Catherine Fisher: Darkwater

The round-shouldered man looked impatient. He pulled the gas pump out, muttering irritably; they could see his overalls under the greasy coat. As the gas went in he glanced around, small eyes watchful. In the shadows, not a yard from him, Sarah didn’t move.

“He’ll see her,” Simon breathed.

It seemed an age before Scrab propped the pump back. His breath smoked in the foggy air as he searched his pockets for money. Then he crossed the forecourt slowly, opened the shop door, and went in.

Sarah ran back. “We could steal the car,” she whispered.

Tom stared at her. “I can’t drive. Can you?”

“No. But . . .”

“What about him?” Simon said.

A truck driver was coming out. A young man, with a cheeseburger in a box. The smell of it was torture. They caught him at his cab.

“Any chance of a ride?” Sarah said quickly.

He stared at her. “Both of you? Where you heading?”

“Bodmin station.”

“Bit out of my way.” He opened the cab door. Tom glanced back anxiously at the lit garage shop. Scrab was reluctantly counting coins out of a leather purse.

“Not eloping, are you?” The driver grinned.

Sarah fixed him with a desperate stare. “Look, it’s really important. I have to get the last train! We’ll miss it otherwise. Oh, please! It is New Year.”

He climbed up, put the box on the dashboard, and looked down at them. Then he said, “Get in.”

They tore around and scrambled up into the cabin. On the radio Big Ben struck ten.

Scrab came out.

Tom slammed the door; the caretaker looked up, instantly alert. For a second their eyes met in the driving mirror.

Then the truck roared away.

The driver ate the cheeseburger with one hand, the cab loud with country and western music. It was warm and muggy; Tom almost relaxed until the driver swallowed his last mouthful and said, “Bloody maniac.”

“Who?”

“Him, behind us. In the Beetle.”

Scrab’s car had caught up fast. Now it careered across the lane from hedge to hedge, tooting, flashing its lights.

“Maybe I’d better pull over.”

“No!” Sarah said quickly. “Please! I’ll miss the train.”

The driver wiped his mouth and threw down the tissue. “Seems to me, ma’am,” he drawled, his voice suddenly mock-American, “that there varmint’s after yous.”

They glanced at each other. “Sort of.”

“Lookee here, are you all . . .”

“We’re not running away.” Sarah turned to him. “I’m going home. He’s some . . . nutcase. I can’t explain. He wants to try and stop me, and I’m really scared.”

She did it well, Tom thought. The driver almost swelled to John Wayne before their eyes. He changed gear noisily. “Okay, pardners. You want him lost. I’ll lose him.”

Hedges loomed, black in the headlights. Shadows flickered across the lane. They roared along, the load in the back crashing, taking bends crazily. When they reached the main road across the moor it was deserted; they squealed onto it on two wheels, and then the driver slammed his foot down.

“Come on, punk!” he yelled. “Make my day!” And then, suddenly: “Yee-har!”

They hit ninety on the straightaway. At every bend Tom closed his eyes and prayed, but Simon leaned out of the window and whooped and yelled. “We’re losing him! He’s miles back!”

The Beetle was tiny in the darkness. The dashboard clock said 10:10.

“What time’s this here train, ma’am?”

“Ten thirty,” Sarah shouted.

“No problemo!”

They sped around the roundabout, the driver singing “Clementine” at the top of his voice. He already wore a red neckerchief and checked shirt; now he fished a cowboy’s hat from under his seat and crammed it on.

“We’ll get you to the fort, ma’am, before them pesky redskins shoot us down. Nobody stops a Wells Fargo coach!”

Sarah giggled.

Tom felt sick.

In Bodmin the doors of the pubs were open; the streets busy with people. The truck had to slow. A red light stopped them. Sweating, Tom stared at the mirror. Far back, the Beetle came around a corner.

The lights changed. They roared down the street, right, left, down the lanes, wildly into the station entrance. Flinging the door wide Tom tumbled out, Sarah grabbed her bag and planted a kiss on the driver’s forehead. “Happy New Year, pardner.”

Then they were running.

The ticket office was shut, but the roaring as they ran by it told them a train was coming, the London express, by the noise. It thundered through, filling the night with vibrations and oil-stink, and as they flung themselves down the last stairs it pulled up alongside and braked, sleek and dark in a cloud of frosty steam.

“Yee-har!” Simon whooped.

Sarah raced along the platform. “You’ve been brilliant,” she yelled, turning. “I’ll write!”

The engine screeched to a deafening halt. Doors opened. She grabbed the nearest handle, yanked it around.

A passenger stepped out. A tall man, in a long black coat. He stood on the frosty platform and smiled ruefully at her.

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” he said.

twenty-six

Scrab drove them home.

For most of the way no one spoke. Azrael lounged in the back with Tom and Simon; Sarah sat in front, grimly clutching her backpack. Sickening disappointment numbed them; they were cold and nauseated with it. The only sound was the car’s low purr, and Scrab sucking his teeth or whistling through them cheerfully. Stone walls gleamed in the headlights. A few drops of rain pattered on the side windows.

Finally, Azrael stirred. “Well. I did warn you. You could never have escaped from me.”

“It was worth a try!”

He shrugged, unhappy. “Even after all this time, Sarah, you still don’t trust me.” He sounded depressed. “I find that very hurtful. Have I ever hurt you? Do you really believe that I’m some creature of evil, that I seek anybody’s destruction?”

“Only mine.”

Azrael sighed. He rubbed his face with one open palm. “I’m not evil, Sarah. Evil is stealthy. It whispers and insinuates. It uses fear, turns soul against soul. All I want to do is finish my Great Work. To make gold from dross.”

“Whatever it costs?”

He sat back morosely. “It costs everything.”

“I did what you asked, Azrael. I made up for all the Trevelyans, their oppressions, their greed. I spent a hundred years on it.”

“There is still one Trevelyan you haven’t atoned for.”

She glared at him, twisting around. “Who?”

“Yourself. And you’ve forgotten this.” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and held it up. She saw her red signature again, firm and clear. Tom and Simon stared at it curiously. Then Azrael folded it and put it away. “People always find it so difficult at the end,” he said sadly.

The car purred up the long drive to Darkwater in silence. They climbed out, stiff and cold, the gravel crunching frostily. Simon held his torn wrist as if it ached. Tom stood by Sarah. No one spoke.

They climbed the steps to the porch and the gargoyles leered down at them, small drips from the lips of one splashing Scrab’s head so that he swore. Azrael took his bunch of keys and unlocked the door, and as they went in he flicked the lights on in the marble hall. One of the clocks in the house chimed gently. It was eleven forty-five.

“This way,” Azrael murmured. To their surprise he didn’t climb the stairs to the library but crossed instead to the small door of the cubbyhole under the landing, half hidden by the vast dark growth of the Christmas tree.

“There?” Sarah sounded disgusted.

Azrael shrugged, opening it. “Here. The door is always where you least expect it.”