The Black Tattoo (14 page)

There was a long pause.

Charlie sighed.

"I'm sorry, man," he said.
 
"I didn't mean to have a go at you.
 
I just..."

He turned to face Jack suddenly.

"You know," he announced, "you're my
best mate
."

"What?" said Jack again.

"You're the only one:
 
the
only one
who I know'll stick by me, no matter what.
 
Like at the restaurant," Charlie went on, speaking so fast he was almost babbling.
 
"You know, when you came in with me.
 
I don't think I could've said what I did to Dad if you hadn't been there.
 
In fact, maybe I'd never've been able to tell him how angry I was if it wasn't for... well, if it wasn't for you."

Jack squirmed a bit.
 
Charlie had never spoken to him like this:
 
it was weird.

"Er... sure," he managed.
 
"No problem."

"I can't tell you how happy I am that you're with me on this, man."

"No worries, mate," said Jack, frowning.
 
"You know, whatever."
 
He shrugged.

Apparently satisfied, Charlie turned to look out at the lake again.

"What do you think's wrong with them?" he asked after a moment.
 
"Esme and Raymond, I mean."

"I mean... you
saw
me.
 
Right?" he added, before Jack had time even to think, let alone reply.
 
"I killed the demon!
 
I made fireballs come out of my hands an I burned it to death!
 
Right?"

"Mm," said Jack.
 
"About that?
 
How did you do that?"

"Oh," said Charlie, with a dismissive
fff
ing sound, "that sort of stuff, I don't even have to think.
 
It's just... you know, simple."

"Yeah," said Jack uneasily.
 
"But it sounds like sometimes you sort of
have
to think too.
 
Don't you?"

"What d'you mean?" Charlie shot back, instantly defensive.

"Well, prompted Jack carefully, "they didn't sound too happy with you just now."

"But that's just what I'm saying!" said Charlie.
 
"I mean, I know it must've been a shock for them, all this.
 
Me passing the test and not Esme.
 
Me coming along out of the blue and just whacking this demon when everyone else has been running scared of it for years.
 
I can see that'd be hard to take, 'specially for Esme, with her mum and everything."

"Him," said Jack.

"But, you know, they've got to deal with it!
 
Right?
 
Like tonight, f'rinstance.
 
I mean, I didn't want them to make a big thing out of it, right?
 
Of course not.
 
Not my style.
 
But still, you know, job well done, credit where credit's due — and what do I get?
 
A bollocking!"

Charlie looked out at the lake again.

"Jack, can I ask you something?" he asked suddenly.

"Sure," said Jack.
 
"'Course."

"Do you ever wish that the world just... didn't exist?"

Jack stared at him again.
 
"How d'you mean?"

"Well... all this
stuff
," said Charlie.
 
"The Scourge.
 
The Brotherhood.
 
My
folks
..."

The list was an odd one and Jack might have smiled ifit weren't for what Charlie said next.

"Don't you think it'd be simpler if... none of it was here anymore?"

"Sorry?" said Jack.

"Wouldn't it be better if there was
nothing?
" Charlie asked, turning to face him.
 
"Don't you ever feel like it'd be better if one day everything, the whole universe, just came to an end — pop! — like that?"

Jack looked at him.
 
He didn't really know what to say.

"Sometimes," said Charlie, frowning, "I just feel like... I don't know..."

He bunched his fists.

"Like I want to reach out and smash everything," he said.
 
"Like I want to rip everything up.
 
Tear it to shreds, burn it all down and dance in the ashes.
 
Do you ever feel like that?"

Jack looked at Charlie carefully.

"Not really, mate, to be honest," he said.
 
"No."

Charlie sighed.
 
"Ah, forget it."
 
He grimaced.
 
"Listen, it's late.
 
Mum'll be having kittens.
 
I reckon I'd better just head home by myself."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

Jack looked at his superhero friend and attempted a smile.

"'Faster than a speeding penguin'," he told him.

"Yeah, right," said Charlie, attempting a smile back.
 
"See you."

"See you."

They parted.

Later, Jack would look back at this moment and wonder if he could have done things differently.
 
By this point Charlie was already helpless under the Scourge's influence, but even so, if Jack had said something, if he'd obeyed his instincts telling him that something was badly wrong with his friend and stayed with him until they'd talked things out somehow, then maybe the rest of what was to come might not have happened the way it did.

Now it was too late.

BUTTERFLIES

Esme was most of the way through her third butterfly of the night.
 
Her eyes were tired, and her eyelids were beginning to droop — but as soon as she heard the noise, she was wide awake.

She slid to the ground soundlessly, placing the tray of paints and brushes on the floor.
 
At that moment, the only light in the butterfly room came from the single lamp she'd left glowing in the center of the long table.
 
Crouching well back in the shadows at the far end of the hall, she watched as the double doors swung open, and a dark figure strode in.

"Esme?" said Charlie.
 
"It's me."

"Oh, hi, Charlie," said Esme, stepping slowly out into the light.

Charlie gestured behind himself vaguely:
 
"The, ah, door to the roof was open.
 
Mind if I...?"

"Sure," said Esme.
 
"Come in."

They stood at opposite ends of the table.
 
Charlie put his hands on the back of the chair in front of him.

"Been painting, I see," he began.

"Yeah," said Esme.
 
"There hasn't been much time the last couple of days, so I had a bit of catching up to do."
 
She smiled at him politely.
 
The grin he gave back was very eager.

"Butterflies, he?" he said.

"Yes."

There was a pause.

"What made you choose them?" asked Charlie.
 
"Butterflies, I mean."

Esme, surprised, looked at him for a moment, then shrugged.

"It's partly because there are so many kinds," she said.
 
"Also, they're hard to paint:
 
getting the colors right used to be pretty tough, especially when I was starting out."

"But the main reason," Charlie interrupted, "is that they're like
you
."
 
He grinned.
 
"Aren't they?"

Esme frowned at him.
 
"What do you mean?"

"You've been waiting your whole life to fight the Scourge," said Charlie, his eyes never leaving hers for an instant.
 
"Every day you've been training, preparing, perfecting your skills:
 
you said so yourself."

"Yeah," said Esme.
 
"So?"

"Well, you're like them, aren't you?" said Charlie delightedly, gesturing at the walls.
 
"You're there in your cocoon, waiting to come out.
 
Waiting and waiting — waiting all your life for the moment when you can spread your wings and fly."

For a second, Esme just stared at him.

"What on Earth are you talking about?" she said.
 
"I...just like butterflies, that's all."
 
To her horror, however, she could feel her cheeks beginning to go red.

The thing was, though she'd've died before admitting it... Charlie wasn't entirely wrong.
 
The life cycle of caterpillar to cocoon to butterfly had fascinated Esme ever since Raymond had first explained it to her.
 
It was the reason she had started painting butterflies in the first place, seven long years before.
 
And Charlie knew.
 
He was grinning at her now smugly, pleased with himself for making her lie like that.
 
He
knew
.

"They're beautiful," he said — looking at her.

"Thanks," said Esme, infuriated.

"How many was it again?"

"Five thousand, four hundred and seventy-five," said Esme, "now."

"Wow," said Charlie softly.

Esme took a breath.
 
"Charlie, don't take this the wrong way, but... do you mind if I ask what you're doing here?"

Charlie's grin grew wider.

"Do you like surprises?" he asked.

Esme frowned at him again.

"I don't know," she replied.
 
"It depends."

"Because I had this idea," said Charlie.
 
"A surprise for you.
 
As soon as I thought of it I came straight over."

"That's... nice," said Esme.

"Just you wait," said Charlie, still smiling.
 
His fingers clasped and unclasped on the back of the chair.

"You know," he said, "I was thinking.
 
It's all happened very fast, this whole thing."

"Uh-huh."

"And they way things've been going, you and me haven't really had much of a chance to... get to know each other."

"No," said Esme.
 
"I suppose that's true."

"Well, I don't know about Raymond," said Charlie quickly, "but I think you and me could... get on.
 
You know?"

Esme looked at him.

"I want us to be friends," said Charlie.
 
He shrugged — a study in elaborate casualness.
 
"What do you say?"

His stare was very intense.
 
Esme found herself looking away.

"Sure," she said, shrugging carefully back.

"Great!" said Charlie, delighted.
 
"Great!
 
Well!
 
About that surprise I mentioned..."

"Oh yes."

"It's the classic.
 
You know — you've got to close your eyes.
 
No peeking!"

Esme just looked at him.
 
"What?"

"Come on," said Charlie.
 
"Just close your eyes for a moment."

"Charlie—"

You'll love it!
 
I promise!"

"Well..."

It was odd, but Esme really didn't want to.
 
Still, what could she do?
 
Pursing her lips, she did as she was asked and closed her eyes.

"Now," she heard Charlie say, "just give me a second here."

She heard him take a breath and hold it.
 
then the air in the room seemed to be heating up.

She could feel it from where she was standing.
 
It was as if the atmosphere were thickening or swelling somehow.
 
There was a weird smell, like ozone or hot metal, and the air was crackling with something like electricity:
 
it made her scalp tingle.
 
Esme tried opening her eyes but found, with a shock, that she couldn't.
 
Then—

"
Fffffff
," said Charlie suddenly, as he let out a great breath — and as quickly as it had come, the weird feeling in the air vanished.

"You can open them now," he said.

Esme did and looked around, but the only difference she could see was that Charlie's big, satisfied grin was even bigger and more self-satisfied than before.

"What?" she asked uncertainly.
 
"What am I looking for?"

"Just a second," said Charlie.
 
His eyes were darting little looks around the walls, as if he were searching for something.
 
Then—

"There!" he said, pointing, almost jumping up and down, he was so excited.

Esme looked, and her breath caught in her chest.

On the ceiling above her, one of her butterflies, the one she'd just been painting — was moving.

It was nothing more than a tremble at first.
 
Very faint.
 
But in another moment the unfinished butterfly, one set of markings on the lower part of its right wing still not properly inked in, was twitching convulsively.
 
Its small black body was straining and pulling.
 
One thick powdery wing came free, then another, and then the butterfly was flapping its wings experimentally, each flapping movement revealing the wing-shaped gaps in the surface of the paint underneath.
 
Now, suddenly, the movements were spreading, being followed and imitated all across the ceiling and down the walls.
 
All over the room, all Esme's butterflies, all seven years' worth of them, were rippling and twitching, jerking and straining — and coming free.
 
She looked back at the first one, the unfinished one, just in time to see it tense itself, then leap away from the ceiling.
 
It plummeted like a stone, and Esme thought for a second that it would hit the ground — but then, as if with a heart-stopping effort, the oversized butterfly flapped its wings once, twice — and bobbed back up into the air.