actors’ costumes. Still more were heaped at the far end of the room on the dusty floor. And, half-hidden until Wendell cleared the way, was a sight that made Harvey gasp: a wall covered from floor to ceiling with masks.

‘Where did they all come from?’ Harvey said as he gaped at this spectacle.

‘Mr Hood collects them,’ Wendell explained. ‘And the clothes are just stuff that kids who visited here left behind.’

Harvey wasn’t interested in the clothes, it was the masks that mesmerized him. They were like snowflakes: no two alike. Some were made of wood and of plastic; some of straw and cloth and papier-mâché. Some were as bright as parrots, others as pale as parchment. Some were so grotesque he was certain they’d been carved by crazy people; others so perfect they looked like the death-masks of angels. There were masks of clowns and foxes, masks like skulls decorated with real teeth, and one with carved flames instead of hair.

‘Take your pick,’ said Wendell. ‘There’s bound to be a vampire somewhere. Whatever I come in here wanting to find, I find it sooner or later.’

Harvey decided to leave the pleasure of choosing a mask until last, and concentrated instead on digging up something suitably bat-like to wear. As he worked through the piles of clothes he found himself wondering about the children who’d left them here. Though he’d always hated history lessons, he knew some of the jackets and shoes and shirts and belts had been out of fashion for many, many years. Where were their owners now? Dead, he presumed, or so old it made no difference.

The thought of these garments belonging to dead folk brought a little shudder to his spine, which was only right. This was Hallowe’en, after all, and what was Hallowe’en without a few chills?

After a few minutes of searching he found a long black coat with a collar he could turn up, which Wendell pronounced very vampiric. Well-satisfied with his choice, he went back to the wall of faces, and his eyes almost immediately alighted upon a mask he hadn’t previously seen, with the pallor and deep sockets of a soul just risen from the tomb. He took it down and put it on. It fitted perfectly.

‘What do I look like?’ Harvey asked, turning to face Wendell, who had found an executioner’s mask which fitted him just as well.

‘Ugly as sin.’

‘Good.’

THERE WAS A flickering family of pumpkin-heads lined up on the porch when they stepped outside, and the misty air smelt of wood-smoke.

‘Where do we go trick-or-treating?’ Harvey wanted to know. ‘Out in the street?’

‘No,’ said Wendell, ‘it’s not Hallowe’en out in the real world, remember? We’re going to go round the back of the House.’

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