Two Dark Tales

by Charles Lambert

  When he gets the chance, maybe once every other day, he hangs around the store cupboard beside the niche. Sometimes, alone, he shifts it slightly from the wall to make sure there’s still room for him behind it. Yes, it’s just as he left it the last time, when the cupboard was moved away by Sharples and the others and he stood there staring straight at them and they couldn’t see him. Although that can’t have happened. Nobody can be invisible. He must have dreamt it, he tells himself, but he isn’t convinced. He half expects the voice of his friend to tell him off for lacking faith.

  This morning, Thursday, he moves the cupboard away from the wall, makes enough room to see in, and then some more, room enough to wriggle into the niche entirely and disappear. The radiator hisses its welcome. He smiles a welcome in return, a sense of relief flooding over him as he slides a first leg through the gap.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Mitchell is standing behind him. Billy starts back but it’s too late. Mitchell has caught him halfway into the niche.

  ‘You shouldn’t be squeezing yourself into that,’ Mitchell says. ‘You might get stuck.’ He sounds amused. Humiliated, Billy edges out.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ says Mitchell. ‘I know you.’

  Billy looks up into Mitchell’s eyes.

  ‘You’re the one they were bullying outside the shop, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Mitchell.’

  ‘So you know who I am then?’

  Billy feels himself blush. ‘Yes, Mitchell.’

  ‘You’re a new boy, right? First year?’

  Billy nods.

  ‘You poor little bugger,’ says Mitchell. ‘And then they did you over again the next day, didn’t they?’ He winces in sympathy. ‘Properly this time. You’re the one, aren’t you?’

  Billy nods again.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Lender, Mitchell.’

  ‘So is that why you’re trying to hide? Afraid they’ll get you again?’

  ‘I’m not trying to hide.’

  Mitchell laughs. ‘Of course you aren’t. Well, you can’t hide in there, Lender. There’s no room.’ He gives Billy a playful cuff round the ear, then lets his hand drop onto Billy’s shoulder.

  ‘So where are you supposed to be?’

  ‘In French.’

  Mitchell looks along the empty corridor.

  ‘With Konk, then. Well, he’s all right. It could be worse. It could be Millie. Then you’d really be in hot water. L’eau chaud.’ Billy’s bewildered. Low show? Show what? Why low? Mitchell grins. ‘That’s French for hot water. You ought to know that by now.’ He glances at his watch. ‘You’d better get your skates on, hadn’t you? Or you really will be late.’ Billy still doesn’t move. Mitchell takes hold of him by both shoulders, swivels him gently until they are standing face to face, or almost, with Mitchell’s knees slightly bent, although still not enough for their eyes to be on a level. Mitchell is making an effort to reach him, Billy knows that, but he can’t look up any longer. The distance between them is still there, or the opposite of distance, something that draws him in and holds him back at the same time. Because Billy’s heart is beating so hard he’s convinced Mitchell will pick the beat up through his hands, resting so heavily on Billy’s shoulders, and will know what Billy is feeling, the heat of him, and will not understand, as Billy does not understand. There is something going on in his head he can make no sense of, a buzzing he can’t quite place. ‘You’ll be in detention if you don’t get a move on.’

  It seems to Billy that Mitchell’s hands are both holding him up, supporting him, and holding him down, so that he won’t float away, float up to the ceiling like a released balloon. Please tell him to leave me now, he says to the voice in his head. Tell him to leave me alone. I’m all right. I only wanted to make sure the niche was still here, just in case. You understand that, don’t you? But there is no answer. His new friend isn’t listening any longer, or doesn’t want to answer. No breath but his, and Mitchell’s. Not knowing what else to do, he shrugs; the hands on his shoulders are all he knows.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about something?’ Mitchell says, in a lower, coaxing voice, almost a whisper, as though he is talking to a frightened animal. He leans closer in. There is the tang, sharp in Billy’s nostrils, of liniment and sweat; of Mitchell. ‘Maybe I can help.’

  Billy shakes his head.

  ‘Have they hit you again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will you tell me if they do? You don’t need to tell anyone else. Just me.’

  Billy nods.

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘Yes, Mitchell.’

  Mitchell lets his shoulders go. ‘You don’t need to hide from anyone,’ he says. ‘Ever. Remember that.’

  ‘I will, Mitchell.’ Billy looks up finally, his face breaking into a smile. ‘I promise.’

  *

  And then it starts again. Friday afternoon, he’s waiting outside the shop for the bus to take him home and there they are, all four of them. This time, Horton takes the lead. He stands close to Billy, so close Billy tries to move away, but his back is already against the wall and the Lees twins have stepped to each side of him. A few feet away, his round face split by a grin, is Sharples. He’s carrying his blazer over one shoulder, despite the cold wind. His sleeves are rolled up, his forearms bare and white. He’s staring at Billy. Billy drops his eyes. Help me, he says to the friend in his head, but not in his head. The friend in the niche. Tell me what to do.

  ‘We want you to get something for us,’ Horton says.

  Billy doesn’t move, doesn’t answer. Horton grabs his balls and squeezes. ‘Did you hear me?’

  Billy winces, doubles over in pain. ‘Yes,’ he says, gasping for breath. His voice is higher than normal, squeaky, a girl’s voice.

  The twins start laughing. ‘Baby Gobface,’ they say together. The one on the left gets closer, lifts him up straight, turns Billy’s face towards his with his free hand and spits. Billy feels the spit on his cheek, feels it soft and warm as it trickles down his skin.

  ‘What do you want me to get?’ he says.

  Horton steps aside, a little bow from the waist, as Sharples moves in. ‘You go into the shop, right.’ Billy nods. He wants to wipe his cheek before the spit hits his collar, but doesn’t dare. ‘You go into the shop,’ says Sharples a second time, more slowly, ‘and you get four packets of No. 6.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ said Billy, trembling. ‘All the cigarettes are behind the counter. She’ll see me.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ says Horton, excited. ‘I’ll be there as well. I’ll keep her busy. You’ll just need to be quick.’ For a moment, it’s as though he and Billy are friends, accomplices, partners in crime. Billy wants to grin at him, ignoring Sharples, ignoring the twins as they fall away, finally giving him room to move. But then Sharples takes him by the arm, gently but firmly, and he’s reminded who’s the boss. Horton and the twins don’t count, Billy thinks; they’re like the retainers in the dungeon, the silent ones who hold the whips and branding irons and chains for the ones who really matter. It’s down to him and Sharples, he thinks, as he’s frogmarched to the shop door.

  They’re barely inside the shop, Sharples still holding Billy’s elbow, when Horton pushes past them both and walks across to the counter. ‘Excuse me,’ he says. He has what Billy’s mum calls a cheeky air about him, hands in his pockets, head cocked to one side, his blond hair ruffled where he’s taken off his cap. Billy, reminded of his manners, takes off his, folds it and slips it into his pocket so that both hands are free. The woman behind the counter glances up from her knitting. ‘Yes, dear,’ she says. ‘How can I help?’ She doesn’t seem to have noticed Billy, who is being led by Sharples towards the further end of the counter, where the cigarettes are stacked. Horton has picked up a bar of chocolate – Billy can’t see what kind – and is asking the woman how much it costs. The woman tells him. He moves along the display, picks up another bar, his other hand slidin
g out of sight. ‘What about this one?’ he asks. Something in his manner has made her suspicious. She puts her knitting down and leans over to see what he’s holding. Sharples pokes Billy in the ribs. ‘Now,’ he hisses.

  Billy edges round behind the counter and reaches up to the shelf where the No. 6 are kept. He can hear Horton’s voice to his right, but doesn’t dare turn to see what’s happening until he is safely back beside Sharples. He tries to push the cigarettes into Sharples’ hands, but Sharples pushes them back. ‘You keep them until we’re outside,’ he says. He steps away, walks over to the door, where Horton is waiting for him, and Billy is left, standing alone by the counter, the four packets of cigarettes in his hand. His first thought is to slide them into his pocket, but there is no room for them beside his folded cap. He hides the guilty hand behind his back as the woman turns to look at him, her face concerned, briefly doubtful. ‘Are you all right, love?’ she says. He nods, too nervous to speak. She looks back towards the door, held open by Sharples, with Horton beside him, neither of them leaving the shop, both of them standing and watching, waiting to see what he will do. ‘You aren’t with those two, are you?’ she says, and he can’t tell if she’s joking, can’t tell what answer might be the one she wants to hear. Behind his back, he can feel the four packets shift in his hand, now slick with sweat, as if they’re alive and eager to break free. He smiles uneasily, hoping this will be answer enough. ‘You aren’t with us, are you?’ says Horton, with a grin. Billy is hot, on the point of trembling; he can feel his cheeks flush with blood. He will never forgive them for this. Out of nowhere, the memory of the hole in the field comes back to him, the way he felt when they held him over it and threatened to let him go, the emptiness and the updraught of earth-scented air in his face. All the holes join up, he thinks; somewhere deep below him, all the holes are one.

  ‘Are you hiding something behind your back?’ the woman says. Billy shakes his head, but she’s walking behind the counter towards him. He can feel the cigarettes slip from his hand as she approaches the edge of the counter. Desperate, he glances across at the door but Sharples and Horton have left the shop and are standing side by side in the street outside, staring in, Horton still grinning, Sharples with a dark, determined look on his face, because Billy has fucked up, because Billy is pathetic, because Billy is letting the four packets of cigarettes fall to the floor as the woman rounds the corner of the counter and grabs his shoulder. ‘You little thief!’ she says. ‘You wicked little thief!’

  His father comes to pick him up. He’s half expecting to be slapped, or at least shouted at, but all his father does is tell him to get in the car. ‘We’re going home,’ he says. Billy sits there, in the warmth and darkness of the car as it winds along the usual roads and sees nothing, hears nothing but the voice. Because the voice won’t shut up, however hard he tries to silence it, to block it out. When his father asks him if the cigarettes were for him or for someone else he starts to cry, and can’t speak for the tears in his throat, for the noise in his head. Finally, he says, ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ shouting as he tries to make himself heard above the voice, which is telling him to keep quiet, to not say a word. His father reaches over to give his leg a comforting squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, lad,’ he says. ‘Calm down, you’re all right now. Let’s get you home, shall we?’ But Billy isn’t all right, because he knows what he has to do, because the voice keeps telling him; Bring them to me, the voice keeps saying, but he doesn’t know how to do it. And the voice won’t let him go until he does.

  On Monday morning at school, through all four classes and break, and then during dinner, with Matron watching him out of the corner of her eye the way she always does, it’s just like nothing has happened. No one notices him, no one talks to him. Even the teachers ignore him. He wonders sometimes if he’s really there. He remembers that time in the niche when they stared at him without seeing him, when he was there and not there. Is this what it’s like? he wonders. Is this what I’ll have to do to be safe? Not be here? And so he stays silent, carrying his satchel from class to class, not looking at anyone, trying not to flinch if he hears Sharples shout at someone, or Horton’s high-pitched laughter, trying not to see them if they move within his range. At morning break, when the other boys are in the playground, he hovers at the end of the corridor near the niche, just in case, one hand on the back edge of the cupboard, but no one comes near, or no one that matters.

  Nothing happens until the first lesson of the afternoon, when the boy sitting next to Billy in History nudges him, then passes him a note. He looks down at the folded piece of paper, torn out of a rough book, but doesn’t open it until the end of the lesson. It says,

  Cry-baby Butterfingers!!! You did it on purpose!!! Your in the shit!!! We will get you!!! You are DEAD!!! YOU ARE DEAD!!!

  It’s written in green felt-tip, in quivery letters, as though someone has used the wrong hand to disguise himself. It might be Horton; he can’t use his right hand since the ball of his thumb turned septic. Whoever it was, he needn’t have bothered. They might just as well have signed it, Sharples or Lees or Horton, because Billy isn’t about to show anyone. That would mean explaining. He folds the piece of paper the way it was, and then again, and then again until it won’t fold any smaller. He holds it in his hand, like something live that he has caught, a fly perhaps, and can’t release, but doesn’t know what to do with. He can almost feel it move, under the tips of his fingers, as he hesitates by his desk, too scared to leave the room and go to the next class, too scared to stay and be noticed. He’s still there when the next class comes in through the door. It’s a sixth-form group, no more than five or six, and Mitchell is with them. He frowns when he notices Billy.

  ‘You shouldn’t be in this room,’ he says. He walks across and gathers up Billy’s books. ‘We’ve got a lesson in here now.’ He holds the books out to Billy, who stares at them, stunned for a moment as though they are new to him, before taking them and putting them into his satchel. ‘Come on,’ says Mitchell, ‘run along.’

  And Billy runs along. He doesn’t stop until he’s in the next class. It’s only when he puts his books down on the desk that he realises he no longer has the folded note. Hurriedly, he searches his satchel. Nothing. He must have dropped it when he took the books from Mitchell. It will be on the floor, he thinks; it will have been kicked beneath the desk. He’s folded it so small no one will see it, and if they do no one will ever know it’s his. Don’t worry, says the voice. Just bring them to me.

  After school, he hurries to the next stop along the route and catches the bus there, so that no one will see him. He gets home safely. His mother is still annoyed with him about the cigarettes. ‘How can I look that woman in the eye?’ she says, and ‘You’re almost eleven; you’re old enough to know right from wrong.’ He doesn’t answer. She lets him watch television, although the evening before she’d threatened to send him to his room as soon as he’d eaten his tea. When his father gets home, they sit on the sofa in front of the fire and watch a film together, an American film that makes them laugh. I would like it to be always like this, thinks Billy, the three of us, safe at home. Before he goes up to bed, his father tousles his hair and his mother hugs him when he gives her his usual goodnight kiss, then fetches him a glass of milk and a slice of cake to take up to bed with him. So he knows he’s been forgiven.

  That night, in bed, Billy’s almost asleep when the hissing starts, so unexpectedly he jerks up in fright. The room is pitch black. He throws back the covers and gets out of bed. His feet are cold on the wooden floor of his bedroom. That’s right, the voice says. It’s time to act. He walks towards the wardrobe, feeling his way, following the hiss. He is there and not there, Billy and not Billy; he can’t tell any longer if the voice is someone else’s or his. All he knows is that he must do what it says. He shifts the wardrobe away from the bedroom wall, as quietly as he can because his parents mustn’t be woken up. They will try and stop him, and the voice won’t let that happen. No one must know where h
e is, or where he’s going. No one must see him slip through the gap he has made. It is smaller than it should be, and lower; he needs to get down on his knees in the darkness, the bare wood cold through his pyjama bottoms, crawling almost to get where he has to get. And then he is there, with the gently hissing radiator to his right telling him that this is where he should be. In the niche.

  Billy turns his face to the rough untreated wood of the cupboard’s back, to make sure no one has followed him, no one has heard him, then takes a first blind backward step into the space behind him. He is alone, although he doesn’t feel alone. He feels that someone is there, someone good, protecting him. The hissing of the radiator that brought him here has been replaced by the regular sound of breathing, either that other someone or himself, he isn’t sure. Holding his own breath, he takes a second step, and then a third, expecting the rear wall of the niche to be there, obstructing him, blocking his way, but not finding it. This can’t be real, he thinks, reaching behind himself, hesitant to start with and then more daring, touching nothing. Turning round slowly on his heels, he pushes ahead into an ever-deeper darkness. The breathing he heard before is louder now, surrounds him, drowns out his thoughts. Ever more cautious, he continues to feel his way. He closes and opens his eyes, to make sure the darkness is outside himself, that he hasn’t been struck blind. He knows he should be scared, but he doesn’t feel scared at all. Something tells him he won’t stumble. Without knowing why, after walking for what might be minutes into this space that ought to be a wall but isn’t, that is open and soft around him in the darkness, felt-like, padded, he comes to a halt. That’s when he feels the hands upon him, touching his cheeks, two cool smooth hands, one on each side, holding his head in a cradle of absolute comfort. Shall I kill them for you? says the voice of his only friend, so soft and pure it calms the beating of his heart.