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→ A visitor. It’s been a long time since the last. I thought they’d given up.
It’s Uncle Dervish. Dad’s younger brother. I don’t know much about him. A man of mystery. He visited us a few times when I was smaller. Mum never liked him. I recall her and Dad arguing about him once. “We’re not taking the kids there!” she snapped. “I don’t trust him.”
Leah admits Uncle Dervish. Asks if he’d like anything to drink or eat. “No thanks.” Would I like anything? I shake my head. Leah leaves.
Dervish Grady is a thin, lanky man. Bald on top, grey hair at the sides, a tight grey beard. Pale blue eyes. I remember his eyes from when I was a kid. I thought they looked like my toy soldier’s eyes. I asked him if he was in the army. He laughed.
He’s dressed completely in denim — jeans, shirt, jacket. He looks ridiculous — Gret used to say denim looks naff on anyone over the age of thirty. She was right.
Dervish sits in the visitor’s chair and studies me with cool, serious eyes. He’s immediately different to all who’ve come before. Whereas the other relatives were quick to start a false, cheerful conversation, or cry, or say how sorry they were, Dervish just sits and stares. That interests me, so I stare back, more alert than I’ve been in weeks.
“Hello,” I say after a full minute of silence.
Dervish nods in reply.
I try thinking of a follow-up line. Nothing comes to mind.
Dervish looks slowly around the room. Stands, walks to the window, gazes out at the rear yard of the institute, then swings back to the door, which Leah left ajar. He pokes his head out, looks left and right. Closes the door. Returns to the chair and sits. Unbuttons the top of his denim jacket. Slides out three sheets of paper. Holds them face down.
I sit upright, intrigued but suspicious. Is this some new ploy of the doctors? Have they fed Dervish a fresh set of lines and actions, in an attempt to spark my revival?
“I hope this isn’t a Rorschach test,” I grin weakly. “I’ve had enough inkblots to last me a–”
Dervish turns a sheet over and I stop dead. It’s a black-and-white drawing of a large dog with a crocodile’s head and human hands.
“Vein,” Dervish says. He has a soft, lyrical voice.
I tremble and say nothing in reply.
He turns over the second sheet. Colour this time. A child with green skin. Mouths in its palms. Fire in its eyes. Lice for hair.
“Artery,” Dervish says.
“You got the hair wrong,” I mumble. “It should be cockroaches.”
“Lice, cockroaches, leeches — it changes,” he says, and lays the two sheets down on the floor. He turns over the third. This one’s colour too. A thin man, lumpy red skin, large red eyes, mangled hands, no feet, a snake-filled hole where his heart should be.
“The doctors put you up to this,” I moan, averting my eyes. “I told them about the demons. They must have got artists to draw them. Why are you–”
“You didn’t tell them his name,” Dervish cuts me short. He taps the picture. “You said the other two were familiars, and this one was their master — but you never mentioned his name. Do you know it?”
I think back to those few minutes of insanity in my parents’ bedroom. The demon lord didn’t say much. Never told me who he was. I open my mouth to answer negatively…
…then slowly let it close. No — he did reveal his identity. I can’t remember when exactly, but somewhere in amongst the madness there was mention of it. I cast my thoughts back. Zone in on the moment. It was when he asked if I knew why this was happening, if my parents had ever told me the story of–
“Lord Loss,” Dervish says, a split second before I blurt it out.
I stare at him… uncertain… terrified… yet somehow excited.
“I know the demons were real,” Dervish murmurs, picking up the pictures and placing them back inside his jacket, doing up his buttons. He stands. “If you want to come live with me, you can. But you’ll have to sort out the mess you’re in first. The doctors say you won’t respond to their questions. They say they know how to help you, but that you won’t let them.”
“They don’t believe me!” I cry. “How can they cure me when they think I’m lying about the demons?”
“The world’s a confusing place,” Dervish says. “I’m sure your parents told you to always tell the truth, and most of the time that’s good advice. But sometimes you have to lie.” He comes over and bends, so his face is in mine. “These people want to help you, Grubitsch. And I believe they can. But you’re going to have to help them. You’ll have to lie, pretend demons don’t exist, tell them what they want to hear. You have to give a little to get a little. Once you remove that barrier, they can go to work on fixing your brain, on helping you deal with the grief. Then, when they’ve done all they can, you can come to me — if that’s what you want — and I’ll help you with the rest. I can explain about demons. And tell you why your parents and sister died.”
He leaves.
→ Stunned silence. Long days and nights of heavy thinking. Repeating the name of the thin red demon. Lord Loss, Lord Loss, Lord Loss, Lord…
Torn between hope and fear. Could Dervish be in league with the demons? Mum saying, “I don’t trust him.” I’m safe here. Leaving might be an invitation to danger and further sorrow. I won’t improve in this place, holding true to my story, defying the doctors and nurses — but I can’t be harmed either. Out in the real world, I might have to face demons again. Simpler to stay here and hide.
→ One morning I wake from a nightmare. In it, I was at a party, wearing a mask. When I took the mask off, I realised I’d been wearing Gret’s face.
Sitting up in bed. Shaking. Crying. I stare out the window at the world beyond.
I decide.
→ Exercising. Eating sensibly. Putting on weight. Talking directly with my doctors and nurses, answering their questions, letting them into my head, “baring my soul”. I allow them to help me. I work with them. Lie when I have to. Say I saw humans in the room that night. Police come and take my statement. An artist captures my new, realistic, invented impressions of the murderers. My doctors beam proudly and pat my back.
Weeks pass. With help and lots of hard work, I get better. Dervish was right. Now that I’m working with them, they are able to help me, even if we’re progressing on the basis of a lie — that demons aren’t real. I weep a lot and learn a lot — how to face my grief, how to confront my fear and control it — and let them guide me out of the darkness, slowly, painfully, but surely.
In one afternoon session with a therapist, when I judge the time to be right, I make a request. Lots of discussions afterwards. Long debates. Staff meetings. Phone calls. Humming and hawing. Finally they agree. There’s a big build-up. Lots of in-depth therapy sessions and heart-to-hearts. Tests galore, to make sure I’m ready, to reassure themselves that they’re doing the right thing. They have doubts. They voice them. We talk them through. They decide in my favour.
The last day. Handshakes and emergency contact numbers from the doctors in case anything goes wrong. Kisses and hugs from my favourite nurses. A card from Leah. Facing the door, a bag on my shoulder with all I have left in the world. Scared sick but determined to see it through.
I leave the institute on the back of a motorbike. Driving — my rescuer, my lifeline, my hope — Uncle Dervish.
“Hold on tight,” he says. “Speed limits were made to be broken.”
Vroom!
THE GRAND TOUR
→ Dervish drives like a madman, a hundred miles an hour. Howling wind. Blurred countryside. No chance to talk or study the scenery. I spend the journey with my face pressed between my uncle’s shoulder blades, clinging on for dear life.
Finally, coming to a small village, he slows. I peek and catch the name on a sign as we exit — Carcery Vale.
“Carkerry Vale,” I murmur.
“It’s pronounced Car-sherry,” Dervish grunts.
“This is where you live,” I note, recalling the address from cards I wrote and sent with Mum and Gret. (Mum didn’t like Uncle Dervish but she always sent him a Christmas and birthday card.)
“Actually, I live about two miles beyond,” Dervish says, carefully overtaking a tractor and waving to the driver. “It’s pretty lonely out where I am, but there are lots of kids in the village. You can walk in any time you like.”
“Do they know about me?” I ask.
“Only that you’re an orphan and you’re coming to live with me.”
A winding road. Lots of potholes which Dervish swerves expertly to avoid. The sides of the road are lined with trees. They grow close together, blocking out all but the thinnest slivers of sunlight. Dark and cold. I press closer to Dervish, hugging warmth from him.
“The trees don’t stretch back very far,” he says. “You can skirt around them when you’re going to the village.”
“I’m not afraid,” I mutter.
“Of course you are,” he chuckles, then looks back quickly. “But you have my word — you’ve no need to be.”
→ Chez Dervish. A huge house. Three storeys. Built from rough white blocks, almost as big as those I’ve seen in photos of the pyramids. Shaped like an L. The bit sticking out at the end is made from ordinary red bricks and doesn’t look like the rest of the house. Lots of timber decorations around the top and down the sides. A slate roof with three enormous chimneys. The roof on the brick section is flat and the chimney’s tiny in comparison with the others. The windows on the lower floor run from the ground to the ceiling. The windows on the upper floors are smaller, round, and feature stained glass designs. On the brick section they’re very ordinary.
“It’s not much,” Dervish says wryly, “but it’s home.”
“This place must have cost a fortune!” I gasp, standing close to the motorbike, staring at the house, almost afraid to venture any nearer.
“Not really,” Dervish says. “It was a wreck when I bought it. No roof or windows, the interior destroyed by exposure to the elements. The lower floor was used by a local farmer to house pigs. I lived in the brick extension for years while I restored the main building. I keep meaning to tear the extension down – I don’t use it any more, and it takes away from the the main structure — but I never seem to get round to it.”
Dervish removes his helmet, helps me out of mine, then walks me around the outside of the house. He explains about the original architect and how much work he had to do to make the house habitable again, but I don’t listen very closely. I’m too busy assessing the mansion and the surrounding terrain — lots of open fields, sheep and cattle in some of them, a small forest to the west which runs all the way to Carcery Vale, no neighbouring houses that I can see.
“Do you live here alone?” I ask as we return to the front of the house.
“Pretty much,” Dervish says. “One farmer owns most of this land, and he’s opposed to over-development. He’s old. I guess his children will sell plots off when he dies. But for the last twenty years I’ve had all the peace and seclusion a man could wish for.”
“Doesn’t it get lonely?” I ask.
“No,” Dervish says. “I’m fairly solitary by nature. When I’m in need of company, it’s only a short stroll to the village. And I travel a lot — I’ve many friends around the globe.”
We stop at the giant front doors, a pair of them, like the entrance to a castle. No doorbell — just two chunky gargoyle-shaped knockers, which I eye apprehensively.
Dervish doesn’t open the doors. He’s studying me quietly.
“Have you lost the key?” I ask.
“We don’t have to enter,” he says. “I think you’ll grow to love this place after a while, but it’s a lot to take in at the start. If you’d prefer, you could stay in the brick extension — it’s an eyesore, but cosy inside. Or we can drive to the Vale and you can spend a few nights in a B&B until you get your bearings.”
It’s tempting. If the house is even half as spooky on the inside as it looks from out here, it’s going to be hard to adapt to. But if I don’t move in now, I’m sure the house will grow far creepier in my imagination than it can ever be in real life.
“Come on,” I grin weakly, lifting one of the gargoyle knockers and rapping loudly. “We look like a pair of idiots, standing out here. Let’s go in.”
→ Cold inside but brightly lit. No carpets — all tiles or stone floors — but many rugs and mats. No wallpaper — some of the walls are painted, others just natural stone. Chandeliers in the main hall and dining room. Wall-set lamps in the other rooms.
Bookcases everywhere, most of them filled. Chess boards too, in every room — Dervish must be as keen on chess as Mum and Dad. Ancient weapons hang from many of the walls — swords, axes, maces.
“For when the tax collector calls,” Dervish says solemnly, lifting down one of the larger swords. He swings it over his head and laughs.
“Can I try it?” I ask. He hands it to me. “Bloody hell!” It’s H-E-A-V-Y. I can lift it to thigh level but no higher. A quick reappraisal of Uncle Dervish — he looks wiry as a rat, but he must have hidden muscles under all the denim.
We meander through the downstairs rooms, Dervish explaining what each was used for in the past, pointing out items of special interest, such as a stuffed bear’s head which is more than two hundred years old, a cage where a live vulture was kept, rusty nails which were used by the Romans to crucify people.
There’s a large, empty fish tank in one of the main living rooms, set against a wall. Dervish pauses at it and taps the frame with his fingernails. “The last owner of this place — before it fell into ruin — was a tyrant called Lord Sheftree. He kept live piranhas in this tank. One day, a woman turned up with a baby — she claimed it was his, and she wanted money to pay for its upkeep.”
Dervish crouches down and stares into the abandoned aquarium, as though it’s still full of circling, multicoloured fish.
“Lord Sheftree invited her to stay for the night,” he says calmly. “While she was sleeping, he crept into her room and removed her baby. Brought it down here and fed it to the piranhas. Took the bones away and buried them. The woman raised almighty hell, but search parties couldn’t find a corpse, and nobody had seen her arrive with a child — so there was no proof she ever had one. She ranted and raved and was eventually locked away in a mental asylum. She hanged herself there.
“Years later, when Lord Sheftree was an old man and his mind was wandering, he boasted about the murder to one of his servants, and told her where the bones were buried. She dug them up and informed the police. They came to arrest him, but the local villagers got here first. He was discovered chopped up into tiny pieces — all of which had been dropped into the piranha tank.”
Dervish stops and I gaze at him in silent awe.
He stands and faces me. “I’m not saying this to scare you,” he smiles, “but this house has a long and bloody history. There are dozens of horror stories, none quite as gruesome as that one, but all of them pretty gutchurning. I think it’s best you hear about its past now, from me.”
“Is… is the house haunted?” I wheeze.
“No,” he answers seriously. “It’s safe. I wouldn’t have brought you here if it wasn’t. If the nightmares of the past prove too oppressive, you’re free to leave. But you’ve nothing to fear in the present.”
I nod slowly, thinking about Lord Sheftree and his piranha, wondering if I have the courage to spend the night in a house like this.
“Are you OK?” Dervish asks. “Would you like to step outside for fresh air?”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, turning my back on the fish tank, acting like I hear this sort of stuff all the time. “What’s upstairs?”
→ Mostly bedrooms on the first floor. All are fully fitted, the beds freshly made, though Dervish says only four or five of the rooms have been used since he renovated the mansion.
“Why bother with all the beds then?” I ask.
“If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” he laughs.
Some of the beds are four-posters, imported from foreign countries, with histories as old and macabre as the house. It’s only when Dervish is telling me about one particular bed, in which a French aristocrat hid for four months during the Revolution, that I think about how much they must have cost.
“What do you do?” I ask my uncle. It sounds ridiculous, but I don’t recall Mum or Dad ever mentioning Dervish’s line of work.
“I dabble in antiques,” he says. “Rare books are my speciality — particularly books regarding the occult.”
Dervish looks at me questioningly — we haven’t mentioned demons since he picked me up at the institute. He’s offering me the chance to quiz him about them now. But I’m not ready to discuss Lord Loss or his minions yet.
“You must be good at it, to afford a place like this,” I say, sliding away from the larger questions and issues.
“It’s a hobby,” he demurs, leading me down a long corridor full of framed portraits and photographs. “The money’s good, but I don’t worry too much about it.”
“Then how do you pay for all this?” I ask nosily.
Dervish quickens his pace. I think he’s avoiding the question, but then he stops at one of the older portraits and points at it. “Recognise him?”
I study the face of an old man — lined, quite a large nose, but otherwise unspectacular. “Is he famous?” I ask.
“Only to us,” Dervish says. “He was your great-great-great-grandfather. Bartholomew Garadex. That’s our original family name, on our paternal side — it got shortened to Grady around your great-grandfather’s time.” He points to a nearby portrait. “That’s him.” Waving a hand at the hall in general, he adds, “They’re all part of our family. Garadexes, Gradys, Bells, Moores — if one of our relations has been photographed or painted, you’ll most probably find them here.”
Returning to the portrait of my great-great-great-grandfather, he says, “Bartholomew was a sublimely clever man. He started with nothing but had amassed a fortune by the time of his death. We’re still living off of it — at least, I am. Cal preferred to make his own way in the world, and only dipped into the family coffers in emergencies.”
“How much is left?” I enquire.
