A Trick of the Light by Ali Carter (books for 5 year olds to read themselves TXT) 📗

When I was little I had an imaginary friend, Luke. He kept me company as an only child. I never understood when Mum used to get short-tempered if I insisted on her laying another place at the table, buying two lollipops in the shop or making a bed on the floor next to mine. Now it’s clear, I completely understand, but it makes me so cross they’d lied to me for so long.

I wish I’d been told as a little girl that the person I’d been snuggled next to for nine months had left my side forever more. I think it would have helped me rationalise my emotions growing up, made sense of the total emptiness I’ve suffered. My brother and I were just bones, flesh and blood but I believe an emotional attachment was formed. That’s why twins exist in-sync.

But my double act is never ever coming back. I lost the thing closest to me at birth. It’s no wonder I’m afraid of commitment, unable to go out with someone for any longer than a year.

I blame my parents, I really do, but I don’t want to hurt them. They obviously can’t see how selfish they’ve been. My vulnerabilities are mine to get over; holding it against them simply won’t help.

I stuck a leg out from the duvet, I was hot and fed up. In our family, supposedly, nothing is brushed under the carpet and left to be trampled on. When issues arise, we gather round the kitchen table and try to come to an understanding before causing too much emotional hurt. But, right now, an only child, out on a limb, I’m feeling lonelier than ever before. I bet my parents have other secrets under their roof.

My eyes stung with tears as I shut them tight and began to recite my night-time prayers. Hail Mary, full of grace, another in Latin, followed by a Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me for old times’ sake. I usually drift off to sleep midway through, but getting to the end of Our Father, Amen, I felt wide awake.

Drat. I sat up in bed, flicked on the light and stretched for The 39 Steps. I curled back the cover of an old friend and pleaded with John Buchan to take me on an adventure far away from here.

At last I was in someone else’s imagination. Time passed, my eyes began to droop, then, as always, I felt the need to go to the loo.

Tiptoeing to the bathroom as silently as I could along floorboards that creaked with my every other step, I noticed a light shining out from under the door of the closed wing. Zoe’s words came to mind: ‘This wing is locked as it isn’t used.’ But I now know four valuable paintings are in there.

I looked at my watch: 1.04am. Presumably the light is a security measure, set to a timer as mine are when I’m away from home. Nevertheless, as I sat down on the cold china seat, I thought, wouldn’t it be exciting if someone’s up to something in there?

I stood in the unlit corridor listening for a sound, and when the locked wing door creaked against the wooden floor I stared at who was coming out.

Zoe couldn’t see me – I was hidden in the dark. But I caught her leaving all right, wrapped up in a dressing gown, maybe just checking the place out, but even so, why now? She flicked off the light and then with a click something opened on the landing wall. I couldn’t tell what but it was just to the right of the door. Suddenly a key pad lit up and I followed her fingers as they pressed a few buttons. The pattern they had taken lodged in my mind. She then closed it up and disappeared.

I lay in bed stock still, hoping to hear more. But nothing came: the house now slept in silence, and not even the wind blew. No chance of sleep though, too many thoughts buzzing.

Could Mhàiri have been right – has Jane really been here before? How odd she wouldn’t say, but perhaps Zoe warned her not to, didn’t want people thinking that’s how she got on the course. Or for me to treat her any differently, for that matter.

I got out of bed and slipped on a pair of socks. I have a plan. If Jane has been here before, her name is bound to be in an old visitors’ book. I need to find the one from forty-plus years ago. It can’t be that hard, these big books take time to fill. Auchen Laggan Tosh must have a collection, a detailed account of every person who’s ever been to stay. Even people who forgot to sign will have been pencilled in by the host. Everyone does it, no one is ever missed.

Now’s a good time, John Buchan will be my cover: ‘I can’t sleep, I came to find another novel.’

I made it to the library door without a sound. No one was around and no lights were on. My hands trembled as I pushed it open. Eeeek, the blasted hinges let out a squeak.

Ruff, ruff, came Haggis’s bark. He was somewhere nearby. Why wasn’t he sleeping with Fergus and Zoe? I froze with my fingers crossed, pleading him not to do it again. Silence. My shoulders relaxed. Haggis had kept his trap shut.

I flicked the brass switch and the book cabinets lit up. Then scouring every row for the distinctive navy blue, claret red or racing green leather-bound books, a couple of hundred quid a pop, I realised no, no, no. There are none and what’s more my hunt is in vain – I don’t have a clue what Jane’s maiden name is.

If Atkinson were aristocratic I could look it up in The Big Red Book. There’s one of them there on the shelf, a sort of telephone directory for toffs.