Free The If Game by Catherine Storr

strangers. But it was all right. Dad said, ‘That’s kind of you. Should we pay a sort of rent?’ and the woman laughed and said she wouldn’t know how much to charge for three nights in a field. She came out of the shop with them and directed Dad to the road that went past her house.
    â€˜You can take your things through my garden. You’ll see, there’s a gap in the hedge. The football pitch’s the other side of that,’ she said.
    The place was perfect. A small area of rough grass, not as big as a real football pitch, separated from the woman’s garden and from the road by thick hedges and young trees. Stephen was surprised by the way his dad got the tent rigged up, quick and unfussed, as if he’d been doing it all his life instead of once or twice a long time ago. He could tell from the way his dad went about it, and showed him how to help, that he was in a good temper, which made it easier for Stephen to say, when they’d finished everything, down to unpacking everything they’d need for the night, ‘Can we go and look at the sea now?’
    â€˜What? Tonight? It’ll be getting dark in half an hour.’
    â€˜We could go in the car. That’d be quicker.’
    â€˜What about eating? We’ve to eat some time.’
    â€˜Couldn’t we get fish and chips somewhere in the town? On our way back.’
    â€˜We can’t stop long at the sea.’
    â€˜I don’t want to stop long. Just to look at it.’
    Dad said, ‘Right!’ and they went back, through the woman’s garden, with pale flowers that smelt more strongly now that it was twilight, into the car, down the hill past shops, mostly shut, towards the sea. Before they reached the shore, Stephen could smell it. It smelt of salt and of hot pebbles and old fish and drying seaweed. He drew long breaths in and wished he could hold them forever. They drove past tracts of empty land, covered with thistles and long grass and rubbish and came out on to what would, in a prosperous seaside town, have been the front or the esplanade. Here, in this neglected part of the coast, there was a road running parallel to the sea, with a few buildings on the land side; a dilapidated block of flats, a tired looking small hotel, and a row of beach huts. On the sea side there was the sea wall level with the road. The shingle on the shore was piled up almost as high as the wall. The further side of the shingle was the sea.
    Now that he was close to it, Stephen saw that what had looked, from a distance, flat and still, was anything but that. It was still grey rather than blue or green, but it was a tumbled grey with moving darker shadows and light points that appeared and disappeared almost before he had caught sight of them. And on the shore below him small waves were curling in over the shingle, coming up, one chasing the wave before it, and then retreating before the next, with a slow rasping sound as the water pulled back between the stones. It was a wonderful noise, and as Stephen’s eyes moved across the restless surface to the curved, empty horizon, he knew that it was a wonderful sight. He felt that he could watch the sea for ever.
    He looked sideways at his dad and saw that he too was watching the sea. He said, ‘It’s grand, isn’t it?’ He wanted to say, Thanks for bringing me here,’ but he knew that his dad hated any expressions of feeling so he kept quiet.
    The light was fading fast. Dad said, ‘If we stay here any longer, we’ll get caught in the dark,’ and turned away towards the car.
    Stephen reluctantly turned too, then saw something that made him stop. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing. A small squat tower was placed, incongruously it seemed, right on the edge of the sea wall. It might have been partof a castle wall, but there was no castle near. It looked out of place; even, in the gathering dusk, a little sinister.
    â€˜That’s