The Land of Roar. Jenny McLachlan

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      Rose swipes at the screen of her phone. ‘There isn’t a wizard in the attic, Arthur. Leave me alone. I’m busy.’

      I glance over her shoulder and see that she’s busy liking someone’s picture of a puddle. When I look back at the window the strange shadow is still there. My eyes trace the outline of shoulders, a head and a slightly crooked hat, as I try to work out what it could be . . . A reflection of the trees? Some rubbish Grandad’s dumped up there?

      Then I see something that makes goose bumps prickle my arms: a tiny white patch – like a puff of breath – is misting the glass. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub them. When I open them again the white patch has gone. I smile nervously. Mum’s always saying I’ve got an overactive imagination.

      ‘It’s probably the inflatable skeleton,’ I say, ‘the one Grandad got for Halloween, and the hat could be from the dressing-up box –’

      ‘Be quiet, Arthur,’ says Rose. ‘You’re annoying me.’

      With a sigh I give up on Rose and wander around the garden. I peel some bark off a tree, kick a punctured football into a hedge, then hang from a branch. Tap, tap, tap goes Rose on her phone. I drop to the ground and look up at the attic window. ‘It’s still there,’ I say.

      ‘Arthur!’ Rose snaps. ‘Will you shut up about wizards? I’m not going to play with you!’

      I groan and flop back down on the grass. Every summer Mum and Dad leave us with Grandad while they go camping. It used to be brilliant. Rose and I would spend the whole week doing whatever we liked – building dens, swimming in the sea, eating cereal three times a day – but since Rose got her phone she’s become totally boring.

      ‘Om-pom-pom . . .’ Grandad drifts out of his shed, his grey hair and beard standing out against his dark skin. He grins at me, then starts hacking at a bush with a pair of rusty secateurs.

      ‘Grandad, have you put a dummy or something up in the attic?’

      He laughs. ‘Not me, mate.’

      I turn back to Rose. She can’t stare at her phone all day. ‘How about we check out the attic, then go and catch crabs off the end of the pier?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Play ping-pong?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Go to the arcade and pretend to be pirates and see if we can find money that’s fallen out of the slot machines?’

      She shakes her head in alarm. ‘No way!’

      ‘But you used to love doing that.’

      ‘You used to love doing that, Arthur. I went along with it.’

      Suddenly Rose jumps to her feet and stuffs her phone in her pocket. Mazen Bailey, Grandad’s next-door neighbour, has appeared on the trampoline in her garden. Mazen Bailey is a horrible person, but Rose worships her because she’s thirteen, two years older than us, and has her own YouTube channel called Totally Mazen!

      Rose scrambles on to the wheelie bin and leans over the wall. ‘Hi, Mazen!’

      ‘What have you done to your hair?’ shrieks Mazen, then she joins Rose at the wall and they begin a whispered conversation, every now and then glancing in my direction.

      ‘Arthur,’ says Rose, ‘what was it you saw in the attic?’

      I hesitate. They’re smiling, waiting for me to say something stupid, so I say, ‘A shadow.’

      ‘Yeah, but what did the shadow look like ?’

      ‘A wizard,’ I mutter, making them burst out laughing. I feel my cheeks burn and I point at the window. ‘I’m not imagining it! Look!’

      And they do look, but Rose shakes her head. ‘There’s nothing there, Arthur!’

      ‘There is . . .’ I protest, but then I realise she’s right. The window is just a blank empty square. ‘You’ve got to stand in the right spot,’ I say, moving from side to side. ‘Make sure the sun isn’t reflecting on the glass.’ But no matter what I do, I can’t make the shape come back.

      With a final giggle Mazen says she’s got to go. ‘Come round later, Rose. You can try out my trampoline.’

      ‘Really?’ cries Rose. ‘Thanks!’

      Mazen disappears inside her house and Rose jumps off the wheelie bin.

      ‘Really? ’ I say, imitating her gushy voice. ‘Thanks! ’

      Quick as a flash, Rose throws her arms round my legs and sends me crashing to the ground. Rose is good at rugby . . . but I’m good at wriggling. I try to escape by twisting and turning like a snake, but Rose just tightens her vice-like grip.

      ‘Let go of me!’ I shout.

      ‘Not until you stop being annoying!’

      ‘I’ll stop being annoying –’ I try and fail to kick her off – ‘when you stop being boring, which will be NEVER!’

      Rose squeezes harder until my legs start to go numb. ‘Drain,’ she says in a deep, slow voice. ‘DRAIN . . . DRAAAAIN . . .’

      This is something we used to do to each other – pretend we could drain each other of energy by holding on tight and not letting go. Rose hasn’t done it for years, but it’s still surprisingly effective. Already my legs feel weak and heavy, like lumps of concrete.

      ‘Twins!’ We look up and see Grandad standing over us. ‘I don’t want to break up your game, СКАЧАТЬ