His back wet with sweat, Tom gave the girl a quick glance. She looked away, and put her hands in her pockets.
But she didn’t go.
Steve stared at her. “Anything else?”
The girl eyed him. She was their age, but her look had a straight confidence. “I’m waiting for him. Hurry up and serve him.”
Steve’s surprise turned to instant mockery. “Fancy him, do you? Didn’t know you had it in you, Tommy.” Tom pushed the money at him, grabbed the potatoes, and said, “Keep the change.” He was desperate to get out, but the girl said, “Oh no. You give him his change. Come on.”
The cash drawer sprang open. Steve glared at it. He pretended to pick up coins, but the girl said, “Stop fooling around. Bit of a jerk really, aren’t you.”
Tom went cold.
Steve looked at her, and put the pound coin deliberately on the newspapers. “You’ll wish you hadn’t said that,” he whispered.
She smiled. “I’m terrified.”
“Come on.” Tom lunged for the door and dragged it open, the bell clanging. Cold wet air engulfed him like a welcome; he ran into it, down the steps, chilled with sweat.
The girl followed more slowly. She walked after him around the corner and found him leaning against the wall of the garage, breathing hard. “You shouldn’t let them mess you around.”
He stared down the lane. “I don’t.”
“Liar. I could see.”
“I can handle them. They were just . . .”
“They crushed you. Made you feel like nothing.” She pushed her short, bleached hair behind one ear. “You have to face them down.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” he breathed, furious.
She looked at him. “Yes. Maybe it is.”
At once he saw Simon. Or rather his reflection, in the grimy garage window. Beyond the walls of the holiday cottage opposite, just sitting there. And waving, sadly.
Tom started to walk, fast. The girl walked with him.
At the stile he stopped. “I go across here.”
“Do you?” Interested, she looked over the field. “You live in the back lane?”
“Martha’s cottage,” he said, without knowing why.
The girl seemed startled. “Is it still called that? I used to live there.”
“You can’t have.” Tom hefted the potatoes. “We’ve always lived there.”
The girl laughed, amused, and walked away up the lane. “Always,” she said drily. “That’s a very long time.”
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.