Tyme's End.

B. R. Collins.

2006.

I.

I've had enough. There's only so long anyone can stand being shouted at, and I'm way past it. We've been arguing for ten minutes, our voices getting louder and louder, and now I don't trust myself to speak. It's fifty-fifty whether I'll swear or burst into tears, and I don't want to do either. I shove past Dad, out on to the landing.

Dad shouts, 'Where the hell are you going?'

'Out.'

'Don't you dare, young lady I'm talking to you '

'Stop telling me what to do! I know you think I'm a waste of space, you don't have to keep telling me. Leave me alone.' I grab my jumper off the banister and run down the stairs.

'You come back here right now '

'I want to go out.' I look over my shoulder. 'I need to get out. I can't stay in this bloody house for one more second. So leave me al-'

'Bibi! We have a guest coming tonight.' He's talking slowly now, like I'm very, very stupid. 'Look, we can talk about I'm sorry I shouted. But I do I need to do the laundry now. So please will you take the sheets off your bed and give them to '

'He's not a bloody guest! He's a customer. Jesus! You make it sound like a brothel.'

'Bibi, don't you dare talk to me like '

I grab my keys, go out of the front door and slam it behind me. I hear Dad's voice rise in a kind of helpless howl, and if I wasn't so angry I'd laugh. I shove my hands into my pockets and turn right.

Sam is kicking a ball against the wall at the end of the street. I walk straight past him without turning my head, but he jogs after me, still dribbling the ball. He says, 'Oooh, leave me alone, you're not my real father,' in a high-pitched voice that's meant to be me. He's giggling.

'Piss off, Sam.'

'Oooh. You're not my real father.'

'And you're not my real brother either, so shut the hell up.'

'I could hear it from here,' he says, bending to pick up the ball. He grins up at me, shaking his fringe out of his eyes. 'Suppose one day you ask Mum for something and she's like, no, you're not my real daughter?'

'Piss off. They adopted me. I did not adopt them. And you don't understand.'

'No,' he says, sighing. 'No one understands you. I definitely don't.'

I reach out to hit him, but he's already drifted back, kicking the ball from foot to foot. He gives me a little distracted wave, without looking up. I swallow, hard, because I can feel my anger draining away and misery taking its place, and I turn away. I go left then right again, hurrying down the High Street because I'm determined not to cry in public. There are tourists jostling with cameras outside the church, and I push past them, not caring if I walk through their photos. Someone says, 'Oh, excuse me,' and I clench my jaw, half wanting to turn and apologise, half wanting to swear. I go past Eddie's shop and he salutes, grinning. I raise my hand without meeting his eyes, and then break into a run. Any moment now I'm going to start crying . . .

I sprint across the road, past the gates of Tyme's End and the gaggle of foreign students yelling to one another. Some of them are rattling the padlock, but the gates are rusted shut, and they're wasting their time. I swerve round them, swearing under my breath, and go round the corner. It's much quieter, suddenly. I look both ways, then run at the wall where it's cracked, dragging myself up and over and through the gap in the bars. I drop awkwardly into the brambles and feel a thorn draw a stinging line across my forehead. I struggle forward, until I'm standing waist-deep in the grass under the trees. The light is grey-green and dim, like water, and it's very quiet. I take a deep breath and the tension ebbs and fades. I'm on my own. There's a bloody great wall between me and Dad and Sam and Mum wherever she is right now.

I clench my fists, throw back my head and shout. The birds swirl upwards in a clatter of wings. I swear through my teeth it's better than crying, anyway and shake my head. Bloody Dad. When I think about it, it's so stupid fights about tidying my room, going out, laundry, for God's sake but Sam's right. It always ends up with you're not my real father.

I hate myself for saying it to him, but I can't help it. Every time. It's like a reflex. Afterwards, I resolve never to say it again, but it just comes out. And it hurts. I can see it on his face, like I've kicked him on the shins but the funny thing is that I feel it too. He isn't my real father. And Mum's not my real mother either.

And Sam's right one day they might turn round and say it back.

I feel my stomach tightening again, and I make myself take another deep breath. It's OK. I'm here, now. I'm safe, on my own.

I concentrate on not thinking about Mum and Dad. I walk forward slowly, wading through the thigh-deep bracken, and come out on what used to be the lawn. I stand in the long grass, looking at the house. Tyme's End. Where would I go, if I didn't have Tyme's End? I'd have to stay at home. I feel a rush of protectiveness, and a strange sort of pride, because Tyme's End is mine. Not really, of course, not legally H. J. Martin left it to some historian, who died ten years ago, and he left it to someone that no one's ever met but who else comes here? Who else likes it as it is, half falling down, rotting and sagging and crumbling? The tourists stare through the gates, but the drive's too overgrown to see anything, and they don't know about the broken bit of wall. And they wouldn't want it, anyway, the way it is. They want it to be restored and given to the National Trust. They want a car park and toilets and a gift shop. Even my parents have got the H. J. Martin's House Should Be Open To The Nation petition displayed on the table in the B&B.

They don't know I come here, of course. They'd have a fit, because it's probably the most dangerous place in Falconhurst. When I'm inside I have to tread carefully, because the floorboards are soggy and the stairs sag and complain when you stand on them. Everywhere you look there's green stuff growing. There are rats. There's a wasps' nest in one of the attics, like a huge humming pillar of papier mache. And everything's covered with tendrils of ivy no, not tendrils: trunks and branches, it's grown-up, kick-ass ivy and the floors stink of mould and water runs down the walls, and where there was wallpaper there are crumbling brownish scrolls of it peeling away, and where there was only plaster there are huge damp bubbles on the walls, like they're boiling slowly sideways. On the ground floor almost all the windows are boarded up and on the first floor loads of the panes are cracked or missing. Tyme's End is dying, slowly. And I love it. I stand in the long grass, watching a rag of old curtain flutter in one of the top windows, and feel a savage surge of gladness that it's here, and so am I. And finally the anger fades, and I imagine myself screaming at Dad about sheets, and I start to laugh.

When the giggles are over, I straighten up and walk through the grass, round the side of the house, to the open door. As I slide through the gap my top brushes the crooked wood, and suddenly I can smell the air in the house: the scent of age, and damp, and seventy years' loneliness. It's musty and a little bit bitter. I take a big breath, opening my mouth so that I can nearly taste it.

Inside it's silent. I stand still, just listening. My heartbeat is the only thing I can hear. Sometimes there are odd noises, or odd silences moments when your nerves tingle as if you heard something, although you know you didn't but today the house is dormant, almost welcoming. I go through into the dining room, then into the hall and up the stairs. The staircase creaks ominously, but I'm used to that.

Upstairs I turn left. The corridor's dark, and the air leaves sticky cobweb traces on my face. I walk towards the bedroom at the corner of the house, and as I go through the door the sun comes out from behind a cloud and the whole room lights up. There's not much here a bed, a desk, wardrobe, everything old-fashioned and covered in a layer of gritty dust like ash from a volcano but it's cleaner than anywhere else, and hardly any of the windowpanes are broken. A few months ago I nicked the groundsheet from Sam's play-tent, and now I can sit on the bed without my clothes stinking of mildew afterwards. I've got a tin of biscuits, and a couple of books, and a plastic bottle of whisky and Coke for emergencies, and a torch. Not that I'd ever be here at night but once, years ago, when I got stuck here in the rain, it was so dark I got the creeps. I thought I heard someone moving around downstairs, and I sat there with my eyes closed, practically wetting myself with terror, until finally the sun came out again. After that I didn't want to be here without a light.

In summer I drag the bed over to the window so that I can sit and look out. The groundsheet is still rumpled from the last time I was here, which was yesterday, and my book is splayed face-down on the windowsill. I put the biscuits within easy reach, sit on the bed and find my place in the book. But it's hard to concentrate. I still feel like hitting someone or crying. Outside the trees are swaying from side to side, like they're warning each other about something. The sun goes in again and the warmth fades out of the room.

I kneel up and lean my elbows on the windowsill. It's going to rain. I press my forehead against the glass. A breath of cool air from the broken pane slides over my lips, like there's someone sitting next to me.

A noise makes me look round. It's the draught, riffling the pages of my book. It's one of Eddie's from the ten pence box, an old blue hardback with yellowing pages. It smells of libraries. It's a ghost story about a violin and it's quite good, but my favourite thing is that it's got a little handwritten conversation in the margin. At the moment the spiky handwriting is telling the blunt pencil that writing in other people's books is vandalism. I watch the pages turn by themselves. The air pauses, like it's found a good bit, then gets bored and carries on flipping through.

I look out of the window again, and the first spots of rain spatter the glass. The sound of it is half comforting, half spooky, like someone tapping on the window with their fingernails. I move sideways, away from the broken bit of the window, so I won't get wet, and lean against the wall, propping the book on my knees. The curl of wallpaper hanging above my head bounces and rustles. I listen to the quiet inhuman sound of the rain. I let my eyes focus on the page in front of me and after a while I start to read.

When I lift my head again I don't know how long I've been reading for, or why I've stopped. But there's something . . . I frown, trying to work out what distracted me. I feel uneasy somehow; jumpy.

I tip my head back and look at the ceiling. The damp has drawn a map in the plaster, a network of cracks like country roads. Something's wrong.

There are footsteps downstairs.

I sit up as quietly as I can, and a shiver goes down my back. I pray that I've imagined the sound, or that it's my heartbeat. But it isn't.

Maybe it's just someone who's come in to get out of the rain a tramp, or a kid, or a tourist. But the local kids don't come here. No one comes here. Even tramps only come here in winter, when they're desperate.

I'm cold all over. I'm on my feet but I don't remember standing up. Oh, God. There is someone downstairs. The light has gone grey-blue, shadowy, like dusk.

I stand very still, praying for the noise to stop, praying that I've imagined it like before, like all those times before but it carries on. Deliberate, slow footsteps. I shut my eyes to imagine somebody walking like that, and then wish I hadn't. I can see him the paces are heavy, definitely male too clearly: someone who's been here before, wandering slowly through the house, familiar room after familiar room, the owner checking that everything's in order.

I don't believe in ghosts. I don't believe in ghosts. I do not Oh, shit.

There's a silence, just long enough for me to relax a tiny bit. Then a door slams. Another pause, then more footsteps, measured, getting very slightly louder, as if they're coming towards the stairs.

I feel panic start to creep over my skin like frost. Oh, God. I shouldn't be here. Part of me wants to hide I look instinctively at the corner next to the fireplace, where I'd be out of sight of the doorway if I pressed up against the wall but I don't think it would be any good. I have a horrible, irrational conviction that whoever is downstairs knows I'm here, that he's taking his time, letting me hear him approach. A door scrapes and groans. Then an interminable silence. I tell myself that this time he must have gone away, but I know I would have heard him move. No, he's standing still, waiting, watching.

Then the stairs creak. I know the sound so well I can tell that he's coming up two steps at a time not quickly or eagerly, but as if he's been here before, he knows that they're too shallow to go up one by one. I look stupidly at the window, but even if I could get it open the mullions are too close together to let me through.

The other staircase.

I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, trying to screw up my courage to go out into the corridor. If he's coming up the main staircase if I run I could get down the back stairs and out through the side door without having to pass him. But I have to go now, or he'll be at the top of the staircase and it'll be too late. The fear's like nausea, swelling until I'm not sure I can control it. It's like a nightmare, one of those ones where someone's chasing you and you can't run. Come on, Bibi! This would be a good moment for the emergency whisky and Coke, but I don't have time. There's the complaining creak of someone putting their weight on the banister and a little cut-off sound like someone hissing through their teeth.

I have to move.

And I do, suddenly, my limbs not obeying me properly, so that I stagger awkwardly over to the doorway and pull up short, breathless, shocked by how much noise I'm making. But now my body's unfrozen I can think more clearly, and even though I'm shaking I'm not quite as scared as I was. Now it's almost a game: I have to slide silently away down the corridor like a ghost, before . . .

OK.

The corridor's dark, and the rain is pattering on the windows like something's trying to get in. I step carefully out into the shadows, and plaster crunches underfoot. There's a kind of hollow singing noise coming from the door opposite me. I know it's the wind in the chimneys, but right now it makes the hair on my arms prickle. I don't want to look left if there's someone coming up the stairs, I don't want to see him but I can't help it. It's so dim that the air looks grainy, like old film. There's nothing there. I keep looking, frozen, because I can hear someone breathing and it's not me. But no one's there. I swallow, and my throat is so tight it makes a little squeaky gulp. In the silence it's as loud as a scream.

The footsteps pause. Then, very slowly, I hear him coming up the last few stairs, round the corner.

He's there, standing in the half dark, staring at me.

I should run. But I can't. I think my heart has stopped completely.

We stand perfectly still, looking at each other. I'm frozen, as if time has paused, but suddenly the fear has faded into the background. I feel faintly surprised that nothing terrible has happened. There's no sense of pervading evil, or malice, or even a cold draughty feeling. It's almost a relief.

I can make out just enough of his face to see that he's opened his mouth, as if he's about to speak. His face is a dead kind of white that stands out in the murk, like a drowned body coming to the surface.

Then he says, 'Who the hell are you?'

I know instantly from his voice that he's a real person.

My whole body is covered with a sort of fizzing heat; I don't know if I'm embarrassed or relieved or incandescent with rage. I say, 'Who the hell are you, creeping around like you own the place?'

He makes a noise that might be a laugh. Somehow, from the way he does it I can suddenly tell that he was as scared as I was, if not more. He says, 'I do own it. Get out.'

'There's no need to be rude.'

'You're trespassing.'

'I wasn't doing any harm.'

'I don't give a damn what you were doing. You shouldn't be here. Get out.' He sounds breathless, not quite in control. 'Now.'

I stare at him, imagining him falling backwards, stumbling down the stairs, slipping and breaking his neck with a satisfying crunch. Who the hell does he think he is? But there's nothing I can do. I grit my teeth and stare at him just long enough to make it clear that I don't have to do what he says. Then I say, 'Fine. Let me get my book.'

'No.'

'What?' I can't believe it. It's not exactly an unreasonable demand.

'Forget the bloody book. Just you're not welcome in this house, understand? I don't care if you've got a Shakespeare folio in there. Get out now.'

'Or what?'

'Or I'll make you, you stupid little cow.' His voice is tense, like he's trying to concentrate or like the words aren't ones he'd normally use.

'Oh, yeah? You and whose army?' I cross my arms and glare at him, trying to ignore my own voice in my head: You're not my father . . .

He looks back, his eyes narrowed. There's an odd flicker of something in his eyes, almost like he wants to laugh, but his fists are clenched. Then he lunges for me and grabs my arm. It hurts and I yelp, but he doesn't loosen his grip. 'Right. You want me to call the police? Come with me now. I won't tell you again.'

'Shit, that hurts get off me you can't '

'I think you'll find I can,' he says, swinging me roughly round and pushing me forward so that I'm walking in front of him. I might be able to get away, but I think he might actually hit me if I try. I can smell something clean, like washing powder, and I realise it's his clothes. It's strange that I have time to notice it, because he's bundling me down the stairs and I have to concentrate not to fall. I can feel the tension in his fingers, grinding the muscle of my arm against the bone, and when I glance back at him he's biting his lip and doesn't meet my eyes. I don't think he realises how tightly he's holding on to me.

'I can walk by myself, you know,' I say.

'Once you're off my property you can do whatever you want.' He knows exactly where he's going: he steers me through the dining room and out through the side door. I wait for him to let go, but he keeps walking, shoving me in front of him round the side of the house and down the driveway towards the gates. There are tourists there, taking photos. He slows down and stops, still without letting go of me. We stand side by side, watching people pose in front of the TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED sign. He says, 'Go on, then.' He sounds very tired. Suddenly he seems to realise that he's still gripping my arm like grim death. He catches my eye and for a second it's like he's forgotten how angry he was; he smiles, rolling his eyes, mocking himself. 'Go on. Never darken my door again.'

I look at the gates, then back at him. Now we're in daylight I can see what he looks like, and I kind of wish I couldn't, because he's younger than I thought, tense and pale but not bad-looking. 'What do you mean, go on? They're padlocked.' When he looks blank, I add, 'I thought you owned Tyme's End. Wasn't it you that padlocked them?'

'Then how did you ?' He stops. 'Right. Of course. Over the wall, the same way I did.'

'There's a gap in the ' I stare at him, and suddenly I feel a giggle rising in my gut. 'Hey. The same way you did? You're such a liar. If you owned the place, you'd hardly climb in over the wall.'

'No, really, I would,' he says. That flicker of amusement comes into his eyes again, although it doesn't reach his mouth. 'I wanted to avoid the tourists. Can you imagine, if I just turned up and unlocked the gates, after ten years, with them all standing there?'

We look at each other, and then we start to laugh. Suddenly it's like we're friends. He says, 'I know, I know, it's ridiculous,' and I say, 'Yeah, it is a bit,' and we carry on laughing. He still hasn't let go of my arm, but I don't mind any more. I want to tell him how scared I was. I want him to tell me how scared he was. But we just laugh, and we're making so much noise that after a while he pulls me sideways on to the lawn, the way we came, out of sight of the gates.

I wipe my face and belatedly realise it's still raining.

I take a long, juddery breath, and say, 'You gave me a hell of a fright, when you came up the stairs. I thought you were the ghost of H. J. Martin.'

His face changes. He lets go of my arm. He says, 'You'd better go home.'

I say, 'Oh. I only meant '

'And don't come back. The next time I catch you here, I'm calling the police.'

For a moment I think he's joking. But he stands still, his hands in his pockets and his face hostile, glaring at me until I turn to leave. I look back once, as I'm scrabbling to get over the wall, and he's still there, thigh-deep in grass, rain sliding down his face, watching me run away.

II.