“No time for crying, Mister Penn,” I said. “We’ve gotta find some light.”
There was a light switch somewhere near the entrance. I’d seen Dad turn it on when we came up here to play treasure hunt once. With Mr. Penn tucked under one arm, I crawled back toward the trapdoor and felt around in the dark. I found the cold brick wall and ran my fingers along its rough surface until I found the switch. I flicked it and felt a moment’s panic when nothing happened. But then the two strip-lights in the ceiling started to flicker and hum, like they were grumpy about being woken up. With a ping and a flash that had me blinking, they snapped on, casting a dirty yellow light over the piles and piles of junk that we’d hidden away up here.
Apart from my teddies, it was mostly boring stuff near the entrance—bed linens, pillows, ugly patterned blankets. Stacked baskets ran down each side of a central aisle, all brimming with odds and ends that no one would ever use.
There was a canvas wardrobe halfway along, bursting with Mum’s old clothes she wouldn’t throw away. She said they might fit again one day, once she’d lost a bit of weight. I used to think it was a TARDIS when I was little. That all seemed ten thousand million years ago now. Nine was so much older than eight. ’Specially when the world was going mad and the grown-ups couldn’t help you anymore. I still felt the tug of the TARDIS, though. Part of me wanted to believe I could squeeze in amongst all those clothes and escape to another planet. Better still, I could travel back in time and tell Mum not to go shopping so she wouldn’t get bitten and turn into a zombie. I could tell Dad to tape up the cat flap. Then they’d both still be with me and we could hide away indoors till the police killed all the zombies and told us it was safe to come out. Kids are stupid like that. I started to feel warm and cozy. Everything I daydreamed about was real, right up until I gave the TARDIS a good look and saw it was just make believe. I turned away from it and dropped Mr Penn. I had to be tough to get out of this. Ain’t got time to be scared, Dad used to say when I thought there were monsters under the bed. Too busy trying to sleep. Ain’t got time to cry, he’d say whenever I grazed my knee. Too busy playing.
Toward the far end of the attic there was a big fluffy donkey we called Oswald. He was standing guard over the fake Christmas tree, the one we used to bring down to the lounge every year. My tummy twinged when I thought about it. We would have been doing that in a week or so. Now it would just lie there gathering dust.
I made my way along the aisle, careful to keep to the boards so my feet didn’t go through the ceiling. Something squeaked and I stopped, holding my breath. There was a rustle of plastic bags, and I turned to stare as a stack of full black bin liners tumbled down. I strained and strained, but couldn’t hear anything else above the drumming of the rain on the roof tiles.
My eyes were drawn to something glinting behind where the bin liners had been stacked. I grabbed a plastic sack and heaved it out of the way, and then stepped carefully between the others. The glint disappeared as I drew nearer. When I craned my neck to look back, it was obvious why. The strip-light in the ceiling was now behind me. It must’ve been reflecting from something. I pressed on into the shadows with one foot on either side of a load of foamy stuff between the beams. I was never allowed to play near the edges of the attic because they hadn’t been boarded over. One wrong step and I’d break my bleeding neck. Least that's what Dad always said.
Just thinking of him was like a punch in the guts. I felt all mangled up inside. The tears wanted to come, but I wouldn’t let them. Times like this you need to be strong. No one was coming to save me now. I knew that as sure as I knew Mum would never be stepping through the door and telling me to carry the shopping bags. Dad and I would never form our little chain gang so we could put the tins away in the cupboards while Mum fixed the tea. A sniffle escaped, but I ignored it, peering into the darkness until I could make out a shape blacker than the rest. I reached out and my fingers found something cold and hard. It felt like metal. I crouched down and ran both hands over it. It was a box of some sort, with a lid and handles on either side. I took hold of one of the handles and gave it a tug. The box shifted easier than I thought and I fell backward. I threw my hand out behind and struck foam. My heart jumped into my throat and I shut my eyes, waiting to fall through the ceiling. I must’ve got lucky ’cause nothing happened. After a few raspy breaths, I inched back onto the beams and found the handle again. This time, I took little steps backward as I dragged the box into the light.
It was painted black, but was chipped all over. It looked a thousand years old. Maybe a million. There was a tiny key in the lock, with a ripped brown tag attached to it. Wesley J. Harding, it said in swirly joined-up writing. Except for the J., that was my name, but I’d never seen the box before in my life. Then I remembered something Dad had told me when I was really little. I was named after his great, great, great granddad, but my middle name was different. That was Xavier, after this saint Mum liked. Dad once told me he was eaten by cannon-balls. But Wesley J. Harding was real famous in my family. He was in India, they said. In the stories Dad used to tell, he was always doing magic stuff, like rope tricks so he could escape from the evil tiger-men. He could even lie on a bed of nails without getting pricked to death.
I turned the key and lifted the lid. It fell back on its hinges with a loud clang. There was an answering growl from below. It sounded like those things from outside, only it was definitely closer; right underneath me. I closed my eyes to listen better. Someone moaned, and there was a noise like Darth Vader breathing and Dad gargling TCP all rolled into one.
“Daddy?” I said, too softly for him to hear. Then a little louder, “Dadda?”
There was a snarl, then lots of smashing and crashing, like someone was throwing furniture about. There was a heavy thud right beneath the attic, and more moaning and groaning that sounded even closer. I yelped in fright as something bashed against the trapdoor and then roared.
My eyes snapped open and I was staring at an old yellowish photo of a man in a white pointy helmet standing with his foot on a tiger. He had a big gun in one hand, and was smoking a pipe with the other. I knew whom it was from the dangly moustache: Wesley J. Harding.
There was more pounding on the trapdoor. It bounced in the opening, and the bolt rattled. I knew I was still safe, though. The trapdoor opened outwards, so no amount of hammering was going to help. If it was Dad, he’d know all he had to do was unbolt it and lower the cover. But maybe it was him, only he might be like Mum had been. She’d looked the same as normal, except for the dribble and the milky eyes. Maybe them things weren’t too clever. Maybe they were too thick to work a bolt. Even so, I knew I couldn’t take chances. I had to think, and think quick. I needed a weapon.
Next to the picture of Wesley J. Harding there was a wad of cloth all tied up with string. I lifted it out, surprised at how heavy it was. I nearly dropped it when the banging got louder and the wood of the trapdoor started to split. I fumbled at the string, pulling it over the edges of the bundle because I couldn’t untie the knots. As I began to unwrap the material, it suddenly went quiet below. I heard the bolt being turned; heard it snap back. Acid came up my throat, almost made me sick. I dropped the bundle and something heavy thudded against the boards.