“Lord Loss,” Dervish says, a split second before I blurt it out.
I stare at him… uncertain… terrified… yet somehow excited.
“I know the demons were real,” Dervish murmurs, picking up the pictures and placing them back inside his jacket, doing up his buttons. He stands. “If you want to come live with me, you can. But you’ll have to sort out the mess you’re in first. The doctors say you won’t respond to their questions. They say they know how to help you, but that you won’t let them.”
“They don’t believe me!” I cry. “How can they cure me when they think I’m lying about the demons?”
“The world’s a confusing place,” Dervish says. “I’m sure your parents told you to always tell the truth, and most of the time that’s good advice. But sometimes you have to lie.” He comes over and bends, so his face is in mine. “These people want to help you, Grubitsch. And I believe they can. But you’re going to have to help them. You’ll have to lie, pretend demons don’t exist, tell them what they want to hear. You have to give a little to get a little. Once you remove that barrier, they can go to work on fixing your brain, on helping you deal with the grief. Then, when they’ve done all they can, you can come to me – if that’s what you want – and I’ll help you with the rest. I can explain about demons. And tell you why your parents and sister died.”
He leaves.
→ Stunned silence. Long days and nights of heavy thinking. Repeating the name of the thin red demon. Lord Loss, Lord Loss, Lord Loss, Lord…
Torn between hope and fear. Could Dervish be in league with the demons? Mum saying, “I don’t trust him.” I’m safe here. Leaving might be an invitation to danger and further sorrow. I won’t improve in this place, holding true to my story, defying the doctors and nurses—but I can’t be harmed either. Out in the real world, I might have to face demons again. Simpler to stay here and hide.
→One morning I wake from a nightmare. In it, I was at a party, wearing a mask. When I took the mask off, I realised I’d been wearing Gret’s face.
Sitting up in bed. Shaking. Crying. I stare out the window at the world beyond.
I decide.
→Exercising. Eating sensibly. Putting on weight. Talking directly with my doctors and nurses, answering their questions, letting them into my head, “baring my soul”. I allow them to help me. I work with them. Lie when I have to. Say I saw humans in the room that night. Police come and take my statement. An artist captures my new, realistic, invented impressions of the murderers. My doctors beam proudly and pat my back.
Weeks pass. With help and lots of hard work, I get better. Dervish was right. Now that I’m working with them, they are able to help me, even if we’re progressing on the basis of a lie—that demons aren’t real. I weep a lot and learn a lot—how to face my grief, how to confront my fear and control it—and let them guide me out of the darkness, slowly, painfully, but surely.
In one afternoon session with a therapist, when I judge the time to be right, I make a request. Lots of discussions afterwards. Long debates. Staff meetings. Phone calls. Humming and hawing. Finally they agree. There’s a big build-up. Lots of in-depth therapy sessions and heart-to-hearts. Tests galore, to make sure I’m ready, to reassure themselves that they’re doing the right thing. They have doubts. They voice them. We talk them through. They decide in my favour.
The last day. Handshakes and emergency contact numbers from the doctors in case anything goes wrong. Kisses and hugs from my favourite nurses. A card from Leah. Facing the door, a bag on my shoulder with all I have left in the world. Scared sick but determined to see it through.
I leave the institute on the back of a motorbike. Driving—my rescuer, my lifeline, my hope—Uncle Dervish.
“Hold on tight,” he says. “Speed limits were made to be broken.”
Vroom!
→Dervish drives like a madman, a hundred miles an hour. Howling wind. Blurred countryside. No chance to talk or study the scenery. I spend the journey with my face pressed between my uncle’s shoulder blades, clinging on for dear life.
Finally, coming to a small village, he slows. I peek and catch the name on a sign as we exit—Carcery Vale.
“Carkerry Vale,” I murmur.
“It’s pronounced Car-sherry,” Dervish grunts.
“This is where you live,” I note, recalling the address from cards I wrote and sent with Mum and Gret. (Mum didn’t like Uncle Dervish but she always sent him a Christmas and birthday card.)
“Actually, I live about two miles beyond,” Dervish says, carefully overtaking a tractor and waving to the driver. “It’s pretty lonely out where I am, but there are lots of kids in the village. You can walk in any time you like.”
“Do they know about me?” I ask.
“Only that you’re an orphan and you’re coming to live with me.”
A winding road. Lots of potholes which Dervish swerves expertly to avoid. The sides of the road are lined with trees. They grow close together, blocking out all but the thinnest slivers of sunlight. Dark and cold. I press closer to Dervish, hugging warmth from him.
“The trees don’t stretch back very far,” he says. “You can skirt around them when you’re going to the village.”
“I’m not afraid,” I mutter.
“Of course you are,” he chuckles, then looks back quickly. “But you have my word—you’ve no need to be.”
→Chez Dervish. A huge house. Three storeys. Built from rough white blocks, almost as big as those I’ve seen in photos of the pyramids. Shaped like an L. The bit sticking out at the end is made from ordinary red bricks and doesn’t look like the rest of the house. Lots of timber decorations around the top and down the sides. A slate roof with three enormous chimneys. The roof on the brick section is flat and the chimney’s tiny in comparison with the others. The windows on the lower floor run from the ground to the ceiling. The windows on the upper floors are smaller, round, and feature stained glass designs. On the brick section they’re very ordinary.
“It’s not much,” Dervish says wryly, “but it’s home.”
“This place must have cost a fortune!” I gasp, standing close to the motorbike, staring at the house, almost afraid to venture any nearer.
“Not really,” Dervish says. “It was a wreck when I bought it. No roof or windows, the interior destroyed by exposure to the elements. The lower floor was used by a local farmer to house pigs. I lived in the brick extension for years while I restored the main building. I keep meaning to tear the extension down – I don’t use it any more, and it takes away from the the main structure – but I never seem to get round to it.”
Dervish removes his helmet, helps me out of mine, then walks me around the outside of the house. He explains about the original architect and how much work he had to do to make the house habitable again, but I don’t listen very closely. I’m too busy assessing the mansion and the surrounding terrain—lots of open fields, sheep and cattle in some of them, a small forest to the west which runs all the way to Carcery Vale, no neighbouring houses that I can see.
“Do you live here alone?” I ask as we return to the front of the house.
“Pretty much,” Dervish says. “One farmer owns most of this land, and he’s opposed to over-development. He’s old. I guess his children will sell plots off when he dies. But for the last twenty years I’ve had all the peace and seclusion a man could wish for.”
“Doesn’t it get lonely?”