Crying in the Dark

by Shane Dunphy

  ‘There’s not much more to say then, is there?’

  ‘No. There isn’t.’

  I went out to my car in a lousy mood. I had spent an entire morning trying to make some sense of Mina’s case, and was no closer than I had been when I started. It seemed that the more people I tried to talk to, the fewer people wanted to talk to me. Mina didn’t want to discuss things, Molly and Dirk were tight-lipped, and now the workshop had closed ranks too. I lit a cigarette and turned on the ignition. I decided that I needed some music and took out my box of tapes. I settled on a collection by Neil Young and was putting it in the stereo when I noticed a young man standing just inside the door of the main building, watching me closely. He was short and broad, with a head of light-brown curls. He wore a brightly coloured knitted jumper and ill-fitting blue jeans. A trainee, I guessed. Neil had started singing: When you were young and on your own; how did it feel to be alone? I looked back at my observer. Did he want to speak to me? I was about to roll down the window and call him over, but he suddenly ducked back inside. Shrugging, I released the hand-brake and moved off. But only love can break your heart; try to be sure right from the start. As I turned out the gate, I spotted him again, from the corner of my eye, still watching me from one of the windows of the front hall. I wondered briefly who he was and what he wanted, but then I was down the street and my mind had turned to the Walshes and I didn’t think about him again for several weeks.

  Micky, Bobby and I were singing along with the TV.

  ‘What’s the story in Balamory, wouldn’t you like to know?’

  I should have felt like an idiot, but when you’re with kids and there aren’t any other adults around, inhibitions tend to go out the window. I’m not a regular viewer of Balamory, but there are worse children’s shows on television (I don’t much like Barney, and I’m not ashamed to admit that the Teletubbies freak me out). When I arrived at the house that afternoon, Biddy met me at the door. She’d had visitors the day before, and the boys had not got to bed until late. They were a bit tired, she told me, and probably wouldn’t be up for much. I went into the living room and found Bobby and Micky sprawled on the couch in front of the box. They said hi, but, despite my best efforts, could not work up any enthusiasm for play. I decided to let it go for one day and to just spend some time with them watching the television. It might, I surmised, even give us some topics for discussion. Children’s programmes tend to be thematic, covering a particular subject or trying to articulate a specific lesson. We didn’t have to watch passively. So I surreptitiously tried to turn the experience into a play activity, singing along, pointing out things on the screen (colours, numbers, letters), talking back to the characters and making it as interactive as possible. The boys responded positively, and we had a pretty good time.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Biddy stuck her head in the door, obviously picking up that the session was much less structured today.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I said, and with a loud pop that caused us all to jump the television went dead.

  The boys groaned.

  ‘Oh no, it’s brokeded,’ Micky said, scuttling over and switching it on and off.

  Bobby remained on the couch, but was pointing the remote control and pressing all the buttons in the vain hope that this might help. Without the glow from the screen, the living room suddenly seemed very gloomy and oppressive. I shivered. It was cold. I hadn’t noticed before. I reached up and flicked the light switch. Nothing.

  ‘It’s not the TV,’ I said. ‘It’s the power.’

  I pulled back one of the curtains and could see the flickering of a TV screen through the front window of the house across the road. It was just us, then. The boys were still gazing at the screen as if they expected it to spring into life at any moment.

  ‘I paid the bill.’ Biddy was pacing. She seemed distressed.

  ‘It’s probably just a fuse,’ I said. ‘Or maybe something’s caused the trip-switch to go. The wiring’s quite old in these houses, isn’t it?’

  Biddy didn’t respond, just continued her frenzied pacing.

  ‘Do you know how to change a fuse, Biddy?’

  ‘Toddy did all that stuff,’ she said shakily, her voice full of tears.

  That was probably why she was so bothered. She had never before had to cope with minor household malfunctions. At that moment it occurred to me that I couldn’t see if she was crying or not. It didn’t make sense, but the room actually seemed to be getting darker. I looked at my watch. The luminous hands told me it was four thirty in the afternoon. We were in the middle of summer; the sun was blazing outside. So why was my breath coming out in clouds and why could I barely see Biddy’s face?

  ‘Where’s the fuse box?’

  A blank look.

  ‘I’ll have a scout around’ I said. ‘It’s probably in the utility room.’

  It was, just above the back door. The room, which was situated at the rear of the house, contained a washing machine and a small sink unit. It was long and narrow, and was accessed from a door off the kitchen. A small window looked out onto the back garden. I pulled over a stool and climbed up onto it. The main fuse had blown completely – it was black and smouldering, some of the coils glowing red in the half-light. I hopped down, got a tea towel from the kitchen and used it to unscrew the fitting; it was too hot to touch. Branches scraped at the window outside, making a sound like a wild animal trying to get in. It was an urgent sound, and set my teeth on edge. It seemed to get inside my head, pins and needles in my brain. I set the half-melted fuse aside and looked at the spares that were lying in the tray. I had to strike the flame on my lighter so that I could see what I was doing. Then I spotted the one I was looking for. I picked it up and heard the door of the utility room close behind me.

  ‘Biddy, is that you?’

  Footsteps tapped across the tiled floor. I remember noting that the stride seemed to be too long to be Biddy’s and then the stool was wrenched from under me. I toppled backwards and landed with all my weight on the back of my head. Light exploded before my eyes and the scraping at the window became almost deafening, enfolding me until that was all there was. The last thought that flickered across my consciousness before I passed out was that I couldn’t be hearing branches – the trees and bushes were at the other end of the garden, at the ditch.

  Throbbing pain was the first thing I became aware of, then the dim play of light and shadow across my eyelids, as if people were moving about above me. I forced my eyes open and sat up shakily. I was alone. The scratching had stopped; the stool was lying on its side at my feet. Holding my head gingerly, I went to the door and turned the handle. It was locked. For a second I panicked, pushing and pulling with all my might.

  ‘Biddy!’ I shouted, and immediately regretted it because my headache increased.

  I took out my mobile phone, but there was no signal. I switched it off, then on again. There had to be a signal – there was always a signal here. After two failed attempts, I gave up and banged loudly on the wood with my fist. Despite myself, I began to get worried. What had just happened to me? What was going on in this house? I have always been a rational person, naturally sceptical about anything beyond the realms of science, but trapped in a tiny room in a haunted house in one of the most violent parts of the city, I found my intellectual resolve weakening.

  Finally I heard footsteps and voices. The handle turned, the door was tested and then a key scraped in the lock. It was Biddy, looking puzzled, the two boys peering around her legs.

  ‘No luck, then?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘How’d you lock yourself in?’

  ‘Very funny,’ I said petulantly, feeling really angry. ‘You can change the fuse yourself, or get a neighbour to do it. I don’t care. I’m not here to be a punchbag.’

  ‘What are you goin’ on about? Why didn’t you try the back door?’

  She seemed to be genuinely confused.

  I went to the door leading to the back garden. The handle turned smoothly and it swung open.
In exasperation, I realized that I could have got out this way at any time. I stood, blinking in the sunlight, basking in the heat of the evening. I could feel the cold seeping from the open doorway. I looked at the small utility-room window. I had been right – there were no branches anywhere near it. Something snapped in me momentarily, and I found that I couldn’t move. My mind just stalled.

  ‘Shane, are you okay?’

  Bobby’s voice wrenched me back to awareness.

  ‘Yeah, Bob, I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you goin’ to fix the telly?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course I will.’

  I put in the new fuse, making Biddy hold the stool and feeling like a complete sissy for asking her to do it. The television blared back into life, light bulbs hummed and the shadows fled back to their lairs. I sank down onto the couch between the boys and accepted a bag of frozen peas to apply to my head. As the kids watched Power Rangers, I quietly told Biddy what had happened. They had been in the living room all the time, she said when she’d heard my story, waiting for the television to come back on. I must have over-balanced and the door slammed shut, blown by a freak breeze with enough force to cause it to jam. Yes, I agreed. It had to be that.

  The boys made no comment. They had, in fact, gone very quiet.

  8

  The grounds around Rivendell spread over more than an acre. In the middle of the nineteenth century they had been planted with many different species of trees, shrubs and flowers, which the nuns tended with devotion. When the sisters moved on to other pastures, the Health Executive employed a gardener to come in and work one afternoon a week on the rambling garden. It simply wasn’t enough; the area in front of the house, which could be seen from the road, was given priority, the rest was left to its own devices. The place gradually became a jungle.

  The children who called Rivendell home played on the well-kept lawns, which had some swings, a slide, a climbing frame and goalposts for soccer. All the children, that was, except the Byrnes. The twins, as if by an inner voice, were drawn to the thickets, the wooded areas and the dense foliage of the abandoned garden at the rear of the old house. It offered them a haven, a primordial landscape within which they were far better equipped than the rest of us. They could climb trees with an agility that was almost simian. Low to the ground, they moved remarkably quickly on all fours. Once Larry and Francey disappeared into the undergrowth, they came out only when they wanted to. It was a testament to the work the staff team had done that they had ever come out at all.

  Bríd stood with me at the edge of the wood.

  ‘Olwyn spoke to Larry,’ she said. ‘She was very nice, but she said that they couldn’t pretend any more. She was his friend, and she cared for him, but that was all.’

  ‘How’d he take it?’

  ‘Very well, we thought. He went quiet, seemed a bit subdued, but we weren’t going to complain about that. Olwyn tried to engage him; he wasn’t interested. He hasn’t spoken to her since. Then, last night, when we went out for a game of football after supper, he and Francey took off into the trees as they always do. We didn’t give it another thought until we called them to come in for bed. Francey came. Larry didn’t.’

  ‘Did she tell you where he was?’

  ‘Oh yes. She said that Larry was sad, and would be staying outside. He didn’t want to be with the rest of us. Wanted to be on his own. I called for him again, told him to pack in the nonsense and come inside, but he stayed good to his word.’

  ‘Did anyone go in there after him?’

  ‘Yes, Olwyn and I went, once we’d put the others to bed. We spent hours roaming around, and one of the night staff stayed on the lawn on a garden chair until morning, in case he decided to show his face, but there was no such luck.’

  ‘How do you know he’s in there? He might have run off.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve heard him. He’s been shouting and wailing sporadically. Animal sounds, mostly; but it’s him.’

  ‘Keening.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s grieving. He’s lost his mother all over again.’

  ‘Perhaps. Or he could just want to lead us on another merry dance. I thought all his sedate behaviour was too good to be true.’

  ‘Such cynicism in one so young,’ I sighed. I often wondered why Bríd had ever become involved in child-care. She certainly didn’t seem to like children. ‘Well,’ I had put it off for long enough, ‘I suppose I’d better see if I can find him.’

  ‘Good luck. You’re wasting your time of course. He won’t come until he feels like it.’

  ‘Well, maybe he’s ready.’

  Bríd guffawed loudly and turned back to the house.

  ‘Don’t get lost in there, or fall and break your ankle. I don’t want to have to send out a search party looking for you as well.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said as sweetly as I could, and ducked into the shadow of the trees.

  Under the boughs of spruce and ash that were planted on the edge of the wild area, it was cool and pleasant. There was a gentle breeze that morning, and it moved the branches languidly, creating a sound like whispering. I walked in a straight line for about five minutes; the branches created a ceiling overhead, so there were few ground plants, and at first the going was easy. I came to a fallen tree that lay like a dead serpent across the path. Something moved in a thicket to my left, a quick burst of noise. I stopped dead.

  ‘Larry?’ I called. ‘It’s Shane.’

  If it was him, he didn’t want to talk – the noise moved steadily away. I went to go in the same direction, but saw that the copse was mostly bramble. I decided that it might be more sensible to go around rather than through.

  As I travelled deeper into the scrub, the terrain became more difficult to navigate. The trees cleared slightly, and I found myself wading through high grass and nettles. After receiving several stings, I doubled back and broke a sturdy limb from an alder to use as a machete, and returned, cutting a wider path for myself. As the sun rose higher and the day became hotter, swarms of midges rose from the earth about me. At first, I beat them off with my hands, but before long they were crawling all over me, getting into my eyes, up my nose, in my mouth. Just as I was about to give in, the grass ended and I was standing on the cracked paving of a narrow, ornamental path overlooking a pond blanketed in some kind of yellow algae. The water was still and gave off the aroma of stagnancy. In the middle was what seemed to be a small island, covered with thick trees and vines. The scum was parted in one spot, where something had made a path through the dank water to the centre.

  ‘Larry, come on. I know you’re over there.’

  I stood quietly and listened. Birdsong; the wind in the grass behind me; the ambient hum of the midges and dragonflies flitting above the surface of the mere.

  ‘Okay, I’m coming over,’ I shouted, ‘but I’m pissed off about getting into this water. It doesn’t look healthy.’

  I climbed down from the bank into the stale, slimy pool. The bottom felt slippery under my boots, and I stopped to steady myself, leaning heavily on the stick. Submerging was most certainly not part of my plan. I took wide sloshing steps. The temperature of the water was disturbingly warm. I fancied that I could hear the bacteria breeding in it. After much cursing and several near duckings, I pulled myself up onto the bank of the island. In disgust, I noted that the algae had clung to my jeans in a foul outer layer, like a custard-skin.

  I sat for a few moments to get my breath back, and then turned to examine the island’s interior. What I saw was a solid wall of trees. It appeared to be impenetrable.

  ‘Larry, come on out, will you?’

  I began to pick my way along the perimeter of the dense grove. The island proved to be bigger than I had at first thought; the pond was actually a small lake, longer than it was wide. More than once the ground became too narrow for me, and I had to step back into the water. Finally I found an opening. It may have been a path created by animals, or it could have been planted that way purposely; in any case it was
essentially a corridor of tall conifers. On each side the trees formed an impregnable barrier, so there was only the way ahead or back. It had become very quiet. Above me the needled branches obscured the sky, the pathway dark and close with the damp smell of earth and the sharper aroma of wood-sap.

  I became aware of movement. At first, I thought I was imagining things. It seemed to happen only when I was moving, stopping when I did, but after several minutes I was certain. I was being shadowed. Using my peripheral vision, I looked left and right, but could see only the dense trunks. Casting my eyes above, I saw that there was no way even Larry could move through the foliage of the canopy – it was too thick and treacherous. That left one place he could be.

  Without warning I dropped to the ground, falling flat so that I could see the narrow area between the lowest branches of the trees and the forest floor. Despite being prepared for what I saw, I still had to stifle a yell of surprise.

  There, gazing back at me from the shadowy seam, was a face, yellow and wide-eyed. The child was spread-eagled, almost touching the ground, elbows bent, fingers clutching the earth, ready to scuttle away into the darkness in a second if such action was needed. Like a cat, it hissed at me, raising a clawed hand in warning.

  ‘Larry, cool it, okay? I don’t mean any harm.’

  ‘I amn’t no boy!’

  Slowly, as my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I saw long hair plastered down the slender back. I was looking at Francey Byrne!

  ‘I’m sorry, honey,’ I said quietly, keeping my voice low and my hands open, where she could see them. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, and you’re all wet and covered in that yellow stuff from the lake.’

  ‘I amn’t no boy!’

  ‘Why are you following me?’

  Francey’s eyes narrowed as she considered the question.

  ‘I wanted to see what you was doin out’n here. See if you could get about wit’out hurtin’ yoursel’. Them two last night, they was all scairt an’ fallin’ over and jumpin’ up an’ down ev’ry time the wind blewed.’