Catherine Fisher - Darkwater

“Me?” Simon yelled at his back as he stalked away. “I’m dead, remember!”

He didn’t want to hear. Racing down the drive under the dark trees he kept his mind off it as though it were a hot thought, a fire that would burn him. Christmas Day had seemed endless, drained of joy. All the time he’d been opening presents, eating, laughing, watching TV, it had all been poisoned by the thought of Steve in the cellar, freezing. It should have been a good thought, but it wasn’t. It was hateful. And worst of all, he didn’t know how to end it. How could he let Steve out now? He climbed down the cliff path in the dark. At the bottom the tramp sat up waiting for him, he and the dog both in an old sleeping bag.

“Well,” he said, wriggling back against the cliff face.

“Tha’s started some’at, that’s for sure.”

“You know?” Tom crouched over the flames, their redness and crackle.

“Searchers.” The tramp grinned. “Late afternoon till dark; all along the cliffs and coves. Inshore lifeboat. Tomorrow, they said, the helicopter. Lines of men beating the cliffs. God, laddie, tha knows how to take revenge.”

“It’s not revenge.”

The tramp just wheezed. “Good luck to thee, I say. He’s tormented thee, hasn’t he?”

Tom sat down. “Yes,” he said.

“For years he’s humiliated thee. He’s made thee feel that small . . .”

“He always picks on me.” Tom’s fingers gripped. “I don’t know why. I’ve never done anything to him. Ever!”

“Well, now thou has and he’s seen tha won’t stand for it.” The tramp coughed. Then he looked sideways out of his one eye through the smoke. “For Azrael, is he?”

“Yes,” Tom said instantly.

The tramp grinned, showing black teeth. “Now you’re strong. Feels good, don’t it. You’ve faced up to him. You’ve . . .”

“But maybe I should take him some food.”

The tramp spat in disgust. “What! He never.”

“I know.” He looked up. “But it’s December. It’s colder than when I fell.”

“Pushed. He pushed thee. And he’s indoors.”

“But if he dies . . .”

The tramp leaned over. Close up he smelled of beer and sweat; his hands were calloused as he grabbed Tom’s wrist. “Listen to me, lad. Don’t go soft now. Three days. Leave him there. That’s what he deserves. You didn’t die.”

Tom pulled away. “I had Simon.”

“Aye,” the tramp laughed sourly. “But make him pay, lad. Make him respect thee.”

Tom nodded. “If you think he’ll be all right.”

The tramp spat again. “That sort always are.”

“Tom?”

They both turned as one.

Azrael must have come along the cliff path. He stood halfway down the steps, a shadow in the dimness, and as the tramp and he looked at each other, only the hush of the sea moved between them. Then the tramp stood, the sleeping bag kicked away.

“Come here, Tom,” Azrael said.

Tom took a step, then stopped.

Neither of them was looking at him. The tramp stubbed his cigarette out on a rock. “Tha’s looking well, old comrade,” he said quietly.

Azrael didn’t smile. “Always, you come back. Creating evil.”

“Just passing. Seein’ a few friends.”

The firelight crackled, spitting a shower of sparks. “But don’t fret thyself.” The tramp winked. “I’ll take care of these lads.”

“Listen to me.” Azrael’s voice was low, a harsh coldness that made Tom look at him in surprise. “Leave here. Before I compel you.”

The tramp shrugged. “It’ll likely come to that. But tha knows me, old comrade. Thee and I, we were the same once, eons ago, before they cast me out, those high masters of thine. Such a fall as that was, Azrael! A fall that has no ending, down and down and still I feel myself plummeting eternally, and there’s no end to it, because tha falls into thyself and there’s no end but death. And for us, old friend, that way out’s forbidden.”

“You were the best of us,” Azrael said. “You turned away.”

“They rejected me. And now I’m the matter thou’ll never transmute. I’ll not leave what I’ve begun. In all thy Great Work there’s a flaw, and that flaw is me.”

Azrael glanced at Tom. Flame light flickered over his face; it made him look unhappy. Almost as if he suffered some unbearable sorrow. But all he said was, “Be careful, Tom. Don’t make any arrangements with him. Don’t trust him!”

Suddenly Tom felt tired. He couldn’t think. He pushed past Azrael and pulled himself up to the cliff path. “I’m going to bed.”

Below him, the tramp laughed and turned away into the dark. “That’s telling us,” he muttered.

twenty-three

Scuffles outside Sarah’s door woke her; before she could jump out of bed and hide, a key rattled in the lock. Scrab came in sideways and dumped a breakfast tray on the table. He yanked the window curtains wide. “Always fetching and carrying for you! Thought this setup would be different.”

“Hello, Scrab,” she said.

His small eyes peered at her as she huddled in the quilt. “’Imself said the condemned woman should eat a decent breakfast. Daft beggar.”

He scratched, scattered a little dandruff, and scraped out. Sarah lay back on the pillow. After a while she managed a relieved smile. Her fate was all worked out. Why worry.

She forced herself to eat some toast, then dressed and went down. Darkwater Hall felt cold and deserted. All its pupils were at home now, having their warm Boxing Days, eating leftover turkey and watching TV. Quite suddenly, gazing up at the Trevelyan portraits on the stairs, she felt like a ghost, left over from an earlier age. She wanted to go home. But this was home.

She took the tray to the kitchens and stacked the dishes in the sink. It was completely silent down here. Except that deep below, something thumped.

She turned the cold tap off and listened.

There it was again.

In all her nightly prowls, in all the years she had lived here before, she’d never found the way back to Azrael’s mysterious stairway. She’d even had the corridors upstairs peeled open by workmen, but there had been no panel, no door. Had it really been a dream? After all these decades she didn’t even know.

She turned abruptly. The cat was there, and behind it, like a shadow in the doorway, Azrael stood. He had his lab coat on, and there were yellow sulfur stains on his fingers.

“Sarah,” he said quietly, “there’s someone in the cellar.”

She stared.

“Was it your idea? Did the tramp put you up to it?”

“What?”

“Putting him there.”

“I don’t know what you’re even talking about.” She had rarely seen him so grave.

“Then come on,” he said, hurrying out.

She grabbed a knife from the rack and raced after him. “A burglar?”

Azrael shrugged. “I sincerely hope so.”

He snapped the lights on and ran down the steps to the cellars, huge shadows flickering behind him on the wall.

“How did you know about the tramp?” she gasped.

He glanced back, dark. “This time, Sarah, he won’t spoil things for us.”

At the bottom it was damp. Sarah had been here often. The corridor stank of drains, old beer casks, mice. No one bothered with it. But as she raced after him she heard the sound again, a weary thump, faint, as if all the hope had drained out of it.

Azrael ran through the vaults to the door at the end, the strong-door. He gripped the rusted top bolt, grinding it back.

“Quick!” he snapped. “Hurry, Sarah!”

The bottom bolt was warped; she had to work it frantically up and down before it would shift. Someone had jammed it hard. The thump came again. Just over her head.

“They’re locked in!” she said.