The Dare Game Read online

  But the weirdest thing happened. I went up the scruffy path at the back, investigating an old Kentucky Chicken carton with my foot just in case. (No luck at all, totally licked clean to the bone.) I climbed in through the back window, negotiated the kitchen, and walked into the living room, my footsteps sounding oddly loud on the bare floorboards.

  The old curtains were drawn so it was quite dark in the room, but I could still see my red velvet sofa in the middle of the room . . . with 76

  a big black velvet cushion at one end and a blue blanket neatly covering the worst of the muddy marks.

  I stared at them as if I'd conjured them out of thin air. It was like one of those old fairytales. I squinted long and hard at the cushion and the blanket to see if they were being toted about by disembodied hands. I liked this idea even if it was kind of spooky. Maybe the hands were perched in a corner somewhere ready to flap their flying fingers at my command?

  'OK, the cushion and the blanket are spot on, but what about some food? I said, snap-ping my own fingers.

  Then I stopped mid-snap, my nails digging into my thumbs. I'd spotted an upturned cardboard packing case over by the window, with a checked dishcloth neatly laid over it like a little tablecloth. There was a paper party 77

  plate with an entire giant packet of Smarties carefully arranged on top in rings of colour –

  brown, green, blue, mauve, pink, red, orange, with yellow in the middle so that it looked like a flower.

  I shivered from right up in the scalp down to the little taily bit at the end of my spine. My favourite food in all the world is Smarties. And here

  was a big plate of them beautifully laid out just for me.

  'It is magic!' I whispered, and I circled the cardboard table.

  I put out a hand and picked up a red Smartie. I licked it. It was real. I popped it in my mouth, and then hurriedly shoved another handful after it in case they suddenly disappeared. Then I went to draw the old dusty curtains so I could have a

  closer look and suss out how

  this magic was working.

  I yanked at the curtain –

  and screamed. Someone else

  screamed too!

  A boy was sitting scrunched up

  on the window ledge, knees up

  under his little pointy chin,

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  hands clasping a book, mouth gasping, eyes blink-blink-blinking.

  'What are you doing here? Are you trying to frighten me?' I yelled.

  He clasped his book so tightly it was in danger of buckling. His eyes were little slits because his face was so screwed up. 'You frightened me,' he whispered.

  'What are you doing in my house?' I demanded.

  He sat up a little straighter. 'It's my house, actually,' he said timidly.

  'You don't live here.'

  'Yes I do. Well, during the day I do. I'm making it my home. I brought the cushion.

  And the rug. And organized refreshments.'

  'You what? Oh. The Smarties.'

  He looked over at the plate. 'You spoilt my pattern,' he said.

  'It's only babies who play with food. Well, that's what they said at the Children's Home when I made my peas climb up my mashed potato mountain.'

  'Did you really think it was magic?' he asked.

  'Of course not!' I said firmly.

  'I thought by the sound of your footsteps 79

  you were really big and scary,' he said, un-clenching and swinging his legs free. 'That's why I hid.'

  'I am big and scary,' I said. 'Bigger than you, anyway, you little squirt.'

  'Everyone's bigger than me,' he said humbly.

  'How old are you then? Nine? Ten?'

  'I'm nearly twelve!'

  I stared. 'You don't look it!'

  'I know.'

  'So what are you doing here then?' I asked, helping myself to another handful of Smarties. I offered him the plate, seeing as they were his refreshments. He said thank you politely and ate one blue Smartie, nibbling at the edges first like it was a biscuit.

  He didn't answer me.

  'Are you bunking off?' I asked.

  He hesitated, then nodded. 'You won't tell, will you?' he said, swallowing his Smartie.

  'I'm not a snitch.' I looked him up and down.

  'Fancy you bunking off! You look too much of a goody-goody teacher's pet. Dead swotty!'

  I pointed to his big fat book, trying to work out the title. 'Alex-an-der the Great. The great what?'

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  'No, that was just what they called him.'

  'As in Tracy the Great?' I rather liked the sound of it. 'That's me. Tracy.'

  'I'm Alexander,' he said.

  'Ah. Alexander the not-so-great. So. You're obviously dead brainy. Why do you need to bunk off? I bet you come top of everything.'

  He nodded. 'Yep. Except for PE. I'm bottom at PE. I always bunk off on games days.'

  'You're mad. PE's a bit of a laugh.

  Especially when it's football.'

  I'm truly Tracy the Great at footie, famed for my nippy footwork and dirty tackles. Old Vomit Bagley goes bright red in the face blowing her whistle at me.

  Alexander was whingeing on about them being even worse then.

  'Them?'

  'The other boys. They tease me.'

  'What about?'

  Alexander ducked his head. 'All sorts of stuff. Especially . . . when we're i n the showers.'

  'Aha!'

  'They laugh at me because . . . '

  'Because you're Alexander the not-so-great!'

  I said, giggling.

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  Alexander flinched as if I'd hit him. I suddenly felt mean. I

  hitched myself up on the window

  seat beside him. 'So you bunk off?'

  I said.

  'Mmm.'

  'Haven't they complained to

  your mum?'

  'Yes.'

  'So what did she say?'

  'She never says anything much. It's Dad.'

  Alexander said the word 'Dad' as if it meant Rottweiler.

  'What did he say?'

  I could feel Alexander trembling. 'He said –

  he said – he said he'd send me away to boarding school if I didn't watch out, and then I couldn't play truant. And he said I'd really get bullied there.'

  'He sounds dead caring, your dad,' I said, and I patted Alexander on his bony little shoulder.

  'He says I have to learn to stand up for myself.'

  I snorted and suddenly gave him the teeniest little push. He squealed in shock and nearly fell off the window seat. I hauled him back. 'You're not even very good at sitting up for yourself,'

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  I said, shaking my head at him.

  'I know,' Alexander said dolefully.

  'So come on then. Try fighting back.'

  'I can't. I don't know how.'

  'I'll show you.'

  He was in luck. I'm the greatest fighter in the world. I'm especially good at getting a sly punch in first. And I don't just rely on fists. I'm great at kicking shins. If I'm really pushed I bare my killer choppers and bite.

  I pulled Alexander off the window seat and tried to get him to put his fists up. His little hands drooped back down to his sides.

  'I can't fight. And anyway, I can't hit a girl.'

  'You won't get a chance, matey,' I said, putting my own fists up. I gave him one little gentle punch. Then another. He

  didn't react, apart from blinking rapidly.

  'Come on! Try to hit me back.'

  Alexander lunged at me feebly. His fist could have been cotton wool.

  'Harder!'

  He had one more go. I stepped

  sideways and he punched thin air, stumbled, and very nearly fell over.

  'Oh well. I see what you mean,' I said, 83

  realizing he was a totally hopeless case.

  'I'm useless,' said Alexander, drooping all over.

  'Only at fighting,' I said. I pondered. I looked at his funny l