The White Devil (16 page)

He nodded at their questions, faked a smile at Fawkes, and climbed the stairs to his room. Each step brought him closer to unconsciousness: a warm, welcoming, drowsy feeling, like the sleep arctic explorers reportedly feel as they slip into a freezing death. And now he did not have the strength to deny what he did feel down below: the lustrous atmosphere of physical desire, so overwhelming as to be sickening. An overdose of furtive pleasure in that cistern room.

BACK IN HIS
room, undressing, he swam in unbidden associations.

If any fellow bully you I’ll thrash him if I can

Andrew saw the prefect’s bath.

It is steamy here
.

A white-haired boy rises from the water: pale, perfect, fragile, his pectorals shapely but soft. His skin slick. He rises, coming for him. . . .

Andrew staggered and lay down. He needed to go to bed. Didn’t feel well. He drowsed in the fading light, forgetting supper, only distantly aware of the crunching gravel and chatter below his window, the sound of boys heading to dining hall.

And at last it came when the sun faded. The breathing. Undoubtedly real now. The moisture and motion of lips, inches from his ear. Panting, desirous, ragged. Andrew wrestled with his senses for a few seconds, resisting—
I am alone in the room
, he recited,
there is nobody here
—but he could not stop it. He could not move his limbs. He could not escape, and did not have the will to, anyway. He lay there, in his boxers, passive and as full of dread as a drugged prisoner awaiting captors.

You came for me.

A hand gripped his chest, icy cold. Andrew convulsed, gasped, his back arching
am I being attacked or caressed is this fear or some kind of
he could not say it, some kind of thrill, an involuntary moan. The cold spread from his chest, penetrating his thorax. It swelled inside him. He let go.

He heard it first.

The thundering noise he had heard—when? In that dream. Weeks ago.

Hrr hrr hrr hrr hrr hrr

The one where he had woken screaming.

The sound changed.

Krch . . . krch . . .

Hrr hrr hrr hrr hrr hrr

He had at first thought it was some external noise, a crashing or a booming, like he was being overtaken by a thunderstorm. Now he realized it was something else. Something smaller, more ordinary, only tremendously amplified:

The breathing he heard on the Hill.

The baying gurgle of the gaunt white-haired boy.

Only closer. No, not just closer.
Inside
.

Hrr hrr hrr hrr hrr hrr . . .
inhale

Krch . . . krch . . .
exhale

And then the vision came.

He is back in the stairwell.

The thin red carpet is the same. The spindly railing, the candles.

He rounds the corners of the stairwell. He is climbing, vigorously. The noise continues. The light is dim.

He is hot, angry. Lubricated with sweat. He is ready to do something terrible but so exciting he trembles. No time to stop. He turns the last corner.

The figure.

There he is.

Like last time. Standing at the end of the corridor.

There are many doors here, at regular intervals. The figure leans forward, toward one of the last ones, at the end. It is an odd gesture.

There must be a key tied around his neck,
Andrew concludes
. He is unlocking a door.

The figure straightens, opens the door, and enters.

Andrew’s chest tightens seeing the figure disappear through the door. Andrew lunges forward to follow.

Is it the right door?

He knocks. The noise grows louder.

To his delight, the door pushes open under his hand. It had not been relocked. His heart pumps.

Andrew steps inside. He looks around the room—a bedroom, with a small writing desk and a washbasin in the corner. It is hazy in the premature twilight, shaded by heavy drapes.

The figure is there. Turns, surprised.

Oo
’er you?

Andrew freezes. For a split second the notion comes to him:
he cannot kill another person
. Then the notion is gone. In two steps he’s on him. Andrew reaches for his throat. A quick cry of protest. Andrew’s fingers clutch the larynx and squeeze. His own lips bare his teeth. He surrenders to a primitive, animal pleasure—
fighting winning
—until the real battle begins. A person does not give up life so easily. He scarcely notices the face: boyish, fine-featured, pretty, made ugly by the struggle.

The boy thrashes. A swat close to the boy’s eye draws blood. A new strategy: the boy flings himself backward. A table goes over.

Someone will hear!

Andrew casts about for a way to end it faster. He sees the answer: a pillow on the bed. He snatches it. Puts his weight on the figure

How light and small he is

and shoves the pillow over his face. Now comes the kicking. Flailing. Knees and fingernails. Andrew grits his teeth. His fingers and arms are numb. The vigor is draining from him. He cannot hold on much longer. He puts all his weight on the pillow. Slowly, the thrashing yields to twitching. Andrew leans in and presses.

Cannot give up

Then the twitching ceases.

Finally—stillness.

He rolls off the body, spent. Sweat slicks his face, neck. His gasps threaten to split his chest. That terrible thunder comes louder than ever. He coughs. It racks his ribs and tears at his throat. But the struggle is over.
The face
. He must see it. He staggers to the window, pulls the curtains back. The room swells with a white glow. He grips the corner of the grey, worn linen pillow. He tugs.

ANDREW SAT UP,
clamping both his hands over his mouth, suppressing a scream.

He could not let them hear him again. They would think—they would know—he’d gone crazy.

I am seeing it again.

It was as if Andrew was growing closer and closer to the real event.

My God this time I saw the whole thing.

Not just saw it. Did it.

He was that much closer to what had really happened. A strangulation. Or, technically, suffocation. Just like he had seen with Theo, on the hill.

It was as if the white-haired boy, John Harness, had dragged him halfway to the Lot of another time. Andrew’s existence in twenty-first-century Harrow suddenly seemed tremulous. It was as if—the walls to the cistern room opened—it had become so much easier for Harness to drag him all the way down, down into that cold dank room

that’s what he wants

and maybe not just the cistern room, maybe farther below, maybe into that hole and into whatever black hell produces faces like the one he saw on the hill

gaunt sunk-eyed

full of rage, full of a regretful horror at its own actions

it’s why he is showing me, he can’t even stomach it himself.

Andrew’s shirt was sweat-soaked. A chill seized him. He wrapped himself in his damp sheets, and he shook.

PIERS FAWKES ANSWERED
his door in jeans, a white T-shirt, and bright green, elbow-length rubber gloves on both hands.

“I’m not sure I’ve come to the right house,” said Dr. Kahn after a stunned pause.

“Judy, come in.”

Night had fallen. Orange streetlights had engulfed the Hill. The scent of cooking oil and beer were borne by a crisp autumn breeze sweeping the Hill. A nice night to be out. No rain.

Dr. Kahn unwrapped her scarf and entered Fawkes’s apartment. Then she turned around in place, unbelieving. The floor had been mopped. The ashtrays had been emptied—and washed. The magazines and newspapers had been stacked. The dirty plates were no more to be seen, and beyond, in the kitchen, stood rows of dishes in a drying rack, and a bucket and mop. The stereo thumped a song by the Police, high-pitched and driven.

“Now I’m certain this is the wrong house,” she repeated. “What’s gotten into you? Is someone coming for a visit?”

“Sir Alan Vine.” He held her gaze. “I’m on probation.”

“You’re joking.”

He shook his head.

“They’re not blaming you for the boy dying?”

“Not directly, of course. But if I had been more vigilant . . .”

“That’s horribly unfair!”

Fawkes shrugged, turned down the music, and went to the kitchen to put on a kettle. Dr. Kahn flung her coat on the sofa and followed him.

“Who did it—Jute?”

“Who else.”

“Why did he wait so bloody long, then?” she said, indignantly. “It’s been weeks.”

“There were other contributing factors of more recent vintage.”

“Such as?” she asked.

“Let’s see . . . the fact that I smashed down the walls of my own house, and frightened the boys.”

“Yes, I received your message.”

“Were you able to find out anything?” he asked. He went to retrieve a box of tea bags from the cabinet. Dr. Kahn watched as his hands shook violently.

“Piers, are you ill?” she interrupted. “Shall I come back another time?”

He looked at her in surprise. “No, not ill. Please, stay.” His expression turned plaintive.

“All right. Well. I did some cursory reading,” she said. “The Lot is actually constructed around the core of the old house. On the same spot. It was done a hundred and fifty years ago, to save money on demolition and reconstruction, I suppose. What you found is no doubt part of that original house.”

“So this is not a discovery,” he said, disappointed.

“Still, it’s fascinating. I’d like to see it.”

“Jute thinks I’m spreading hysteria.”

“Hm,” she said, taking another look at Fawkes and his spotless kitchen, which had scrubbing powders and paper towels and garbage bags flung about. “I’m still trying to understand all this cleaning, Piers. You’re not yourself.”

Fawkes flung open one of his cabinets and stood aside to show his guest that the white wood box stood empty. “Notice anything?”

“I notice nothing.”

“Exactly. This cabinet used to contain gin, vodka, eau de vie, whiskey, bitters . . . calvados . . . Filfar . . .” He took in Dr. Kahn’s questioning look. “My sobriety was called into question,” he explained.

She pursed her lips. “I see.”

“I know, I know. You’ve been warning me.”

“Jute said this.”

“He said the boys were noticing.”

“Did he suggest some sort of program?”

Fawkes snorted. “Jute is not the program type.”

“No.”

“He said we must uphold professional standards. He wants me out, obviously.” Fawkes slammed the cabinet door shut. “So I’m stopping.”

“Stopping drinking!” she declared. “You?”

“Don’t make fun, Judy. I’m about to fucking fall apart as it is.” He put a hand to his forehead and used the other to lean against the counter. “I feel like a badly made toy. Like I’m about to
sproing
all over, my gears falling out . . . like I’m held together by tape.”

“Your metaphors are suffering as well,” she observed wryly, but he gave her such a mournful glance that she broke into a pitiful laugh. “Oh, Piers, I’m only teasing. I’m relieved. You were drinking far too much. You would have been dead by sixty.”

He grunted. “I can’t write.”

“You’ll readjust.”

“I can’t sleep.”

Dr. Kahn chewed her lip. “Piers,” she said at last, in a gentle tone of voice.

“Hm?”

“Your kettle’s boiling.”

“Ah!” Steam had been billowing and frothing from the spout. Fawkes grabbed the kettle and promptly burned his hand. He leapt back, sucking the wound, then thrust it under cold water in the tap. Dr. Kahn calmly turned off the gas and watched her friend in pity.

THEY SAT AT
Fawkes’s kitchen table with two steaming mugs of tea in front of them. Fawkes spooned four teaspoons of sugar into his. Then, after a moment, a fifth. He smoked. He hugged himself with his arms. His foot tapped the floor. He offered Dr. Kahn milk for the third time.

“The fact is, I couldn’t write before, either,” he said suddenly.

Dr. Kahn waited.

“I was frozen on the bloody play for nine months. Not until the American showed up did I have the slightest whisper of inspiration.”

“Why him?”

“He’s the picture of Byron! Well, Byron at that age. Angry, needy. Also, there’s something . . .
skittish
about him. Have you noticed? Like if you don’t feed him the exact morsel of attention he needs, he’ll fall apart. Do you know what I mean?”

She nodded. “At the library, two nights ago, he became quite unhinged.”

“He’s got me back on track, somehow. Like giving me a sitter, to paint.
Emotionally Starved Orphan.
Oil on canvas.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Hm?”

“Why do you think meeting Andrew inspired you?”

“The ghost story, for one thing. He told you?”

“He did.”

“What did you think?”

“Credible,” she said after a pause.

Fawkes gave her a look of surprise.

“I felt something strange when I came home the other night,” she said, explaining herself. “When you called. It was extremely unpleasant.”

“You, too?” Fawkes described what he and Andrew had experienced in his study. “I wondered if it was just me. Just us.”

“Us meaning . . . ?”

“Andrew and me.”

“Hm,” she grunted. Then ventured: “I think there’s another reason why Andrew Taylor is inspiring you.”

“What’s that?”

“I think he’s a reflection of you. Because you’re the one who’s emotionally starved.”

“Are you going to psychoanalyze me?”

“Why did you start drinking so much?” she countered.

“Because I’m thirsty,” he said. “Not because I’m starved.”

“Be serious.”

“Because a bloody teenager died in my house!” Fawkes burst out. “Because every family within a hundred miles is emailing me, wanting answers, wanting explanations. Because the head man, and Theo Ryder’s parents, are blaming me! They say,
Oh, sure, it’s an undetectable disease
,” he said, flatly, “
and you’re not a doctor.
But underneath, you can tell. It’s the way they look at you.
Somehow, if you were doing your job right, it wouldn’t have happened.
But of course! How could I have forgotten my Handy Housemaster Undetectable Disease Kit! I could have saved the day!”