which had put a distance between herself and her mother, whom she loved so much; and tears of a different kind for Will, who had seemed at first the friend she needed in this stale place, but whom she had, it seemed, already lost. At last, the inevitable. She heard the handle of her bedroom door squeak as it was turned and her mother said: 'Frannie? Are you awake?' She didn't pretend otherwise, but sat up in bed. 'What's wrong?' 'Sher-wood just told me some very strange things.'
He had told everything: about going to the Courthouse in pursuit of Will, about the man in black and the woman in veils. And more besides. Something about the woman being naked, and a fire. Was any part of this true, Frannie's mother wanted to know? And if so, why hadn't Frannie told her? Despite Will's edict, she had no choice but to tell the truth now. Yes, there had been two people at the Courthouse, just as Sherwood had said. No, she didn't know who they were; no she hadn't seen the woman undressing, and no, she couldn't be certain she would recognize them again (that part wasn't entirely true, but it was close enough). It had been dark, she said, and she had been afraid, not just for herself but for all three of them. 'Did they threaten you?' her mother wanted to know. 'Not exactly.' 'But you said you were afraid.' 'I was. They weren't like anybody I'd ever seen before.' 'So what were they like?' Words failed her, and failed her again when her father appeared and asked her the same questions. 'How many times have I told you,' he said, 'not to go near anybody you don't know?' 'I was following Will. I was afraid he was going to get hurt.' 'If he had that'd be his business and not yours. He wouldn't do the same for you, I'm damn certain of that.' 'You don't know him. He-' 'Don't answer me back,' her father snapped, 'I'll speak to his parents tomorrow. I want them to know what an idiot they've got for a son.' With that he left her to her thoughts.
The events of the night were not over, however. When the house had finally become quiet, Frannie heard a light tapping on her bedroom door,
and Sherwood sidled in, clutching something to his chest. His voice was cracked with all the crying he'd been doing.
'I've got something you have to see,' he said, and crossing to the window he pulled back the curtains. There was a streetlamp outside the front of the house, and it shed its light through the rain-streaked glass onto Sherwood's pale, puffy face.
'I don't know why I did it,' he began.
'Did what?'
'It was just there, you know, and when I saw it I wanted it.' As he spoke he proffered the object he'd been clutching. 'It's just an old book,' he said.
'You stole it?' He nodded. 'Where from? The Courthouse?' Again, he nodded. He looked so frightened she was afraid he was going to start weeping again. 'It's all right,' she said. 'I'm not cross. I'm just surprised. I didn't see you with it.'
'I put it in my jacket.'
'Where did you find it?'
He told her about the desk, and the inks and the pens, and while he told her she took the book from his hands and went to the window with it. There was a strange perfume coming off it. She raised it to her nose - not too close - and inhaled its scent. It smelt like a cold fire, like embers left in the rain, but sharpened by a spice she knew she would never find on a supermarket shelf. The smell made her think twice about opening the book; but how could she not, given where it had come from? She put her thumb against the edge of the cover and lifted it. On the inside page was a single circle, drawn in black or perhaps dark brown ink. No name. No title. Just this ring, perfectly drawn.
'It's his, isn't it?' she said to Sherwood.
'I think so.'
'Does anyone know you took it?'
'No, I don't think so.'
That at least was something to be grateful for. She turned to the next page. It was as complex as the previous page had been simple: row upon row upon row of writing, tiny words pressed so close to one another it was almost a seamless flow. She flipped the page. It was the same again, on left and right. And on the next two sheets, the same; and on the next two and the next two. She peered at the script more closely, to see if she could make any sense of it, but the words weren't in English. Stranger still, the letters weren't from the alphabet. They were pretty, though, tiny elaborate marks that had been set down with obsessive care.
'What does it mean?' Sherwood said, peering over her shoulder.
'I don't know. I've never seen anything like it before.'
'Do you think it's a story?'
'I don't think so. It isn't printed, like a proper book.' She licked her
forefinger and dabbed it on the words. It came away stained. 'It was written by him,' she said. 'By Jacob?' Sherwood breathed. 'Yes.' She flipped over a few more pages and finally came to a picture. It was an insect - a beetle of some kind, she thought - and like the writing on the preceding pages it had been set down exquisitely, every detail of its head and legs and iridescent wings so meticulously painted it looked uncannily lifelike in the watery light, as though it might have risen whirring from the paper had she touched it. 'I know I shouldn't have taken the book,' Sherwood said, 'but now I don't want to give it back, 'cause I don't want to see him again.' 'You won't have to,' Frannie reassured him. 'You promise?' 'I promise. There's nothing to be afraid of, Sher. We're safe here, with Mum and Dad to look after us.' Sherwood had put his arm through hers. She could feel his thin body quivering against her own. 'But they won't be here always, will they?' he said, his voice eerily flat, as though this most terrible of possibilities could not be expressed unless stripped of all emphasis. 'No,' she said. 'They won't.' 'What will happen to us then?' he said. 'I'll be here to look after you,' Frannie replied. 'You promise?' 'I promise. Now, it's time you were back in bed.' She took her brother by the hand and they both tiptoed out along the landing to his room. There she settled him back in his bed, and told him not to think about the book or the Courthouse or what had happened tonight any more, but to go back to sleep. Her duty done she returned to her own bedroom, closed the door and the curtains, and put the book in the cupboard under her sweaters. There was no lock on the cupboard door, but if there had been she would have certainly turned the key. Then she climbed between the now chilly sheets and put on the bedside light, just in case the beetle in the book came clicking across the floor to find her before dawn; which possibility, after the evening's escapades, she could not entirely consign to the realm of the impossible.
CHAPTER IV
i
Will consumed his soup like a dutiful patient, and then, once Adele had taken his temperature, collected his tray and gone back downstairs, quickly got up and dressed. It was by now early in the evening, and the sleety day . was already losing its light, but he had no intention of putting his journey off until tomorrow.
The television had been turned on in the living-room - he could hear the calm, even tones of a newscaster, and then, as his mother changed channels, applause and laughter. He was glad of the sound. It covered the occasional squeak of a stair as he descended to the hallway. There, as he donned scarf, anorak, gloves and boots, he came within a breath of discovery, as his father called out from his study demanding to know from Adele where his tea had got to. Was she picking the leaves herself, for Christ's sake? Adele did not reply, and his father stormed into the kitchen to get an answer. He did not notice his son in the unlit hallway, however, and while he whittered on to Adele about how slow she was, Will opened the front door and, slipping through the narrowest crack he could make so as not to have a draught alert them to his going, was out on his night-journey.