Clive Barker - Sacrament

'Why the hell would he do that?' Doug Maynard, who had taken an instant dislike to Rabjohns, wanted to know.

'He hadn't been very happy recently,' Hugo replied. 'We'd had some hard words, he and L'

'How hard?'

'What are you implying?' Hugo sniffed.

'I'm not implying anything; I'm asking you a question. Let me put it more plainly. Did you give the lad a beating?'

'Good God, no. And may I say I resent-'

'Let's put your resentments over to one side for now, shall we?' Maynard said. 'You can resent me all you like when we've found your boy. If he is wandering around out there then we haven't got a lot of time. The temperature's still dropping-'

'Would you kindly keep your voice down!' Hugo hissed, glancing towards the open door. 'My wife's in a bad enough state as it is.'

Maynard gave his partner a nod. 'Have a word with her will you, Phil?'

'There's nothing she knows that I don't,' Hugo replied.

'Oh you'd be surprised what a child will tell one parent and won't tell the other,' Maynard replied. 'Phil'll be gentle, won't you, Phil?'

'Kid gloves.' He slipped away.

'So you didn't hit him,' Maynard said to Hugo. 'But you've had some words-'

'He'd been behaving like a damn fool.'

'Doing what?'

'Nothing of any significance,' Hugo said, waving the question away. 'He went off one afternoon-'

'So he's run away before?'

'He was not running away.'

'Maybe that's what he told you.'

'He doesn't lie to me,' Hugo snapped.

'How would you know?'

'Because I can see right through the boy,' Hugo replied, giving Maynard the weary gaze he usually reserved for particularly slow students.

'So when he went off for the afternoon, do you know where he went?'

Hugo shrugged. 'Nowhere, as usual.'

'If you were as communicative with your son as you're being with me it's no wonder he's a runaway,' Maynard said. 'Where did he go?'

'I don't need a lecture on parenting from the likes of you,' Hugo replied. 'The boy's thirteen. If he wants to go traipsing the hills that's up to him. I didn't ask for details. I was only angry because Eleanor was so upset.'

'You think he went onto the fells?'

'That was the impression I got.'

'So tonight he could be doing the same thing?'

'Well he'd have to be completely out of his mind to go up there on a night like this, wouldn't he?'

'It depends how desperate he is, doesn't it?' Maynard replied. 'Frankly if I had you for a father I'd be suicidal.'

Hugo began an outraged retort, but Maynard was already on his way out of the room. He found Phil in the kitchen, pouring tea. 'We've got a hill-search on our hands, Phil. You'd better see what help we can get locally.' He peered out of the window. 'It's getting worse out there. What state's the mother in?'

Phil made a face. 'Out of it,' he said. 'She's got enough pills in there to sedate the whole bloody village. She's been quite a looker too.'

'So that's why you're making her tea,' Doug replied, nudging him in the ribs. 'You wait till I tell your Kathy.'

'Makes you wonder, eh?'

'What?'

'Rabjohns and her and the kid.' He stirred a spoonful of sugar into the tea. 'Not a lot of happiness.'

'What's your point?'

'Nothing,' Phil said, tossing the spoon into the sink. 'Just not a lot of happiness, that's all.'

ii

It wasn't the first time a search-party had been organized in the valley. At least once or twice a year, usually in the early spring or late autumn, a fell-walker would be late returning to their rendezvous, and if the situation was deemed sufficiently serious a team of volunteers would be drummed up to help with the search. The fells could be treacherous at such times; sudden mists swept in to obscure the way, scree and boulders could prove unreliable perches. Usually these incidents ended happily. But not always. Sometimes a body came down from the hills on a stretcher. Sometimes - rarely, but sometimes - no trace was ever found, the victim gone into a crevice or a pothole and never retrieved.

At a little after ten Frannie heard cars in the street, and got up out of bed to see what was going on. It wasn't hard to guess. There was a knot of perhaps twelve men - all bundled up against the blizzard - conferring in the middle of the street. Though they were some distance away, and the snow was thick, she could name a few of them. Mr Donnelly, who had the butcher's shop, was recognizable (there wasn't a bigger belly in the village, and his son Neville, with whom Frannie went to school, was shaping up the same way). She also recognized Mr Sutton, who ran the pub, his big red beard as distinct as Mr Donnelly's stomach. She looked for her father, but she couldn't see him. He'd broken his ankle playing football the previous August, and it was still giving him trouble, so Frannie assumed he'd decided (or been persuaded by Mum) not to join the searchparty.

The men were dividing up now; four groups of three and one group of two. She watched while they all trudged back to their cars, and with much shouting back and forth, got in. There was a small traffic jam in the middle of the street while some of the vehicles turned around and others came alongside one another so that drivers could exchange last minute instructions, but the street finally emptied, the sound of the car engines receding into silence as the searchers went their separate ways.

Frannie stood by the window watching the snow erase the criss-crossed tyre marks in the street, and felt faintly sick. Suppose something were to happen to one of the men; how would she feel then, when she'd watched them set off into the storm all the time knowing where Will had gone? 'You're a creep, Will Rabjohns,' she said, her lips touching the icy glass. 'If I ever see you again, you're going to be so sorry.' It was an empty threat, of course; but it comforted her a little to rage against him for putting her in this impossible situation. And leaving her; that was even worse, in its way. She could bear the responsibility of silence, but

the thought that he'd run off into the world and left her here when she'd gone to all the trouble, and the indignity, of making friends with him was unforgivable. As she got back into bed, she heard her father's voice downstairs. He hadn't gone. That at least was some comfort to her. She couldn't catch what he was saying, but she was reassured by the slow, familiar rhythms of his voice, and soothed by them as surely as by a lullaby, she let her unhappiness go, and fell asleep.

i

The climb was not arduous for Will; not with Jacob at his side. All the man had to do when the way became too steep or slippery was to lay his bare hand lightly on the back of Will's neck, and a portion of Jacob's strength would pass from fingers to nape, enabling Will to match him stride for stride. Sometimes, after a touch like this, it seemed to Will he was not climbing at all, but gliding over the snow and rock, effortlessly.

The wind was too strong for words to be exchanged, but more than once he felt Jacob's mind moving close to his. When it did, his thoughts went where they were directed: up the slope, where their destination could be glimpsed on occasion; and down, into the valley they'd escaped, its petty perfection visible when the gusts dropped. Will was not shocked by this intimacy, mind with mind. Steep was unlike other people; Will had realized that from the very beginning. Living and dying, we feed the fire; that was not a lesson that just anybody could teach. He'd joined forces with a remarkable man, whose secrets would slowly be uncovered as they grew to know each other in the years to come. Nor would there be any limit to their knowing: that thought was clearer in his head than any other, and he was certain Steep had read it there. Whatever this man asked of him, he would supply. That was how it would be between them from now on. It was the least he could do, for someone who had already given him more than any other living soul.