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Authors: Cliff McNish
Tags: Ficton
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Elliott a measured gaze. ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on around here, but are you OK to stay with Ben for a while?’
‘Sure.’
‘A ghost,’ Dad said, shaking his head.
‘We
did
see her,’ Elliott told him firmly. ‘I thought she needed help. That’s what she told us.’
‘So you went in the East Wing after her?’
‘I know it was stupid …’ Elliott began, thinking Dad was criticising him.
Dad placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Yes, it was stupid, but it took guts as well. Going after her into the East Wing like that. I’m not sure I’d have done it.’
That surprised Elliott. He’d never known anything frighten Dad.
‘Twice I’ve been inside that place,’ Dad said. ‘Both times I was out again in less than five minutes. Looking at those portraits, I wonder if there was anything the owner didn’t hunt. Or
want
to.’ And as he said that, a pinch of fear settled over Dad’s face. Elliott didn’t like seeing it. The timing made him feel strangely vulnerable.
Together they led Ben back to Elliott’s room. Dad took the room next door. ‘I’ll make the calls from in here,’ he said. ‘Shout if you need me.’
Elliott removed his trainers and sat on one of the antique, upholstered chairs near the window of his room. He was still shaking from his ordeal inside the East Wing. He kept seeing the owner’s knee on the rise, the willingness of the land to receive his booted foot.
Next door he could hear Dad’s urgent voice on the phone. Ben, on the other hand, was quiet and subdued. Elliott tried talking to him about Eve, but Ben didn’t want to talk about anything to do with her, and Elliott decided to leave him alone for now. Eventually, though, it was Ben who broke the silence. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you,’ he said. ‘I found something on the fourth floor.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a special portrait of the owner. I came across it when I was looking for you.’
Making sure Dad knew where they would be, Elliott let Ben lead him upstairs. In an out-of-the-way bedroom, tucked in an alcove, concealed behind a screen, was a large painting of a teenage boy.
‘How did you find this?’ Elliott asked.
Ben shrugged, gazing vaguely at the floor. ‘I’m not sure. I just followed the other pictures.’ He looked puzzled. ‘They sort of led me to it.’
The painting was of a boy. A boy around seventeen years old, wearing heavy outdoor clothing. His mudcrusted brown boots were tucked inside padded baggy trousers. Elliott recalled Janey’s words from the diary. ‘
Sam Cosgrove. A farmer’s boy. He died with his boots on. Hunted.’
Was this him? Elliott sensed it was.
The hunting ground was familiar to Elliott by now from his time in the East Wing. There it was, the slopeand woods, awaiting the pursuit. But this time the owner hadn’t yet started up the slope. He’d delayed the chase to record the
emotion
of the scene. Specifically, Sam Cosgrove’s emotion.
At first Elliott thought the owner was missing from the picture. Then he realised his mistake. The owner was as present as ever. Only this time he was
reflected in Sam’s wide dark eyes
. As Elliott leaned forward, the owner seemed to lean forward with him. His body was set in a crouch. Stripped down to shirt sleeves, he was coming at Sam with his bare hands, his enjoyment of the scene caught with relish.
Elliott gasped, pulling back. It was, he realised, a statement of intent. The owner was brashly declaring that he did not always hide behind traditional weapons like guns and blades. Sometimes, he was saying, when I hunt in private,
I alone
am the weapon.
The picture was damaged. At some point in the past a knife had been slashed through it. Deliberately? It looked like it, because the cut went right through the middle of Sam’s lower face. It made his exact expression unreadable. Oddly, however, the damage to the canvas itself appalled Elliott as much as what had happened to Sam Cosgrove. He wanted to repair the painting. Fix
‘Sure.’
‘A ghost,’ Dad said, shaking his head.
‘We
did
see her,’ Elliott told him firmly. ‘I thought she needed help. That’s what she told us.’
‘So you went in the East Wing after her?’
‘I know it was stupid …’ Elliott began, thinking Dad was criticising him.
Dad placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Yes, it was stupid, but it took guts as well. Going after her into the East Wing like that. I’m not sure I’d have done it.’
That surprised Elliott. He’d never known anything frighten Dad.
‘Twice I’ve been inside that place,’ Dad said. ‘Both times I was out again in less than five minutes. Looking at those portraits, I wonder if there was anything the owner didn’t hunt. Or
want
to.’ And as he said that, a pinch of fear settled over Dad’s face. Elliott didn’t like seeing it. The timing made him feel strangely vulnerable.
Together they led Ben back to Elliott’s room. Dad took the room next door. ‘I’ll make the calls from in here,’ he said. ‘Shout if you need me.’
Elliott removed his trainers and sat on one of the antique, upholstered chairs near the window of his room. He was still shaking from his ordeal inside the East Wing. He kept seeing the owner’s knee on the rise, the willingness of the land to receive his booted foot.
Next door he could hear Dad’s urgent voice on the phone. Ben, on the other hand, was quiet and subdued. Elliott tried talking to him about Eve, but Ben didn’t want to talk about anything to do with her, and Elliott decided to leave him alone for now. Eventually, though, it was Ben who broke the silence. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you,’ he said. ‘I found something on the fourth floor.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a special portrait of the owner. I came across it when I was looking for you.’
Making sure Dad knew where they would be, Elliott let Ben lead him upstairs. In an out-of-the-way bedroom, tucked in an alcove, concealed behind a screen, was a large painting of a teenage boy.
‘How did you find this?’ Elliott asked.
Ben shrugged, gazing vaguely at the floor. ‘I’m not sure. I just followed the other pictures.’ He looked puzzled. ‘They sort of led me to it.’
The painting was of a boy. A boy around seventeen years old, wearing heavy outdoor clothing. His mudcrusted brown boots were tucked inside padded baggy trousers. Elliott recalled Janey’s words from the diary. ‘
Sam Cosgrove. A farmer’s boy. He died with his boots on. Hunted.’
Was this him? Elliott sensed it was.
The hunting ground was familiar to Elliott by now from his time in the East Wing. There it was, the slopeand woods, awaiting the pursuit. But this time the owner hadn’t yet started up the slope. He’d delayed the chase to record the
emotion
of the scene. Specifically, Sam Cosgrove’s emotion.
At first Elliott thought the owner was missing from the picture. Then he realised his mistake. The owner was as present as ever. Only this time he was
reflected in Sam’s wide dark eyes
. As Elliott leaned forward, the owner seemed to lean forward with him. His body was set in a crouch. Stripped down to shirt sleeves, he was coming at Sam with his bare hands, his enjoyment of the scene caught with relish.
Elliott gasped, pulling back. It was, he realised, a statement of intent. The owner was brashly declaring that he did not always hide behind traditional weapons like guns and blades. Sometimes, he was saying, when I hunt in private,
I alone
am the weapon.
The picture was damaged. At some point in the past a knife had been slashed through it. Deliberately? It looked like it, because the cut went right through the middle of Sam’s lower face. It made his exact expression unreadable. Oddly, however, the damage to the canvas itself appalled Elliott as much as what had happened to Sam Cosgrove. He wanted to repair the painting. Fix
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