But, hey, it’s a million times better than the institute!

A week passes. At ease with the house. Getting to know Dervish, though he’s a hard one to figure. Kind, thoughtful, caring—but aloof, with a warped sense of humour. He came in one day while I was watching the news. Caught a report about a serial killer who’d chopped off and collected his victims’ heads. Commented drily, “There’s a man determined to get ahead in life.” Spent the next five minutes doubled over with laughter, while I gazed at him, astonished, and the TV broadcast pictures of bloodbaths and weeping relatives.

His thirst for chess is at least equal to that of Dad and Mum, if not more so. He went easy on me to begin with, gently encouraging me to play, treating the games as fun. Now he’s showing his true colours. Insists that I play with him every night and gets irritated when I play badly.

“You’ve got to love the game,” he told me last night, tossing a captured rook at me with unexpected force. “Chess is life. You have to love it as you love living. If you don’t…”

He said no more, just stormed out of the room, leaving me at a loss for words, rubbing my cheek where the rook struck. Later, when I’d recovered and was passing him in the hall on my way to bed, I muttered, “Get a life, you freak!” The perfect comeback—just an hour too late.

He’s got no time for music. I find a grand total of three CDs in the house, all old albums by some group called Led Zeppelin. Doesn’t read fiction. Watches only the occasional documentary on TV. Spends a lot of time on the web, from what I’ve seen when I’ve visited him in his study. But he doesn’t seem to surf or play games—he mostly exchanges e-mails with contacts around the globe, or visits dull-looking encyclopaedic sites.

Apart from his books and antiques, chess and jogging, and his e-mail mates, he doesn’t seem to have any hobbies, or any apparent interest in the world beyond this house.

There are stables—long abandoned—behind the mansion. I’m exploring one of them, idly toeing through the old nails and horseshoes on the ground in search of some interesting nugget, when somebody raps on the rotten door and startles me out of my skin.

“Peace, hombre,” the stranger chuckles as I duck and grab a horseshoe for protection. “I come to greet you, not to eat you—as the cannibal said to the missionary.”

A boy a year or so younger than me enters and sticks out his hand. I stare at it a moment, then shake it. He’s a lot shorter than me, chubby, with black hair and a lazy left eye which hangs half-closed. Wearing a faded pair of jeans and an old Simpsons T-shirt.

“Bill-E Spleen,” he says, pumping my hand. “And you’re Grubbs ‘don’t call me Grubitsch!’ Grady, right?”

“Right,” I grin thinly, then repeat his name. “Billy Spleen?”

“Bill-E,” he corrects me, and spells it out. “Actually, it’s really Billy,” he confesses, “but I changed it. I haven’t been able to do it by deed poll yet, but I will when I’m older. There’s nothing wrong with Billy—it’s a hell of a lot better than Grubitsch or Grubbs! — but Bill-E sounds cooler, like a rap star.”

He talks quick and sharp, fingers dancing in the air to accent his words.

“Are you from the village?” I ask politely.

“Yup—I’m a Valer,” he yawns, as though it’s the dullest thing in the world. “I used to live a few miles over—in a cottage smaller than this stable—until Mum died. Then I moved in with my grandparents—‘the original Spleens,’ as Mum used to call them. They’re OK, just a bit old-fashioned and strait-laced.”

Bill-E studies the disturbed nails and horseshoes on the ground and grins. “You won’t find any gold here,” he chortles. “I’ve been through these sheds more times than I can count, looking for old Lord Sheftree’s treasure.”

“Treasure?” Bill-E’s a little too chummy for my liking—I’ve never been fond of people who come along and immediately start acting as though you’re old friends—but I don’t want to say anything to insult him, at least, not until I know a bit more about him.

“You don’t know about the treasure?” He hoots as though I’ve admitted I didn’t know the world was round. “Lord Sheftree—he owned this place years ago—is supposed to have hidden cases full of treasure somewhere on these grounds. His getaway stash, in case he ever had to make a quick exit and needed some ready cash. He was a real swindler. He used to keep a fish tank full of—”

“—piranha,” I interrupt. “And he fed a baby to them. I know.”

“Dervish told you?” Bill-E looks disappointed. “I love telling that story. Just about everyone in Carcery Vale knows it, so it’s not often that I have the chance to break it to someone new. I’ll kick Dervish’s ass for spoiling it for me.”

“Excuse me,” I mutter, exasperated, “but who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

Bill-E blinks. “No need to speak to me like that,” he sniffs. “I’m only trying to be friendly.”

“And I just want to know who you are,” I respond coolly. “You come in here, telling me your name and that you know all about me, but I’ve never heard of you before. Are you a relative of Dervish’s? A paperboy? What?”

“Paperboy!” he snorts. “I don’t think Dervish ever bought a paper in his life! If it doesn’t come bound in leather or bat’s wings, packed full of spells and dark incantations, he isn’t interested!”

Bill-E steps to the left, into the light shining through a hole in the roof. “I’m no relative,” he says. “Just a friend. I hang out with Dervish, play chess with him, do some odd jobs. He takes me for rides on his bike in return, and teaches me some spells. Has he taught you any spells yet?”

I shake my head.

“They’re cool,” he grins. “I don’t know if most of them really work, but the words you use are wicked. I feel like a real magician when I’m casting them.”

“Could you teach me some?” I ask.

“No,” Bill-E answers promptly. “That’s the first thing Dervish taught me—only a teacher is allowed to teach. He says if he ever catches me passing on my spells to anybody, he’ll can the lessons and ban me from coming here. And he means it—Dervish isn’t the sort to yank your chain about stuff like that.”

I’m warming to Bill-E Spleen—I like the way he talks about Dervish—but it’s been a while since I made a new friend, so instead of saying something simple, I find myself asking cynically, “Did Dervish tell you to come chat to me? Are you supposed to be my new best friend?”

Bill-E sneers. “My friendship can’t be bought or bartered. I usually come over a few evenings every week and at weekends. Dervish asked me to stay away this week, to give you a chance to settle in. I was looking forward to checking you out and showing you around the Vale—as a fellow orphan, I thought we might have stuff in common—but now I don’t think I’ll bother. You’re a bit too up-your-own-ass for my liking. I’ll just go see Dervish and leave you to scurry around out here on your own.”

Bill-E turns to leave in a huff.

“When did your mum die?” I ask quietly.

He stops and squints at me. “Nearly seven years ago. I was just a kid.”

“And your dad?”

He smiles crookedly. “I never knew him. Don’t even know who he was. He’s still alive—I think—so I’m not an official orphan. But I’ve felt like one since Mum died.”

“My folks only died a few months ago,” I say. “It still hurts. A lot. So if I act like a spazz, sorry, but that’s just the way I feel right now.”

Bill-E’s features soften. “When my mum died, I didn’t speak to anyone except Gran and Grandad for almost a year. If other kids came near, I’d scream and attack them. Their parents stopped them hitting back. One day, in a shop, I tried it on a kid when there was nobody around—he knocked the crap out of me. I was fine after that.”

I offer my chin. “Take a pop if you want.”

Bill-E pads over, makes a fist, then taps my chin lightly. “Come on,” he laughs. “Let’s go see what whirling Dervish is up to.”