The Black Tattoo (2 page)

"I'm afraid," Nick said softly, "that the Scourge has escaped again."
 
He looked up.
 
"We're in trouble."

The grin fell off Raymond's face:
 
a second later, he looked like he'd never smiled in his life.
 
"How?" he said.

"I don't know," said Nick.
 
"I can only assume one of the others must have released it.
 
But one thing's for sure:
 
the Brotherhood's in no shape to handle this as we are.
 
We're... going to need some new recruits."

Surprised, Esme and Raymond exchanged a look.

"Have we time?" asked Raymond.
 
He had never been very good at hiding his emotions, and the skepticism on his face was clear to see.

"No," Nick snapped, "I dare say we don't.
 
But we'd be useless against the Scourge right now, and you know it."

Raymond blinked.

"We... do have young Esme here," he said carefully.
 
He took a step closer to the other man and tried for a smile.
 
"I'll tell you what:
 
I've never trained anyone like her.
 
You should see the way she—"

"Yes," said Nick, "but in case you haven't noticed, there's only one of her, and that's
not going to be enough!
"

His words echoed around the room.
 
Raymond and Esme looked at each other uncertainly.

"I'm sorry," said Nick, "but we simply must have new recruits —
fresh blood
," he added, "as it were."
 
He looked at Esme.
 
"Will you help me?"

"Sure," said Esme.
 
"No problem."

CHARLIE AND JACK

The West End stank in the heat of summer:
 
the smell came up at Jack in waves from the warm, gum-pocked pavement.
 
A police sign of the corner warned in five different languages that thieves were operating near the cash machines — don't let anyone distract you, it said — but Jack had seen the sign plenty of times before, and besides, he was thinking.
 
Any minute now they'd be at the restaurant.
 
If he was going to get any answers about what was going on, then he'd better bite the bullet and ask now.

"Er... Charlie?"

No response.
 
Charlie just kept striding ahead of him.

"Charlie?" Jack repeated.
 
"Charlie, wait!"

Only now, when Jack had shouted, did Charlie stop.

Jack Farrell had known Charlie Farnsworth since they'd been put next to each other on the first day of school; Jack wasn't the kind of person who made friends easily, but he'd been impressed with Charlie straightaway, and they'd been best mates almost ever since.
 
Both boys were now fourteen years old; Charlie was a month older than Jack and an inch and a half taller, and his cheekbones stuck out in a way that Jack's only did if he sucked his cheeks in.
 
Charlie's hair was black as night and just tousled enough, whereas Jack's was blond and fluffy no matter what he did with it.
 
Jack, like Charlie, was wearing black jeans and a blue cotton shirt, unbuttoned and untucked over his white T-shirt — but Jack didn't look... well...
cool
, like Charlie did.
 
All these things were normal —
typical
, in Jack's opinion — and he'd pretty much learned to get used them.
 
But there was something else different about Charlie that day:
 
it was obvious.
 
Every step he took seemed to be filled with a kind of rage.

"Listen," said Jack, "you want to tell me what's going on?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Well," said Jack patiently, "what's the deal with having lunch with your dad?
 
We haven't done that since we were kids."

There was a pause.

Suddenly, Charlie took a deep breath and said, "He's left."

Jack looked at Charlie carefully.
 
"What?"

"He's
left
," Charlie repeated, making an exasperated face.
 
"Look, you know how our answering machine's been on all day lately?
 
That's 'cause the day before yesterday, Dad told me and Mum he was
leaving
— then he
left
.
 
Okay?"

The words had come out in a rush.
 
For a long moment after, there was silence between them.

"Oh, mate..." said Jack.

"Yeah," said Charlie.

"How did it—?"

"At breakfast," said Charlie.
 
"Saturday morning.
 
He comes to wake me up just like normal — right?
 
Only his voice is all funny and he's like, "Come downstairs, there's something we've got to talk about.'
 
So I go downstairs, and Mum's got this... expression on her face..."

Jack could see Charlie was having trouble getting the words out — especially since, at that moment, a group of some forty tourists, all wearing identically ludicrous bright yellow fanny packs, were pushing past on either side of them.

'And Dad says... well, basically... he's going," said Charlie.

"Oh, mate," Jack repeated, uselessly.

"He says he's got this rented flat all sorted out, right?
 
And him and this... woman he met through work are going to live over there for a bit while they work out what to do next.
 
Then he packs a bag of stuff, and, well..."
 
Charlie blinked.
 
"He's gone."

"Mate, I am
so
sorry," said Jack.
 
It sounded feeble, but what else was there to say?

"Mmm," replied Charlie and grimaced.
 
"Listen," he said, "this is going to be the first time I've seen him since... you know."

"Oh, right," said Jack doubtfully.

"Well... I'd really appreciate you, you know, coming in with me.
 
Backing me up a little bit."
 
Charlie was looking at him.
 
"What do you say?"

Suddenly, Jack began to feel awkward.

If Charlie had asked him to watch zombie films with him until four in the morning, he would've agreed like a shot, as always.
 
Splattery team death matches on the Internet?
 
Likewise, sure, no problem.
 
This, however...

"Please," said Charlie.

Jack looked at him.
 
Charlie was his friend.
 
Of course, there was no choice, really.

"Well..."
 
He shrugged.
 
"Okay."

Charlie let out a sigh of relief and put his hand out.
 
They shook.

"Thanks, man."

"Sure."

Charlie's smile faded quickly.
 
"Well," he said, "here goes."

*
       
*
       
*
       
*
       
*

"Charlie," said Mr. Farnsworth, standing up as soon as he saw his son.
 
He took a couple of steps across the room toward him, his arms opening for a hug — then he caught sight of Jack.
 
His eyes widened for a moment:
 
his smile stayed in place, but Jack knew, at that instant, that he shouldn't have come.

"And Jack!" said Mr. Farnsworth, letting his hands fall to his sides.
 
"Good to see you.
 
Come and sit down:
 
the duck's on its way."

They sat.
 
There was a very long silence.

"So..." said Mr. Farnsworth.
 
"How are things at home?"

"Not great," said Charlie, "since you ask."

There was more silence for a moment as Mr. Farnsworth waited to hear whether Charlie had anything to add to this.
 
Charlie didn't.

"And... how's your mum?"

"How do you think?"

Jack looked up from his plate to sneak a glance at Charlie's dad, but Mr. Farnsworth noticed, so he had to stare quickly down again.
 
Jack heard him take a deep breath.

"Charlie," he began, "I—"

The waiter glided up with the Peking duck.

The small round straw box of pancakes arrived first, together with the dish of hoisin sauce and the plate of spring onions and cucumber.
 
These were followed by the duck itself, which the waiter proceeded to mash into shreds with quick, well-practiced movements.
 
This only took about thirty seconds, but to Jack, with Charlie and Mr. Farnsworth sitting there in silence, it felt like much longer.

"Right," said Mr. Farnsworth brightly, once the waiter had left.
 
He rubbed his hands.
 
"Who's going first?"
 
When nobody answered, he lifted the lid on the pancake box and offered it across the table:
 
"Jack?"

Well, Jack wasn't made of stone...

"Thanks," he said.
 
He took a pancake and spread a thin layer of the rich, sweet plum sauce across it with a teaspoon.
 
Charlie took one too.
 
Jack noticed a quick smile of relief on Mr. Farnsworth's face at this.
 
Obviously he saw it as an encouraging sign.

"So, Jack," said Charlie's dad, turning heavily toward him, "how're things with you?
 
Got any plans for the summer?"

"Er, nothing much," Jack said.
 
He wanted to look at Charlie, to take his cue for how to speak to Mr. Farnsworth from him.
 
Luckily, he had his pancake to work on.

"You still skateboarding much?"

"Dad, that was
years
ago," said Charlie.

"Oh," said Mr. Farnsworth.

By now, Jack's first pancake was ready to eat.
 
He'd laid out just the right proportion of cucumber, spring onion, and mashed-up duck on top of the sauce, and he'd successfully rolled the whole thing up into the proper cigar shape.
 
He lifted it to his lips and took a bite:
 
it was delicious.

"That's a very neat job you've done of that," said Mr. Farnsworth.

"Thanks," managed Jack through his mouthful.
 
"Peking duck's one of my favorites."

Mr. Farnsworth smiled at him.
 
Jack smiled back uncertainly.

Then Charlie threw his pancake down on the table.

"Dad,
why did you do it?
" he asked.

It was hot and bright in the restaurant, especially next to the window where they were sitting.
 
Slowly, Mr. Farnsworth put down his pancake.

"Charlie," he said wearily.

"Yes?"

"Well..." prompted Mr. Farnsworth, "don't you think... ?
 
You know, with Jack here?"

"Why not?" said Charlie, in a voice that made Jack squirm in his seat.
 
"I want him to hear this too."

Mr. Farnsworth sighed.
 
Then he dabbed at his lips with his napkin, spread it back across his lap, and looked up at Charlie again.

"All right," he said, and he took a deep breath.

"Your mother and I..." he began.
 
"Well... we've never been really happy."

Now Jack
really
didn't know where to look.
 
He certainly wasn't going to look at Charlie or Mr. Farnsworth, so he was reduced to fidgeting with his pancake.
 
It was ridiculous and horrible at the same time — but suddenly he couldn't help wondering if he just had to sit there, or if it was okay for him to take another bite.
 
Peking duck was his favorite, after all.

"I tried to make it work," said Mr. Farnsworth, staring earnestly at his son.
 
"I tried to keep it going, for as long as I could.
 
But, well..."
 
He shrugged.
 
"I'm not getting any younger.
 
And when the chance came up for me to be really
happy
, I had to take it.
 
Do you see?"

Charlie's mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he got his words out.
 
His voice, when it came, sounded high and strangely muffled.

"But you left," he said, "so... suddenly."

Mr. Farnsworth sighed again.
 
"Charlie, there's—"

"'Never a good time for something like this.'
 
Yes, you said."

Mr. Farnsworth blinked, surprised.

"Good for who, though?" asked Charlie, his voice getting louder.
 
"Good for who?"

"Charlie—

"Mum was happy.
 
She thought you were happy.
 
We were happy!
 
And all the time you were... making
arrangements
."

"Charlie—"

"Do you have any idea how stupid you've made us feel?"

"Now, Charlie," said Mr. Farnsworth, "you've got a right to be angry..."

Charlie said nothing.
 
Jack looked from his friend's expression to the last of the pancake — the perfect, mouth-size morsel of duck, rich sauce, and crisp, pale green vegetables.
 
Slowly, he put it down.

"But you've got to let me make things right between us," Mr. Farnsworth was saying.
 
"Charlie, you've got to understand that nothing's really changed between me and you,
nothing
.
 
And if you'll just—"

"And I want
you
to understand," Charlie cut in, in a voice that made his father stop dead, "that I am never,
ever
going to forgive you for this.
 
Do you understand that?
 
Never
."