They heard a bolt slide across the door. An old woman was locking up the shop.
‘Well?’ asked Webster. ‘Do you want to try it on?’
James looked up into Webster’s smiling face and something melted inside him, so he nodded, and Webster ran to the door and banged on it and flapped his wad of notes against the glass.
‘The suit!’ he shouted. ‘We need that suit!’
And both of them laughed as the old woman’s flustered face broke into a smile.
James tried it on with a clean white shirt and a tie.
‘Looks good,’ said Webster.
‘Looks sharp,’ said James and he struck a pose that made Webster roar.
They chose an armful of jeans and shirts and tops which they stuffed into a duffel bag with worn leather handles that cost less than a pound.
When the old woman let them out of the shop, James told a joke that made her laugh. And he saw in her eyes that she was glad for both of them in some way and it lit a light in his chest, which glowed for some time afterwards.
14
The motel room was a twin. It was cheap and beige. The single dirty window had plastic venetian blinds that worked by pulling on a beaded metal chain like the one in the bath for the plug.
Webster lay on his bed and James on his. The black suit was draped over the back of a chair together with the shirt and tie.
The boy reread the pages he had printed off the Internet, underlining sections here and there that interested him.
‘Did he say anything else about St Hubert? Or the key?’ he asked Webster.
‘Who?’
‘The old traveller who helped you escape. The one who gave you the money.’
‘No.’
James drummed his fingers on the pages.
‘What was he like?’
‘Nice enough,’ said Webster, staring at the ceiling, his arms in triangles behind his head. ‘Sad though. He had a big scar on his face. Like someone had opened him up and pulled out the happiness and stitched him up again.’
‘Why do you think he was so sad?’
‘His three children hadn’t stayed. And he lost his wife a couple of years ago. He loved her very much.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because of the way he talked about her. She had golden blonde hair and blue eyes and lips as red as holly berries. She ran away to be with him when she was only sixteen. He gave her a bouquet of daisies on their wedding day because it was all they could afford.’
James stared at Webster, remembering how the woman in the charity shop had smiled at them and how it had made him glow. Suddenly, he wanted to know if Webster had a family too. Anyone. But somehow he didn’t want to ask. Not now. Not ever.
When he realised Webster was staring back, he cleared his throat and folded his arms.
‘Is that why he helped you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The old man, did he help you to feel better? To stop feeling sad?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Gudgeon.’ Webster let out a long, slow breath. ‘His name was Gudgeon.’
James wrote down the name in the margin of his notes because he liked the solid, round sound of it. ‘Gud-geon,’ he said, reading it back. ‘And all he told you was to pray to God to find St Hubert’s key.’
‘Yes.’ Webster scratched his face. Banged his head down into his pillow to soften it and laid his arms over his chest. ‘I think he helped because he wanted to know if there’s really something . . .’ James was looking at him. ‘You know. Up there?’ And he raised his eyebrows at the ceiling. ‘Some sort of explanation for it all.’
Neither of them said anything for a while after that. And James began doodling in the margins and gradually a face appeared. An old man. With a beard and long, flowing hair. James worked hard on it for some time, but he could not decide if the drawing was right or wrong or good or bad. He had no idea how to draw the person he was thinking about. Or even if he existed at all. He wrote a name beside it. All three letters of it.
When he woke, it was still dark. The lights in the car park made the blinds soft and yellow around their edges.
Webster was muttering in his sleep. The night before in the car had been the same. He had dreamt loudly, with his head lolled back in the driver’s seat and the greatcoat wrapped round him. But now it seemed worse with the bedsheets tight across him. As though it was an illness that had seeped to the surface. Legs kicked. Mattress springs creaked as he moved. His head flashed from side to side over the pillow. James wondered if Webster was dreaming about the night he had been attacked. He was unsure whether to wake him up or not.
Suddenly, the muttering stopped.
Webster rolled over. He opened his eyes and stared straight at James, the blue around his pupils more electric than ever before, the black of his hair richer than a thundercloud. James cried out, afraid. But Webster did not flinch. His face was earnest.
‘I killed a little girl in Iraq. All I did was give her a bottle of water because it was so hot. And they hung her up in a tree. To teach everyone else in the village a lesson, so nobody would speak to our unit. All for a bottle of water.’
In the immediate silence they lay staring at each other, across the gap between their beds. And James sensed that the space beside him was as deep as a canyon and he was too afraid to move. Or even speak.
And then Webster shut his eyes and rolled over to face the wall.
James’s heart beat into the mattress and the frame of the bed as he lay perfectly still. Heat drifted off his cheeks and his brow, and his hands were curled into fists. He had said nothing to Webster. Nothing at all.
He turned over on to his side and stared into the dirty beige stripes on the wallpaper and listened to the patter of rain starting up against the window, telling himself that Webster had been dreaming. That all this now was a dream of his own making too. But, the moment he closed his eyes, he knew he was not dreaming, he was wide awake, and it broke him out into a sweat that chilled him.
His mind ticked hard.
In the dark behind his eyes he saw the face of a dead girl in a faraway dusty land. And, as he tried to push her back into the dark, the girl became someone. A little younger than him. Brown-skinned. Wearing a grubby, loose dress with blue flip-flops. Bright half-moons on her toenails. A thin silver bangle round her ankle. She was dangling from the branch of a tree. Drifting like a wind chime. An empty plastic bottle lay beneath her on the dusty orange ground, its blue top spun off, a dark wet patch showing where the water had seeped away. Men and women were staring. Wailing. Weeping more tears than would ever fit into that bottle.
Like an item on the six o’clock news.
James opened his eyes and drew up the covers around him, and stared at the wall for a long time, listening to Webster. The man’s breathing gave nothing away. It rolled like a river right through him. James could not be sure if he was awake or not. Whether he might be waiting for him to say something. Finally, he rolled on to his back and stared at the ceiling.
‘Sometimes,’ he said quietly, ‘I speak to my mum. And I tell her things I would never have told her when she was alive. And I don’t know what to think about that. And then I just tell myself she probably knows everything now anyway.’
Webster said nothing.
His breathing kept to its same rhythm.
The man did not even stir.
15
When James woke up, he sensed he had overslept by the bloated feeling in his head. He panicked for a moment, unsure of where he was. The sensation passed when he saw Webster, showered and dressed, appearing from the bathroom, towelling down his head to leave spikes of black hair.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘Morning,’ said James. ‘How did you sleep?’
But Webster didn’t seem to hear with the towel buzzing his hair.
The suit smelt clean and soapy and was glassy in spots. The white shirt and tie fitted well. Ja
mes smoothed down his hair and in the mirror he saw the glimmer of a future where he was grown up, with a job and a house and a family of his own, although he was unsure how he would ever get there.
‘Life is everything you want to make of it,’ said Webster, as if reading his mind.
And James’s heart gleamed because he hoped it was true. But the longer he stared into the mirror, the more he felt something black unwinding through his guts. And the black was cold.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Webster softly.
But James just shook his head. ‘Nothing. I’m OK. Let’s go.’
The church was open. An organ was playing as Webster and James crunched along the gravel path between the gravestones. The boy picked at the threads around the buttons of his suit as a shiver licked goosebumps over his skin. That black was in his guts again.
When he looked up, Webster was staring at him. James realized he was standing quite still on the path with his fists clenched.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, opening his hands.
But then he licked his lips.
Folded his arms.
Shivered in the sunlight and shook his head.
‘I’m not as brave as I thought I was.’
Webster bent down beside him. ‘I thought the suit might make a good impression,’ he said quietly. ‘That it was a good idea. I didn’t think hard enough about it. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry about your mum too.’
‘That’s OK. It’s not your fault.’
‘Think you’ll be all right?’
‘Yes. I think so. Just give me a moment.’
‘Nobody lives forever,’ said Webster.
‘Why?’ asked James in a tiny, cracked voice.
And Webster sighed and shook his head and looked at the gravestones. Some of them lying face down on the grass. Others slowly falling.
James wiped his eyes. Shuddered as he sucked up a breath. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘No. It’s not. Whoever decided it must have been as mad as a hatter.’
James managed a smile at that.
Webster crouched down and took hold of the boy’s wrists as though they were made of glass. ‘I bet your mum’s listening to everything you tell her. Wherever she is. So never give up on telling her things.’
And then James bit his lip because he realized what Webster was really trying to tell him. That he had been awake last night.
‘I don’t have anyone else,’ said Webster.
‘Neither do I,’ James said quickly and squeezed Webster’s hands as hard as he could. When the man squeezed gently back, something prickly in James’s chest vanished and he breathed more easily after that.
They stayed in the sun, warming themselves, looking into the open black mouth of the church as the organ played. When James stopped shaking, Webster let go of his hands. And when they were ready they went on down the path.
Inside the church, the air was cool, bitter with polish. The stained-glass windows down one side glowed as sunlight played over the flagstone floor. An old man in a dark suit handed both of them a prayer book and a green hymn book as soon as they walked in.
‘Feel free to sit wherever you can,’ he said, raising his eyebrows because the church was empty except for two old ladies in the front pew.
As Webster and James sat and listened to the music, a handful of other people arrived in ones and twos and took their places.
The service took less than an hour. Webster sang the hymns as loudly as he could, chest puffed out like a pigeon.
James remembered the rhythm of everything as they stood and sat and knelt, just as he had done it with his mother. When he listened to the reading, he closed his eyes to see the story of what was being told. He knelt for communion beside Webster and offered out his hands. In his cupped palms he received a round paper wafer which tasted of nothing except stale air. The sip of wine that followed ran hot into his chest.
Whenever he felt the black in his guts, he worked harder at following the service properly, hoping it might make a difference. And when that didn’t work he looked around the church, searching for any clues about St Hubert or the key.
Finally, when the service was over, the organ began to wheeze and play. The two old women at the front rose and shuffled down the nave, drifting like ghosts, their arms locked together as though letting go might mean the end for both of them.
Webster gripped James by the shoulder. He could feel the man’s heart beating.
‘What do you think? Seen anything that might be important?’ James shook his head. Webster pursed his lips and sat back, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. Then he leant in close to the boy. ‘Maybe we didn’t pray hard enough,’ he said before settling back in the pew.
James looked around again for anything that might be helpful and noticed the young vicar talking to a middle-aged couple near the entrance. All three of them were laughing. When the vicar glanced directly at him, James looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring.
‘We’ll have to ask if we want to find out anything,’ he whispered.
When everyone else had left, they approached the vestry and peered at the vicar through a crack in the door. He had already changed out of his robes and was dressed in a black shirt and trousers with a white dog collar around his throat.
‘Hello there,’ he said when he opened the door and saw them waiting.
‘Good morning, Reverend,’ said Webster and put out his hand. James noticed that it was shaking. The vicar smiled as he shook it.
‘Thank you for coming to the service. And for your marvellous singing.’
Webster beamed. When the vicar looked at James, he suddenly remembered Webster had bought him the suit to help make a good impression.
‘I’m James,’ he said and held out his hand as Webster had done, making sure it was steady.
‘Lovely to meet you, James.’ And, for a moment, there was nothing but grace as the vicar smiled, and the pews ticked, and the sunlight moved noiselessly over the stone walls.
Webster wiped his brow with the back of his hand, making it shine.
‘We were wondering about the key,’ he said quietly.
The young vicar looked taken aback for a moment. And then his face became ashen. James grinned all the harder to try and make up for it. But the vicar looked down at the flagstone floor and shuffled his feet. He planted his hands in his trouser pockets and then straightened up.
‘I don’t have the key to the donations box,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. It can’t be opened.’
Webster shook his head. Licked his lips. Patted one of the vicar’s shoulders. ‘We’re not here to take any money. We’re not looking to piss you off. That’s the last thing we want to do.’
‘Oh,’ replied the vicar. His forehead creased. His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’
‘St Hubert’s key is what we want to know about,’ said James.
‘I need to be cured,’ said Webster. ‘Cured of evil.’
‘I see.’
But James knew the vicar did not understand so he took the printed pages out of the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘St Hubert’s key,’ he said, holding up a picture of it. ‘It was used as a cure for rabies, but we were told it might also help with other things . . . evil things.’
‘And who told you that?’
But neither of them said a word.
‘I see. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there’s no key here. I’m not sure there ever has been. That sort of artefact is very rare. A museum piece. Like the one in your picture.’
Webster planted a hand on James’s shoulder, squeezing hard, as if to stop himself from falling.
‘What if we made a devotion to St Hubert?’ asked James, eyes racing across the text he had highlighted and starred in the margin.
The young vicar folded his hands together in a ball of graceful fingers. His smile was small, but warm and wise.
‘What sort of dark and evil things do you need to be cured of?’
&nb
sp; ‘I’ve been done wrong,’ said Webster. ‘Someone’s done me a great wrong. And now I’m dark inside because of it. I’m something else. Broken apart then put back together.’ He wiped his hands over his greatcoat and placed them in his pockets. And then he took them out again and wiped them again. And then he folded his arms tight across his chest, unsure how to stand.
The vicar nodded. As if everything was suddenly clear to him.
‘The best and the simplest way to defeat dark and evil things is through love,’ he said.
‘Love? Who am I supposed to love?’ asked Webster.
‘Whoever has done you this wrong. It sounds simple, but it’s not easy. It’s the best advice I can give you.’
‘What about asking God?’ asked James. ‘Could you do that? For us? Just to be sure.’
The vicar pressed his hands together harder and squeezed his lips white, and James thought he might be about to pray. But then he peeled his palms apart and just smiled. Bigger than before. His lips pumping themselves pink again. ‘There’s no need for that. You’ll find out for yourselves that it’s true.’
They walked back up the path through the gravestones, crunching gravel. Webster kicked out hard, sending stones skittering into the grass.
‘What the hell does he mean?’ he asked in an angry voice. ‘What do we do now?’ He stopped and stared down at his feet then threw back his head and blew out a long breath.
‘I think he means you have to forgive whoever attacked you.’ James looked through his sheets of paper until he found what he was looking for. ‘According to most legends, and what the travellers told you, if someone is attacked on the night of a full moon and survives then they’re cursed just like the one who attacks them.’
‘So?’
‘So, if the vicar’s right, you need to find the person who left you cursed and forgive them. They must be out there somewhere.’
‘And that’ll work? I’ll be cured?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘A vicar like that wouldn’t lie, I suppose.’ Webster kicked out at the gravel again. ‘It’s all shot to shit then. Everything happened like that.’ He slapped his palms together with a bang. ‘I don’t remember anything.’
The Dark Inside Page 5