Alex scoffed. ‘Maybe they were massacred?’
‘Who by?’ snapped Chloe, who was already feeling nervous, having sensed that a horrible deed had taken place here.
Alex did not like to upsethis sister. He shrugged, ‘Who knows? Some other tribe, maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Attican wolves,’ Jordy said. ‘I heard them last night.’
Chloe shook her head firmly. ‘That was just the wind, howling round the eaves of the house. No, no – one thing we haven’t seen is live animals up here. Not if you don’t count the bats and insects. This is a strange world and getting stranger the deeper we go, but one thing you can count on, I reckon, is that it won’t be like the outside world.’
‘There are no wolves in Britain.’
‘Yes, there are,’ she replied firmly. ‘In zoos and game parks. And the outside world isn’t just Britain, it’s everywhere. There are still wolves up in Alaska.’
‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Jordy, still not willing to give ground. ‘We’ll just see. Something killed them off, that’s for sure.’
‘Or simply chased them away,’ Alex said, sorry that he had raised this issue now that Jordy and Chloe were going at each other. ‘Maybe it was disease or something.’
All three then looked at their hands in horror.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ muttered Chloe, wiping her palms on her jeans. ‘Don’t lick your fingers.’
Alex said, ‘Who licks their fingers?’
‘You bite your nails,’ remarked Jordy. ‘I’ve seen you.’
They found the nearest water umbrella and washed their hands thoroughly. Chloe would have liked a bath, but she knew that wasn’t possible unless they came across another water tank. She stared at the vacated village while the other two washed. If they had all been killed, or died of disease, there would be bodies. She could see no corpses. Then there was Jordy’s theory of wolves. Perhaps not wolves, but something else, something like a monster made of old kitchen sinks with washtap teeth and plugholes for eyes? Something like that would surely swallow the villagers whole and leave no trace.
Alex had gone to sit on apile of books to inspect his fingernails.
‘Now you’ve gone and mentioned it,’ he complained to Jordy, ‘I really want to bite them. I didn’t before.’
‘Mental reaction,’ said Jordy, joining him. ‘Now if I said “Liquorice Allsorts” what do you want to do now?’
‘Bite my fingernails.’
Chloe sat down next to her brother, then reached into her bag for the bottle of water she carried. On yanking it out she caught the photo album by a silken cord which hung from its spine. The album flew through the air and hit one of the cupboards, bursting open. The sepia-brown prints inside fell out, the glue of their photo corners long since having lost its stickiness. They floated to the floor like autumn leaves to gather at the feet of the children. Alex laughed and kicked them, to see them raised in a cloud again, and settle once more. Some of them fell face down, others on their backs. Suddenly Chloe darted forward and picked one up, reading the words written on the reverse of the photo.
‘Lance-Corporal John Grantham ,’ she cried. ‘Look!’
She turned the photograph over and there, not plain to see but since they knew who it was they could recognise him, was a very young unsmiling Mr Grantham. He was wearing a peaked cap and was in uniform, proudly displaying a single stripe on the sleeve. He was sort of half-sitting, looking slightly over one shoulder. The uniform looked unsullied and the photo, Chloe guessed, had been taken before he left England for the war in foreign places.
They picked up some of the other photos and began poring over them. A great many of them were of people Chloe did not recognise: older people in very old-fashioned boots, suits and shapeless frocks. Some of them were of Mr Grantham. There were several of him standing with a pretty young woman in a polka-dot frock. They guessed this was
‘Who by?’ snapped Chloe, who was already feeling nervous, having sensed that a horrible deed had taken place here.
Alex did not like to upsethis sister. He shrugged, ‘Who knows? Some other tribe, maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Attican wolves,’ Jordy said. ‘I heard them last night.’
Chloe shook her head firmly. ‘That was just the wind, howling round the eaves of the house. No, no – one thing we haven’t seen is live animals up here. Not if you don’t count the bats and insects. This is a strange world and getting stranger the deeper we go, but one thing you can count on, I reckon, is that it won’t be like the outside world.’
‘There are no wolves in Britain.’
‘Yes, there are,’ she replied firmly. ‘In zoos and game parks. And the outside world isn’t just Britain, it’s everywhere. There are still wolves up in Alaska.’
‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Jordy, still not willing to give ground. ‘We’ll just see. Something killed them off, that’s for sure.’
‘Or simply chased them away,’ Alex said, sorry that he had raised this issue now that Jordy and Chloe were going at each other. ‘Maybe it was disease or something.’
All three then looked at their hands in horror.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ muttered Chloe, wiping her palms on her jeans. ‘Don’t lick your fingers.’
Alex said, ‘Who licks their fingers?’
‘You bite your nails,’ remarked Jordy. ‘I’ve seen you.’
They found the nearest water umbrella and washed their hands thoroughly. Chloe would have liked a bath, but she knew that wasn’t possible unless they came across another water tank. She stared at the vacated village while the other two washed. If they had all been killed, or died of disease, there would be bodies. She could see no corpses. Then there was Jordy’s theory of wolves. Perhaps not wolves, but something else, something like a monster made of old kitchen sinks with washtap teeth and plugholes for eyes? Something like that would surely swallow the villagers whole and leave no trace.
Alex had gone to sit on apile of books to inspect his fingernails.
‘Now you’ve gone and mentioned it,’ he complained to Jordy, ‘I really want to bite them. I didn’t before.’
‘Mental reaction,’ said Jordy, joining him. ‘Now if I said “Liquorice Allsorts” what do you want to do now?’
‘Bite my fingernails.’
Chloe sat down next to her brother, then reached into her bag for the bottle of water she carried. On yanking it out she caught the photo album by a silken cord which hung from its spine. The album flew through the air and hit one of the cupboards, bursting open. The sepia-brown prints inside fell out, the glue of their photo corners long since having lost its stickiness. They floated to the floor like autumn leaves to gather at the feet of the children. Alex laughed and kicked them, to see them raised in a cloud again, and settle once more. Some of them fell face down, others on their backs. Suddenly Chloe darted forward and picked one up, reading the words written on the reverse of the photo.
‘Lance-Corporal John Grantham ,’ she cried. ‘Look!’
She turned the photograph over and there, not plain to see but since they knew who it was they could recognise him, was a very young unsmiling Mr Grantham. He was wearing a peaked cap and was in uniform, proudly displaying a single stripe on the sleeve. He was sort of half-sitting, looking slightly over one shoulder. The uniform looked unsullied and the photo, Chloe guessed, had been taken before he left England for the war in foreign places.
They picked up some of the other photos and began poring over them. A great many of them were of people Chloe did not recognise: older people in very old-fashioned boots, suits and shapeless frocks. Some of them were of Mr Grantham. There were several of him standing with a pretty young woman in a polka-dot frock. They guessed this was
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