Stephen Smith - The Boy in the Cellar

Published by John Blake Publishing,
The Plaza,
535 Kings Road,
Chelsea Harbour,
London SW10 0SZ

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First published in paperback in 2019

Paperback ISBN: 978 1 78946 175 6
eBook ISBN: 978 1 78946 176 3

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Design by www.envydesign.co.uk

Text copyright Stephen Smith

The right of Stephen Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright-holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

While the events described in this account are true to the best of the authors knowledge, belief and memory, some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the identity of certain individuals and ongoing police investigations.

John Blake Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

Dedicated to Gail and all my children.
Without their support, I would never have found
the courage to tell my story.

Today had been a good day because, today, Id got to leave my room. Id travelled in a car and had seen things Id never seen before. Id even been inside a hospital. Today, I also found out two things for the very first time.

My name is Stephen Smith. And I am seven years old.

D amp glistened against the bricks and mortar. It sparkled like diamonds caught in the half-light peeking through the small opening to the world outside. The thick red bricks seemed to soak up and retain the unbearable coldness, the room felt like a long-forgotten tomb buried deep beneath the earth.

The little boy shifted over in the corner as Peter moved quickly across the floor, refusing to stop even for a moment, dust, dirt and cobwebs the only decorations hanging in the gloom. The room was full of shadows and sparsely furnished; just a makeshift bed, a small table and space for a dark wooden chair. The floor was made of stone and as ice-cold to the touch as it looked. Peter ran across it and over towards the concrete plinth. Lifting himself, he climbed up onto it and scurried along, his long legs moving quickly and nimbly until hed reached the boys arm draped away from his body to one side. Peter felt safe; in certain areas, the room was plunged into darkness, so there were several places he could hide. But right now, he wanted to be with the boy. The tickling sensations against the childs skin made him stir momentarily, causing him to stop dead in his tracks like an impromptu game of musical statues. He waited to see if the boy would wake and, for a moment, was certain he would. But the child fell back into a deep slumber, leaving Peter to continue on his way.

Once the boys breath had regulated to a steady pattern, Peter continued, inching a few more steps. Soon, hed quickened his pace. Journeying along the childs arm, he climbed down onto his soiled blue shirt. The fabric was stained with food and it rose up and down in waves of creases. Peter should have found the complexities of such fabric challenging, but hed done this so many times before. Shadows beneath the fabric seemed both dark and welcoming, so he tucked down and made his way underneath. He felt the warmth of the boys body as he dashed over his young skin. Tracing along the thin torso, he scurried quickly over red welts and temporarily healed scars a landscape of pain. The same scars would soon be broken again, but for now, they had time to recover.

The sensation of Peter prickling against his back caused the child to wake. Without warning, he sat bolt upright. His sudden movement caught Peter unawares and he tumbled down, landing against the soft but cold mattress. Crawling out of the shadows, he moved away from the boy, who turned and brushed long strands of unkempt hair from his face. Lifting a dirty hand, he wiped crusted sleep from the corners of his eyes and stared down at Peter.

I wondered where youd been, he said, straightening up. Ive not seen you for a couple of days, I was worried.

The boy stretched both hands above his head and yawned loudly. He placed an open palm against the mattress and beckoned Peter to climb on. The light from the coal hole picked Peter out against the military blanket as he scrambled aboard.

Come on, the child told him. I need to put you back.

Gently lifting Peter, he crossed the room and placed him on the large silvery web the biggest one in the room. The childs fingertips tickled gently against the gossamer-thin strands as they bounced against the spiders weight like a miniature trampoline. The boy was careful not to break the threads.

There you go. Oh, and by the way, he said, pointing to the web, I caught you some dinner. I hope youre hungry? I put him there for you. Dont worry, hes trapped. He cant escape.

The fly shifted and twisted in his webbed prison, his legs and wings sticking against the fine adhesive lines that anchored him down.

The boy watched as Peter turned and proceeded towards his prey. The spider climbed on top of the insect and there was a sudden shift an urgent movement as he bit into him. He proceeded to wrap him in a silken shroud and sat back, waiting for him to die. Once he had, Peter climbed onto the insect and devoured him, piece by piece.

The boy smiled as his friend performed his special eating ritual.

Nice to see you again, Peter, he said, whispering down to the spider. Weve been waiting for you. Its good to have you home.

I ve never been frightened of spiders. Unlike people, I know they cant hurt me. I had fifteen friends in total, but Peter was my favourite. He loved to crawl up my arms and my legs. Sometimes, when I was asleep, hed try and tickle me by crawling up my shirt, but he found it hard to get underneath my jumper because it was always fitted so close to my body. I usually wore it when I got up out of bed, but if I was really cold, Id wear it when I was asleep. My room was always freezing, even when it was bright outside. Sometimes, Id feel the warmth flooding in through the coal hole above my head. Id lift up my hand, but I could never reach it properly I was never quite tall enough.

I hoped that one day the sunshine would be strong enough to stretch down and flood my room with light. You see, I knew what the sun was. Id written about it in sentences. I knew it was a yellow ball of fire in the sky that helped things grow. Up to that point, Id never felt it against my face well, not properly. A few times Id been lucky; it had shone down through the hole, casting a gridded, golden square against my mattress. Whenever that happened, Id put both hands inside the square so that I could feel it. Id leave them there as the sun soaked against my skin. Then Id lie down, put my legs up against the wall, and position my face inside the golden shape. It made me feel happy made me feel part of something else, something bigger that was happening outside.