"Erm, soon, I promise." Jenny could hear Amy gulp, sounding like she regretted those words. "How about I, I meet you in a couple of hours?"
"I'll let you know where. Stay safe, alright?" Jenny ended the call without waiting for an answer. She kept on standing, but her mouth had dried out, and she had to go and get water from the bathroom tap before she was able to find Tom's number and call him.
Tom didn't answer, so Jenny messaged him: "take the call u idiot, its about those prints"
Tom had spend half the morning reading through article after article, link after link. Everything he tried to do with local abductions or strange footprints was irrelevant, but not when he started searching for electric and lighting failures – then the results came pouring in.
The first cases were recent – houses with faulty wiring in every area of Crooksfield, and years of complaints to an uncaring Council. There were blackouts as well – at least one every ten years – and reports of losses of power to the outlying farms, from High Copse to Underhow. At least one farmstead had caught fire during storms and been found reduced to broken brick and charred timber in the morning – and that, too, blamed on the lighting.
He looked further back. In the Seventies, there were problems with a planned power station nearby in the hills, moved several miles south after a string of accidents. Electricity had been rare in Crooksfield before then, it seemed – only the centre parts of town had been wired, and unreliably at that. Every year, every decade there were reports of accidents and breakages and of crimes carried out when the streets went dark.
Tom read back further still, finding archived newspapers from the nineteenth century telling of the gas-lamps that studded the town centre then, of how they were noted for blowing out in even the slightest of winds, and for causing injuries and explosions in a number fully at odds with the small population of the place. The public lamplighter – for there was only one, Tom read – was described as a poorly-paid and unpopular post, and one frequently advertised after the flight or incapacity of the previous holder.
That took Tom to a page on the history of the Crooksfield lamplighter, and he stopped to wonder what kind of sad idiots spent their time putting all of this together. Histories of wars and rulers was one thing, but who was expected to read these weird little details – except for him, right now?
The Crooksfield lamplighter, read Tom, was a post going back to Royal Charter in the early eighteenth century that allowed the Council to set up oil lanterns wherever they saw fit, making it among the first towns in Northern England to have public streetlights. A man was duly paid and appointed to light and maintain them, and the position kept up well into the Twentieth Century until finally made obsolete by the arrival of electricity – and even then, the role was kept for some years for ceremonial purposes before finally being abolished during spending cuts following the first Great War.
Tom stopped there. All that old language was filling his head up, messing with the way he liked to think, and it unsettled him. None of it told him anything about real local incidents or visitors, only useless chunks of grey dead facts.
There was a picture at the bottom of the page, and Tom scrolled down to look at it before giving up. It was a scan of some ancient woodcut showing the public lamplighter on his rounds, and so faded that the image was barely more than scribblings. Tom squinted, and could make out a figure in a broad-brimmed hat and some kind of robe – both presumably to protect it from hot oil or explosions of gas. There was a long pole balanced over its shoulder.
There was something familiar about the shape, but Tom couldn't quite place from where. Bored, he gave up on the search for now and flicked over to Amy's blog to see if she'd taken the bait yet.
She hadn't, but there was something else new instead, and as Tom started at the photo of the same prints he'd just seen outside his own house he felt his mouth going dry with excitement. That made two of them, and the comment from Jenny hinted she knew something as well.
This was it. After all these years of chasing false reports and rumours. A Second Kind incident, and right on his doorstep.
He left his own comment, finding his fingers almost flew off the keyboard.
Tom had one more look at the woodcut, and now he recognised it – that tramp on the bridge the other night. What that had to do with anything he didn't know yet, but it had to be important.
Maybe these pages weren't so useless after all.
Ten
Tom found he'd missed a call when he came back from the bathroom – Jenny, with a message to match. She was being pushy and he didn't fancy giving into it, but if she actually knew anything –
He didn't like talking down the phone. Text was cleaner, gave you time to think.
Tom answered: "What about them why'd you need to ring?"
It didn't take Jenny long to answer. "u can't talk about things in little bits of txt like this u dimwit call me back"
"Got no minutes, you ring me." Tom sat back, pleased with himself. Even at a time like this it felt good to wind her up.
Sure enough, his phone started to cry a minute later. Jenny's voice was loud and irritated. "Hey, what're you playing at?"
"You're the one who wanted to speak to me." Tom jammed the phone between his shoulder and his ear, flipped his laptop back open. "So what's this about the markings?"
"You told Amy you needed to talk." Jenny's last photo online was of her leaning against her bathroom mirror, half-showing herself, and Tom brought it up and imagined she looked like that right now.
Tom snickered. "Yeah, I told her, not you."
"Quit screwing around." Jenny was near shouting, and Tom backed down.
"I found some marks like those outside," he admitted.
"Outside? Outside where?"
"Outside here. The house." Tom wondered if the blanket was still there, protecting them.
He heard Jenny breathe in sharply, and the line went quiet for a moment.
"Is anything else going on there?" she asked.
"Dunno what you mean." Tom found another picture of Jenny, towel wrapped around her boobs as she smirked at the camera.
"Why're you being so thick?" There was such a note of scorn in Jenny's voice then that Tom found his mockery falling to pieces, and he mentally flailed about for something clever to say as she carried on. "I mean anything strange, people not coming home."
"Nope, none of that. Steven's asleep upstairs." Toms struggled to recover his composure, his distance. "Look, I've found some other stuff online. You and Amy ought to see it."
"Email it over then."
Tom shook his head. People were so stupid sometimes. "It's not safe. My computer's protected, but I'm pretty sure your phone isn't. Come over here and I'll show you."
"Protected? Not safe? What're you on about, you little–” He could hear Jenny catch herself, take a deep breath. "Fine, we'll be over this afternoon."
"What's the delay?" Tom could feel himself coming back together, and didn't feel inclined to waste half his day hanging around.
"None of your business." There was an air of triumph to Jenny. "If you want to know anything about what Amy and I found–”
Damn her damn her how did she know, Tom thought.
"– then stay put, and we'll see you in a while."
It was several hours before the doorbell went, and Tom had nearly bored himself into unconsciousness. He'd kept reading, looking for anything more on the marks or the man in the straw hat, but that one weird history page was all there seemed to be. No-one had commented on his picture, and his usual networks had barely any news – more ramblings from the religious nutters, and a posting from some would-be detective called Rain.
Still no movement from Steven. Tom was tempted to go hammer on his door, but there'd be hell to pay – and besides, what did it matter if his stupid housemate was late for work? Instead, he spent an entertaining few minutes making sure things would be as miserable as possible for Steven when he came down – mug hidden in the micr
owave, all the knives in the washing-up, shoes stuck under the sofa. Steven was so disorganised he'd never yet noticed.
Another hour went by, and he was beginning to meld with the sofa when the girls finally arrived. Tom let them in with little welcome, and was almost knocked aside by Jenny as she strode into the house. Amy was hovering behind her like a shadow – just like that night in the pub. Tom wondered about them and fought to keep it off his face.
"So what've you got to show us?" Jenny had no time for greetings either, letting herself into the living room. She glanced around the place. "Hey, where's Steven?"
"Still asleep." Tom sat on the sofa before either of them could take his spot. "And you go first."
"Oh, for–” Jenny was just beginning to sound off when Amy cut in. "Do you mean these?" She was holding out her phone, the picture of those prints on it.
"Yes, those." Tom chucked all pretense, leaned forward to look closer. "Where did you find them?"
"Outside – " Amy hesitated, "outside Jessica's, just after Jack went missing."
So Jack was gone, just like Hazel. Tom's insides started to buzz, and he already knew what was coming when Jenny pulled out her own phone and showed a third picture. Same markings. "These were over at Hazel's," she said.
Tom woke his laptop up, showed them his own. "These are out front under the blanket," he said.
"So that's three." To Tom's surprise, Jenny shivered and sat down, hugging herself. "Why's the light off?" She looked at the ceiling.
"It's been acting up, and I didn't want to kill the bulb." Tom shrugged, and saw both girls stiffen up and exchange looks. There was something they weren't telling him.
"What did you want to show us?" Jenny broke the silence.
Tom thought about making them explain themselves first, but something in Jenny's expression put him off. Amy seemed distracted, kept hiding her face behind that stupid green hair.
"Here." He bought up the pages about the lamplighter of Crooksfield, and when Jenny rolled her eyes at all the text Tom scrolled down to the woodcut. Jenny jumped in her seat, hands flying to her mouth, and there was panic in her voice when she spoke.
"Where's that from?"
"It's some old picture." Tom scrolled back up, showed her the date. "There's been some tramp hanging around town dressed like this, and I think he's involved." He couldn't say what he really thought yet – these two were sceptics, wouldn't listen for a moment.
"I've seen him too." Jenny squashed in next to Tom and leaned forward until she almost touched the screen, hand still over her face. "He's been in a couple of places, I thought he was following me around."
"How do we know it's a him? I couldn't see his face." Amy however looked far less alarmed. She was wearing a simple t-shirt, and when she leaned forward Tom saw the stresses and shapes of her figure tight against the fabric. He swallowed.
"Dunno." Tom moved back to the picture. It was starting to get dark outside, and looking at the screen was getting to be a strain on his eyes, so he went to stick the light on.
"Wait," Jenny said as he reached for the switch. "Leave it off." She still sounded nervous.
"Why?" Tom hesitated, and then Amy chipped in.
"Hey, have you actually seen Steven today?"
"No, but his door's shut and I heard him come in last night." Tom didn't understand why saying that got such a reaction from the other two – Jenny bit her lip, and Amy swayed from side to side as if she might collapse.
"Tell you what," Tom headed for the door, "I'll go check on him."
"I'll come with you." Jenny rose to her feet, and Tom couldn't think of a way to convince her back down again.
The door was still shut tight, and when Tom knocked at it there wasn't any answer. He'd expected Jenny to push forward like she normally did, but instead she seemed to be hanging back, almost as if she were trying to hide behind him. It wasn't much like her, and Tom started to feel unsettled himself.
Another knock. Still nothing. He took hold of the handle and slowly opened the door.
The light was off and the curtains were closed, but Tom could still make out the vague shapes of the room. The bed was empty, covers rolled back and crumpled up.
He reached for the light switch, and Jenny's hand locked snakelike round his wrist. "Leave it."
"Why?" Tom tried to pull free but her grip was stronger than expected.
"Just," Jenny hesitated, "just trust me. We can talk about this later."
She was pressed against his back, hand still hauling on his wrist, but Tom could only think about the fear in her voice. In all the years they'd put up with each other he'd never seen Jenny this shaken up.
He closed the door again, and Jenny released him.
"Let's head back," she said, voice cracking.
The living room was still dark, but Amy had drawn the curtains and was hunched up on the sofa in Tom's spot with his laptop on her knees. Tom bristled and was about to rush forward when Amy raised her head and looked at him. All the colour had bleached out of her face, and her free hand was balled into a fist.
"What's this?" she asked, pointing at the screen. Tom had thought she was scared, but there was a nervous anger in her tones. He looked and saw Amy's own blog up, and his bookmarks open.
"Why do you read my journal?" said Amy.
Tom started to come up with something, but she wouldn't let him speak. "We hardly talk and you never text me, and I don't think I really know you. Why have you got my journal on here?"
"Amy, I don't – "Jenny began to say, and Amy rose trembling from the sofa. "I know it's you," she said, closing her eyes. "Please just admit it is."
"I don't know what you're on about," Tom said, but could hear his own voice betray him. One of those messages had been too specific, and she'd guessed.
"It was you all along." Amy's voice rose, shrilled, shot across the room with her. Before Tom knew what was happening she was upon him, green fury, hands raining down. Stinging slaps to his cheek his nose his shoulder and Amy wouldn't stop shouting. "You – you – vile– uururgghh"
Too confused to hit back, Tom threw his hands over his face and felt blows hammer across them. "Why?" Amy was shrieking. "Why could you?"
Jenny had Amy by the shoulders, was pulling her off while she lashed at Tom's face. There were tears streaming from Amy's eyes, long streaks of eyeshadow. "What did I ever do to you?" she howled.
"Amy." Jenny took firm hold of Amy, tried to talk to her. "Amy, Steven's–”
"I don't care." Amy's voice rose back to a yell, and before Tom could stop her she had seized up his laptop and was raising it with both hands above her head.
Tom's brain burned. Blood scent. He powered forward, shouldering through Jenny, but Amy had already struggled free and was bringing his laptop down full force on the table corner. Plastic shattered. Metal screamed. Sparks flew. Jenny tangled in Tom's legs as she staggered sideways and he fell head first into the sofa, but all he could see was his beloved computer coming apart. His connection broken.
Fragments rained into the carpet.
"See if you can message anyone now." Amy was breathing heavily.
"Amy, what–” Jenny started to say, pulling herself up, but Amy was already leaving. Tom could hear her breaking down, sobbing as she went, but all he could think to do was crawl across the carpet and cradle his laptop. There was a split across the screen and a gash on the keyboard where keys had been knocked out, like missing teeth. The casing was cracked and the cd tray had broken off and it would never work again.
"What the hell was that?" Jenny had regained her feet and her composure, looking down at Tom as if she blamed him.
"No idea," Tom said, but he couldn't even convince himself.
"You'd better ring the police about Steven," said Jenny. "I'm going after her."
With that she was gone as well, and Tom was alone in the darkening room with the ruins of everything he cared about. What had Amy done? What could he do?
Steven. Steven would have helpe
d, stood up to her, defused everything with a joke. Fat lot of good Steven was when you needed him. Where was he? And what was all that about the lights?
Getting defiantly to his feet, Tom headed for the light switch. Click. On. Working perfectly.
There was no point listening to anything those two lunatics had said. He looked at the laptop again, wondering if the drive could be salvaged, but a misery rose up in him and he had to sit down again. There was no point. You tried to help people for once and this was how they treated you.
Steven could be anywhere. Donald might know, but Donald had been with Tom last night, and Harry wasn't answering messages.
Terry however might have an idea. Terry was the one who'd been mouthing off about what he wanted to do to Steven.
Trying not to look at the wrecked computer anymore, Tom burrowed for his phone and texted: "Alright mate know where Steven is? Better not be you who did him in haha"
Now either Steven needed finding, or he didn't and setting the police on him would pay him back. Tom started to key in the number.
Terry had overslept that morning and missed his first lecture, and the day had only got worse from there. It wasn't that he cared about the lecture, but skipping by choice was different than doing it by accident, and he'd already lost precious hours that could have been spent doing any number of things. Hours he could have used trying to talk Jessica round, or finding that weasel Steven and kicking his snivelling head in.
Checking his phone as he got up, Terry saw Steven trying to shift the blame back and laughed out loud. No-one was even paying attention to the guy anymore – Tom and Harry had posted, but only to laugh at him.
Good. That made it easier.
Bolting down a meal that could have been breakfast or dinner for all he cared, Terry headed into town. No sense visiting Jessica if Amy was still around, blocking him and trying to sneak herself in there. He wondered if she might succeed with the mood Jessica was in, and thinking of them again made him shiver up and down his spine. One thing at a time.
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