Neither Dead Nor Alive Read online

  Neither Dead Nor Alive

  Jack Hastie

  Copyright © 2014 Jack Hastie

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Cover design by Mandy Sinclair

  www.mandysinclair.com

  Matador®

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  ISBN 978 1783065 608

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

  This book is dedicated to Amber, Erin, Mark and Courtney

  The author’s grandchildren

  Contents

  Cover

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 1

  THE SLEEPING DINOSAUR

  That’s it again.

  I sit up in bed so I can hear better.

  Each time it starts it’s scarier than before. Where’s it coming from? How near is it? At first it was just a noise. Now I swear I can feel it. It makes the windows rattle and it seems to be getting closer.

  The thing is this place is dead quiet; not like when we lived in Paisley. There’s not another house in sight.

  Here it comes again.

  It’s a hoarse, throaty noise; something between a growl and a groan, only all muffled up.

  I think I must be sweating because when I reach for my watch the steel bracelet feels greasy between my fingers.

  It’s four in the morning. Starting to get light already.

  No use wakening Mum. If she didn’t hear it last time she won’t now… and I don’t want her dragging me off to the doctor and telling him, “the boy’s disturbed.” It’s freaky. I’m nearly thirteen and I don’t get to be taken seriously.

  Could I be dreaming?

  Just to make sure I get up and open the window. There’s just enough light outside for me to see the outline of the moor. There’s a kind of rocky hillock out there. That might be where it’s coming from.

  Now I know I’m sweating. I can feel the chill prickle my skin.

  There’s not a sound now. It’s weird. When you TRY to listen you don’t hear a thing.

  Might as well go back to bed.

  ****

  Morning.

  I don’t know any kids round here – except Mark, that is – because we only moved in at the start of the school holidays. So I haven’t been to school here yet.

  We’re pretty isolated. Nearest place is Benderloch. That’s about half an hour’s walk away. Need to get Dad to send my bike up. On the way there’s a couple of old farm houses and a new caravan site. It’s cool. They’ve got karting and diving and a sandy beach. Now the holidays have started there’ll probably be some guys my age around, but not so far.

  Across the road, among the trees, there’s a castle on a hill. Mark says it’s called the Black Castle and it’s got a ghost – a white lady.

  In the other direction there’s the place where Mark lives. He’s not been here long either, so we sort of team up – sometimes.

  “What do you do around here?” I ask him.

  “Sometimes go up to Benderloch. It’s pretty dead, though. There’s a cafe with some arcade games.”

  Bo-ring.

  Mark’s a bit of a plonker. Chews gum with his mouth open so you can see it at the back of his teeth. I told him about the noise – bad mistake. He laughed his head off – that’s how I first noticed the gum. Mind you, I wasn’t too sure about it – the noise, I mean – myself, at that time. Mark said I must have imagined it. But not after last night.

  Today I go down the road to Mark’s, kicking stones and dreaming I’m playing at Hampden.

  Mark’s place is brill. His back garden goes right down to the shore of the loch – that’s Loch Creran – and there’s a burn runs down the middle and flows into a bay. The loch’s usually quite calm because it’s almost landlocked and you can see big blue mountains on the other side.

  Mark’s in his garden.

  “Hi, Mark.”

  “Hi, Duracell.”

  “Steve,” I correct him. OK; so I’ve got sort of slightly reddish hair.

  “Want to come round to my place?”

  “Right.”

  Mark has a ball, so we kick it between us up the track. I’m St Mirren. He’s Barcelona. He says he’s always supported them.

  “Thought we could take a look at that hilly sort of thing round our back.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know the noise I’ve been hearing…”

  Mark snorts. “That’ll be right.”

  “Well I think it’s coming from the hill.”

  He traps the ball and looks dead serious. “Maybe it’s really a dinosaur that sleeps all day, but sometimes it wakens up and growls. Maybe we’ll find its eyes and its ears. Come on.”

  He races ahead up the track with the ball under his arm.

  “Mark,” I shout after him, “no kidding. This isn’t a game.”

  Then I wonder – could it be a sleeping dinosaur?

  ****

  We’re on the hill thing.

  It’s not really a hill. Just a jumble of rocks and boulders with heather and bracken growing out of them. And it’s definitely not a dinosaur. No eyes, no ears. Mark says he’s found its mouth, but he’s kidding – it’s just the way the rocks look.

  “See these big flat stones?” he says. “That’s its lips. They’re fossilised.”

  “That’s just rocks.”

  “No they’re not. They’re too smooth. Besides, they fit together.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. But I don’t laugh for long.

  For suddenly it’s there, right below our feet – that growling, moaning noise; all muffled and smothered.

  “Mark,” I yell, “It’s right under us.”

  He screws up his face. “What’re you on about?”

  “The noise, Mark. Can’t you feel it? Like something ginormous is roaring about in the earth.”

  “Come off it.” He bounces the ball casually off one of the big flat stones and catches it neatly.

  Then the noise stops.

  Mark is bouncing the ball off differently-shaped stones; so he has to leap about to catch it as it comes back.

  I feel my heart thumping.

  “Didn’t you hear it?”

  “Hear what?”

  “The noise; the flaming noise, you dork.”

  “You really think you heard a noise?” He looks puzzled.

  “Didn’t you? A big booming noise. You’ve got to have heard it.”


  He shakes his head. “See you, Steve. You’re a nutter.”

  ****

  Met another kid today, Fiona. Her dad drove round to see Mum. It seems they knew each other in the old days. Played together as kids. Funny; I thought Mum had always lived in Paisley.

  Mum introduces us. “Steve, this is Fiona. Fiona, Steve. Fiona’s at the school in Oban; you’ll be going to school in August. You might be in the same class.”

  Then we’re left alone. A bit awkward. Fiona’s got big brown eyes and a long black ponytail. She’s got this irritating habit of twirling it round her finger. And can she ask questions!

  “How long’ve you been here?”

  “Bout a week.”

  “Where did you stay before?”

  “Paisley; near Glasgow airport.”

  “Why’d you move?”

  “My mum and dad split up. Mum’s got a job in Oban.”

  “My dad works there too. He’s head librarian. We’ve always lived here.”

  I think that`s why she speaks funny; sort of singy-songy. But I don’t say that. Instead I say, “Want to come round the back? There’s this freaky heap of rocks. Mark says it’s a dead dinosaur.”

  I decide not to tell her about the noise.

  “Who’s Mark?”

  “Mark Telfer. Stays down by the loch.”

  “Him. He’s a twit. He’s not been here long, either. Thinks he knows everything about the place. I’ve lived here all my life.” She twirls her ponytail indignantly.

  Now we’re near the hill thing and I have this funny feeling – what if the noise comes back again? I won’t let her know, I decide. I don’t want to be laughed at by a girl.

  We pick around among the stones for a bit.

  “Not a dead dinosaur,” she announces. “Know what I think?”

  “It’s just a pile of rocks.”

  “It’s a prehistoric tomb.”

  “A what?”

  “A tomb. Look.” She points to the big flat stones Mark called the dinosaur’s lips.

  “That’s the way in.”

  “You can’t get in there.”

  “Not now. It’s all collapsed. But long ago… I’ll ask my dad.” There’s a shout from the house; “Fiona, time to go.”

  Her dad goes back inside.

  We’re halfway across the garden when it starts again, louder than ever, like a huge buried beast bellowing – and now the ground is shaking and shuddering under our feet.

  I forget that I’m not going to let her know I hear it and I freeze like I’m seeing a ghost, but it doesn’t matter.

  For a long second we stare at each other and then, without a word, we both turn and race for the house.

  Chapter 2

  SECRETS OF THE RED BOOK

  Fiona comes round a lot these days.

  Her dad drops her off. Think he’s glad of an excuse to see my mum.

  Fiona tells me she’s trying to find out about the dead dinosaur. That noise really scared her and she reckons there should be something about it in her dad’s library. She goes there with him and looks up old books and maps and things the ordinary guys don’t get to see.

  One day she changes the subject.

  “Do you love your mum?” she asks.

  That’s uncool. I mean, what am I supposed to say?

  What I do say is, “It’s the Champions League tonight. Highlights are on the box. Mum says I can stay up and watch them.”

  “I wish I still had MY mum,” she says. Her eyes are big and glistening, like she’s going to cry.

  “Hold on,” I say. “I need to see about something.”

  I go to the toilet. I don’t need to really, but I can’t stand it when girls get soppy.

  When I come back she’s OK.

  She tells me about Oban and I tell her about Paisley. We talk about records and stuff. She says there’s sometimes a disco in Connel. That’s where me and Mum got off the train the day we came here.

  But whatever we’re talking about she always comes back to the dead dinosaur. I’m not much bothered about it now. Haven’t heard the thing for days. Maybe it’s gone really dead.

  Fiona’s fascinated with it, but she hasn’t found out anything about it so far.

  Today’s different, though.

  Me and Mark are round the back, kicking a ball about, when she appears with this book. It’s got brown covers and the pages are yellowish.

  Fiona opens it at the first page. I’m looking over her shoulder. It says:

  THE RED BOOK OF CLANRANALD.

  or

  THE CHRONICLES OF THE HIGHLANDS FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES TO THE COMING OF CHRISTIANITY.

  Translated by

  Rev. Archibald Campbell, BD

  Minister in the parish of Benderloch.

  Then there’s these letters:

  MDCCC LXXIV

  Fiona says that’s the date and it’s a hundred years old.

  I say, “Cool,” just to please her.

  She tells us it’s a copy of another book that’s as old as the tomb Mark said was a dead dinosaur.

  “Where did you nick it?” asks Mark.

  “I BORROWED it,” she says, “from the special collection in Dad’s library.”

  “Cool,” I say again. What I really think is pure brill; a book as old as a dinosaur. Just what I need for the holidays.

  “There’s a story in it,” she explains, “about the Appin Cattle Raid.”

  “That’s Appin over there,” interrupts Mark. He jerks his thumb across the loch.

  Fiona’s got him taped. He thinks he knows all about the place. But he must have got it right this time, because she nods and starts reading:

  “In those days a Benderloch chief called Fergus Snake-eye drove off the far-famed White Bull of Appin and stole a golden cauldron from Finn the Red. He forded Loch Creran with them and hid them near his village. The bull was sacred to The Morrigan, but she was angry with Finn because he had not sacrificed it to her that midsummer as he had promised.”

  “What’s The Morrigan?” I ask.

  She has to think for a moment.

  “She’s an old hag…” she begins.

  “Like Mrs Campbell in the cafe in Benderloch.” Mark guffaws at his joke so I can see the pink chewing gum on his back teeth.

  “So she’s still alive?” I ask.

  “No, well… She’s a… she was the goddess of battles. She used to appear as an old woman with only one eye. She often had a raven perched on her shoulder and an adder coiled round one wrist.”

  “Load of mince,” snorts Mark.

  “Why did Finn have to sacrifice the bull?” I ask.

  “Santa Claus had a famous reindeer called Rudolf,” interrupts Mark. “Rudolf had a red nose. One day an angel stole Rudolf…”

  Fiona snaps her book shut. “If you’re going to take the mickey,” she screams.

  “Go on,” I say. “Belt up, Mark.”

  But she’s really mad. She’s blushing and she looks as if she might be going to cry again.

  I don’t know what to do. Mark’s going on about a wise man wanting a red-nosed reindeer in his Christmas stocking. I feel like punching him but I don’t want him to think I believe her cheesy story.

  So she stomps off. Phones Daddy to come and pick her up.

  When she’s gone I pretend to laugh with Mark about her crazy book – but I’m not sure.

  A couple of days later I’m talking to Mrs. Naysmith. Mum has her in to clean the house once a week, because she’s out at work. Mrs. Naysmith tells me she does cleaning at the Black Castle.

  “Ever see the ghost?” I ask. “Mark Telfer says it’s haunted by a white lady.”

  “Not myself,” she says. “But there’s rumours about it.”

  “Go on.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Your mother will be giving me into trouble for filling your head with nonsense.”

  “I won’t tell her.”

&nb
sp; “Well… folk say she walks in the round room, up in the turret, with her black raven on her shoulder and her white snake round her arm. And them that see her, something bad will happen to them before the year is out.”

  “Do you know anybody who’s seen her?”

  She nods.

  “What happened to them?”

  She shakes her head. “I must be getting on with my work. But if you should be seeing the white lady, don’t you go looking her in the eye.”

  She switches on the Hoover, so we can’t talk any more for the noise.

  I wonder is she winding me up?

  The next day Fiona rings me. “Do you want to hear the rest of the story, or not?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is Mark there?”

  “No.”

  “If he comes round you won’t let him in.”

  “OK.”

  Her dad drops her off. She’s got the book with her again.

  I kind of apologize. Start to explain that I was just going to punch Mark when she dashed off… but she cuts me short.

  “You remember about Finn the Red, the Appin chief who owned the white bull?”

  I nod.

  “And The Morrigan, the goddess of battles?”

  “Uh-uh.” I could tell her another story about The Morrigan now, but I reckon it’s better just to listen.

  “You wanted to know why Finn had to sacrifice the bull to her.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  Fiona opens her book and begins to read:

  “Finn was a great chief but he didn’t have a son to succeed him, although he had five daughters. So he prayed to The Morrigan not to let his line die out. She promised one of his wives would give him a son, but in return he would have to sacrifice the most valuable animal in all his herds when the boy reached his twelfth birthday. Finn swore that he would do this.

  “A boy was born and was named Aidan. On the same day one of Finn’s cows gave birth to a pure white bull calf. This was taken to be an omen because in those days all the cattle in the land were black. Some said it was unlucky and should be killed at once. But, because it had been born on the same day as his son, Finn ordered it to be spared.