Searching for Arthur (The Return to Camelot #1)(6)

Terrorists don’t bother attacking nowhere you see.

Everything that my mother thought charming and quaint about Avalon Cottage soon started to drive her insane. The untamed garden, with its climbing roses and thick vines of ivy, was too much work to maintain. The small lead-latticed windows never let in the light. The gravel track that led to the house was chipping away every scrap of paint from the BMW, and pity any person who got her started about the plumbing, electrics and the fact there wasn’t a decent manicurist this side of the English border.

Terrorists didn’t come to nowhere, and neither did a decent hairdresser, apparently.

I wasn’t entirely sure what my mother did with the chickens. We didn’t eat them because we were all vegetarians. Me, through choice; Arthur, because he lived off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; and my mother hadn’t eaten in nine years.



Not since it happened.



I made my way into the garden. Overnight, small rings of wild mushrooms had dotted the long grass. Legends would say the fairies had been playing. A rotting trellis had fallen down beside one of the huge oak trees that stood in our garden. Several spiders had already made themselves at home in the diamond shaped holes. Silence had returned again, but as I walked past the trees, I heard whispers.

It’s just your over-active imagination, said my inner voice. The wind is blowing through the leaves, that’s all.

But the whispers grew louder. I stopped and looked behind me. The temperature had plummeted. My chest tightened; I could barely breathe. My heart was beating like a bass drum.

The whispers continued. They were low pitched, definitely male. The voices multiplied. There were dozens of them.

You’ve hit your head, and you are pumped with painkillers. Calm down. It’s just the wind.

“Arrrrrrttttthhhhhuuuurrrrrr.”

The whispers echoed all around me, groaning in the boughs of the trees, the overgrown stems of grass. The elongated vowels filtered through the spider webs, causing them to shudder with fright.

I still hadn’t reached the chicken coop and my baby rabbit. Out of sight, out of mind was my mother’s mantra. Mr. Rochester was alone, hidden behind laurel and holly bushes. It wasn’t right. He was only a baby.

It was so cold. The hairs on my arms rose like the dead. I felt them pushing up the thin fabric of my cotton sweater.

“Arrrrrrttttthhhhhuuuurrrrrr.”

Tears of terror were pooling in my eyelids. Sickened with shame, I turned and ran back to the house, slipping on the chipped stone steps as I fled. Arthur was already standing at the bottom of the narrow staircase, as I flew through the kitchen and into the hallway.



Screaming was becoming a habit.



“Titch, what the hell is the matter? Was that you calling my name?”

I was crying so hard, snot was running down my face. Arthur didn’t flinch. He just grabbed me and pulled me in, like he always did when I was in trouble.

“Calm down, Titch. Listen, do you need something to help you sleep?”

I knew what he meant and I shook my head, wiping my gloopy face over his t-shirt in the process.

“I heard voices again,” I sobbed.

Arthur sighed.

“That’s it. You’re going to bed right now, Natasha.”

“Don’t you call me that,” I sniffed, as he propelled me up the creaking stairs.

“Then do as you’re told,” warned my brother, stabbing me in the back with his fingers. “If I skip anymore school because of you, I’ll be getting my qualifications when I’m thirty at this rate.”



Avalon Cottage had three bedrooms: two decent sized rooms that you could actually fit a bed in, and then the box room which was mine. I would like to say that we at least drew straws for the rooms, but that would be a lie, and I don’t lie anymore. Understandably, my mother took the largest room overlooking the front of the house, while Arthur – in a display of testosterone driven selfishness – stole the other bedroom. My box room – it must have been illegal to describe it as a bedroom – was squeezed in at the far end, next to Arthur’s and opposite the bathroom. It was north facing, cold and damp, regardless of the weather.

Mrs. Pratchett, who ran the village shop, had taken great delight in telling me that three of the four seasons in the middle of nowhere were usually cold and damp.



I fell down onto my soft bed and curled my legs up. Arthur drew the curtains across my tiny little window, and pulled a patchwork blanket up over my knees.

“Sammy is coming over later,” he whispered, “but I won’t take her out until mum arrives back. Just yell if you need me, Titch.”

“Arthur.”

“What?”

“Can you go and check on Mr. Rochester?”

“Will do.”

“And Arthur…”

“What now, Titch?”

“Take a poker from the fireplace with you, just in case.”

Arthur laughed.

“Has Mr. Rochester gone rabid on us?”

“It’s not Mr. Rochester you should be afraid of,” I whispered. “The voices were calling your name. It’s you they want.”

My chilly, damp bedroom seemed even colder than usual.

“It was just the wind, Titch, plus the ridiculous amount of painkillers you’ve swallowed.”