museum opened to the public.
The first of these took place on only the second day after the Chapmans’ arrival and Brian became extremely nervous as he realised that he would be quite alone. Miss Ursula instructed him in the plainest of terms that she had no intention of assisting in the supervision of the visitors. When the day came, however, Mr Chapman's anxieties proved foundless, for though the doors were open from half-past nine in the morning until midday, not one single person wandered into the premises. When he remarked on this to Miss Webster the following morning, she expressed no surprise and said that it was an unusual event when someone did stray into the museum.
When Neil and Josh finally left the confines of the flat, they ignored the dubious attractions under their father's care and decided instead to venture into the grimy yard outside.
The concrete-covered area was a sad and gloomy place. Hemmed in by the back of the museum on one side and twelve foot high brick walls on the other three. It was like stepping into the exercise yard of a prison. The lofty walls were tipped with iron spikes and although there was a wide opening in the side wall it was barricaded by a padlocked, metal gate which in turn was covered with sheets of wood.
In this colourless courtyard Neil and Josh kicked a ball around, using a spare plank and a drainpipe to mark out the goal posts. For a little while, the thud of the football resounded around the four walls, joined with Josh's happy laughter. But eventually the claustrophobic and melancholy atmosphere of the place began to affect them and Neil was soon glancing nervously up at the blank windows of the museum.
'There's someone up there,’ he murmured, ‘watching us. Maybe we've woken those barmy sisters.’
Unsettled, Josh shivered-in spite of the warm scarf that came up to his nose and the woollen bobble hat he had pulled low over his ears. Leaving his brother to continue the game alone, he shuffled despondently about the yard like a mouse in a cage.
Fixed to the wall, beside one of the windows, was a china drinking fountain and Josh stared long and hard at it. The glaze of the bowl was chipped and covered in a livid green, slimy moss which he touched with the tip of his mitten and sniffed gingerly.
Giving the ball a final kick into the air before catching it, Neil turned his face to the museum and glared defiantly at each window, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever was spying on them. Only the dull, grey light of the leaden sky was reflected in the glass and the boy's unease mounted.
‘It's as if the museum itself is watching me,’ he breathed, ‘all those windows are its eyes—it didn't like having a ball kicked against it. It doesn't like me...’ His mouth dried as this unwelcome thought took menacing shape in his head, then abruptly he shook himself and managed a deriding laugh.
‘Don't be soft,’ he scolded, ‘I'm letting this dump get to me. Its just a smelly old heap of bricks.’
Disgusted at his childish imaginings, Neil called to his brother that it was time for him to prepare their father's lunch and they'd better go back inside.
‘Neil,’ Josh piped up, ‘Why is this toilet out here?’
‘Dimbrain,’ his brother chuckled. 'That's not a bog, it's one of them drinking things—my old school had one.’
“What does it drink?’ came the fascinated response.
'The blood of little boys,’ Neil teased.
‘Doesn't!’ Josh moaned unhappily, taking a step backwards.
“Course it doesn't—you're supposed to drink from it. I wouldn't fancy anything that came out of that horrible old thing, though. It's all green and I bet the water'd be stagnant, probably full of germs.’
‘How does it work?’
‘You push this lever down and... oh, nothing. The one at school didn't work either. Come on, I'd better open a tin of soup for Dad—he'll be finishing round about now.’
Together they headed for the door to the apartment but, just as Neil was