Darkwater

seventeen

“Put that stuff away. You won’t need it.” Azrael came and took the mop and bucket gently from him and dumped them behind a door.

“I thought you wanted . . .”

“Not that sort of work.” The man stood back and looked at him, an almost troubled look. “This is a strange place for a boy of your age, Tom. You should be out with the village boys. Or at least, doing some schoolwork.”

Tom went red.

The cat mewed.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Azrael said at once. “Stupid thing to say.” He seemed embarrassed, turning and putting the book back on its shelf. “I have a terrible habit of interfering; please forget I said it.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes . . . well look, I have to set up my laboratory. I’ve made a start, but I really need an assistant. It’s down here.” He turned and walked quickly down the corridor of books, the cat stalking after him, its tail high.

“A real nutcase,” Simon whispered.

Tom ignored him. Azrael’s remark had stung him. It was right. What on earth was he doing here, scrubbing floors? He should be studying, reading, doing everything he could to get the highest grades, to get away from the stupid hateful Tates. Why did he waste so much of his time?

They came to the doors of the room at the end; a room that was always kept locked, as far as Tom knew. But the dark man took a bunch of keys from his pocket and fit one carefully into the lock.

“I do hope Scrab’s brought everything,” he said thoughtfully.

“Well yer needn’t get yerself in a twist about that.” The testy voice came from behind; Tom turned in alarm.

“All yer junk’s in there. And there’s this great ugly contraption. Gawd knows what yer want with it all.”

A small, round-shouldered man in grubby white overalls was shuffling sideways down the passage. He carried a large domed jar, and his greasy hair was slicked back, leaving a scatter of dandruff on the dusty glass he struggled with. He lowered it wearily to the floor and glared at Tom.

“This the new one?”

“That’s right,” Azrael said quietly.

“Only ’im? I thought there was—”

“Tom,” Azrael said instantly. “Would you mind carrying the jar in for Mr. Scrab? I think he finds it heavy.” He gave a covert glare at the little man and turned, and Scrab shrugged carelessly at his back. “Suit yerself. Just don’t get ringing down for coffee and fancy cakes in this lifetime. Yer’ll get none.”

The jar was heavy. As Tom lifted it Azrael said, “Oh, I think I might.” He turned the key. Then he flung the two doors wide.

The laboratory was astonishing. On the walls great murals were painted, of constellations and zodiac symbols—a huge crab, a water-carrier, a scorpion scattering golden stars from its tail. A telescope stood at one window, brand-new. From crates and boxes straw spilled out, and Tom saw the edges of flasks and test tubes, scales and burners. An electron microscope stood on the bench. In one corner a computer screen flickered. And from the ceiling, an ancient mechanical model of the planets drifted silently in the sudden draft.

Azrael looked pleased. “This is excellent. Here the Great Work can really go on.”

He went in. Scrab scratched thin hair and stared gloomily at Tom. “Go on,” he said. “Enjoy yerself.” Then he turned and shuffled down the corridor.

Tom staggered in and lowered the jar carefully onto a bench.

“Who is he?”

“The caretaker.” Azrael was pulling complicated zigzags of glass out of a packing case. “Essentially harmless.”

“He seems to know you.”

“We’ve worked together before.” Azrael glanced over. “Set this up first. All right?”

“Whatever you say.”

It was better than scrubbing floors. All afternoon he assembled a vast mass of tubing, piecing it together from Azrael’s absentminded instructions; parts for distillation, filters, tripods. He unrolled diagrams and charts and pinned them up, and a huge periodic table with the names of the elements in strange text like a spell—iridium, rhodium, helium. There were boxes of labeled specimens that had to be arranged on shelves, and other things that he thought bizarre for a chemistry lab—a drawing of the human body, a statue of Anubis, small copper bells, a feathered dream-catcher. All the while Azrael unpacked notebooks and papers, riffling through them with muttered comments.

At last Tom looked around. “Is all this yours?”

“Just a few bits and pieces.”

“Doesn’t the school have stuff?” He tugged open a crate and saw rows of gleaming crucibles. “Some of this looks pretty old-fashioned. I don’t do chemistry, but is this the right sort of thing?”

Azrael smiled briefly. “Let’s say I have my own ways. What are your subjects, Tom?”

“History, English, math.”

“Math! Good. That will be useful.”

Behind him, Simon examined the telescope. “Not just a nutcase,” he muttered. “But a rich one.”

Outside, the short December day died quickly, the sun setting in a brief red hollow in the clouds. Finally, Azrael glanced up. Fiery light caught the edge of his face. “Right. That’s enough for now. And despite Scrab’s mutterings, I’m thirsty, aren’t you?”

He went to the fireplace and pressed an old button-push there. “None of those work,” Tom said. “Otherwise all the kids would be pressing them.”

Azrael shrugged gracefully. “You never know.”

He cleared a space on a bench, pulled up two chairs and sat on one, resting his feet on the other with a sigh. “So. This is a nice place. Do you enjoy living here, Tom?”

“It’s okay.”

“Sea. Beaches. The moor. Lots of wealthy visitors. Quite idyllic.”

“It could be,” Tom said shortly. He played with the computer cable. Azrael watched him closely. Then the door handle turned. Azrael sat up, delighted. “What did I tell you?”

Scrab must have been expecting the call. He came in with two mugs of tea on a tray and a chipped plate of shortbread biscuits, which he dumped on the papers with bad grace.

“As if I ’ad nowt better to do.”

“Your reward will come,” Azrael said coolly, “in the next world.”

“Aye. And yer so sharp yer’ll cut yerself.” The cat on the chair by the radiator stopped licking itself and stared at him.

“Any sign?” Azrael asked quietly.

“Not yet. Got till New Year, ain’t she?”

“Indeed.”

“What if she don’t show? If we ’as to go looking?”

“She can never go far enough.” Azrael poured the tea thoughtfully. “Not in all the twelve dimensions. Not from me.”

Tom listened. Simon was wandering between the benches; he came to the glass jar and gazed in, his face distorted in the thick, bubbled sides.

“Well,” Scrab said, sliding out. “She did all right with ’er time. One of yer better bargains.”

Azrael gave a sharp sideways nod at the door. Scrab spat in the empty fireplace, and went.

“Tell me . . .” Azrael leaned forward. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Tom?”

The suddenness of the question threw him. “One.” Then, instantly, “None.”

“A bit confusing.” Azrael selected a biscuit daintily.

Tom shrugged. “I was one of twins. The other one—my brother—died. At least, he wasn’t born properly.”

Azrael’s hand was still. Then he dropped the biscuit back on the plate. “I see.” His voice was strange. He got up and wandered to the jar, holding it with both hands, looking in, as Simon had done. “That explains things. It must have been hard on your parents.”

Tom sipped uneasily at the tea. “I suppose.”

“And you.”

“I was just a baby.”

Azrael turned. The room was very dark now; he leaned over and plugged a lamp in, and the sudden glow woke reflections in hundreds of glass surfaces, and in the eyes of the Anubis statue. “And you go to this school?”

“No.” Tom stood, putting the mug down. “Look, I should be going.”

“No? But it would be so suitable!” Azrael’s hands spread wide on the jar. He turned. “Wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to come here?”

Tom was at the door. “Yes,” he breathed, “but . . .”

Azrael took a step forward. To Tom’s surprise he pulled what seemed to be a playing card out of a pocket and laid it on the bench and looked at it. It was the Jack of Clubs. “But what?”

“I don’t know.” Tom’s voice was tight; he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. “I’ve got to go.”

“Look.” Azrael came up to him. “I need help with my work. I have vital research going on.” He smiled coyly. “You’d enjoy it, and you’d learn a lot. Five pounds an hour, when you can come. Is that fair?”

He was amazed and oddly relieved. “More than fair.”

“Excellent. Up to Christmas and after. Until . . . oh let’s say until New Year, shall we?”

Downstairs, the Hall was in darkness. Paula had gone; her overalls swung on their hook. Tom let himself out into the cold. Overhead, the frosty stars glinted; far out to sea a great cloudbank streamed from the west. As he stood on the porch, the gargoyles were openmouthed against the light. Behind, footsteps stirred the crisp leaves.

“I wondered where you’d got to,” he said. “Did you hear what he’s paying?”

There was no answer. He turned, quickly. “Simon?”

Cloud drifted from the moon; eerie light lit the eyes of the gargoyles, their gleaming teeth.

Under them, the blond girl from the post office was watching him curiously.