2006 - Wildcat Moon Read Free Page A

sand dunes.
    Lissia.
    Archie opened the bedroom door and stepped out on to the landing. Through the arched window that faced out to sea he could see the full moon. A huge moon bursting at the seams, hovering in the peat-black sky.
    It was so beautiful it made the tears prick again.
    There was no point in wishing, though. Wishing was daft; it was kids’ stuff.
    Oh God, there was no way that he could keep his promise to Benjamin and go down to the wobbly chapel in the pitch dark. It was too terrifying.
    There were ghosts that roamed the Skallies at night Loads of them. Donald Kelly had seen one down by the Pilchard Inn. It was naked and it had no head and chains around its ankles.
    There was a Spanish pirate too with one eye and hooks where his hands should have been.
    But the worst one of all was the Killivray ghost A great big black fellow who came wandering down through the grounds of Killivray House, moaning and sobbing and wringing his hands.
    It made Archie feel sick with fright to even think about it.
    He’d promised Benjamin, though.
    Why had he when there wasn’t a hope in hell of him keeping a promise like that?
    And why had Benjamin asked him? He should have asked one of the Kelly boys, they were all daredevils. They weren’t afraid of anything or anyone, except mad Gwennie.
    Everyone knew Archie Grimble was a coward. He was famous for it.
Archie Grimble is a bloody big bobby .
    Archie Grimble wears nappies and suckson a titty bottle .
    He’d promised, though, with his hand on his heart.
    “You’ll find a bunch of keys in the porch of my house, on the third hook along from the door; take them and keep them safe. After I’m gone they’ll belong to you. And anything they open, Arch, will be yours.”
    The wobbly chapel had been closed up for years because it was dangerous, about to tumble into the sea at any moment. And why had Benjamin got the keys to the chapel? He’d had no time for churches and stuff like that.
    It was no good. He couldn’t do it.
    But a promise was a promise. You must honour the wishes of the dead.
    Archie waited until it was quiet in Mammy’s room. When he was sure that she was asleep he sat down on the side of his bed and put on an extra jersey. It was cold enough inside the house tonight but out in the Skallies it would be perishing.
    He pulled a pair of old, darned fisherman’s socks over his boots and up over his calliper so as not to make too much noise.
    He took off his spectacles, breathed on them, wiped them on his jersey and put them back on. Then he took the tiny silver capsule that contained the battered saint from beneath his mattress and pushed it down into the pocket of his shorts. For good luck.
    Finally he made his way awkwardly down the stairs and let himself quietly out of the front door and into the wild windy night.
    Up in the nursery in Killivray House Romilly Greswode lay in bed, ears pricked for any noises.
    Downstairs in the drawing room a decanter clinked. Crystal on crystal. Whisky on ice. Muffled voices.
    A stray dog barked nervously over in the disused stables.
    Romilly sniffed the air warily, just the usual nursery smells: mothballs and starch; cold cocoa; goose fat and liniment to ward off chills.
    There was just a faint whiff of something different tonight though.
    Midnight in Paris .
    Mama’s perfume still lingering after a hurried goodnight kiss. Perfume and held-back tears.
    More ice clinking downstairs. More whisky.
    Papa has been home for two whole nights and he is angry again.
    Papa is always angry.
    Tomorrow Mama is going away again for the sake of her nerves. And a new governess is coming.
    Boo!
    Miss Naylor, the old governess, has left Hooray!
    Miss Naylor was a bossy britches and smelled of cold cream and damp woollen vests. Once Nanny Bea whispered to Miss Naylor that Mama was a blousy trollop.
    Romilly rolled the words around on her tongue.
    Trollop. Trollop. Trollop.
    Blousy. Blousy. Blousy. .
    Mama is a blousy trollop.
    Nanny Bea smells of