Brenden felt he should console the man, and perhaps he did say a few words as he continued to stand before the pitiful figure of the man in front of him. However, when Peter continued on, going over the same old ground of Brenden’s mistake and the horror of the new world he had entered, the boy soon felt that he should leave. He came to see that the small world of the Tunnels, and the tragic personal life within Peter, had become the man’s entire world. Maybe Brenden would also descend into such a condition, one day. For now, he could still remember the sun; the multitude of the sounds of an ordinary day at his school – the hum of chatter in a teacherless classroom, the shrill ring of the bell, the echo in the lunch hall, the squeak of trainers in the gym; he could still remember his family, his home. So, he told Peter that maybe they could meet again, that the man could tell him all he knew about the hunger to help soften its blow. Peter clearly deflated when it became clear to him that Brenden wanted to leave, but he said nothing to make his feelings known and let the boy go without a word of protest. Brenden found his way back to his new home, his utilitarian blue chest. He was happy to find that whoever had owned the chest before him had left a couple of pillows within, meaning he would not have to traipse over to a storeroom to collect one. It was time for him to settle down.
He had the sort of immortality in his hands that many his own age only believed they had. But the years that he could see stretching out before him as he lay there seemed only a burden, holding no prospect of anything really at all. He was glad of one thing though: he turned his mind to Peter and the idea of a barely recognisable Mary sitting next to him. He also brought to mind the life Mary had been willing to allow others to die for. Neither of these images in themselves gave the boy any pleasure. No, it was something else entirely. At least, he considered, by being down here, his own mum and everyone else he had known in his past life were safe from falling prey to him making the same mistake Mary had made. Unlike Peter, his loved ones would never come to know the terrible half-life that would follow if he returned home. He let out a gentle sigh, stretched out on the little patch of wood that he would come to call his own and – for the first time in as long as he could recall – drifted off into a deep and peaceful sleep.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Woods is from the North of England, studied Politics at Cardiff University and Political Philosophy at the University of York, and is the author of The Watchmakers’ Daughter and The School of the Undead. He currently works as an editor for a university project in Switzerland.
You can contact the author at
[email protected]
The School of the Undead Page 26