'The Corner House' by Julia Ruth Smith

 

The hedge is as overgrown as the first boy’s blond flopping fringe, the grass almost tall enough to cover the bold boy at the back. The boy in the middle thinks this is a very bad idea. He’s heard his Mum tutting to the beat of his little brother’s buggy.

 

It’s as hot as summers get. They’re out of school, wild and sweaty and bored. They know not to stray too far. They’ve been told again and again. There are strange people about.

 

The house is abandoned - of this they’re sure - but a net curtain, escaping from an open window blows ghostlike in their path, sets them shrieking like little sisters. Then they laugh and slap each other on the back to prove they’re not scared. They kick the locks like karate kid heroes.

 

Inside the house there’s a sofa in split leather facing a vacant wall, and a mattress that details a history they’re not keen to learn. The rumours have stained their expectations but really they know nothing. Their parents have mentioned a name, a reason, a fear but tightened their lips at the sight of freckles and big ears, in the name of protection.

 

There’s a dick chalked on the wall and words they don’t understand; a used jonny in the downstairs loo. There’s a box full of comics and slinkies and a rubber ball, which they use for a scrappy kick around.

 

Then it gets darker. Drops of doubt rumble and fall. What if it’s true? What if he comes back for his box of toys? Or for them? A crack of fear and they tumble; skin itching, minds racing to their safe homes with clean windows and wholesome fathers who carwash and mow lawns into long summer evenings.