‘The cat?’ Callum asked in confusion.
‘The dog, of course,’ Gran said sharply. ‘Where did it come from? How far did it chase you?’
‘From the church,’ Callum replied, although actually, now his mind wasn’t paralysed with terror, he realised that he wasn’t absolutely sure it had chased him. He had been too terrified to look back. Surely a creature that size could have caught him easily, if it had tried. And if it hadn’t chased him, was that because it was busy with Ed and his mates? What was going on in the churchyard now?
‘A big dog? Size of a Shetland pony? Completely black, from nose to tail?’
‘Yeah, except for its teeth!’ Callum peeled leaves away from his shins and glanced up at Gran suspiciously. Her Sherlock Holmes-type questions were out of character. He had expected her to dismiss the whole thing as fear of the dark and then start fussing over his skinned knees, but she was still staring keenly out of the window. Her next question was even more unexpected.
‘Was there a boy with it?’
Callum’s breath caught in his throat. How could Gran possibly know about the boy? When he didn’t reply, Gran spun around and repeated the question more forcefully.
‘Did you see its owner too?’
‘Why does it matter?’ Callum demanded. ‘I was chased by a dog, not a person!’
‘It’s the owner who’s responsible,’ Gran answered.
‘But what makes you think the owner is a boy?’
Something wasn’t right. Callum could tell that Gran was holding back. Did she know something about what was going on? That morning she’d seemed overly worried about him walking home in the dark, now she was asking these unsettlingly precise questions. It was like she was fishing for information but not wanting to give anything away herself.
‘Have you seen it?’ he pressed. ‘This black dog. Do you know who owns it?’
‘No, Callum, I haven’t seen it.’
Gran stared into his eyes for a long moment. Callum met her gaze steadily. He wanted to tell her that there had been a boy with the dog, but why should he, if she wasn’t being open with him? Finally, Gran sighed. ‘Well, I’ll have a word with Warren tomorrow. Maybe he’s got a new dog. Why don’t you go and get yourself cleaned up. Fish pie tonight.’
That was that. Gran crossed the room and went back out to the kitchen. It was about as close to a brush-off as she was capable of. She hadn’t even bothered to complain about the mud he’d tracked across the sitting room.
Frustrated, frightened and rattled, Callum tidied up the mess and unpacked his rucksack. He and his grandmother didn’t talk much over supper, but she didn’t seem angry. Callum glanced up from beneath his tangled hair, still wet after his bath. Gran was staring at the fire as she ate, her look distant.
Callum spread his homework over the table while Gran washed up. She didn’t turn on the radio like she usually did. Callum found himself wondering if she was avoiding another ugly news report. Whatever the reason, Gran’s strange behaviour made him even more convinced that something was definitely wrong.
*
That night, he lay awake for what seemed like hours again. The rowan tree scratched at the window and the frame rattled as usual. Callum strained his ears, listening for howling. He was going to be a mess by the end of the week if he didn’t get more sleep. And then there was Ed to face again tomorrow, assuming he hadn’t been eaten alive. Ed, who’d pulled a knife on him. Callum took a long, deep breath. It was bad enough he had ghosts trying to kill him, without his classmates joining in . . .
‘I wish I knew what was going on, Cad,’ murmured Callum. Cadbury was unresponsive, a sleeping heap of fur in his favourite spot at Callum’s feet. The cat gave a little sigh when he heard Callum’s voice, but didn’t raise his head.
Callum stared up at the low ceiling. He could hear Gran still pottering about downstairs. Was she getting the table out again? Maybe she was setting up her easel. Whatever she was doing, the sound of her dragging furniture around wasn’t helping him get to sleep.
‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘A hot drink, that’s what I need.’
His mum always used to make him hot milk when he couldn’t sleep. If he got it quietly himself, maybe Gran wouldn’t make a fuss.
Callum slipped out of his bed. God, it was freezing.He reached for a jumper and shrugged it on over his pyjamas before heading to the door. He didn’t bother to switch on the light – the stairs were dimly illuminated by the glow coming up from the sitting room. He made his way slowly down the small spiral staircase, hugging the wall where the steps were widest, feeling the way with his bare feet on the uneven treads.
As he turned the corner at the bottom of the spiral, Callum opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. Gran was standing on a chair by the window, her back to him, busy with something on the highest of the bookshelves – the one that ran above the window and the door. You couldn’t even see that shelf unless you stood practically beneath it, because one of the ancient timber beams holding up the ceiling ran in front of it. What was she doing?
Quietly, Callum took another step down the stairs.
As he watched, Gran pulled down several books, stacking them carefully on the edge of one of the lower shelves. Callum stared, intrigued. What were the books? Gardening or painting manuals by the look of it; there were flowers and jugs and landscapes on the covers. Callum didn’t pay much attention to the books Gran kept on the inaccessible shelves – they were mostly ones that even she never bothered to read. Maybe she’d decided to get rid of them. But it seemed a very strange time of day for a clear-out.
Gran stopped her work suddenly. She stood with her hands on her hips, scanning the shelf in front of her. After a moment she reached back – far back – and pulled out another book. Callum realised that the shelf was deeper than he had first thought. The book Gran had pulled out had been behind the books at the front of the shelf.
Gran blew a layer of dust off the top edge of the book and examined the spine. It was bound in black leather and stitched with silver; the fine detail glimmered in the firelight as she opened the cover and studied the first page. Finally, she set this book aside, wiped her dusty hands on the back of her trousers and put back all the other books in their original places. Then she climbed down from her chair.
Callum quietly retreated a couple of steps into the shadows. He listened while she moved the chair back into its place under the table. Silence fell. After a minute or two, Callum dared to steal a glance round the stair wall.
Gran was sitting in her armchair by the fire with the decaying black and silver book open in her lap. The reflection of the fire’s orange flames danced in her reading glasses. She was so absorbed she did not look up.
What on Earth was she doing?
For long minutes, Callum waited, growing steadily colder as he watched for any clue as to what his grandmother was reading, but she gave no sign. Finally, with a deep sigh, she closed the cover. Callum ducked back into the shadows. His teeth were chattering, but his blood burned with frustrated curiosity. What was that book? And why had Gran been hiding it? There was no way of knowing – it wasn’t as if he could just pop down and ask her, and it was too cold to hang around hoping she would give something away. Reluctantly, Callum turned to make his way quietly back to bed. With every step up the narrow staircase, the draught danced around his feet, like icy fangs snapping at his heels.
Chapter 8
Callum barely made it to his first class on time. He had spent so long skulking in the back streets of Marlock trying to avoid Ed and his mates that he had to duck into his English lesson without even taking off his coat and rucksack. He dodged out of class the instant the bell rang and raced to his locker. But his plan backfired. Mrs Higgins stopped him to give him a telling-off for running, and Ed slouched past slowly, enjoying the spectacle. He caught Callum’s eye and mouthed, ‘You’re dead’.