Darkwater

sixteen

“Where 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.”