The Land of Roar. Jenny McLachlan

inside the camp bed.

      I turn and run for the door.

      Rose, I decide, is forgiven.

      ‘Arthur, are you telling me you’re scared of a camp bed?’ Rose’s laughter floats up to me as I stare at the ceiling, for once pleased that the room is lit by her stupid rabbit night light.

      ‘Not the camp bed,’ I say, ‘something inside it. It sounded like feathers. There must be a bird stuck in there.’

      Down on the bottom bunk, Rose snorts. ‘We were in the attic all afternoon. I think we’d have noticed a bird flying around.’

      ‘But it’s not flying around, is it? It’s in the bed.’

      ‘Maybe, or maybe you’re scared of the camp bed. I mean, you’re scared of lots of things, Arthur: scarecrows, crows, frogs –’

      ‘Says the girl who has to sleep with a night light.’

      Rose ignores me and carries on – ‘mushrooms, supply teachers, starting at Langton Academy, heights, Mum’s black pointy shoes, fire, raisins with stalks –’

      ‘I don’t like raisins with stalks, but I’m not scared of them, or any of those other things. When my class made a scarecrow I sewed on its button eyes and it didn’t bother me at all.’ It did. A bit. ‘Plus I was scared of Mum’s shoes when I was, like, two, not now. In fact,’ I declare boldly, ‘right now I can’t think of a single thing I’m scared of.’

      ‘Oh really?’ Then everything goes quiet on the bottom bunk. A bit too quiet. When Rose speaks her voice is as scratchy as a nail being dragged down a wall, ‘What about ME, Arthur Trout? Are you scared of ME?’ I might not have heard her Crowky voice for a long time, but I’d recognise it anywhere. It actually makes me need a wee. That’s how good it is.

      ‘Rose, I thought you said you couldn’t remember Roar? Because that’s where Crowky came from.’

      Silence. Then the scratchy voice says, ‘Rose isn’t here any more, Arthur. It’s just you and me. Now will you admit that you’re just a teeny bit scared of me?’

      And that’s when I think of a brilliant way to get back at Rose, for the voice, for messaging Mazen, for calling me a loser, for everything.

      ‘I am a bit,’ I say, ‘but not as scared as you are of . . . THE DARK.’ I lean over the side of the bunk bed, grab Rose’s rabbit night light and switch it off. Rose’s response is creative, fast and totally unexpected. She jumps out of bed, climbs the ladder and throws a cup of water in my face.

      ‘Rose!’ I shout.

      ‘HA!’ she screams back.

      Outside in the garden, Grandad yodels.

      Next morning, I eat my Crunchy Nut cornflakes sitting on the sofa in the garden. It was the last thing we dragged out of the attic and now it’s wedged between the patio and the plum tree and covered in ash from Grandad’s bonfire.

      The sky is blue and the sun is shining. A blackbird hops around in the bushes. It seems like a totally normal day, but I don’t feel normal. I drink the sugary milk from the bottom of the bowl. I feel jittery and uneasy and I can’t stop looking up at the attic window.

      Grandad wanders out of the house and blinks into the sunshine. He’s wearing a cardigan, an old T-shirt – the one that says ‘NO PROB-LLAMA!’ – and his painting shorts. ‘Hello, mate,’ he says. ‘Where’s your sister?’

      I nod towards the neighbour’s garden. Rose’s head appears above the wall, then disappears. There’s a squeak of trampoline springs, then her head pops back up, her hair flying out straight and long.

      ‘Rose, you’re not doing it right!’ cries Mazen. ‘You look like there’s something wrong with you!’

      ‘Not got anything to do?’ says Grandad. ‘Rose doesn’t fancy going to the beach?’

      ‘No. All Rose wants to do is jump and look at her phone.’ I think back to the damp night’s sleep I’ve just had. ‘Right now Rose hates me and I hate her.’

      ‘You hate each other?’ Grandad chuckles. ‘You two have always got along fine.’

      He’s wrong. We used to get along fine until Rose changed into that stranger I can see on the trampoline. But I don’t bother telling Grandad this. Instead I say, ‘Last night we had a fight.’

      ‘That’s normal. I remember your mum and Jack fighting like mad when they were little. They used to draw blood.’

      ‘Jack was a cat, Grandad.’

      ‘I know, but the point is they’d be cuddling on the sofa by bedtime.’

      ‘I’m fairly certain me and Rose won’t be doing any cuddling ever again.’

      He laughs and ruffles my hair. ‘Come on. While you’re waiting for Rose to stop hating you, we can get the camp bed down from the attic.’

      I get up, glance once more at the attic window, then with a heavy and slightly scared heart I follow Grandad back inside the house.

      It’s amazing what a positive effect sunlight can have on a room. If I ignore Prosecco glaring at me from the corner, there is almost nothing spooky about the attic right now.

      Grandad grabs hold of the camp bed and starts to heave. ‘I got this thing up here, so presumably I can get it down again. Do you think we should chuck it out of the window?’

      ‘Better not. It might kill Rose.’

      He laughs. ‘See? I knew you didn’t hate her! Now get over here and give me a hand.’

      But I don’t move. Instead I just stand in the doorway, staring at the rubbish old camp bed, which was the start of the best game I ever played, a game that until yesterday I’d almost forgotten.

      ‘Unless . . .’ says Grandad, ‘you think we should leave the bed up here?’

      Yes, I want to say, leave it up here and let’s bring the swords and dressing-up clothes back up too. But what would be the point? Rose is never going to play Roar or any other game with me. ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s time to chuck it out.’ Then I grab the other side of the bed and start pushing.

      We’ve only moved it a couple of metres before Grandad has to stop to catch his breath. We rest against the camp bed while he has a puff on his inhaler. ‘Arthur,’ he says, ‘do you remember when you had a funny turn up here?’

      I think for a moment. ‘When I was crawling through the camp bed?’

      ‘That’s it! I came in and found you curled up on the floor. You had two teeth marks on your wrist.’ He points just below my hand at the pale scar I’ve had for as long as I can remember. ‘Rose said a dragon had bitten you, but I’m guessing she was the dragon?’ Grandad watches me, waiting for an answer.

      It must have been Rose who bit me that day . . . so when I look at my wrist why do I remember my fingers touching rough scales, then hearing a warning-growl followed by a flash of movement and then the shock of sharp teeth grazing my skin?

      With a start, I realise that this is what my memories of Roar are like. When I think about Win and Mitch, I don’t see me and Rose running around the attic talking to invisible mermaids and pretend ninja-wizards. I see a real girl swimming below the surface of