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.
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, t
he 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.
Tom staggered in and lowered the jar carefully onto a bench.
“Who is he?”
“The caretaker.” Azrael was pulling complicated zigzags of glass out of a packing case. “Essentially harmless.”
“He seems to know you.”
“We’ve worked together before.” Azrael glanced over. “Set this up first. All right?”
“Whatever you say.”
It was better than scrubbing floors. All afternoon he assembled a vast mass of tubing, piecing it together from Azrael’s absentminded instructions; parts for distillation, filters, tripods. He unrolled diagrams and charts and pinned them up, and a huge periodic table with the names of the elements in strange text like a spell—iridium, rhodium, helium. There were boxes of labeled specimens that had to be arranged on shelves, and other things that he thought bizarre for a chemistry lab—a drawing of the human body, a statue of Anubis, small copper bells, a feathered dream-catcher. All the while Azrael unpacked notebooks and papers, riffling through them with muttered comments.
At last Tom looked around. “Is all this yours?”
“Just a few bits and pieces.”
“Doesn’t the school have stuff?” He tugged open a crate and saw rows of gleaming crucibles. “Some of this looks pretty old-fashioned. I don’t do chemistry, but is this the right sort of thing?”
Azrael smiled briefly. “Let’s say I have my own ways. What are your subjects, Tom?”
“History, English, math.”
“Math! Good. That will be useful.”
Behind him, Simon examined the telescope. “Not just a nutcase,” he muttered. “But a rich one.”
Outside, the short December day died quickly, the sun setting in a brief red hollow in the clouds. Finally, Azrael glanced up. Fiery light caught the edge of his face. “Right. That’s enough for now. And despite Scrab’s mutterings, I’m thirsty, aren’t you?”
He went to the fireplace and pressed an old button-push there. “None of those work,” Tom said. “Otherwise all the kids would be pressing them.”
Azrael shrugged gracefully. “You never know.”
He cleared a space on a bench, pulled up two chairs and sat on one, resting his feet on the other with a sigh. “So. This is a nice place. Do you enjoy living here, Tom?”
“It’s okay.”
“Sea. Beaches. The moor. Lots of wealthy visitors. Quite idyllic.”
“It could be,” Tom said shortly. He played with the computer cable. Azrael watched him closely. Then the door handle turned. Azrael sat up, delighted. “What did I tell you?”
Scrab must have been expecting the call. He came in with two mugs of tea on a tray and a chipped plate of shortbread biscuits, which he dumped on the papers with bad grace.
“As if I ’ad nowt better to do.”
“Your reward will come,” Azrael said coolly, “in the next world.”
“Aye. And yer so sharp yer’ll cut yerself.” The cat on the chair by the radiator stopped licking itself and stared at him.
“Any sign?” Azrael asked quietly.
“Not yet. Got till New Year, ain’t she?”
“Indeed.”
“What if she don’t show? If we ’as to g
o looking?”
“She can never go far enough.” Azrael poured the tea thoughtfully. “Not in all the twelve dimensions. Not from me.”
Tom listened. Simon was wandering between the benches; he came to the glass jar and gazed in, his face distorted in the thick, bubbled sides.
“Well,” Scrab said, sliding out. “She did all right with ’er time. One of yer better bargains.”
Azrael gave a sharp sideways nod at the door. Scrab spat in the empty fireplace, and went.
“Tell me . . .” Azrael leaned forward. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Tom?”
The suddenness of the question threw him. “One.” Then, instantly, “None.”
“A bit confusing.” Azrael selected a biscuit daintily.
Tom shrugged. “I was one of twins. The other one—my brother—died. At least, he wasn’t born properly.”
Azrael’s hand was still. Then he dropped the biscuit back on the plate. “I see.” His voice was strange. He got up and wandered to the jar, holding it with both hands, looking in, as Simon had done. “That explains things. It must have been hard on your parents.”
Tom sipped uneasily at the tea. “I suppose.”
“And you.”
“I was just a baby.”
Azrael turned. The room was very dark now; he leaned over and plugged a lamp in, and the sudden glow woke reflections in hundreds of glass surfaces, and in the eyes of the Anubis statue. “And you go to this school?”
“No.” Tom stood, putting the mug down. “Look, I should be going.”
“No? But it would be so suitable!” Azrael’s hands spread wide on the jar. He turned. “Wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to come here?”
Tom was at the door. “Yes,” he breathed, “but . . .”
Azrael took a step forward. To Tom’s surprise he pulled what seemed to be a playing card out of a pocket and laid it on the bench and looked at it. It was the Jack of Clubs. “But what?”
“I don’t know.” Tom’s voice was tight; he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. “I’ve got to go.”
“Look.” Azrael came up to him. “I need help with my work. I have vital research going on.” He smiled coyly. “You’d enjoy it, and you’d learn a lot. Five pounds an hour, when you can come. Is that fair?”
Darkwater Page 10
