Clive Barker - Sacrament

She compromised: leaving the door an inch ajar in case Will changed his mind. Then, teeth chattering, she started upstairs. From the kitchen, her father said, 'Did you get the milk?'

'I'll be down in a minute, Dad,' she called, and hurried to her room. She knew exactly where she'd hidden the book, of course: she had it in her hands in seconds, and was halfway back to the hallway when she heard Sherwood say, 'What are you doing?'

She glanced up to the landing, attempting to keep the book out of his bleary sight. But she wasn't quick enough.

'Where are you taking that?' he said, moving to the top of the stairs to pursue her.

'Stay up there!' she ordered him, imitating her mother's severest tone. 'I mean it, Sherwood.'

Her instruction didn't slow him a jot. Worse, it brought her father out of the kitchen, hushing her. 'You'll wake your Mum, Frannie-' His gaze went from the staircase to the door, which the wind had blown wide. 'No wonder there's such a draught!' he said, striding to close it.

Panicking now, she raced down the stairs to intercept him. 'I'll close itl It's okay!' But she was too late. Her father was there ahead of her, staring out into the snow. He had seen Will.

'What the hell's going on?' he said, glancing back at Frannie, who was by now just a yard behind him. 'Did you know he was here?'

'Yes, Dad-'

'God Almighty!' he said, raising his voice. 'Have you kids no sense? William? Come on in here right now. You hear me!'

Frannie could see Will over her father's shoulder, and remotely hoped he might obey. But instead he retreated a few steps.

'Come back here!' George demanded, stepping out of the house to lend weight to his order. 'Dad, don't-' Frannie began.

'Shut up!' her father snapped.

'He's not on his own, Dad,' Frannie said.

That was enough to slow her father. 'What are you talking about?'

Frannie had reached the front doorstep. 'Please, leave him alone.'

Her father's strained temper broke. 'Go inside!' he yelled. 'You hear me, Frances?' She was certain the whole neighbourhood heard him. It would only be a matter of time before everyone was out in the street, asking questions. The best thing for everyone was for her to get the book into Will's hands and let him deliver it to Steep. It was Steep's property, when all was said and done. Everyone would be better off if it was back where it belonged.

But before she could defy her father's edict and step outside, Sherwood grabbed hold of her.

'Who's out there?' he said. His morning breath was foul, his grip clammy.

'It's just Will,' she lied.

'You're fibbing, Frannie,' he said. 'It's them, isn't it?' He was looking past her now, out into the darkness. 'Rosa?' he said softly. Then, saying, 'I'll take the book!' he tried to snatch it out of Frannie's grip. She refused to relinquish it. Using all her strength, she shoved her brother hard in the middle of the chest, pushing him back down the hallway. Mrs Cunningham was descending the stairs now, demanding to know what was going on, but Frannie ignored her and stepped back out into the snow, just in time to see her father closing on Will, who seemed to have no strength left to retreat. His ashen face was slack, his body swaying.

'Don't...' Frannie heard him say, as her father reached out for him. Then, as Mr Cunningham's hand was laid upon him, he collapsed, his eyes rolling up beneath his fluttering lids.

Frannie didn't linger to see what state he was in. She strode on past her father, who was having too much difficulty keeping Will's dead weight from carrying them both to the ground to stop her, and out into the middle of the street. She raised the journal as she did so, high above her head, where Steep could see it.

'This is what you want,' she said, almost under her breath. 'Come and get it.'

She turned three hundred and sixty degrees, waiting for him to show himself. There was her mother at the front doorstep, demanding that she come back inside this second. There was their next door neighbour, Mrs Davies, standing at her front gate with her terrier Benny yapping away. There was the milkman, Arthur Rathbone, stepping out of his van, with a puzzled look on his face.

And then, as she began her second turn, there was Steep. He was approaching her with a steady stride, his gloved hand already outstretched to claim his prize. She wanted to keep the largest distance possible between the enemy and the front door of her house, so she didn't wait until he came to her but went to meet him on the opposite side of the street. Curiously, she felt only the tiniest twinge of fear. This street was her world - nagging mother, yapping dog, milkman and all. He had little authority here, even in the dark.

They were within a couple of yards of each other now, and she could see better the look on his face. He was happy, his eyes glued to the book in her hand.

'Good girl,' he murmured to her, and had it out of her hand before she was even aware that it was gone.

'He didn't mean to take it,' she called after him, just in case he bore Sherwood some ill will. 'He didn't know it was important.' Steep nodded. 'It is important, isn't it?' she said, hoping against hope he'd leave her with a clue, however vague, as to the nature of the book's contents. But if he understood her intention, he wasn't about to give anything away. Instead, he said:

'Tell Will to watch out for Lord Fox, will you?'

'Lord Fox?'

'He'll understand,' Steep said. 'He's part of the madness now.'

With that, he turned his back on her and was gone, off down the street: past her father's yard, past Arthur Rathbone, who wisely stepped out of his way, past the postbox at the corner, and out of sight.

She kept watching the corner for several seconds after he'd gone, deaf to the sobs and yells and yappings. She felt suddenly bereft. A mystery had gone from her hands, and now she'd never solve it. All she had to vex her were her memories of those pages and their tiny hieroglyphics, laid out like a wall built to keep her from understanding what lay on the other side.

'Frannie?'

Her mother's voice.

'Will you come back in here?'

Even, now, though Steep was long gone, it was hard for Frannie to look away.

'Now, Frannie!' At last, she reluctantly turned her gaze back towards the house. Her father had managed to half-carry, half-haul Will to the doorstep, where her mother stood hugging Sherwood. There would be hell to pay now, Frannie thought. Questions and more questions, and no chance of concealing anything. Not that it mattered after tonight. Will was back, his adventures over before they'd begun: she didn't need to protect him with lies. All that remained was to tell the truth, however strange that was, and take the consequences. Heavyhearted and empty-handed, she trudged back towards the threshold, where Sherwood was sobbing against her mother's bosom; sobbing as though he'd never stop.

Three hours later, with the gloomy day dawned, and a second blizzard moving in, Jacob and Rosa found each other on the Skipton road, a few miles north of the valley. They'd not made an explicit arrangement to meet, yet they came to the place (from different directions: Jacob from the valley itself, Rosa from her rock in the hills) within five minutes of each other, as though the rendezvous had been planned.

Rosa was in a bit of a haze as to what she'd actually done to her pursuers, but it had turned into quite a chase, she knew.

'One of them ran and ran,' she said. 'And I was so mad when I caught up with him, I ... I ...' she stopped, frowning '... I knew it was terrible, because he was like a baby, you know? The way they get.' She laughed. 'Men,' she said, 'they're all babies. Well, not all. Not you, Jacob.'

A gust of snow-flecked wind carried the sound of sirens in their direction.