The nurses were rapping on the window again, and one of them was coming to the door. Amy looked up in alarm, but noticed another sound, footsteps coming across the car park. They shuffled and dragged, and a figure staggered in after them with cuts and bruises plastered across his face and hands.
Tom. He lifted one hand in a mock-wave.
Amy noticed he was limping, then saw the other injuries, the blood tricking down his face. She wanted to greet him with recriminations, but there were things more urgent than blame. "What happened to you?"
"Could ask you the same." Tom hobbled up, casting a deliberate eye over her gown and her bandages.
Neither wanted to go first. Tom shivered in the cold, looking everywhere but at Amy. "Let's get inside first, alright?"
Amy shook her head, planting herself between him and the door. She could see the nurses moving out of the corner of her eye, knew they only had seconds. "We can't. It's not safe in there, and they won't let me leave tonight if I go back."
"They won't?" Tom looked up at the hospital, back down to Amy. His voice sounded as rough as he looked. "Are you talking about Them?"
The emphasis he put on the last word saved Amy any explanations. She nodded and started to walk. "Come on, quick."
"Hang on, wait up." Tom's leg was at a funny angle, and he struggled to keep up with her. Amy could see the nurses running to the door. She'd have to –
– no not that, not touch him –
– no choice. No time.
She darted back to Tom's side, grabbed his arm and pulled it across her shoulders. Her flesh crawled.
"What're you doing?" Tom sounded surprised, nearly losing his balance. Amy started to walk again, pulling him across the car park.
"Don't argue," she told him, looking back over her shoulder. The nurses seemed to have decided not to chase after them – one was standing in the doorway while the other ran back inside.
Tom's arm was sticky, and there was blood spotted across his fingers. Amy could feel him shivering, was uncomfortably aware of his breathing as if it were hers. She half-dragged him, taking a little pleasure in making Tom go faster than he wanted. She could tell it hurt.
"Where – where're we going?" He struggled against her, and Amy almost left him. She hadn't worked that out yet, but the rest of the idea was coming together in her head, and she needed him – needed someone at least, someone who knew her to keep the shadows off her back.
"Shut up," she said, walking faster. They were almost out of the car park, and Amy felt safer on the fringes, less likely to be dragged back inside.
Tom leaned against her, panting, and though Amy felt sick at the touch she wondered: was this really who she'd been scared of all these months? This weak-willed boy, going where she told him?
"No, stop," Tom said, pulling away. He wobbled on his feet, clutched at a parking sign for support. "I'm not going anywhere until we've sorted what we're doing."
He was right, though Amy hated him for it. She kept a welcome distance, trying to shake herself free of his smell.
"So let's talk," she said. "Did you really mean you were sorry?"
Tom put his hand to his forehead. There was a long shallow cut there, and he winced when his fingers brushed it.
"Yeah, I guess," he said. "Does it matter?"
"Does it – " Amy wanted to slap him. All her anger of the day before was there, raw as ever. "Of course it does! Why else do you think I agreed to meet you?"
It didn't matter, her brain tried to tell her, not with life and death at stake, but the rest of Amy rose up and overwhelmed that idea: it mattered more than ever. If she was this close to dying then she had to deal with this. Had to strip everything that weighed her down and tear it away, or she'd be as miserable and regretful as she'd always been. She was sick of playing victim.
"Alright," Tom muttered. "Keep your arse together."
This time Amy gave in and slapped him. Tom's face went white, and he drew back on himself like a snail.
"Okay, okay. I mean it, seriously – I'm sorry. I shouldn't have sent you all that crap I did."
"Right." Amy backed off, looked across the car park to the hospital gates. The apology was feeble as anything, but she could see people moving around in the lobby. Time to go.
"Come on," she told Tom, stepping towards him again. "You can't walk without me, and we'll talk as we go."
"But where're we going?" Tom clung stubbornly to the sign, pouting.
"Hazel's place." Amy had decided now, managed to pull images of streets and places into her aching head. "Come on, it's closer than anywhere else," and Tom was clearly in no shape to walk far. Nor was she, not with the way her vision kept fading out.
"What good's that going to do us? She's as gone as the rest of them."
Amy pulled his hand off the metal, put it back around her shoulder and tried to block the stickiness, the smell of sweat. "I know how to get in."
She carried him away from St Martin's and down the deserted streets. It was early morning now, and even the occasional traffic had died away, leaving them utterly alone. It felt as if the entire town had been taken behind their backs. Streets dragged agonisingly past, and with every new sign Amy's legs ached all the more. Poor Ladies' Avenue. Shoreside. Finally Sourdough, and by then Amy's hands had gone numb from the cold and Tom looked ready to faint.
They talked as they went, partly to share, partly to plan, but mostly to keep the cold away. Amy told Tom about the Firebringer, the ritual, and how he was the conduit, and Tom told her what he'd worked out about the cycles of the shadows – the parasites, the infected hosts, and the swollen third stage.
"So what's this plan?" Tom asked. Amy disliked being so close to his voice – it was like a trapped insect whining against glass. She tried to pretend that the arm that held him wasn't even there, wasn't hers, and pretending that made it easier not to throw him off and run.
She hadn't got to that yet. "The people he takes, they're – um – kind of still there, but they're anonymous. Like ghosts. I can talk to them."
"So what?" Tom kicked against the ground. They were halfway down the alley behind Sourdough, and Amy scanned the back gates as they passed them, trying to remember which was Hazel's.
"So they don't know how to get back," she said, "but they can see him sometimes. The Lamplighter. He's the link, and if I summon him again it'll open the way for them as well."
"Hang on." Tom dug his heels in, forcing both of them to stop. "This bloke nearly killed you before and you want to bring him straight back? And if that's right, why didn't they show up before?"
"They don't know when." Amy had spotted Hazel's gate – she remembered the shape of it, big splinter of wood sticking out halfway down – and pressed him towards it. "They barely know who they are. I can call them, tell them when to come back."
"And what then?" Despite his injuries, Tom laughed at her, right beside her ear. "You think they can stop this god-ghost-whatever he is? Our friends? You remember what they're like, right?"
"Do you have a better idea?" Amy kicked him on the ankle and regretted it – the hiss of indrawn breath and the look of pain Tom showed were too much even for her anger.
"Nah." Tom shook his head and came to a stop beside the gate, leaning on the fence. "I know you're wrong about all that crap – gods, spirits, whatever. I dunno what you think you saw, but he's just another trick of Them."
"Why do you keep saying it that way?" Amy pulled away and looked at him, but Tom only shook his head and stared downwards. "You wouldn't understand," he said. "None of you ever did. You're too naive."
"I'm what now?" Tom flinched before Amy had finished speaking, and she didn't have the heart to do anything further. Let him keep his secrets for what it counted.
"Come on," she said, unhooking the gate. "Let's get inside."
The kitchen door was stubborn at first, but Amy leaned on it the way Jenny had before and managed to get it open after two or three tries. The flat was dark, and chilly in the way em
pty places are. She reached for the kitchen light switch, and Tom protested. "What're you doing?"
"It's fine, it's safe." Amy pushed past him, pressed the switch down. "They only come after people who are alone, right?"
Tom nodded, but he didn't look happy. His eyes kept darting around the kitchen, and Amy couldn't help but look as well. She hadn't really paid attention last time she'd been here, had been too distracted by Jessica weighing on her mind –
– remembering the helpless messages sitting on her phone, Amy's eyes stung –
– but this time she could see the layout of the room. It was orderly and carefully tided, pots and pans and crockery on the shelves in stacks sorted by size. There was a lone calendar popped on top of the fridge, and a selection of novelty magnets stuck to the door – band names, holiday destinations. Amy had only met Hazel a few times, but she remembered how reserved she'd come across. Nothing showy.
"So we're here." Tom dismissed the contents of the room with a glance. "Now what? What's next in your plan?"
He was all front, Amy thought. Bravado thinly papered over terror.
"We need to turn all the lights on," she said. "As many as possible. And we need a candle – there must be one somewhere in here."
Tom looked at the dark hallway. "I'm not turning lights on by myself. What do you need them for anyway?"
"It's how you call him." Amy started to open the kitchen cupboards. "The Lamplighter."
"This is stupid," Tom muttered, but he turned the hall light on and stood waiting for her by the doorway.
Amy turned out boxes and packets and tubs, finding rice and cereal and all kinds of cleaning fluids, but no candle. She felt oddly guilty about it – going through Hazel's possessions seemed invasive whether she was gone or not. There was something personal in seeing how the other girl had eaten, cooked, lived.
"There's nothing here," she said, straightening up.
"That's because people don't keep candles in their kitchens," Tom said, leaning on the doorpost. The cut on his forehead had dried up, but pain was still flickering over his face. "They keep them in sitting rooms and bedrooms to be pretty, don't they?"
Amy knew he was wrong – and the scorn in his voice made it clear how little he cared – but the other rooms might still have what she needed. Without a candle they were stuck waiting for daylight, and anything could go wrong in the long hours.
"Come on then." She found herself having to lead again but Tom kept close behind her. Amy could feel his gaze, and did her best to block it out.
The living room proved as tidy and fruitless as the kitchen had, and the bathroom was too tiny to store anything. Amy left lights bright as she went – every lamp, every power switch.
"Bedroom, then." Tom managed to make the word sound slimy, and Amy wanted to kick him again. For all his protested apologies, he hadn't changed – and his tone was almost worse than the shadows they were guarding against.
She headed to the front of the flat, threw open the door, reached for the switch –
– the air in here smelled wrong, stale somehow –
– there was an acid edge to it like rotten food –
– her ear was hurting again, her balance wobbly –
"Don't do it–” Tom was saying, but the bit of Amy's brain that had decided to push the switch was pressing on regardless, moving her arm like a computer program.
Click went the light, and the room came to life.
Hazel was sitting in the middle of the bed. Her back was hunched up as if she were crying, and she was facing away from the door and from Amy. Amy could see the back of the other girl's head – it was puffed up like a balloon, shiny skin pushing through the hair.
Hazel was rocking slowly back and forwards, making a muffled squeak like a kitten or a pet mouse. She didn't seem to notice them.
She cast no shadow. Amy could see dark folds on every bit of the bedclothes but not on Hazel.
"Shit." All the sneering had left Tom's voice, and he sounded flat-out terrified. "Third stage. She's hatching like Steven."
"Like Steven?" Amy couldn't take her eyes away from the swaying figure with the swollen head. Her voice was weak and tiny, but it reminded her she was still there, still her.
"He wasn't as far along as this she's much worse." Tom was rattling through words, trying to distract himself. "Look she's getting bigger can't you see?"
Amy wished she couldn't. The top of Hazel's head was bubbling up, the hairs twitching. Hazel shifted, started to turn and –
– Amy wanted more than anything not to see that face –
– the top of her head cracked as if it were plaster. The skin rippled, and darkness flowed out.
"Grab the candle." Tom's voice was low, urgent.
"What?" The grotesquery of it had Amy fascinated, unable to think.
"There on the table." Tom pushed past her, pointed. All the colour had gone from his face. "Grab your stupid candle and go!"
Amy followed his finger and saw it. A fat red one, half-burnt. She willed herself forward –
– there was a sound like tearing paper –
– Hazel split down the middle, arms twitching –
Tom was in front of her. Amy snatched, felt the weight of the candle in her hand. Shadows were swarming across the bed and the wall.
"Go!" Tom was yelling now. "Get out and do whatever you think you're doing."
He was still stood there. Between her and Hazel, between her and the dark. It couldn't be Tom.
"What are you–” Amy protested, but he cut her off with a barrage of words.
"This isn't your business right, I know how They work I've been studying Them for years."
"Don't be stupid–” said Amy, and again Tom shouted at her.
"Stop pissing about and get lost! I can take her."
The shadows were up to him, creeping over his feet, his outstretched arms.
Fear propelled her backwards. Fear drove Amy to slam the door, so hard she barely caught the last words Tom said –
"I was sorry–”
– and then she was alone in the hallway.
How had Hazel been there? How could she be? There had been two of them and that was meant to be safe, meant to be –
– parasite, Tom had said. Parasites.
Shadow-Hazel wasn't a parasite but a host. She didn't need vulnerable prey. Didn't care about the rules Amy had relied on.
There were noises coming from the bedroom that Amy couldn't listen to. She covered her ears and ran down the hall. The candle was still in her hand wax slippery between her fingers.
She needed matches.
Kitchen would be best. Where there was a way out.
Amy slammed the kitchen door behind her. She didn't know how the splitting balloon-Hazel worked but the more barriers between them the better –
– Tom why had Tom done that what was he thinking–
– she'd hated him the creepy little bully but he'd stood between her and it, put himself in harm's way.
He was gone like everyone else. Gone like everyone she knew everyone she touched. It wasn't just the shadows or the Lamplighter it was her.
Amy dropped the candle on the table, her balance unsteady. All her injuries had come back and she could hardly think with how her head was hurting.
Good. She deserved this. Bottling up blame trying to pretend it wasn't her but now –
– now –
– everything was coming together. Full stop.
She could still hear the noises it made, trickling through the bones of the house. Tearing and popping and whispering. Black tide spreading. A buzzing, like a cloud of flies –
Her phone.
The buzzing was her phone.
Amy looked at it by reflex, and the name was anonymous but there was no mistaking the message.
"I told you to do whatever your stupid plan is"
Tom. Torn from himself but still there, still hanging in limbo. He'd so little opinion of her but he'd still saved her, and
Amy needed to prove him wrong. Show his faceless self up.
"Just watch me," she replied, and with those words the cloud hanging over her fell to pieces. She was out of time.
Act now or not at all.
The matches were beside the gas cooker. Amy snatched them up, tore the cutlery drawer open and saw no scissors so grabbed a knife and sawed at her hair until a clump came loose in her fingers. The first match broke in her grip but the second sparked into life and the candle followed it.
She messaged everyone. All her anonymous ghosts, her vanished friends. "Are you still there I'm going to call him"
No replies. Either they were ready or they were gone from her. Amy hesitated, looking out of the window at the night sky. Everything was still so dark, and she felt as if the rest of the town had moved away while she wasn't looking.
Her cheeks were wet but she didn't remember crying. Her eyes stung and her nose had gone all blocked. Amy sniffed, gathered herself together. She stared into the candle flame and held out a strand of hair.
There was a cracking sound from the hallway. Wood tearing, locks breaking open. The edges of the door went dark.
Amy swallowed and held another hair to the flame. A ping outside the window, and a streetlight blinked into nothingness.
Third hair. The hum of the fridge died, the power light failing.
Fourth hair. There was a rush of air from the cooker, and Amy guessed the pilot light had gone.
She could hear scrabblings and scratchings from the other side of the door. The shadows were still there so the bedroom light must be, and if so she had only seconds –
Fifth hair, curling and blackening. The kitchen light went off without noise or fuss, and Amy was left alone with the candle.
The room distorted in darkness. Corners grew, furniture loomed. Wind rattled the window and something tapped at the kitchen door in a dozen different places.
Amy leaned forward and blew the flame out –
Sixteen
Silence hung heavy for some moments. It was broken by a roar from the cooker as the gas rings came to life, blue flames casting a pallid light across the kitchen.
Lamplight Page 24