Darkwater

twenty-four

Days passed.

On the twenty-seventh, Steve Tate was found wandering on the beach at Padstow, suffering, Paula said drily, from amnesia. Nothing seemed to be wrong with him, but he had no idea where he’d been.

Tom listened, staring out of the window at the sea. He was surprised to find he didn’t care.

On the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth, it rained. He kept away from the Hall; the memory of Sarah’s anger was terrible.

On the thirtieth he ventured out, tormented. Below the cliff the tramp’s encampment was empty, the sleeping bag sodden, the dog gone. The middle one of the Devil’s Quoits had a hole burned right through it, as if with a powerful laser. A rainbow pool of some oily stuff stank at its base.

He couldn’t stand it any longer. He crept into the Hall and up to her room, but she’d locked herself in and wouldn’t open the door.

“Get lost and leave me alone!” she yelled at last.

“Sarah, please! Never mind about me. You saw what he did to the tramp. Is that what he’ll do to you? You’ve got to make some effort to escape at least!”

No answer.

Then Scrab came muttering down the corridor and Tom slid, shadowy, down the stairs.

He kept away from Azrael.

Finally, it was the thirty-first.

The last day.

All morning he felt confused and sick. Azrael had seemed so gentle. But the tramp was dead. He felt cold even thinking about it.

“I don’t see why you won’t come.” Behind him, his mother buttoned her coat.

Tom picked up the remote control. “There’s a movie I want to see.”

“Please yourself.” She checked her purse and unlatched the door. “I’ll be back about ten. For New Year.”

He didn’t switch the TV on, couldn’t stand all that fake jollity. He didn’t know how long he’d stared at the blank screen or even what he was thinking, when the door opened again.

“Tom.”

It was Sarah. And Simon.

She was pale, warmly dressed, with the backpack, her hair scraped back into a blue elastic. “I can’t go through with it,” she muttered.

He jumped up. “What?”

“I’ve tried, but I can’t. I’ve got to do something! Even if you think I’m a coward, I’m going to run, Tom. If Azrael wants me, he’s got a hunt on. Maybe he’s not as powerful as I thought. Maybe I can get away. Anywhere. I can’t stand waiting anymore.”

Tom grabbed his coat. “You’re not a coward. And I’m coming.”

“That’s what I said.” Simon had been missing for days.

Now he seemed thinner, his tired face drawn.

“Where is Azrael?”

Tom shrugged into his coat.

“In the lab. Night and day. It’s a furnace in there, everything bubbling, dripping. Scrab’s taking food in; says ‘’Imself’s so close to success he can’t sit still for excitement.’” She shrugged, wan. “So now’s my chance.”

“Right.” Tom crammed some chocolates from the tree into his pocket. “We go over the cliffs to Marazy Head, then cross the moor. At the main road we’ll hitch a ride to Bodmin, and you can get a train.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve!”

“Then we’ll hurry! They’ll run till about eleven. Come on, Sarah!”

She ran a hand through her hair; it was dark at the roots. “Lead on, hero.”

They ran down the lane and across the caravan field. There was no way to avoid the village; Tom saw Steve’s dad up a ladder scrubbing the white letters angrily off the post office.

All across the cliffs they kept to the footpath, the stiff brown umbels of summer hemlock scraping at them. The afternoon was rapidly darkening. Home-going ramblers passed them, with quiet hellos.

At the Darkwater, Sarah stopped.

“Be careful. From upstairs in the house, you can see this stretch.”

“Azrael’s busy.”

“Scrab isn’t. We should cross the beach.” Without waiting for him to agree she ran down the steps. He and Simon raced after her.

The gulls circled, screaming, their cruel yellow beaks wide. Newhaven was a dimness of salt and seaweed, sand gritty on the steps.

They struggled over the soft sand. The harder ridges were easy, their footsteps clear across them, and Tom saw that even Simon left them now, faint footmarks. At the north cliff they scrambled over fallen rock, sliding on huge banks of slippery bladderwrack, splashing into pools, over limpeted boulders corrugated with barnacles.

Finally Sarah reached the cliff. “Up here?”

“There’s a path.” Tom pushed past. “This way.”

He’d climbed Star Cliff before, but it was tricky; the path slid and shifted year by year. Tides washed it away. Handholds of soft rock stuck out, some with fossils embedded.

Tom hauled himself up. Below, Sarah’s boots scraped. Suddenly he felt good, even elated. Tate would never remember, but he did, and it would all be different now. That memory of the tiny tearstained boy in the jar had changed him. Steve might be as obnoxious as ever, but he, Tom, was already different. Grabbing a handful of wet bracken, he dug his toes in and squirmed up over the crumbling soil.

A hand reached down.

“Come on,” Simon said. His brother’s grip was wet and firm. And warm.

They hauled Sarah up and crouched, breathless. The sun was almost gone, deep in veils of mist.

Inland, over the fields and combes of its estate, Darkwater Hall glowed red. All its facade burned, warm light lapping it, every window a blaze of flame. For a second Tom thought it really was on fire, but the sun sank and night enveloped the house, dimming it to a dark hulk against the purple sky.

Crossing the moor was a nightmare. Threads of path were too easy to lose, the ground boggy and tremulous. The light was almost gone. Simon led them, Tom stumbling last, twice plunging his boots into water over the ankle, so his feet were soaked and squelching.

It grew so dark he could barely see. Gnarled shadows of wind-bent trees rose up like claws; distant tors were bizarre shapes of toppling rock. Toward Bodmin the sky glowed with streetlights.

It was Tom who stopped and looked back. For a second he had heard it clearly, a sound that froze him.

The snuffle and pad of a hound.

Or was it the wind, the dead bracken hissing?

“Come on!” Sarah yelled.

He ran after them. This was Temple Combe, a ravine that plummeted between bushes and a stand of trees, dark firs, rare on the moor. In their pitch blackness he ran right into Sarah before he saw her.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice was a whisper.

He glanced back. “I thought I heard something.”

In the silence the branches sissed, an eternal sound. The snuffle, or whatever it was, would be lost under them.

Wordless, Sarah pulled him on. They walked into blindness, their only guide the puddles on the track; ghostly echoes of the lighter sky. Ahead, as they slipped and skidded down, the track turned a corner. Eerie sounds came toward them, voices wailing, far across the moor. Heart thudding, Sarah stopped.

They listened, under the pine smell of the branches.

“It’s a black dog all right,” Tom said in relief. “But not that sort.”

At the pub, when they reached it, the New Year revels had started. The windows spilled warm light; the parking lot was lit with multicolored lanterns.

Sarah walked past quickly, clutching the stitch in her side; Tom followed, till the well-known voice stopped him rigid.

“Tommy! Look lads, it’s lover boy!”

After a second, he turned.

Steve Tate was sitting on the doorstep with a can of beer in his hand. He crushed it now; the metal crumpled with a loud crack. The other two, Mark and Rob, came out of the pub.

“Come on,” Sarah said uneasily.

Tom didn’t hesitate. As he marched straight up to them, Steve scrambled to his feet; even before Tom grabbed his collar, there was a startled disbelief in his face.

“I never liked that name,” Tom said pleasantly. “I don’t want to hear it again. Okay?”

Steve tried to pull back; Tom gripped tighter.

“What’s gotten into you?”

“I pushed you into a cellar and slammed the door on you,” Tom said quietly. “And I saw what it did to you.” For a second Steve was still; then he wrenched away and laughed a startlingly false laugh. “You’re a bloody nutcase.”

Tom turned away.

“Happy New Year,” he said, over his shoulder.

Sarah had her arms folded; Simon was grinning. They swung into step beside him.

“Well,” she said, “I’m impressed. But he’ll be furious.”

Tom glanced back. Steve was yelling at Mark, flinging the beer can at him. “He won’t change. But I have.”

“They might come after you.”

“I don’t care.” The strange thing was, it was true.

Sarah opened the farm gate. “So maybe Azrael was wrong and the tramp was right. There is a place for revenge.”

“I should have been able to do it without all that.” He slipped through after her, jarring rows of hanging drops from the gate-bar.

Far off, the Mamble church clock chimed; they counted, silent. Eight.

Four hours to midnight.

Now they ran hard. Down Branscombe, spattering the mud at the bottom, into the black, empty stretch of moor toward Stee. This was treacherous ground. Faint steams and wisps of fog rose from it, gathering in hollows.

And then, close behind, the dog howled.

Tom turned. They waited, a breathless hush. To their left another howl, nearer.

“They’re out,” Sarah said grimly. “He’s hunting me.”

Dark shapes loped and slithered.

“Water!” Tom caught her hand and they splashed into the bog, sinking instantly, Simon behind them. Floundering, they struggled in the cold to keep their footing, stumbling on buried tussocks.

The howls were nearer. All around them now the midnight hounds slavered and ran. Tom glanced back. “Keep up,” he called anxiously.

Simon’s face was a paleness in the mist. He slipped, and yelled. Tom let go of Sarah’s arm and swore. “I’ll have to go back for him!”

“Wait!” she gasped, but even as she said it a rapid barking rang out; Simon was swallowed in the clinging fog. Only his voice screamed, terrified and in agony. “Tom! It’s got me! Tom!”

Tom didn’t hesitate. “Go on!” he yelled. Floundering back, he burst through the fog into a knot of darkness. Hounds flew apart; one backed slowly, head down, growling. But the other held its grip, and to his amazement he saw it had hold of Simon’s arm and was pulling him down. He had fallen on his knees in the marsh, struggling and swearing, clothes sopping with water. He looked terrified.

And his arm was bleeding.