twenty
The darkness was crooked.
It was wet, the earth a sludge sliding under him, and then the stench making him feel sick, a stench of rottenness, of stems and stalks crushed, and the bloated, light-starved polyps of fungi that grew on the softening pit props.
His leg hurt. He drifted in and out of the darkness, but always the pain troubled him and the rain woke him by dripping on his face. Simon was there, and it wasn’t soft earth his head was propped on but Simon’s lap, and it was Simon who was yelling desperately to the searchers above. But no one could hear him.
Tom shifted, and deep under his ear in hollow caves an invisible river roared. “Hello lover boy,” it thundered. “See you tomorrow.”
He woke instantly.
“What’s wrong?” Simon muttered.
A farm truck grumbled by outside. Early lights were on in the houses toward the harbor. A robin was singing. It was Christmas Eve.
Slowly, Tom let himself relax.
“I was dreaming about being down that pit. I’d have died if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Too right.” Simon lay with his arms behind his head. “Kept you warm, kept you alive. Don’t think I’ve ever talked so much in my . . . life.”
Tom almost smiled, lying back on the pillow. He had been nearly three days in the bottom of the shaft. When they had pulled him up on the swinging stretcher he had seen all their faces looking down at him, circling crazily, and his mother’s had been white and creased, as if the long terror had dried everything up in her, shriveled her life. And he had never told anyone Steve Tate had pushed him in.
But now he said, “I told the tramp to get lost. It’s a crazy idea.”
“But tempting.” Simon considered. “I mean, really tempting. Look at Tate, the scum of the earth. Think how he’s likely to turn out. Then look at Sarah. All the things she’s done. Who most deserves to live? It’s no contest.”
“I don’t want him dead.” Tom drew his knees up and clasped them.
“Don’t you?”
“No. Not dead. Just . . .”
“In hell,” Simon whispered.
He was quiet at breakfast.
“Going up to the Hall?” Paula asked, putting lipstick on. “Or has the mad scientist given you the day off?”
“Sort of. He’s not mad. He’s okay.”
Paula pursed her lips. “I tell you what, he’s handsome. Is he married?”
He looked at her in alarm and she giggled. He liked it when she did that.
He spent most of the day lazing around, avoiding the Hall. He and Simon walked the cliff path along to Mamble and back, and all the way they saw no one, only skuas and terns and the gray round heads of seals out in the choppy waters. It rained once, a great lowering shower that pattered against Tom’s hood, and when they got back home the tree was lit in the window and the house seemed a refuge.
Simon, quite dry, sat on the window seat and said, “We should invite Sarah over for Christmas dinner. She’ll be all on her own up there. A few cans of beans isn’t much to live on.”
Tom pulled on a dry sock. “We could.” He knew his mother would tease him, though.
As it got dark he stood at the window and watched the twilight gather. Another day lost. There were only seven left now. The worry of it mingled oddly inside him with the secret excitement of Christmas. As if something huge would happen.
They had a lift up to the Hall from John Hubbard, who ran the local taxi. Tom sat in the back with Simon, and as they turned into the drive he saw to his surprise that it was lit all along its length with white lanterns, each burning a strange bluish flame.
“These are new!”
Paula nodded. “Scrab put them up. I don’t know where he got them.”
The driveway was thronged with people. And Darkwater Hall was alive, its door wide open, all its windows lit. Great swags of holly hung down the banisters and in the black-and-white hall an enormous tree stood, extravagantly decorated with tartan bows and candles.
Tom took a mince pie off a tray, and a glass of hot wine.
“Not too much of that stuff,” his mother muttered, but two of her friends came over then and he managed to slip away. Behind him, at the foot of the stairs, the band started up with “The First Noël,” and the Waits got themselves together in a chattering, fussy straggle.
The Waits were the singers, of all ages; lots of children, men with lanterns, women well wrapped up with scarves and hip flasks. They whistled and clapped as the Gray Mare came prancing out, the skeleton of a horse’s head decked with ribbons and mounted on a stick; a sheet was pinned around it and the horse’s jaw clacked as the man underneath pulled the strings. They would carry it around the parish; an eerie, half-forgotten custom. It had always scared him stiff when he was a kid.
“Enjoying yourself?”
Sarah was standing behind him, nibbling a mince pie. She looked tired and strained, her hair lank and unwashed. In the crowd no one had noticed her. He stepped back. “Are you?”
“Yes.” She glanced around defiantly. “It’s nice to see the things I started are still going strong.”
“Don’t pretend. You must be worried.”
“And the mare too!” She licked her fingers. “I got really interested in folklore. Well, for the first thirty years.”
“Sarah. There must be . . .”
“I told you.” She turned, angry. “You don’t need to feel sorry for me! Besides, I’m going to talk to Azrael. Where is he?”
The carol rose to its chorus. Tom shrugged unhappily. “In the lab?”
“Right.” She turned; he drank the last of the wine in a gulp and followed, pushing through the crowd to the stairs, dumping the plate and glass and running up after her, the hot drink pulsing in his head. Below them the carol ended with clapping; the band swung into the slow solemnity of “Silent Night.”
But Azrael wasn’t in the lab. As they came to the door on the first floor with HEADMASTER on it they saw the cat. It was washing on the woven matting. It looked up at them.
“I should have known,” Sarah said drily. She turned the handle.
It was a huge room, and a fire was burning in the hearth. Azrael was standing with his back to them by the tall windows, looking out into the night. He wore his long outdoor coat, as if he were waiting for some taxi. Perhaps he saw their reflections. He was smiling when he turned.
“My dear Sarah! After all this time.”
“Hello, Azrael. You haven’t altered a bit.” She walked across the soft carpet to a small table covered with a cloth, then sat down and calmly poured some tea.
For years she had dreaded this moment. Yet now it had come, it was nothing but relief. It had been a fierce defiance that had brought her back; if she had to die, here was as good as anywhere, it was hers at least, the place she had sold her soul for. And she had forgotten how likeable Azrael always was.
“Two cups,” she said quietly. “You were expecting me.”
Azrael tipped his head. “Of course. I have been for some days.”
She spooned in sugar. “I did think about staying away. Hiding out in South America or somewhere. I could still go.”
“Nowhere would be far enough, Sarah.”
She glanced at Tom. “Sit down. And where’s your brother?”
Tom shrugged, surprised. He realized he hadn’t seen Simon since they arrived. Azrael’s eyes watched him, strangely bright.
“Two things. That’s all I want,” Sarah said quickly, watching Tom sit. “First of all, was I responsible for Simon’s death? I need to know that.”
Azrael looked shocked, then concerned. He came over to the sofa.
“You?”
“I saw you both.” She turned to Tom. “Long before you were born, in a sort of . . . jar he has. I dropped it, well almost. You were all shaken up. I need to know!” she snapped at Azrael. “Whether what happened to them later was because of that.”