You know that is not true, the monster said. You know that your truth, the one that you hide, Conor O’Malley, is the thing you are most afraid of.
Conor stopped squirming.
It couldn’t mean–
There was no way it could mean–
There was no way it could know that.
No. No. He was never going to say what happened in the real nightmare. Never in a million years.
You will tell it, the monster said. For this is why you called me.
Conor grew even more confused. “Called you? I didn’t call you–”
You will tell me the fourth tale. You will tell me the truth.
“And what if I don’t?” Conor said.
The monster gave the evil grin again. Then I will eat you alive.
And its mouth opened impossibly wide, wide enough to eat the whole world, wide enough to make Conor disappear forever–
He sat up in bed with a shout.
His bed. He was back in his bed.
Of course it was a dream. Of course it was. Again.
He sighed angrily and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. How was he ever going to get any rest if his dreams were going to be this tiring?
He’d get himself a drink of water, he thought as he threw back the covers. He’d get up and he’d start this night over again, forgetting all this stupid dream business that made no sense whatso–
Something squished under his foot.
He switched on his lamp. His floor was covered in poisonous red yew tree berries.
Which had all somehow come in through a closed and locked window.
GRANDMA
“Are you being a good boy for your mum?”
Conor’s grandma pinched Conor’s cheeks so hard he swore she was going to draw blood.
“He’s been very good, Ma,” Conor’s mother said, winking at him from behind his grandma, her favourite blue scarf tied around her head. “So there’s no need to inflict quite so much pain.”
“Oh, nonsense,” his grandma said, giving him two playful slaps on each cheek that actually hurt quite a lot. “Why don’t you go and put the kettle on for me and your mum?” she said, making it sound not like a question at all.
As Conor gratefully left the room, his grandma placed her hands on her hips and looked at his mother. “Now then, my dear,” he heard her say as he went into the kitchen. “What are we going to do with you?”
Conor’s grandma wasn’t like other grandmas. He’d met Lily’s grandma loads of times, and she was how grandmas were supposed to be: crinkly and smiley, with white hair and the whole lot. She cooked meals where she made three separate eternally-boiled vegetable portions for everybody and would giggle in the corner at Christmas with a small glass of sherry and a paper crown on her head.
Conor’s grandma wore tailored trouser suits, dyed her hair to keep out the grey, and said things that made no sense at all, like “Sixty is the new fifty” or “Classic cars need the most expensive polish.” What did that even mean? She emailed birthday cards, would argue with waiters over wine, and still had a job. Her house was even worse, filled with expensive old things you could never touch, like a clock she wouldn’t even let the cleaning lady dust. Which was another thing. What kind of grandma had a cleaning lady?
“Two sugars, no milk,” she called from the sitting room as Conor made the tea. As if he didn’t know that from the last three thousand times she’d visited.
“Thank you, my boy,” his grandma said, when he brought in the tea.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” his mum said, smiling at him out of view of his grandma, still inviting him to join with her against her mother. He couldn’t help himself. He smiled back a little.
“And how was school today, young man?” his grandma asked.
“Fine,” Conor said.
It hadn’t really been fine. Lily was still fuming, Harry had put a marker pen with its cap off deep in his rucksack, and Miss Kwan had pulled him aside to ask, with a serious look on her face, How He Was Holding Up.
“You know,” his grandma said, setting down her cup of tea, “there’s a tremendous independent boys’ school not half a mile from my house. I’ve been looking into it, and the academic standards are quite high, much higher than he’s getting at the comprehensive, I’m sure.”
Conor stared at her. Because this was the other reason he didn’t like his grandma visiting. What she’d just said could have been her being a snob about his local school.
Or it could have been more. It could have been a hint about a possible future.
A possible after.
Conor felt the anger rising in the pit of his stomach–
“He’s happy where he is, Ma,” his mum said, quickly, giving him another look. “Aren’t you, Conor?”
Conor gritted his teeth and answered, “I’m fine right where I am.”
Dinner was Chinese take-away. Conor’s grandma “didn’t really cook”. This was true. Every time he’d stayed with her, her fridge had held barely anything more than an egg and half an avocado. Conor’s mum was still too tired to cook herself, and though Conor could have made something, it didn’t seem to occur to his grandma that this was even a possibility.
He’d been left with the clean-up, though, and he was shoving the foil packages down onto the bag of poisonous berries he’d hidden at the bottom of the rubbish bin when his grandma came in behind him.
“You and I need to have a talk, my boy,” she said, standing in the doorway and blocking his escape.
“I have a name, you know,” Conor said, pushing down on the bin. “And it’s not my boy.”
“Less of your cheek,” his grandma said. She stood there, her arms folded. He stared at her for a minute. She stared back. Then she made a tutting sound. “I’m not your enemy, Conor,” she said. “I’m here to help your mother.”
“I know why you’re here,” he said, taking out a cloth to wipe an already clean countertop.
His grandma reached forward and snatched the cloth out of his hand. “I’m here because thirteen-year-old boys shouldn’t be wiping down counters without being asked to first.”
He glowered back at her. “Were you going to do it?”
“Conor–”
“Just go,” Conor said. “We don’t need you here.”
“Conor,” she said more firmly, “we need to talk about what’s going to happen.”
“No, we don’t. She’s always sick after the treatments. She’ll be better tomorrow.” He glared at her. “And then you can go home.”