Buried Fire (8 page)

It took two minutes for Stephen to be spirited up to his room and put to bed. He was asleep almost immediately, his eyes closing properly for the first time since he had left the Pit. Michael went downstairs and made himself a sandwich in the kitchen. His eyes were burning fiercely. It had grown worse throughout the afternoon, and now they felt red around the rims.

Michael sluiced cold water on his face and blinked several times to make his eyes settle. Slowly, the heat faded, but a bottled-up desire remained. The urge to see – the other way – was very great. All day he had felt the pressure to use his new sight, and though he had mostly been able to keep this feeling under control, he would not be able to do so for long. Besides, he had only had Stephen to look at all day. Tomorrow, he would go into the village, and watch the people on the green. The anticipation of their jewel-like hidden souls made his heart ache.

Sarah came downstairs from her bedroom. She started when she saw Michael standing by the sink.

"So you're back, are you?" she said, tartly. "Where have you been all day?"

Michael made ready to unlock his excuses.

"I felt an awful lot better this morning. Stephen and I went for a long walk – I needed some air."

"Where did you go?"

For no real reason, a lie slipped out: "The Russet. To Thrush Bank and back."

"And where's Stephen?"

"Asleep. He's absolutely shattered. No stamina, that's his trouble."

"You should have left a note. You're both just bloody thoughtless."

"Sorry, Sarey. Sorry I've upset you."

He waited, hardly daring to believe it would be that simple, but Sarah left it like that. She went to put on the kettle. Michael fidgeted a little.

"Sarah, I couldn't help hearing just now . . . I'm sorry you had a row. Are you OK?"

She sighed, flicked the switch and sat down at the table opposite him.

"Oh sure. It was my fault really. I was worried about you, and Tom's got a lot on his mind at the moment. We'll be fine tomorrow. It's just been a really crap day."

She gazed at the tabletop for a time. Michael found he had an overwhelming temptation to look at her with his other sight. From somewhere else came a doubt, a sense that to do so was an invasion of her private space. But he did it anyway.

Her soul was swirling slowly with a dozen shades of blue, shining and glistening with a beauty which lanced him through with guilt and shame.

"I'll make you a cup of tea," he said.

"Thank you, Mikey."

She drank it rapidly and strong. When she had finished, she looked up at him with an appraising eye.

"Michael," she said. "Could you do me a favour?"

"Sure."

"I was meant to go over to Mr Cleever's this evening, and pick up a series of council leaflets. I'm distributing them next week. I really don't want to go – you know how overpowering he can be. Do you think—?"

"Say no more. You'll have to tell me where he lives."

"Have you got lights for your bike?"

"Quit worrying, sis. I won't come to any harm."

Sarah watched him set off, pleased at his willingness to help. In truth, he did seem a lot better today, and hopefully Mr Cleever would be able to build on that with a few subtle words of advice. She tapped her empty mug with exasperation. Really, Tom should have been the one to do it, but the whole cross business was getting him too wound up. He needed to calm down and rest.

For that matter, so did she. Things would be better tomorrow.

Filled with his contrition, Michael was soon gliding down the hill like a ghost in the night, the beam from his front light casting the hedges into strange relief. A startled rabbit ran in front of his wheel and nearly sent him tumbling, but he stabilized himself and soon shot out into the deserted green, which was lit in places by orange light from the village windows.

Mr Cleever's house was a sizeable Victorian villa set back from the green behind a rose garden. His sizeable car was parked on the verge outside, and it was next to this that Michael left his bike. He walked into the garden under a kissing gate of climbing briars, and headed up the path. Ahead, thick curtains hugged against the glass of great bay windows, from behind which came forth music and light and the sound of voices. The sultry scent of ageing roses hung about him as he passed along the paving stones to the door and rang the bell.

There was a break in the flow of voices from beyond the window, then someone laughed, and the noise began again. Michael fidgeted on the doorstep, anxious to be gone. A sound of movement came from inside, and the door opened. Mr Cleever looked out, squinting a little as he adjusted to the dark, and broke into a wide smile of welcome.

"Michael MacIntyre, isn't it? An unexpected pleasure."

"Hello, Mr Cleever. Sarah sent me over . . . to collect some pamphlets . . ."

He trailed off, conscious of the intensity of Mr Cleever's gaze, feeling somehow a little foolish as he stood there on the step, still grass-stained from events on the Wirrim. I should have tidied myself up a bit, he thought.

"Pamphlets . . ." Mr Cleever seemed to have difficulty focusing on the issue himself. "Of course! She can't make it, then?"

"No, she's a bit under the weather."

"I'm sorry to hear it. Well, it's good of you to pop down yourself, Michael. Come in a moment."

"I don't want to bother you if you've got guests." Michael hesitantly moved into the house; Mr Cleever held the door ajar, and closed it as soon as Michael stepped through.

"Good heavens, no bother about it," said Mr Cleever. "Just some old friends. They can wait a minute. Straight down through the house, Michael, to the sitting room. I'll hunt out the pamphlets in a moment."

Michael walked down the narrow hall, with Mr Cleever close behind. The walls were white and adorned with prints of old engravings. They reflected their owner's archaeological interests – Michael caught flashes of standing stones, henges, forts and ruins. The floor was of black and white tiles; aspidistras in large vases took up position in tight corners; and the light was surprisingly poor. Somehow, it all gave off an old-fashioned aura which made Michael feel hemmed-in by history.

They passed a door which must have led into the front room. It had been pulled almost to, but the bright light gleamed round the cracks. A stream of classical music came from inside, yet it seemed to Michael that the volume had been turned low, and that the voices were stilled too.

There was a small sitting room at the end of the hall. Mr Cleever squeezed past Michael and waved him to a chair.

"The pamphlets are upstairs somewhere. I'll fetch them. Would you like a beer while you're waiting?"

Michael was slightly taken aback. It was not something adults asked. The only beers he had tasted were surreptitious ones, bought for him at off-licences by Stephen and some older friends. Still, Mr Cleever was a bachelor; maybe he didn't quite know the score.

He took advantage. "Yes please."

"Excellent." It was only while Mr Cleever was unearthing a bottle from somewhere in the neighbouring kitchen that Michael remembered that his host was sometime youth group leader of Fordrace, and had been known to campaign on the subject of underage drinking. "You old hypocrite," he thought, as he accepted the bottle.

"Won't be a moment," smiled Mr Cleever, and disappeared back into the hall. His footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs.

Michael sat back in his chair and sipped the beer. The sharp smooth earthy tang settled round his tongue and added to his general feeling of unreality. He looked about him, taking little in, waiting for Mr Cleever to return. Above, there was the scuffled sound of movement, but his host did not reappear on the stairs.

An engraving above the fireplace caught his eye. It was the only picture on the wall, caught in an age-darkened gilt frame. It was of the kind he had seen in books, a three-dimensional plan of an historical site, only with odd perspective, and with little figures wearing the costume of another century. There were curly letters – A, B, C, D – next to important bits, and notes to these letters written in ornate handwriting at the bottom of the engraving, but they were too far away for Michael to read.

The site depicted was a burial mound, covered with grass and with its rim set about with stones. Half of it seemed to have fallen in on itself. Men in tall hats were standing on it, holding odd measuring devices. There was a smaller barrow in the background, and something dark flying in the sky. Michael had half a mind to get up and survey the picture at close hand, but indolence and the pleasant numbness of the beer prevented him.

On the mantlepiece below the engraving – Where on earth was Mr Cleever? – was a small object which caught the corner of his eye, like a sudden movement. Between a porcelain milkmaid and a drummer boy, both of which Michael considered quite naff, was a ceramic lizard.

It was maybe six inches long, coiled in upon itself, with a long green body and an endless tail, which wrapped the base of the model twice round. The head was raised slightly; the small red eyes, set back low upon the thin elongated snout, were half open, and gazed up as if considering the room with a cold appraising eye. The mouth was closed, but somehow managed to suggest a lot of teeth under its surface. It was distinctly ridged.

Michael looked at it for a moment, and then, for the first time in an hour or more, he became aware of an aching in his eyes.

There was no doubt that the model was very well made. It might even be valuable. The two eyes, which gleamed so, could well be made of garnet or some other semi-precious stone. Maybe – Michael thought – even ruby! Some of the larger scales on the back of the body were also gems.

All in all there was a definite beauty to it, and Michael began to wonder how it might look to him through his other sight. In its loveliness, it reminded him of the souls he had seen, only harder, more solid. He felt he might risk a look, just quickly.

From down the hall, and the distant room filled with unknown company, came a sudden laugh; a woman's, high and gleeful. Michael jumped and his whereabouts returned to him in a flurry. All at once he realised how quiet it had been before, and how close the room had got. There was a little sweat on his forehead.

He looked at the mantlepiece again. The model lizard seemed to have lost its sparkle. The eyes were dull once more.

Where was Cleever? He'd practically finished the beer. All of a sudden Michael was annoyed. Had he got the pamphlets or hadn't he? Had he forgotten him, or was he playing some kind of game?

Well, you couldn't do that to Michael any more, parish councillor, youth leader, archaeology chairman or not. If you kept him waiting, you paid the penalty, and the penalty was—

—Michael would take a peep at Mr Cleever's soul. See that private side, he would, and he would never know that he had had it done. Yes. A pompous old fool, Cleever, and a little slimy. What would it be? A wart-hog, or a dung-beetle? Michael grinned to himself, and all of a sudden, he heard returning footsteps on the stairs.

Now then.

Mr Cleever came back into the room. There were no pamphlets in his hand. Michael waited. Not yet.

"I have to apologise, Michael," Mr Cleever said (but he was still smiling). "The pamphlets your sister wanted aren't here yet. The ones upstairs are for a different area of the parish. Sometimes I don't know if I'm coming or going, what with all my different interests."

Pull the other one. What do you take me for? What are you after? You don't play with me.

"Oh," said Michael. "I see. Well, it was nice beer."

"You must send your sister my apologies. It must have been tedious for you. Did you notice that engraving, by the way? An original, you know. 17th century. Do you know where it's of?"

Who cares? Don't try anything with me. You turn out the light, I see in the dark.

"No? It's up on the Wirrim. The Pit, Michael. Do you know where that is? Up on High Raise. I hear you go up that way sometimes."

So I do, stranger. And I do more than that. Things happen to me; things happen which make me different.

"Nowadays, the surface of the mound has entirely collapsed. There's some structural instability in the ground below, which has led to quite a sizeable hollow being formed. Very unusual feature. But then, the Wirrim's an unusual place."

He looked back at Michael, and rested his arm on the mantlepiece. Michael was motionless in the chair.

I should do it now. Look him right in the eyes. And do it.

Mr Cleever smiled suddenly. "You're different, Michael, but you're not unique. Go ahead, take a look. I won't mind."

And in that sudden moment of confusion and fear, Michael did what he had been plucking up the courage to do, and looked. But he lacked entirely the arrogant composure he had hoped for, and was instead smitten, for the first time since his awakening in the Pit, with a sense of desperate peril.

He looked. And saw.

Mr Cleever was not a wart-hog, or a dung-beetle. His soul hovered by the mantlepiece, its eyes fixed firmly on Michael, and in that vital instant he knew that it was returning his gaze, sight for sight, and that if he saw, it saw too. The eyes were small and red and sparked like gemstones, and bored into him with a hungry intentness of purpose which sent a sick feeling coursing through his stomach. These eyes were set in a surface as dark and thick as treacle, with just the thinnest streaks of colour and brightness fighting free of the broiling darkness, only to be subsumed again in a moment.

And the shape was that of a reptile. It had a long thrusting blunt snout pointing right at him, and there were teeth all along the side of it, sharp and horribly even. And in a strange way, it seemed to Michael that the smile was superimposed exactly on Mr Cleever's own ordinary smile, and that the two were in no way different. The head was quite smooth, except for two lumps high up near the back, close together and extending into the hazy light which surrounded the form.

Then the mouth opened, and Michael saw the red interior flare as Mr Cleever's voice said: