“I’m not worried about repeating,” I mutter. “If I was at my old school, I’d want to move up with my friends. But since I’m starting fresh, it doesn’t really matter which class I go into.”

“I like the way you think,” Dervish smiles. “OK, we’ll lay off the heavy grinds, but fit the odd bit of learning in along the way—you’ll get rusty if you don’t keep your brain sharp.”

“What about today?” I ask. “What should I do?”

“Get the lay of the land,” Dervish suggests. “Explore the house. Have a look round the grounds and neighbouring fields—you won’t get done for trespassing as long as you don’t mess with the livestock. Maybe take a stroll to the village and let the gossips have a gawk—I’m sure they’re dying to check out the new boy. You can start on the household chores tomorrow.”

“Chores?”

“Sweeping, cleaning, stuff like that.”

“Oh.” I glance around. “I thought… a place this big… you’d have a maid or something.”

“No maid!” Dervish laughs. “I have a woman who comes in once a fortnight to dust the bedrooms, but that’s it as far as outside help goes. You’ll have to earn your keep here, Grubbs m’boy! But we’ll start with the slave labour tomorrow, like I said. Find your feet first. Take it easy. Enjoy.” He rises and his expression saddens. “Hell, you’re due some enjoyment after all you’ve been through.”

I do the village first. Carcery Vale is quaint, quiet, picturesque. Nice white or creamy houses, smiling people, the occasional car puttering down the main street. I walk through the village, familiarising myself with the layout. I pass the school—larger than I thought. It’s lunch and the students are in the yard, shouting, laughing, playing football. I don’t get close.

Nervous. I’ve had months of dealing strictly with adults. I’ve almost forgotten what people my own age are like and how to get along with them.

Not many shops, and a very limited selection of goods. I need new clothes, but socks and underpants are all the local stores have to offer. I suppose there’s a town within easy driving distance where Dervish can take me. I’ll ask when I get back.

The people in the shops and on the streets eye me curiously but without suspicion. I keep expecting them to ask for my name or pass a comment—“You must be Mr. Grady’s new lodger,” or “You’re not from around here, are you?”—but they just nod pleasantly and let me go about my business.

Early afternoon. Wandering around the mansion. Checking out the rooms.

I knew the instant I arrived that this was a monster of a house, but it’s only today that I realise just how enormous it is. It doesn’t have a single modest inch or nook to it. Everything’s overblown and over the top. I feel out of place. I’m used to ordinary terrace houses, wallpaper from chain stores, furniture bought from glossy catalogues, paperback bestsellers and brand-name reference guides on the bookshelves.

But as awkward as I feel in this massive, ornate old house, I’m not scared. Although it reeks of history, and is full of barbaric weapons and grotesque items like the piranha tank, I’m not frightened. I don’t get shivers down my spine strolling through the corridors (some longer than the street where I used to live). I don’t imagine monsters lurking under the beds, or demons cackling in the shadows.

This house is safe. I’m protected within these walls. I don’t know how I know—I just do.

The hall of portraits. I’ve been here fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, studying the faces of my relatives. Most are strangers, faded faces from the long-forgotten past—many of them young, just teenagers—but some are familiar. I spot Grandad Grady, my great-aunt Martha, a few cousins I met when I was younger—all of whom have died during the course of my short life.

I look for my picture but I’m not among them. Dad and Gret are though, in new frames. Recent photos. I remember the day they were taken, last summer, when we were on holiday in Italy.

No photo of Mum. I go through them all again, but she isn’t here. The two of us are missing.

Shopping for clothes, twenty miles from Carcery Vale, in a large mall. Lots of people and noise. I feel lost in the crowd. Dervish sticks close by me, sensing my nervousness.

Kebabs when we’ve finished shopping. Hot and juicy. Dervish nibbles slowly at his, delicately. I finish long before him. Slurping down the last of my Coke. Studying him as he eats. Wondering if I should mention Mum’s and my absence from the hall of portraits.

“An unasked question is the most futile thing in the world,” Dervish says, startling me. Doesn’t look up. Swallows his food. Waits.

“I was looking at the photos and portraits in the hall today,” I begin.

“And you want to know why there are so many teenagers.”

I frown. “No. I mean, I noticed that, but it was Mum and me I was curious about. You have photos of Dad and Gret, but not us.”

“Oh.” He grimaces. “My faux pas. Most people ask about the teens. The photos and portraits are all of dead family members. I like to frame them as they looked at the end of their lives, so most of the photos were taken shortly before the subject’s death. We have a tragic family history—lots of us have been killed young—which is why there are so many pubescents up there.”

He wipes around his mouth with a napkin, carefully balls it up and lays it aside. “As for why Sharon hasn’t been included, it’s simple—no in-laws. Everybody on those walls is a blood relative. It’s a family tradition. But I’ve lots of photos of her, as well as Cal and Gret, in albums that you’re free to browse through.”

“Maybe later,” I smile. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t have any underhand reasons for not including us with the others.”

“Everything’s above board with me, Grubbs,” Dervish says, then sips from his mug of coffee without taking his eyes off me. “Well—almost everything.”

Late. Close to midnight. In my pyjamas. No slippers—I left my old pair at the hospital and I forgot to buy new ones today. The stone floor’s cold. I have to keep moving my toes to keep them warm.

I’m drawn back to the hall of portraits. Studying them in moonlight, the faces mostly concealed by shadows. Focusing on the teenagers. Dozens of them, all my age or slightly older. Wondering why the faces of the dead teens fascinate me, and why I feel uneasy.

I’m back in my room, in bed, before the answer strikes and drives all hope of sleep away in a flash. In the restaurant, Dervish didn’t simply say that many of our family members had died young—he said they’d been killed.

Settling in. Daily chores—washing-up after meals, sweeping a different couple of floors each day, polishing the furniture in one of the large halls or rooms. Lots of other, less regular jobs— taking out the garbage, cleaning windows, running errands in the village.

I enjoy the work. It keeps me busy. Not much else to do here apart from play chess with Dervish, watch TV—Dervish has a massive 55 inch widescreen set, which he hardly ever uses! — and read. Chess doesn’t thrill me—Dervish is like Mum and Dad, a chess fanatic, and beats me easily each time we play. I’d as soon not play at all, but he gently presses me to work on my game. I don’t get my family’s obsession with chess, but I guess I’ll just have to bear it here like I did at home.

I read more than I normally do—I’m not big on ‘litrachoor’—but Dervish doesn’t have a great collection of modern fiction. I pick up a few new books in the Vale, and order some more over the Internet, but I’m not spoilt for choice. I try some of the thousands of occult books littering the shelves, figuring they’ve got to be better than watching the moon all night, but they’re too complicated or densely written to be of interest.

So that leaves me with the TV—an endless stream of soap operas, chat shows, movies, sitcoms, sports programmes. And while I never thought I’d admit such a thing, TV does get a bit boring after a while, if it’s all you have to keep yourself amused.