The Unquiet House by Alison Littlewood Page B

around his shoulders and leaned back against the pillow. When he closed his eyes, though, it wasn’t the old man he thought of; it was Sam Holroyd, the so-called friend who’d run off and left them. Sam Holroyd, who’d dared him to step across that border in the first place.
    His lip twisted. The place was still there. It wasn’t going away. Perhaps next time it was Sam who needed to go up to the door: maybe he even needed to go inside.

CHAPTER THREE
    It was early on Saturday morning and a light ground mist still hung over the grass. Everyone was there except Mossy, who had chosen to stay and help Dad put new chicken-wire around the hen coop. It wasn’t something he’d normally do and he hadn’t really told him why, but Frank thought it was something to do with what he’d said the night before:
I wasn’t scared of the old man
.
    Now they were at the big house again but it was clear that no one was going inside because the old man was standing in the garden. He was motionless, staring out at the road. The only thing that moved was the curl of smoke from his pipe.
    Frank still hadn’t asked what it was his little brother
had
been scared of and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
    They crouched in the lane, Frank and Sam and Jeff, occasionally bobbing up to see what they could see. Sometimes, the old man did move; he raised the hand in which he held a thick wooden stick and punched it down again into the ground.
    Frank looked at Sam. ‘It’s your turn,’ he said in a low voice. ‘As soon as he goes in you can go and knock on the door. You ’ave to count to ten before you run.’ He didn’t say Sam should go inside,though he knew that was exactly what he should do; the only thing that could make up for Mossy’s fear. He thought Sam would argue anyway, but what he didn’t expect was: ‘I’ve already done it. It’s your turn again.’
    ‘You have
not
. We was all the’er last time, and you was first away.’ Frank leaned over and spat. It was something he’d just started to do; he’d copied it off his dad.
    ‘An’ then I went back agin later. Din’t I, Jee?’
    Jeff’s eyes had started to shine. He looked at his brother as if he’d just come up with a brilliant idea.
    ‘You’re lyin’.’
    ‘Not.’
    ‘Are.’
    ‘Wanna make summat of it?’ Sam leaned towards him, his chest puffed out. Frank suddenly knew it was hopeless. Sam would do anything, say anything, rather than go and knock on the old man’s door.
    Anyway, no one was going to knock. The man still stood there, his head twitching now and then towards the lane. He kept banging the stick so hard into the ground Frank knew it would retain its print for days to come.
His backside would too
, he thought,
if he got caught
.
    He sighed. It was two against one. ‘You won’t mind going past him then,’ he said, ‘if you’re so brave.’ He pointed down the lane, towards the path that led to the river. One side of it flanked the old man’s wall. His mother would tan his hide if she knew he’d even thought of it – she got tight-lipped if anyone even mentioned the place – and he shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t as if the river was much fun for playing out. They couldn’t even reach the water, not really. There was a little bridge over theworst of the miry ground, a concrete slab with a thin metal pipe for a handrail, but it didn’t lead anywhere very much. It looked as if it would be fun to play on but it wasn’t. They could sit on the edge and dangle their feet, but what lay below looked like nothing but grass, long and lush. It wasn’t grass, though. It was mire.
    ‘All right.’ Sam’s voice was low. Frank looked at him and saw the older boy was only pausing, making him wait. Then he straightened and smiled. ‘We’ll all go. If, you know,
you’re
so brave.’
    Frank thought of the way Mossy had come into his room, his quiet knock, his downcast eyes: the way he’d gone to his big brother when he was afraid. And he
had
been