The Tenth Guest

Danny’s mother, having almost cut the circulation off from her fingers, tied the final balloon and batted it across the living room to her son.

“Right then Danny, your friends will be here soon. Go and wash your face and put on that clean shirt I’ve left on your bed.”

“Okay mum!” Danny batted the balloon back at her as his mother returned to the kitchen to finish icing the dinosaur shaped birthday cake which she worried looked more like a duck than a diplodocus.

“How many are coming?” Danny tore back down the stairs, fastening the buttons of his shirt. His face was still unwashed, evidenced by the strawberry jam that remained from breakfast time.

“Nine, like we said,” said his mother as she wiped a damp dishcloth over his face. “So there will be ten of you all together. Can you remember all of them?”

“Course I can!” Danny jumped up onto the stool at the side of his mother while she piped lurid green icing over the duck dinosaur cake. “There’s Billy Smith, Errol Clark, Jenny Thomas… I don’t really like her mum… why does she have to come?”

“You know why Danny. Her dad’s the minister at chapel, we can’t not invite her, just think how it would look.”

“Eergh… oh well. Then there’s Thomas Shackleton, Abigail Oldfield, Brian Topping… ha ha, smelly old Brian! Hope he’s not sitting next to me mum.”

“Danny, that’s not nice. You be nice to Brian. You know his mum and dad are having problems…” Danny’s mum turned the cake to him. “Now then, what do you think?”

“Great mum! I like ducks!”

“Get away with you! It’s a dinosaur! See, look at its funny long neck.” She laughed a little at her creation. “That’s six names anyway. Can you remember the other three?”

“Erm, oh yeah, Sid Knowles, erm, another girl I think, oh yeah, Sarah from the farm… and then… hmm, I can’t remember that last one.”

“The new boy. Remember now?”

“Oh, Barry something. He’s from Wales and talks funny! Good at football though!”

A knock at the door and then another and Danny eagerly let in each of his guests, carefully placing gifts that they’d brought on the sideboard in the dining room. By five past three, there were seven children tearing round the living room waiting for the party games to start.

At ten past, as her son was busy preparing everyone for a game of pass-the-parcel, Danny’s mother opened the door to Sid, followed by Brian, whose mother quickly pushed him over the threshold and promised she would be back at five thirty to collect him. Danny’s mother smiled, though by the bottle of vodka she saw poking out of her basket, she suspected it might be later.

The game of pass-the-parcel began. Another knock at the door and as his mother was tied up with the record player, Danny let in his final guest, Sarah, who was always late for everything. “Dad sent some eggs,” she said as she handed over a box of half a dozen along with a gift wrapped in brown paper.

Danny had just put Sarah’s parcel on the sideboard when another knock came at the door.

“Oh, there must be one more,” his mum called from the living room, her voice half-drowned out by the shouts of “It’s my turn!” and “No peeking!” from the pass-the-parcel circle. “I’ll get it Danny, you come and do the music.”

Thrilled with the important task of lowering and raising the needle of the record player, Danny took his place in the corner of the living room whilst his mother went to the door. He looked quizzically at the circle of children sitting around the rug in the middle of the living room and counted them silently in his head. ‘Nine, plus me, that’s ten. So who’s at the door?’

Danny’s mother opened the front door. There stood a boy.

“You must be Barry,” she said, unaware that Barry had arrived twenty minutes ago and was currently playing out a forfeit of singing 'Ba-ba-black sheep' backwards.

The boy didn’t speak. He just stood on the doorstep. He was smaller than Danny, though something about him felt older. His skin was pale, almost waxy, and his dark hair lay flat against his head like it had been painted on. His eyes were a cloudy sort of grey, and his smile didn’t quite match the shape of his mouth. He held a long, thin parcel in both hands, wrapped in what looked like layers of old newspaper and tied with a fraying length of string.

“Well, then, come on in. You’re missing all the fun.” Danny’s mother stood back allowing the small boy to enter her home.

“Thank you,” said the boy quietly as he stepped into the hallway and took off his black leather shoes, which he placed carefully next to the other children’s shoes. “This is for Danny,” he said in a matter of fact sort of way, and he handed the gift to Danny’s mother.

“Oh, that’s lovely…thank you…” She gingerly took the package from him. “Go on through and join in, there are still plenty of layers left on the parcel.” And she nudged the boy through the living room door. A faint draught followed him in, like cold air that lingers after someone’s left a door open. Danny’s mother shuddered and took the parcel into the dining room to put it with the others.

Danny didn’t know what to say as the boy stepped soundlessly into the room. All the other children stopped passing the parcel and stared at the stranger in the doorway. His grey trousers and grey shirt looked distinctly out of place amongst their party frocks and smart shorts.

“Barry, I presume?” Danny’s mum said, returning to the living room, wiping her hands on her apron.

Danny opened his mouth to explain that this wasn’t Barry, but his mum was already back at the record player, dropping the needle back onto the rotating vinyl.

The boy slid into the circle between Brian and Errol without a word. No one seemed to question it and the game continued until Sid Knowles removed the last layer of the parcel, revealing a pop-gun that he immediately turned on the shrieking girls.

After a semblance of order was resumed by Danny’s mother, and party hats were handed out to everyone, the children began a game of musical statues. The music played and everyone danced and jerked about, giggling and bumping into each other. Then Danny’s mother stopped the music and everyone tried their hardest not to move or breathe. Danny was stuck on one leg and was immediately ‘out’ as he toppled over. Everyone laughed and began to move about again, but they stopped dead when they noticed the grey boy, standing alone, facing into the corner. He was as still as marble.

It was not just the sort of stillness from holding your breath, but the stillness of something that had never moved in the first place. Danny found himself staring, and when the music started again, the boy’s head turned toward him so slowly that it felt like something out of a movie. Then the boy began to move again in slow jerky steps and the rest of the children moved across to the other side of the room to continue their game.

Eventually, the game of musical statues was won by the grey boy.

“Well done Barry,” said Danny’s mother, handing the boy a lollipop.

“That’s not Barry!” shouted Danny. “This is Barry,” he said, pushing a blonde curly haired boy forward towards his mother.

Barry looked embarrassed. He glanced at the grey boy. “I’m Barry,” he said. “Not him.” Then he looked silently at the floor.

“No one knows who he is,” said Jenny Thomas confidently, twirling her pigtails.

Everyone stared at the boy.

“I’m Alfred,” he said.

“Well, you’re here now Alfred,” said Danny’s mother, who would never turn away a stray cat, never mind a strange child. “Why don’t you stay for the rest of the party?”

“But mum…” Danny didn’t like this. He tugged at his mother’s skirt.

“Not now Danny,” she said. “Let’s just be nice okay?”

The boy looked at her. She shuddered a little as his grey eyes fell across the room. And then the peculiar smile traced itself over his lips. “Thank you,” he said in a voice that sounded like curdled milk.

Danny’s mother produced a large picture of a donkey in a field with numbered dots all over it. There was ‘100’ in the dot over where the tail should go and lower numbers all over the picture - the closer to the tail, the higher the number. As the children took turns to ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ each of them blindfolded and guided in the general direction of the donkey by Danny’s mother. There were shrieks of laughter when Sarah put the tail on the donkey’s nose (score of six), and uncontrollable giggles when Brian missed the donkey altogether and stuck the tail on the standard lamp in the opposite corner of the room.

As Alfred had won the previous game, his turn came last. Blindfold on, he didn’t fumble toward the picture like the others. Instead, he walked straight to the paper donkey, perfectly pinning the tail exactly where it should go. No one clapped. They just stared for a moment and then shrugged their shoulders.

During Blind Man’s Buff, the blindfolded child, Errol, wandered for ages without catching anyone as they all hid behind furniture and swiftly dodged him when he came near. Then Alfred, moved from where he’d been hovering by the piano, and stood directly in front of him. Errol stopped, turning his head as though listening to something that no one else could hear. He reached out and touched the other boy’s shoulder, and instantly ripped off the blindfold with a yelp, stumbling back into the sofa. “You’re freezing cold!” he shouted, before laughing nervously.

Danny cast an anxious glance at his mother. ‘Why did she let him in? He’s some sort of freak… and he’s spoiling my party.’

His mother sensed her son’s unease and shot him a weak smile.

“Come on everyone,” she said with a brightness that Danny knew was forced, “time for tea!”

The children filed into the dining room while Danny’s mother pulled out an extra deck chair from the cupboard under the stairs to put next to the piano buffet and other odds of bedroom chairs that made up the numbers.

The children squeezed around the table, the duck-dinosaur cake taking pride of place in the centre, plates stacked with triangle sandwiches, sausages on sticks, crisps, and fairy cakes. Danny’s mother bustled about pouring orange squash into mismatched cups.

Alfred sat at the far end, hands neatly folded, his plate empty. He didn’t reach for anything, didn’t fidget or giggle. His eyes moved slowly over the food, then over the faces of the other children as though memorising each one.

“Go on, tuck in!” said Danny’s mum cheerfully.

Jenny passed him a plate of crisps. Alfred took one, held it between finger and thumb, then placed it on the table in front of him without eating it. When the sausage rolls came round, he picked one up, examined it closely, sniffed it, then returned it to the plate without a word.

Halfway through tea, Abigail noticed something moving underneath the beef paste sandwiches. She physically drew away from them, making a sort of whimpering sound. But when Danny’s mum looked, there was nothing there. Abigail would not be consoled however and ended up sitting alone in the kitchen with a bowl of ice cream.

Billy frowned across the table at Alfred, the strange boy who was in some way spoiling everything. Billy picked up a stick of cheese and pineapple. As he put it to his mouth, he suddenly jerked it away. “Hey, this is cold!” He glanced again at Alfred.

“Cheese and pineapple is supposed to be cold, silly!” said Sid.

“No, I mean freezing cold,” said Billy, holding up the stick. Steam like breath on a winter morning rose from it.

“Perhaps your mum put them in the freezer!” laughed Sid. Then everyone laughed. Everyone except for Alfred.

Alfred’s gaze was fixed on the empty plate in front of him, unblinking. When Danny’s mum returned to the room and offered him more food, he shook his head politely.

“No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.”

“What did you have?” asked Brian, with his mouth full.

Alfred’s smile twitched. “Something that you won’t understand.”

No one laughed. All that could be heard was the clock ticking in the hallway.

Danny shifted in his seat. “Mum, can we have the cake now please?”

“Yes, yes, let’s have cake.”

Danny’s mother lit the nine candles, everyone sang ‘happy birthday’, and Danny blew them out in one go.

When he looked up, Alfred was the only one not clapping. For a second the candle flames, though extinguished, still gave off a faint blue glow. They flickered as if about to reignite, and then with a sort of hiss, vanished altogether.

After tea the children were all given a slice of cake and a small gift to take home. The girls had little bracelets made with pink and white beads and the boys got a small bag of glass marbles each.

One by one, parents collected their children. Barry left in a rush, avoiding Alfred’s eyes. Sarah’s dad waited on the doorstep, another box of eggs in his hand, which he passed to Danny’s mother with a shy smile. Even Brian’s mother arrived on time, in seemingly good spirits and a faint flush across her cheeks.

When everyone had gone, only Danny and Alfred remained. Alfred stood at the back of the front door. Silent and still. No one had noticed that he’d left the cake and the marbles under the lid of the piano.

Danny was in the kitchen helping his mother tidy up.

“Mum, he’s still here. Can’t we ask him to go? I want to open my presents, but not while he’s here.”

Danny’s mother looked at her son. She wiped the bubbles from the sink on a tea-towel and went into the hallway. “Well, Alfred, I suppose we’d better call your parents,” she said. “Do they have a telephone?”

“I don’t know,” Alfred said, turning to face Danny and his mother. “I’ll see myself out.”

Then he put on his shoes, and without saying another word, stepped out into the dusk. Danny ran to the window to see which direction the boy had gone, but saw only the empty path and the swaying shadow of the gate.

Danny flopped onto the rug as his mum brought the presents into the living room. “Go on then, let’s see what you’ve got,” she said.

He tore open a bouncy ball from Billy, a puzzle from Jenny, a knitted scarf from Sarah. One by one, each gift was opened until only the rather grimy looking newspaper and string package from Alfred remained.

Danny hesitated. “Do I have to?”

His mum gave him a warning look. “Of course you do. It’s rude not to.”

“But mum… we don’t even know who Alfred is. He definitely doesn’t go to my school.”

“I know love, but he knew you didn’t he? He said your name when he came to the door. Perhaps he’s new in your class and you haven’t noticed him.”

With a shrug, Billy turned the package over in his hands. The newspaper was damp with age. He tugged at the brittle string, which snapped easily, and peeled back the newspaper layers.

Inside was a long, thin box, old and scuffed. Danny recoiled a little, feeling like something from the past had just touched him. Then he cautiously lifted the lid.

There was no toy, game or book. Just a single length of silky black ribbon coiled neatly, and a faded photograph.

A photograph of a boy who looked exactly like Alfred, standing right outside Danny’s own house.

In the photograph, the windows were boarded up and the garden overgrown. The gate hung on broken hinges, and weeds grew between cracks in the path.

On the back, in spidery handwriting, were the words:

“For when it’s your turn.”

Danny’s mother frowned. “What a strange…”

But when she looked at her son, Danny was still staring at the photograph. His face was pale.

“Mum,” he whispered, “the date on the back… it’s next year.”