Darkwater (9 page)

fifteen

F
or five minutes he sweated and prowled among the houses, sick with fear. Finally, with a great effort, he managed to get himself to the door and turn the handle. There was a bell on the door; it jangled.

The shop smelled of Christmas trees, polish, cabbages, chewing gum. Its fluorescent lights flickered and hummed.

Steve Tate was lounging by the cash register. The other two were leaning over some magazine, giggling, until the small one, Mark, looked up and nudged his friends. Instantly Steve was on his feet. “Well! Look who's crawled in. Little Tom Thumb.”

The name hit Tom like a blow. They'd called him that since they were all kids. He'd been small then; he wasn't now. But they knew how much he hated it.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

It was a mistake. Steve went wide-eyed. “Touchy, isn't he?”

Mark grinned and the big one, Rob, came over and blocked the way through the shop.

“Can we help you?” he asked sarcastically.

Tom's heart sank. He glanced past. The post office counter was empty; he could hear Steve's dad rummaging for something in the storeroom at the back. Simon had vanished. He was on his own.

“No. Thanks.” He even felt small; his whole self
shriveling up inside. His voice went tight and scared. He hated himself for trying to sound friendly. “I've just got to get this posted, that's all.”

He stepped to one side; Rob stepped with him, as if in some ludicrous dance.

“I'll weigh it for you,” he said.

He snatched the package, tossed it to Steve.

Tom swung around, despairing. “Be careful!”

“Why? Fragile, is it? Watch it, Mark, it's fragile.” Steve juggled the small box from hand to hand, then threw it to Mark, who only just caught it, slamming back into a shelf of cans and sending a few rolling down the aisle. Tom felt sick, though he knew there was nothing breakable in the box. Hot and humiliated, he let his mind grope miserably after Simon, but there was no one there.

“Come on,” he said, managing a weak smile. “Let's have it.”

“Did you hear that?” Steve came out from behind the counter. “He's asking for it, boys.”

Tom froze. Cold chilled his back. The other two were idiots, but Steve was worse. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Years ago, just for the hell of it, he'd pushed Tom down the old tin shaft out on the moor. The terror of that fall flashed over him now, the black sludge, his head bleeding, the way he'd curled in the corner and sobbed. He'd been lucky not to have broken his back.

That was then. He raised his head and looked at Steve's eyes. They were pale blue and cold. He was grinning.

“Not like you to come in here, Tom. Thought you were too keen on the old schoolbooks. Think yourself a bit above us, don't you.”

“Don't be stupid.”

The shop door clanged. A blond girl with a backpack came in and looked at them. Then she went around to the groceries. Tom almost let the relief show.

Steve stepped closer. “Like those snobs up at the Hall. Bet you'd like it up there, Tommy. Pity your mother's just the cleaner.”

Rob snorted. But the door at the back opened and Mr. Tate came in. “Right. Who's next?”

There was silence.

Then Steve took the package and threw it back to Tom. “He is.” He came up and rumpled Tom's hair and whispered in his ear. “See you later, bright boy.”

Tom pushed past. It was better to say nothing. Dumping the hated package on the scales, he pulled out some money and counted the slithering coins out blindly, feeling his face heat up as if it were swollen or had been slapped.

“One sixty.” Mr. Tate tore stamps out of the book.

Tom glanced in the convex mirror, nervous. The girl was watching him. Behind the rows of soup and baked beans she was watching his back thoughtfully, and then she turned and took four cans to the shop counter. “Do you cut keys?” she asked.

Carelessly jabbing the cash register buttons, Steve nodded.

“Thanks.” Tom shoved the package across and headed for the shop counter quickly. He had to get the rest of the stuff while there were people here. But to his despair he saw Steve's dad glance around and go back outside.

Grabbing the potatoes and some margarine from the fridge he dumped it hastily next to the girl's cans. She glanced at him as she took a bill from a small velvet purse. But she'd go, wouldn't she. And he'd be left with them. Steve was already counting her change. Tom felt Rob come close behind him. Something tapped him on the back of the head.

The girl put the cans in her backpack. Then she swung it onto her back and put her hands in her pockets. She took out a pair of blue woolen gloves and pulled them on. Slowly.

Tom slapped his money down. Straight-faced, Steve punched the cash register buttons, then tutted. “Oh dear. Done it wrong.” He smiled. “Bear with me.”

His back wet with sweat, Tom gave the girl a quick glance. She looked away, and put her hands in her pockets.

But she didn't go.

Steve stared at her. “Anything else?”

The girl eyed him. She was their age, but her look had a straight confidence. “I'm waiting for him. Hurry up and serve him.”

Steve's surprise turned to instant mockery. “Fancy him, do you? Didn't know you had it in you, Tommy.” Tom pushed the money at him, grabbed the potatoes, and said, “Keep the change.” He was desperate to get out, but the girl said, “Oh no. You give him his change. Come on.”

The cash drawer sprang open. Steve glared at it. He pretended to pick up coins, but the girl said, “Stop fooling around. Bit of a jerk really, aren't you.”

Tom went cold.

Steve looked at her, and put the pound coin deliberately on the newspapers. “You'll wish you hadn't said that,” he whispered.

She smiled. “I'm terrified.”

“Come on.” Tom lunged for the door and dragged it open, the bell clanging. Cold wet air engulfed him like a welcome; he ran into it, down the steps, chilled with sweat.

The girl followed more slowly. She walked after him around the corner and found him leaning against the wall of the garage, breathing hard. “You shouldn't let them mess you around.”

He stared down the lane. “I don't.”

“Liar. I could see.”

“I can handle them. They were just . . .”

“They crushed you. Made you feel like nothing.” She pushed her short, bleached hair behind one ear. “You have to face them down.”

“That's easy for you to say,” he breathed, furious.

She looked at him. “Yes. Maybe it is.”

At once he saw Simon. Or rather his reflection, in the grimy garage window. Beyond the walls of the holiday cottage opposite, just sitting there. And waving, sadly.

Tom started to walk, fast. The girl walked with him.

At the stile he stopped. “I go across here.”

“Do you?” Interested, she looked over the field. “You live in the back lane?”

“Martha's cottage,” he said, without knowing why.

The girl seemed startled. “Is it still called that? I used to live there.”

“You can't have.” Tom hefted the potatoes. “We've always lived there.”

The girl laughed, amused, and walked away up the lane. “Always,” she said drily. “That's a very long time.”

sixteen

“W
here the hell were you?”

Tom scrambled furiously down the cliff path, with Simon slithering behind. “They were all in there!”

“I know . . .”

“I just felt so useless! I never know what to say. How to come up with something that'll make Tate think I'm more than some worm under his shoe.” Hot with humiliation he jumped down the last steps and pushed through the gorse. Its coconut smell rose around him, the branches whipping back, spiny and sharp.

Behind him, Simon muttered, “You know how it is. I'd be there . . .”

Tom stopped and turned. “Sometimes I think you just keep away for the hell of it.”

In the silence gulls cried. A flock of oystercatchers down on the tide line picked at the surf, making small runs and starts of movement.

“I'm not even alive,” Simon said drily. “Remember?”

Slowly, Tom sank down on a rock. His throat felt dry and he was suddenly only too cold, the bleak wind off the sea cutting right through him. “Of course you're alive,” he whispered. “To me you are.”

“Not to anyone else.” Simon sat opposite. He had no coat on. He never needed one.

In the rock pool between their feet their twin reflections blurred and were scattered by rain. Tom reached out and grasped Simon's wrist. It was warm, the flesh firm. “What does alive mean, anyway?” he muttered.

“Living.” Simon shrugged. “Growing.”

“You do that. You're always the same age as me.”

“Maybe I am you. Have you ever thought that? The one you'd really like to be.”

Tom pulled his hand away. “Don't be stupid.”

Simon shrugged again. “If you say so. Anyway, I'm here now, and so are you. Without your head punched in.”

Tom managed a weak smile. He stood up and wandered out onto the sands, hands in pockets, leaving footprints that filled with water in the wet, wobbly surface. “If that girl hadn't come in, it would have been worse.” He picked up a pebble and threw it morosely. “I hate them. All of them.”

“You're scared of them.”

Tom didn't bother to answer. They both knew he walked two miles over the cliff every morning and evening so as not to have to catch the school bus, that he spent lunch hours in the library or the gym with as many friends as he could find. “School's hell,” he muttered.

Simon looked sly. “It wouldn't be if you went to Darkwater Hall.”

Gulls flew up. Turning his head Tom saw someone walking along the tide, scavenging for driftwood. A big man, his hair cropped short, with an earring that glinted and an old, filthy coat tied with rope. A small black terrier ran barking into the waves.

“Who's he?”

Simon shrugged. “Some traveler. He's got a fire up there.”

The man splashed up to them. He smelled of smoke and sweat and beer. “Well,” he said pleasantly. “Tom. I've been waiting a long time to see thee.”

He had one eye missing. It made him look at you oddly.

Tom backed off. “Sorry. I don't know you.”

“No laddie. Not yet.” The traveler hefted his bundle of wood and turned. “But tha will.”

After a second Tom trailed after him. “Are you . . . on the road?”

The man wheezed with laughter. “Aye. And a long road it is too. Long, and paved with good intentions.”

All across the beach he wheezed and coughed, the dog chasing waders joyously. As they came near the cliff, Tom saw a small bright fire made up under an overhang, and a patched tent painted with clumsy sunflowers. Dumping the sticks, the man pulled out some cigarette papers, sat down, licked one, filled and rolled it. Then he lit it and leaned back on a barnacled rock. “I'm back. Make sure you tell her.”

“My mother?”

“No laddie! The girl. Have you seen her yet?”

Tom shook his head, bewildered. “What girl?”

“I can't describe her. She'll be looking different these days. Just tell her the tramp's back and he's got a plan that'll keep her from Azrael's clutches. There's still time for us to do some'at for her. What's the date, lad?”

“Twentieth of December.”

The traveler sucked his teeth. “Eleven days left. We'll work it out, you tell her.” He held out the tin and papers to Tom, who shook his head, wondering if the man was some sort of mental case.

“Probably,” Simon whispered. “Just our luck. Or maybe we could set him on Tate-face.”

Tom grinned. The traveler noticed. His one eye glanced slyly at Tom's left. “'Tis rude to whisper,” he murmured.

Tom stood quickly. A shiver of danger went through him like a cold breeze. Simon was on his feet too.

“He can see me. I know he can.”

If he heard, the tramp took no notice. He puffed a small cloud of smoke out, his good eye watching Tom's white face. “Don't thee forget. Tell her she's done enough legwork for Azrael.”

“Azrael?”

“Aye.” The tramp scowled. “Tha'll find out.”

“I've got to go.” Tom turned, climbing the cliff path hastily. He scrambled up the rocks, grabbing slippery handholds, feeling he was suddenly climbing away from nightmares, from Tate, the old man, even from Simon. For a moment he was alone and he was free, but as the drizzle closed in and he pushed into the wood toward the Hall, Simon came back and they walked silently together.

The shortcut brought them out on the front drive. The driveway had a small rainbow pool of oil where the taxi had waited. Signs in the parking spaces said
HEAD, DEPUTY, STAFF.
Beds of flowers were frost-blackened and untidy, their brown stalks dead.

Above him, Darkwater Hall rose in gables and turrets. He went around to the back door and went in. The passage was flagstoned and cold, so cold he didn't take his coat off but walked quickly down, leaving wet footprints on the stone.

He found his mother in the old servants' hall, now the canteen, pushing the big vacuum cleaner over the carpet. When she saw him she switched it off. The roar died abruptly.

“There you are! I thought you'd changed your mind. Get the shopping?”

He nodded.

His mother was a small, neat woman. Yesterday she'd had her hair cut for Christmas, a short bob. It made her look younger. She wound the flex up briskly. “Don't look so crabby. I've asked Mr. Scrab about you . . .”

“Who?”

She grinned. “The relief caretaker. You'll love him, Tom. Anyway, go up to the library.”

As he turned away she said, “Tom. I know it's not much of a way to spend your holiday.”

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not. But . . . money's tight. With Christmas coming. And you'll be a real help.”

He nodded, and went out.

The hall was silent, its notice boards full of posters. He glanced at them. Football games, rugby. Orchestra practice. Upstairs, rooms that might have once been for titled guests were lined with desks, huge blackboards nailed to the damask panels on the walls. Paintwork was dingy, carved here and there with names. Wooden floorboards creaked under him.

He took a mop and bucket from a cupboard, and in the room opposite saw ranks of expensive computers, silent under dustsheets. Going in, he wandered among them, pausing at the window. Terraced gardens below were blurred by rain.

“You're right,” he muttered. “I'd love to come here.”

Simon was pressing buttons on a keyboard. The screen lit and he moved the text up absently. “It'll never happen unless you ask.”

He knew that. And it was destroying him. For years now it had been his most secret dream, imagined lovingly at night before he slept, or in the worst lessons; the dream of being at Darkwater, where everyone would be intelligent and he would be someone. In the orchestra maybe. Certainly the rugby team. Watched by the girls. Effortlessly getting good grades. Tall, handsome. Respected.

“You don't ask for much,” Simon said drily.

“I could do it. If I came here. And you don't have to pay, it's just passing an exam . . .”

“Then do it. What are you waiting for?”

“Mam wouldn't like it.”

Simon swiveled in the seat. “You've never told her. I think you're scared you'll fail.”

Tom glared. Then he grabbed the mop, walked past him and straight up the stairs, where the rain pattered on the windows and the old paintings of forgotten people watched him in disdain.

The library door was open. Someone was moving inside.

Tom went to the crack, and glanced in.

The long corridor was lined with books. Compared to this, the library at his school was a closet. But the books here always looked dusty and ancient, as if most of them were never looked at. Until now.

A man was leaning over a table, eagerly turning the pages of some vast volume from the back of a shelf; his fine hands smoothed the old sheets as if he loved them, as if they were precious to him.

Tom's foot creaked the floorboard. The man glanced up.

“Sorry.” Tom backed.

“Wait! Please!”

It was the man from the taxi. His hair was black, his narrow face lightly bearded. He wore dark casual clothes with an easy elegance, and as he came forward Tom saw he limped, as if he'd hurt himself.

“You're Tom? Is that right?”

Tom nodded.

The man looked slightly puzzled. “Is there just you?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Well, earlier, I spoke with your mother. She said you'd be kind enough to give me a hand with my equipment.” He smiled, a shy smile, and to Tom's surprise a small black cat jumped up onto the books and rubbed against him. The man picked the cat up and stroked its ears.

“I'm the new chemistry teacher,” he said quietly. “My name is Azrael.”