Sea Change (10 page)

Chapter
Nine

After lunch
John walked up to the cliff and over the fields to the orange tape
and the council signs that warned of land slide and danger. There
was a ragged brown scar along the edge of the cliff, as if a giant
had just taken a huge bite from it. Just behind the land slip, the
ground rose up in a low hummock, but the front of that hummock was
gone, dropped down into the sea and leaving nothing but raw wet
earth.

John heard the
sea boom as it hit the bottom of the cliff, and he thought he felt
the ground shiver under his feet, just a little bit. You're
imagining it, he thought. But then stones rattled from the cliff
edge, and a little bit more of the land was lost to the sea.

Clouds had
crept in, taking what little warmth there had been from the air.
John shivered, pulled his jacket a little closer around him, and
walked away from the cliff top, back down towards the village. It
felt as if there was a storm coming. The air had gone very still,
very quiet, and the world pressed in close around him.

He came to a
junction between two alleys and paused, trying to remember which
one to take.

"John," a voice
said behind him, "John," and John stopped where he was, frozen in
fear by the rustling sound of old paper, and the smell that
reminded John of underground places, of cellars and caves where
everything smelt of damp and the decay.

"Leave me
alone," he said. “Please.”

"I asked you to
help me, and you abandoned me. I told you that I needed you and you
ignored me. What kind of way is that for a boy to treat a poor old
man?" The voice was wheedling, full of sugar, and it made John feel
sick.

"I don't care,"
John said. "I don't want to help you."

"What you
want—child—is not at issue here." The voice was hard now, sharper,
as if it could cut. "You have a gift, John, and I need you to use
that gift to get me what I want. If you do—" again the voice lapsed
into cloying sweetness—"My name is Elias, John. I can be your
friend. Your defender. I will give you everything you could want.
Respect. Power over those that hurt you. Wouldn't you like that,
John? Power to make those that punch you stop, and hold their heads
in agony. Power to make those that make fun of you instead run
screaming from you. Wouldn't you like that? The power to make sure
that you do not become another Alex.”

"Don't say his
name." John didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to see the old man,
because he remembered from the first time how wrong he looked, how
his thin limbs twitched and skittered like an insect.

“Do not try and
command me, child. Do not argue with me. Do not tell me that you
will not do what you want, because then you will end up just like
him John, and I'll be there, all the time, behind you, whispering
in your ear, telling you that you are just as worthless as him
whispering to you jump, jump, look down on the water and think of
how it would feel to be this scared, this miserable, this alone for
another sixty worthless painful years, jump, John, jump." John felt
dizzy, as if he was very high up. The voice seemed closer,
whispering in his ear. "But imagine what you could do if I just
gave you a little of my power, John. Revenge on those who hurt you.
The power never to be hurt again. Don't you want that John? Don't
you want that?"

John did want
that, very much. The word ‘no’ hovered in his mind, but it was
blurred, and the cold that rose like a tide froze it out before it
could form. I could make Parker feel like this, John thought, I
could make all of them feel like this. I could pay them back for
all that they did to me, I could pay them back for Alex. He opened
his mouth to say yes to Elias, but then John thought: and I will be
just like them, just like him, they are the same as him. As he
thought that, the cold pulled back from him, a rapid and violent
thaw that left John shaking but in control of himself, the thick
confusion lifted from his head. Nothing controlled his limbs,
nothing deadened his thoughts, there was nothing but the sick
feeling of fear and the pounding of his heart, but John clung to
those because they were real, they were his own. He took one step
forwards, one step away from Elias, one step towards the old
familiar world.

"What are you
doing, boy? Don't you dare!" John stood there, caught between two
worlds. "Do
not
walk away from me. I knew you had power,
that is why I chose you, but you surprise even me. Do not make the
mistake, though, of thinking that it means that you can defy me,
because if you do I will show you what power really is, and then
you will be sorry. Briefly.”

Do I want to be
like him? John thought. This is what having what he promises would
do to me. It would eat away at my heart and make me just like
him.

He took another
step, and was surprised that he could. I have more power than he
realises, John thought. So use it. He walked away.

"Don't walk
away from me!" All the sweetness had gone from the old man's voice
now. It was harsh like pebbles dragged along the beach, dry like
the bones of time, rotten like the crumbling fungus of a woodland
floor. "I will not let you walk away from me!"

"You are
nothing," John said as he walked away. "You are nothing you are
nothing you are nothing."

"One last
time," the voice behind him shrieked. "One last chance. Use your
gift to serve me. I command you, John, I
command
you. Serve
me now, or be dragged into a darkness from which you will never
return.”

John did not
trust his voice not to wobble and break if he replied, so he just
stuck two fingers up over his shoulder as he walked away. He
expected more shouting and shrieking, but there was none, just
silence. He kept on walking, and then Elias spoke again, quietly,
but his voice carried as if he were standing right next to John,
whispering in his ear.

"So be it," he
said, and then he spoke more, but John could not understand what
the words were. He could hear the rhythm of them though, non-stop,
again and again, like the sound of the waves on the shore. He had
turned a corner but the sound was still with him, so much so that
he looked back over his shoulder to see if the old man had followed
him, but there was no-one there, nothing behind him except for the
darkness and the words, quiet and terrible.

The world began
to slow down. The air itself curdled, becoming thick and heavy, and
tugging at his legs as he tried to walk. The light changed too, as
if everything was taking place underwater. The air thickened more
around him and all colour faded from the world.

John kept on
walking. His throat was dry and his hands wanted to shake so badly
that he clenched them into fists and dug the nails into the palms
of his hands, but he kept on walking.

"Now find out
what real power is," the voice whispered, as if it was next to
John's ear. He looked back and saw the old man standing not far
behind him, moving his hands over and around one another, making
shapes in the air. A cloud formed between his hands, as if
something were burning and giving off streams of thick black smoke.
The cloud curled and twisted out lazy fingers. They groped around
aimlessly for a moment, and then started to make a steady progress
towards John.

John could see
darker shapes within the cloud, as if it contained something that
was writhing, moving. He stood, spellbound. Then he saw movement
out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head with an effort
and saw the black dog. It stood at the far end of the alley, as if
it were waiting for him.

John ran.

He ran towards
the dog, and it leapt into motion ahead of him. Every few paces he
snatched a quick glance over his shoulder. The mist rolled and
surged behind him, but he was just ahead of it. For how long, he
did not know.

He rounded
another corner and the dog was not there, but when he looked behind
him he could not see the mist either. John came stumbling to a
halt, leaning his back against the wall, his chest heaving, a
painful burning with every ragged breath. His legs were shaking,
every muscle trembling. He felt sick, but fought it back. In his
mad flight, he hadn't seen a single person. Where was everybody?
The village was deserted.

For a moment he
thought of knocking at the door of the house whose wall he was
leaning on, and if no-one was there the next house, or the house
after that, but he knew that he could knock at every door on the
street, and no-one would answer. The world was not the world that
he had lived in all of his life, and when the old man was extending
his influence upon it nothing could be taken for granted. Besides,
John thought. If I did knock on a door and somebody was there to
answer, what could I say to them? They'd think I was playing a
practical joke, or that I was disturbed and out of my mind.

It's down to
me, John knew. It's all down to me. The idea did not strike him as
strange; he had never been able to tell anyone about the bullying
at school, not his mum and dad, not his teachers, and in many ways
it was like what he was now experiencing: another world which ran
in parallel alongside the real world that everybody else knew,
another world of fear, constant nagging fear, when there was nobody
to turn to, nobody to trust or tell. The revelation struck him like
a physical blow. This isn't different, he thought, this isn't
different at all, it's just more of the same, and here I am,
running again. Only difference is that this time there's no Alex to
deflect the bully's attention, it's all me, there's going to be
nobody else who takes the heat, nobody else who will occupy the
enemy while I get away.

Which might
leave me another Alex, he thought, but then he pushed it away,
refusing to think like that. I will not, he said to himself, in his
mind at first but then out loud. I will not, I will not, I will
not. I'm sick of running, I'm sick of giving in, of hiding instead
of fighting. No more, John thought. No more. This is where I can
find something in myself that will let me live with what happened.
This is where I can turn and fight. I can find out who Elias is,
how he does what he does, what kind of thing he is. If I do that, I
can find a weakness in him. I can find knowledge, John thought to
himself. I can find knowledge, I don't know how but I will, and
that knowledge will give me power, and when I have power enough I
will find him, and I will beat him.

He looked back
around the corner, but there was nothing there.

John walked
back down into the village, still catching his breath, looking
behind him every few steps. Then there was a noise in front of him
and he spun round, startled.

An elderly man,
muffled up in a thick jumper and a reefer jacket despite the warm
day, was shutting the door of his cottage, fumbling with a key in
the lock. He took the handle of a small tartan shopping trolley and
weaved his way down the street. The air around John had lost its
glassy thickness and he knew that for now, it was over. There were
limits to the old man’s power, John realised. There must be places
that he could not reach, or perhaps there was only so long he could
sustain his influence on the world.

See, John
thought, if I can only find out why, then there's knowledge,
there's a weapon, there is something that I can use. He walked down
into the village, gulping in the sounds and sights and smells of
the real world. A green skip in the alley behind the fish and chip
shop stank of grease. He passed a house that had its windows open
and heard a couple arguing about money.

"Every hour,"
the man said. "Every bloody hour at a job that I hate, and where
does all the money go?"

"And you think
I spend the day sitting watching the telly? You think the
children's clothes wash themselves and your meals cook
themselves?"

John walked on,
and heard the gulls following a fishing boat into the calm blue of
the harbour. He walked down to the harbour wall and looked back.
The village clung to the hill, beautiful and ordinary, its beauty
for John more in the ordinariness of the place than in its picture
postcard good looks. Everything that had just happened seemed like
a dream, absurd.

But John was
sure that he was not mad, and he knew that what had happened was as
real as the whitewashed walls and the sloping red roofs. I've only
got two choices, he thought. I can run. I can go home early, leave
here tomorrow, tell Laura I need to get back to see mum and dad. Or
cower in the shop with Laura, and never wander the village on my
own.

Or there’s a
third choice, he thought. There is a third. I can stay, and I can
fight.

John looked
down into the water that kissed and slapped at the harbour wall,
listened to the screech and caw of the seagulls that bickered and
fought on the roofs of the buildings behind him, but he saw none of
it, heard none of it, was aware of no place other than an ordinary
corridor, chipped and scuffed beige walls, a row of battered
lockers, the smell of sweat and old trainers.

Run or fight,
John, he thought to himself. What's it going to be this time? The
old man was something beyond Parker, beyond anything he had
imagined, beyond anything that he could explain to anyone who might
help him. He couldn't talk to anyone. He didn't have the first idea
how to defy him, and the thought of what might have been rolling
and reaching within that chill grey mist made the hairs on the back
of his neck stand up. But I got away, John thought. I beat him.
This time. And I'm not alone. I don't know what the dog is or what
it wants from me, but it helped me.

He heard
Parker's voice saying "Run away, little boy, this doesn't concern
you," and then Elias’s papery whisper telling him that he had just
one choice: to do as he was told, or to be nothing. And leaning on
the iron railings of the harbour wall, looking down into the water,
he thought of what it must have been like standing on the edge of
the great iron bridge across the river at home, waiting to take
that long jump down into the cold, dark water of the river.