mum dug her mobile phone out of her bag and called Stephanie’s dad, but he was busy on site and there was no way he could get to them before nightfall. They went back inside the house and her mother called a mechanic, and they spent three quarters of an hour waiting for him to arrive.
The sky was grey and angry and the rain was falling hard by the time the truck appeared around the corner. It splashed through puddles on its way up the long drive, and Stephanie’s mum pulled her jacket over her head and ran out to meet it. Stephanie could see a great big dog in the cab of the truck, looking on as the mechanic got out to examine their car. After a few minutes, her mother ran back inside, thoroughly drenched.
“He can’t fix it here,” she said, wringing out her jacket on the porch, “so he’s going to tow it to the garage. It shouldn’t take too long to fix.”
“Will there be room for both of us in the truck?”
“You can sit on my knee.”
“Mum!”
“Or I can sit on your knee, whatever works.”
“Can I stay here?”
Her mother looked at her. “On your own?”
“Please? You just said it won’t take long, and I’d like to have another look around, just on my own.”
“I don’t know, Steph…”
“Please? I’ve stayed on my own before. I won’t break anything, I swear.”
Her mother laughed. “OK fine. I shouldn’t be any more than an hour, all right? An hour and a half at the most.” Her mother gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Call me if you need anything.”
She ran back outside and jumped in the cab next to the dog, who proceeded to slobber all over her face. Stephanie watched their car being towed off into the distance and then it vanished from sight.
She did a little more exploring, now that she was on her own. She climbed the stairs and went straight to Gordon’s study.
His publisher, Seamus T. Steepe of Arc Light Books, had phoned them earlier that day, passing on his condolences and enquiring about the state of Gordon’s last book. Her mother had told him that they’d find out if Gordon had completed it, and if he had, they’d send it on. Mr Steepe was very keen to get the book on the shelves, certain that it would crash on to the bestseller list and stay there for a long time. “Dead writers sell,” he had said, like he approved of Gordon’s clever marketing ploy.
Stephanie opened the desk drawer and found the manuscript in a neat stack. She pulled it out carefully and laid it on the desktop, careful not to smudge the paper. The first page held the title, nothing more, in bold lettering:
And The Darkness Rained Upon Them.
The manuscript was thick and heavy, like all of Gordon’s books. She’d read most of them, and the odd splash of pretension aside, had quite enjoyed his work. His stories tended to be about people who could do astonishing and wonderful things, and the strange and terrible events that invariably led up to their bizarre and horrible deaths. She noticed the way he would set up a strong and noble hero, and over the course of the book systematically subject this hero to brutal punishment in a bid to strip away all his arrogance and certainty so that by the end he was humbled and had learned a great lesson. And then Gordon killed him off, usually in the most undignified way possible. Stephanie could almost hear Gordon laughing with mischievous glee as she’d read.
She lifted the title page and carefully laid it face down on the desk beside the manuscript. She started reading. She didn’t mean to spend long at it, but soon she was devouring every word, oblivious to the creaking old house and the rain outside.
Her mobile phone rang, making her jump. She had been reading for two hours. She pressed the answer button and held it to her ear.
“Hi, sweetie,” came her mother’s voice, “everything OK?”
“Yes,” Stephanie answered. “Just reading.”
“You’re not reading one of Gordon’s books, are you? Steph, he writes about horrible monsters and scary stuff and bad people doing worse things. It’ll give you nightmares.”
“No, Mum, I’m… I’m reading the dictionary.”
Even the brief silence from the other end of the phone was sceptical. “The dictionary?” her mother said. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Stephanie said. “Did you know that popple is a word?”
“You are stranger than your father, you know that?”
“I suspected as much… So is the car fixed yet?”
“No, and that’s why I’m calling. They can’t get it going and the road up to you is flooded. I’m going to get a taxi up as far as it’ll go and then I’ll see if I can find some way around on foot. It’s going to be another two hours at least.”
Stephanie sensed an opportunity. Ever since she was a child she had much preferred her own company to the company of others, and it occurred to her that she had never spent a whole night without her parents nearby. A small taste of freedom and it almost tingled on her tongue.
“Mum, it’s fine, you don’t have to. I’m OK here.”
“There’s no way I’m leaving you in a strange house by yourself.”
“It’s not a strange house; it’s Gordon’s and it’s fine. There’s no point in you trying to get here tonight – it’s lashing rain.”
“Sweetie, it won’t take me long.”
“It’ll take you ages. Where’s it flooded?”
Her mother paused. “At the bridge.”
“The bridge? And you want to walk from the bridge to here?”
“If I speed-walk—”
“Mum, don’t be silly. Get Dad to pick you up.”
“Sweetheart, are you sure?”
“I like it here, really. OK?”
“Well, OK,” her mother said reluctantly. “I’ll be over first thing in the morning to pick you up, all right? And I saw some food in the cupboards, so if you’re hungry you can make yourself something.”
“OK. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Call us if you need anything or if you just want some company.”
“I will. Night Mum.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
Stephanie hung up and grinned. She slipped the phone back into her jacket and put her feet up on the desk, relaxing back into the chair, and went back to reading.
