We took our time, strolling along the bare wooden boards of the Pier, taking in the sights. I was actually enjoying myself. I d never been on a pier before. I walked over to the solid steel railings and peered over the side, looking out over the waters and the pebbled beach and the heavy swell of the waves coming in below. The afternoon was definitely over now, with evening settling in, but the sun was still bright and the air was pleasantly warm, interrupted now and then by sharp cool breezes gusting in off the sea. There were still quite a few tourists out and about, families enjoying the remains of the day and getting sucked into all the amenities the Pier had to offer. There were even a handful of retired senior citizens who looked like fixtures, happily reclining in their own personal deck chairs, just sitting back and watching the world go by. If there d been anywhere to hire a deck chair, I might have joined them. I surprised myself by getting into the whole experience and enjoying it. Molly grinned broadly, enjoying seeing me enjoying myself.
You ve never been on a pier before. Have you, Eddie?
Never been to the seaside before, I said.
It wasn t allowed.
You ve never done this before? Not even when you were a child?
Especially not then. The likes of this wasn t for young Droods. We were never allowed out of the Hall s grounds. You have to remember, Molly: Drood children out in the world, beyond the Hall s protections, were seen as nothing more than kidnap victims waiting to happen. We would be targets for any number of people desperate to get their hands on a Drood torc and Drood secrets. And, of course, a kidnapped child could be used as leverage against us. Besides the family has always believed in keeping its children close; the better to indoctrinate and control them. So holidays were out. Except on television, and all those Enid Blyton books I read as a kid. This all this, is good. This is fun. I like this!
Molly laughed aloud, squeezed my hand and led me down the full length of the Pier, over the dark sea waters, making sure I saw everything there was to see. The gift shops were of course packed wall to wall with overpriced tat, loud and gaudy and tacky with it, the kind of thing tourists buy because they think it s expected of them. And then when they get it home, they look at it and say, What was I thinking? Some nice watches, though. Along with a whole bunch of miniature clocks shoehorned into every kind of objet d art and objet trouv you could think of.
What really caught my eye was the line of cans containing Brighton air. Really. Large and colourful containers full of fresh air from the seaside, sealed shut. Enjoy the breezy Brighton Air! Breathe in that ozone! And then take it home with you! said the sign on the front of every can. Molly got the giggles.
They re actually selling air to the tourists!
Reminds me of something I once saw on eBay, I said. Genuine Transylvanian Grave Dirt! Each in its own sealed container, of course. For vampire fanatics who only think they ve got absolutely everything My first thought was that the Eastern Europeans had finally figured out a way to sell dirt to foreigners, but it turned out to be more complicated than that. An old vampire count was shipping his ancestral estate to England, one bit at a time. We soon put a stop to that. I tracked down the location in London, got a few friends together, we all drank a lot of holy water and then pissed all over the new earthen plot. And that took care of that.
You ve lived, haven t you, Eddie? Molly said admiringly.
You want me to buy you a can of air or not?
I ll pass. She frowned. Am I remembering correctly someone once tried to sell his soul on eBay?
Yeah, but they made him take it down. He couldn t provide proof of ownership.
We went through the games arcade next. All the usual noisy video stuff, of course, along with a surprising number of old-fashioned traditional games of no chance whatsoever. Clearly designed to painlessly separate a punter from whatever spare change he happened to have about his person. Whilst at the same time fooling said punter into believing he was having a good time.
You miserable old scrote, said Molly, when I explained my insights to her. You don t come here to win money. You come here to enjoy yourself! You really don t understand being on holiday, do you?
Apparently not, I said.
Molly squealed excitedly as she recognised an old favourite from her childhood, and then nothing would do except for her to drag me over to show it off to me. The game was a simple mechanical affair called The Claw. A tall plastic cylinder with toys piled up at its base and a claw that descended from the top. You paid your money, which gave you a measure of control over the claw and a limited amount of time for you to use the claw to grab the toy of your choice. Skill was apparently involved. What could be simpler? Except somehow the claw never did get a secure grip on any of the toys before the time ran out. Funny, that.
Molly jumped up and down excitedly before the clear plastic cylinder, regaling me with tall tales of the ones that got away and then she went all quiet as she realised one of the toys she remembered was still on offer. She pointed it out to me: an overbearingly cute little stuffed pony in an unnatural shade of sky blue. With a purple mane. Molly slammed both hands against the cylinder, making it shiver, while growling, I want it, I want it, I want it. Several parents hustled their children away. I produced a handful of small change; Molly snatched it off my palm and the game was on. Molly took control of the claw, and several times got hold of her prey with it, but somehow it always came loose just as the time ran out. Funny, that.
I may not know much about holidays, but I know a con when I see one.
Molly scowled at the cylinder. I sensed trouble coming, and moved forward to block people s view of her. She ghosted her hand through the clear plastic, grabbed the stuffed pony, took it out and hugged it to her. The greasy- haired teenager in charge of the game started to say something. I gave him one of my looks, and he didn t. Molly cradled the pony to her bosom and looked at me defiantly.
I ve always wanted one! It s mine!
Of course it is, I said. Anyone can see you two belong together. Can we please move along now?
I thought there d be alarms, Molly said vaguely. Really rubbish security here. They didn t deserve to keep it.
She moved on through the games arcade, cuddling the stuffed pony to her chest and babbling cheerful nonsense to it. I followed behind. She wasn t interested in holding my hand anymore. The pony was more important. I had to wonder if there was anything I wanted as much as Molly wanted that particular stuffed toy. I didn t think so. My family gave us weapons to play with, not toys. And the only things I got to cuddle as a kid were the gryphons on the lawns. And they liked to roll in dead things. Childhoods; they really do mess you up. I hurried to catch up with the only thing I d ever really wanted, and then we walked together through the arcade.
We wandered from game to game, indulging ourselves occasionally, and I looked them all over with great interest, fascinated by the loud noises and flashing lights. Reminded me of the Armoury. Eventually we passed through the games arcade and out the other side. The fresh sea air came as a relief after so much compressed body odour, and we strolled on, all the way to the end of the Pier. Where I was somewhat surprised to find a slouching, two-story wooden edifice passing itself off as a haunted house. There were a slumping doorway, gloomily backlit windows, and a general ambience of cheap and cheerful. It looked like a stiff breeze would knock it over.
Okay, I said. That is never haunted. Not even a little bit.
It s not meant to be, Molly said patiently. It s just another game, Eddie. For the children. Like a ghost train.
Even the Scooby-Doo gang would turn up their noses at this, I said firmly. And no, Molly, we are not going in. I have my dignity. And I just know that if I walk through that door and someone in a sheet jumps out and shouts, Boo! at me, I will not be responsible for my actions.
I suppose the Droods had the real thing!
Not as such, I said. You met Jacob, the family ghost, awful old reprobate that he was. And there s the Headless Nun, of course. When I was a kid, they were usually more fun to hang around with than the rest of my family.
It s a wonder you grew up as normal as you did, Molly said sweetly.
Well, quite, I said.
At the very end of the Pier, some distance from the beach and way out over the ocean, I leaned on the reinforced railings and breathed deeply. Seagulls keened loudly overhead but maintained a respectful distance. Molly hugged her stuffed pony one last time, opened an invisible pocket in her dress, stuffed the thing in and forgot about it. (If it looked to be turning up on our bed at any future time, I planned on being very firm about it.) I peered out across the ocean. Various ships were passing by, out on the horizon, going about the business apparently without a
