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.”
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.