Clive Barker - Sacrament

'Oh, I asked my Mum about that,' Frannie said. 'And she told me the story.'

'What is it?' Will said.

'There was this man called Bartholomeus,' she said. 'He lived in the valley, when there were still lead mines everywhere.'

'I didn't know there were mines.'

'Well there were. And he made a lot of money from them. But he wasn't quite right in the head, that's what Mum said, because he had this idea that people didn't treat animals properly, and the only way to stop people being cruel was to have a court, which would only be for animals.'

'Who was the judge?'

'He was. And the jury probably.' She shrugged. 'I don't know the whole story, just those bits-'

'So he built the Courthouse.'

'He built it, but he didn't finish it.'

'Did he run out of money?'

'My Mum says he was probably put in a loony bin, because of what he was doing. I mean, nobody wanted him bringing animals into his Courthouse and making laws about how people had to treat them better.'

'That was what he was doing?' Will said, with a little smile.

'Something like that. I don't know if anybody's really sure. He's been dead for a hundred and fifty years.'

'It's a sad story,' said Will, thinking of the strange magnificence of Bartholomeus' folly.

'He was better put away. Safer for everybody.'

'Safer?'

'I mean if he was going to try and accuse people of doing things to animals. We all do things to animals. It's natural.'

She sounded like her mother when she spoke like this. Genial enough, but unmovable. This was her stated opinion and nothing would sway her from it. Listening to her, his enthusiasm for sharing what he'd seen began to wane. Perhaps after all she was not the person to understand his feelings. Perhaps she'd think he was like Mr Bartholomeus, and better put away.

But now, her story of the Courthouse finished, she said: 'What were you telling me about?'

'I wasn't,' Will replied.

'No, you were in the middle of saying something-'

'Well it probably wasn't important,' Will said, 'or I'd remember what it was.' He got up from his seat. 'I'd better be off,' he said.

Frannie looked more than a little puzzled, but he pretended not to notice the expression on her face.

'I'll see you tomorrow,' he said.

'Sometimes you're really odd,' she said to him. 'Did you know that?'

'No.'

'You know you are,' she said, with a faint tone of accusation. 'And I think you like it.'

Will couldn't keep a smile from his lips. 'Maybe I do,' he said.

At which juncture, the door was flung open and Sherwood marched in. He had feathers woven in to his hair.

'You know what I am?'

'A chicken,' Will said.

'No, I'm not a chicken,' Sherwood said, deeply offended.

'That's what you look like.'

'I'm Geronimo.'

'Geronimo the chicken,' Will laughed.

'I hate you,' said Sherwood, 'and so does everybody at school.'

'Sherwood, be quiet,' Frannie said.

'They do,' Sherwood went on. 'They all think you're daft and they talk behind your back and they call you William Daffy.' Now it was Sherwood who laughed. 'Daffy William! William Daffy!' Frannie kept trying to hush him, but it was a lost cause. He was going to crow till he was done.

'I don't care!' Will yelled above the clamour. 'You're a cretin, and I don't care!'

So saying, he picked up his coat and pushing past Sherwood - who had begun a little dance in rhythm with his chant - headed for the door. Frannie was still trying to shush her brother, but in vain. He was in a self- perpetuating frenzy, yelling and jumping.

In truth, Will was glad of the interruption. It gave him the perfect excuse to make his exit, which he did in double-quick time, before Frannie had a chance to silence her brother. He needn't have worried. When he was out of the house, past the junkyard and at the end of Samson Road he could still hear Sherwood's rantings emerging from the house.

i

We moved out here because you wanted to move, Eleanor. Please remember that. We came here because of you.'

'I know, Hugo.'

'So what are you saying? That we should move again?' Will couldn't hear his mother's despair. Her quiet words were buried in sobs. But he heard his father's response. 'Lord, Eleanor, you've got to stop crying. We can't have an intelligent conversation if you just start crying whenever we talk about Manchester. If you don't want to go back there, that's fine by me, but I need some answers from you. We can't go on like this, with you taking so many pills you can't keep count. It's not a life, Eleanor.' Did she say, I know? Will thought she did, though it was hard to hear her through the door. 'I want what's best for you. What's best for us all.'

Now Will did hear her. 'I can't stay here,' she said.

'Well, once and for all: do you want to go back to Manchester?'

Her reply was simply repetition. 'I know I can't stay here.'

'Fine,' Hugo replied. 'We'll move back. Never mind that we sold the house. Never mind that we've spent thousands of pounds moving. We'll just go back.' His voice was rising in volume; so was the sound of Eleanor's sobs. Will had heard enough. He retreated from the door, and scurried upstairs, disappearing from sight just as the living-room door opened and his father stormed out.

ii

The conversation threw Will into a state of panic. They couldn't leave, not now. Not when for the first time in his life he felt things coming clear. If he went back to Manchester it would be like a prison sentence. He'd wither away and die.

What was the alternative? There was only one. He'd run away, as he'd boasted he would to Frannie, the first day they'd met. He'd plan it carefully, so that nothing was left to chance: be sure he had money and clothes; and of course a destination. Of these three the third was the most problematical. Money he could steal (he knew where his mother

kept her spare cash) and clothes he could pack, but where was he to go?

He consulted the map of the world on his bedroom wall, matching to those pastel-coloured shapes impressions he'd gleaned from television or magazines. Scandinavia? Too cold and dark. Italy? Maybe. But he spoke no Italian and he wasn't a quick learner. French he knew a little, and he had French blood in him, but France wasn't far enough. If he was going to go travelling, then he wanted it to be more than a ferry trip away. America, perhaps? Ah, now there was a thought. He ran his finger over the country from state to state, luxuriating in the names. Mississippi; Wyoming; New Mexico; California. His mood lifted at the prospect. All he needed was some advice about how to get out of the country, and he knew exactly where to get that: from Jacob Steep.

He went out looking for Steep and Rosa McGee the very next day. It was by now the middle of November, and the hours of daylight were short, but he made the most of them, skipping school for three consecutive days to climb the fells and look for some sign of the pair's presence. They were chilly journeys: though there was not yet snow on the hills the frost was so thick it dusted the slopes like a flurry, and the sun never emerged for long enough to melt it.

The sheep had already descended to the lower pastures to graze, but he was not entirely alone on the heights. Hares and foxes, even the occasional deer, had left their tracks in the frozen grass. But this was the only sign of life he encountered. Of Jacob and Rosa he saw not so much as a boot-print.

Then, on the evening of the third day, Frannie came to the house.

'You don't look as if you've got 'flu,' she said to Will. (He'd forged a note to that effect, explaining his absence.)

'Is that why you came?' he said. 'To check up on me?'

'Don't be daft,' she said. 'I came 'cause I've got something to tell you. Something strange.'