The attic gave me a sense of comfort I rarely felt in the rest of the house. “Why try and modernise a perfect old farm house?” I often thought to myself while counting my lucky stars my parents let the attic be. At the far end of the attic, past the cobwebs and various drawings I’d stuck to the walls, sat a brown wooden table accompanied by a matching stool. Bright sunlight pierced the round window above the table and stung my eyes while I enveloped myself in the calm fortitude of my own company.
If the day wasn’t as sunny, you’d be able to gaze out of the window and observe the sleepy goings-on of Dandi-Upon-Thames. One single lane road split the village in two as well as providing the only entrance and escape for its dwellers. On the left, underneath the large oak tree, stood the aptly named Oak Inn. It was by far the most popular establishment in the surrounding area, offering pints, pies, and rooms inside its nine-hundred-year-old white walls. Behind it stretched the rolling hills of rural Wiltshire as far as the curvature of the Earth.
Opposite the Inn, you could make out two cottages. Thatched roofs never looked good from this high angle, but they had held up well compared to the moss and vine covered walls that could crumble at any moment. Only the Bakers would be crazy enough to buy one and still be thriving there years later: meanwhile Mrs May withered away in hers.
“Tom, stop sulking up there and come and see this!” I heard as my mum shattered the peaceful afternoon with her screaming. Begrudgingly, I sauntered down the rickety stairs into the spotless living room that looked as bare as usual. I never understood modernist minimalism (if that’s the right term for it).
Mum swiftly handed me a magazine and I could tell from her expression that I was going to have to feign excitement for the next few minutes. As I looked down towards the page, her finger jolted into my field of vision and directed me to read a paragraph highlighted in blue print. It read:
Initial rumours suggest the land is worth over £40 million but the buyers, One-Eight Holdings Limited, may demand a lower rate depending on what they plan to build. It is still unknown what’s in store for Dandi-Upon-Thames, but surely any investment is good investment!
Unfazed, I turned my attention back to my mum. She was staring at me with her wide, hazel eyes and her head tilted slightly to the left as she always used to when I was younger. “I’m sixteen now mum you don’t have to look at me like that,” I stated with a small chuckle.
“Sorry sweetheart. What do you think though?” She asked as she gestured at the magazine.
“I don’t know, mum. I thought you moved here because you wanted to get away from the city. Won’t these new houses just ruin the vibe?” I responded.
“The ‘vibe’ isn’t what it used to be, Tom. You remember playing in the fields with all your friends. No one stops by the Inn anymore either. Maybe this with bring some people back.”
“Maybe,” I said bluntly. I couldn’t help but think this was going to backfire on us. A grand total of ten people lived in Dandi-Upon-Thames. What would happen to us when a thousand new people moved in overnight? Although, I had faith that the council knew what they were doing selling off acres and acres of land.
I chucked the magazine onto the gaudy leather sofa that took up most of the floor space in the living room and informed mum that I was heading out with an elongated “bye” and a gentle slamming of the front door. Free days were the worst here. What’s the point of living if I can’t get a drink in the Inn or see any friends from school because I’m sixteen and stupid laws say that I can’t drink or drive?
Instead, I went for a walk up Rotley Hill to clear my head from this apparent bad mood I’d somehow found myself in. The steady incline mixed with the blazing sun tired me out more than I thought it would, but it was worth the effort when I reached the summit. From up there, I was king, surveying my subjects as they struggled to cure the never ending boredom of rural living.
In an instant my fantasy was destroyed, as for the first time in what felt like years, I saw something abnormal. The village sees plenty of holiday-makers pass through its borders due to the large caravan site a couple of miles to the south. However, it was no ordinary motorhome I witnessed that day.
At first, I thought Lewis Hamilton must have been at the wheel because the ‘caravanists’ were travelling at double the speed limit. They just about rounded the sharp left-hander without tipping over and blasted through the centre of the village, narrowly missing Cindi Baker and her daughter Robin who were crossing the road.
The caravan looked older than the cottages it was passing. The once clear white fibreglass had turned green from mould and sported multiple holes in the roof. A spare wheel clung to the back above suspension so collapsed that it was almost dragging along the road. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in a scrapyard.
If I were smarter, I would have read their number plate, but I was transfixed by the vehicle’s occupants. Two completely bald men wearing matching white tank tops were visible in the front seats, their appearances slightly obscured by the sunlight glinting off their shiny craniums. Despite being hundreds of feet away, I could make out some thick black tattoos strewn across their arms as well as an aggressive-looking mangled dog sat in between them.
As they sped past my house at the corner of the village, I froze in place. The driver had turned to look out of the window and found himself locking eyes with a teenage boy in the distance. His hollow black eyes were burning into my skin. Although it was 20 degrees outside, I felt the need to cover up and crossed my arms over my midriff to hide my bare flesh. I was a deer caught in headlights; he was the lion at the wheel.
As the pair disappeared into the distance, I wasn’t waiting around any longer and fled home. While barrelling down the hill, I couldn’t stop thinking about those eyes. “Just some totally mental gypsies,” I muttered to myself as I tried to find some logic to my irrational emotions. At the time, I couldn’t admit to myself that what I was really feeling, was fear.
When I burst through the front door minutes later I startled my dad more than the caravaners would have. He jumped off the sofa, still in his dungarees and boots, he must have been tending to the cows. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at rushing around like that!” Dad shouted. Sometimes he possessed this innate ability to raise his voice past the sound barrier, this moment being a good example.
“Sorry dad… I didn’t mean it… I, I, I ran home,” I explained now realising how out of breath I was.
“Ran home? Ha! Never seen you run in all my life. All you do is sit in that attic and doodle my son. If you’re that unfit you’ll never be able to work on the farm like your old man!”
I was already getting sick of where this conversation was going, so I decided to employ the classic teenage grunt and sulk off. Obviously, dad wasn’t going give me any of the sympathy I craved after my run-in with the weird bald men. Mum was busy in the kitchen, blaring a pop song from the nineties that was somehow more abrasive to my ears than dad’s shouting. It was back up to the attic again for me…
By the skin of my teeth, I made it through dinner and the evening without much grief from dad or annoyance from mum. Nevertheless, I chose to keep the afternoon’s scares to myself. Dad can be obtuse and I didn’t want to bring mum’s mood down because she was so excited about the village’s possible expansion. In my infinite teenage wisdom, I concluded that art therapy was my next step. In reality, I just wanted an excuse to rot away in the attic with my sketching pencils and the view of the stars. I thought long and hard about something else to draw other than the caravan, but I couldn’t bring myself to ignore it. So, I depicted the same caravan and its two inhabitants driving directly off a cliff. That made me feel a bit better.
Time passed quickly in the attic; I was sure it had its own rotation of the sun, its own solar system, its own galaxy. Harsh sunlight turned into deep moonlight in an instant. By the time I was finished drawing, it was the dead of night and my eyelids were heavy. Frequently, I dreamed about bringing my bed up there and never having to leave this room. However, my bedroom was only a few paces down the stairs, so it was never worth the effort.
As soon as I softly placed my pencil on the desk, I was aware of a noise that had subtly been continuously purring throughout the night. The noise was familiar, which was strange considering the nights are so quiet in Dandi-Upon-Thames. After listening closer, I figured out what the noise was in an instant. A spluttering engine idling outside my house.
Hurriedly, I jumped up onto the table to try and get a view out of my window onto the street below. Dandi-Upon-Thames was too small to warrant the instillation of street lamps, so the lack of putrid orange illumination left the village in immoveable darkness. Yet, I could spot a light illuminating the petunias in our front garden that I had helped mum plant last week. It was the unmistakable glow of brake lights.
My lip began to quiver as I realised what this could be. Frantically, I searched my mind for any other explanation as to who might be parked in our driveway, but every time I came to the conclusion that it must be those men in the caravan. What would they do to me? What might they do to my family? I was close to opening the window and screaming at them to leave, but I thought better of it; I didn’t want to wake mum and dad for fear of a bollocking.
Courage was not something I usually held, but I was able to pluck some out of thin air as I raced down the stairs to confront whoever was outside. I reached the front door and swung it open, opting for the more brash approach in case I had a fight on my hands (I had never been in a fight in my life). When my eyes adjusted to the dim light, my fears were confirmed. Sitting in the driveway was the disgusting old caravan, gently idling with the headlights off but the brake lights on, illuminating the doorway, as if to conceal itself from everyone accept the occupants of our house.
Suddenly, the headlights burst into existence and the caravan skipped into gear. The driver was staring at me again, this time through his wingmirror. His face was shrouded in darkness, yet I could still make out a single shining tooth as a sinister grin stretched across his wrinkled face. The engine roared and the caravan shot forward and veered right down the main road. Just before the diesel beast disappeared from view, I could make out a red bumper sticker with a black logo printed on the front. It said, One-Eight Holdings Limited.