“Oh no, love. She’d be over a hundred! She died in London, just after the war.” Paula was watching curiously. Sarah put the photo down and as she opened her hand to let it go, the reflection of the cane scars, still fresh and red, crossed Emmeline’s face in the glass.
Tom walked her home. He was quiet the whole way, walking ahead on the narrow cliff path, brushing the gorse bushes. Far out at sea an oil tanker seemed still. The sea was hushed, its pounding and sloshing sounding hollow among the rocks. Above them the twilight was already dusted with stars, the long streak of the Milky Way breathtakingly clear. Sarah stared up at it, her breath misty.
“She did more than me.”
“Who?”
“Emmeline. She grew up. Scrawny little Emmeline.”
He wasn’t listening, twisting gorse spines off in his gloves. “Sarah . . .”
She pushed past, climbing the stile.
There was something he wanted to say, but it was probably sympathy and she didn’t want it. “What?” she asked, cold.
He shrugged, after a second. “Nothing.”
On the top of Newhaven Cove they crossed the plank bridge over the tiny Darkwater. Below, in the shadows of the rocks, a small red spark of fire burned. The tramp’s fire.
Sarah glared down at it. “Scrawny little Emmeline,” she muttered to herself.
He said good night to her at the front door of the Hall and waited in the shadows, hearing her climb the stairs. A light went on, then off. When he was sure Darkwater was silent he let himself in and crept down to the vaults.
As he came down the passage to the strong-room door a great terror seized him—maybe the door was open and Steve was waiting. But it wasn’t. It was just as he had left it, and that terrified him even more. He stood there, not touching it. The passage was lit by only one weak bulb, his breath condensed on the glistening stone walls, the bronze nails. It was bitterly cold. As cold as the mineshaft.
“You should have brought him some food.” Simon leaned accusingly against the wall, arms folded, wearing the sweater Tom had wanted for Christmas but hadn’t gotten.
“He never brought me any. Never came near.”
“Maybe he was scared. He may have thought you were dead.”
Tom snorted. “Him!”
“And maybe you’re scared of the same thing.”
“Rubbish!” Tom put his ear against the door. He heard nothing.
“He’ll be frozen.”
“Tough.”
“What if he is dead, Tom?”
“It never hurt you.”
Simon didn’t laugh. “Grow up. You can’t just leave him there.”
“Yes I can.”
Maybe he said it aloud, because there was a sudden faint scrabble at the door.
A whisper came through it. “Tom? Is that you, Tommy? Let me out, Tom, for God’s sake! Please, Tommy, please let me out!”
It terrified him, gave him a perverse, bitter pleasure. He turned and ran, back up the cellar steps. Simon was waiting at the top.
“Who are you?” Tom yelled. “My conscience? He’s put me through hell for years—you know that! Scared to go through the village in case he’s there, mocking, sniggering, calling after me in the street. Now let him taste how it feels! Let him lie there in the dark for three days with nothing to eat and no one knowing where he is! Let him lick the damp off the walls! He’s got it easy. He isn’t even hurt.”
“And then what?” Simon came and grabbed his arm. “What about when he gets out, when he tells everyone? What about when the police come around? What about Paula?”
“She’s who I’m thinking of!” Tom shoved past into the kitchens. “All she went through that time. He did that to her.”
“It’s stupid!” Simon raced after him. “It’s not for her, it’s for you. And this plan! What makes you think Sarah would ever . . .”
Tom whirled. “She won’t know. And you won’t tell her.”
“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.
“I know.”
“But who . . . ?”
“Never mind! Have you got it?”
“Yes!”
The bolt slammed back. Azrael hauled the door wide. A pitiful figure, filthy with dust, tearstained, bloodstained, collapsed into his arms.
Scrab opened the front door so suddenly that Tom almost put the key into his eye.
“Oh my Gawd. Yer for it.”
“What?”
Scrab grinned and stood aside. Coming in, Tom saw the Christmas tree in the hall had been lit up again, towering in its green height against the stair-rail.
“And ’aven’t we been a wicked little boy!” Scrab slammed the door; Tom almost jumped.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The caretaker laid a dirty finger along his nose and tapped it. “Saying nowt. But ’imself’s upstairs. High and mighty today, so I wouldn’t keep ’im waiting. Always like this, after ’e’s been ’obnobbing with the Powers that Be.”
Uneasy, Tom took the stairs two at a time and walked boldly into the library, his whole body listening for sounds from below. But the only thudding was his heart. He wondered what was coming.
The lab was gloomy.
Azrael was leaning against the fireplace on one elbow, watching him. To his surprise Sarah was there too. As soon as she saw him she leaped up. “You stupid, stupid fool,” she snapped.
“What?” Tom stopped dead. Simon came in behind him, reflected grotesquely in twisted tubing. “What have I done?”
“You know!” She seemed too angry for words.
Of course he knew.
They had found Steve.
Tom rubbed his face nervously. “Look. You don’t understand . . .”
“I know what’s been going on! But do you think doing it back to him will help?”
Azrael’s silence was terrifying. Tom turned to him.
“Is he alive?”
“Alive!” Azrael’s voice was airy and dangerous. “That’s such an interesting word, don’t you think, Tom? What does it mean, to be alive? Do you have to be born, to be alive?”
He paced under the spinning planets. “Are only the sons of men alive? Or are there different sorts of life, different deepnesses of being? Angels and demons?”
“Azrael . . .” Sarah said shortly.
“Maybe in a way that boy was not alive before. Not alive to the suffering he caused you.”
Tom shook his head. “Please. Tell me.”
Azrael put both hands down on the bench and leaned over. “There is no place for revenge, Tom, in the Great Work. It’s a corruption in the crucible, a gritty unburning cinder. You should never have done this.”
His anger was bleak, a darkness in the room. All his geniality was gone; this was a new being, relentless, unknown.
“Stop tormenting him,” Sarah muttered.
The alchemist turned in disgust. “He’s alive. There. No thanks to you.”
The domed jar was on the bench. Tom bent over it, rubbing a hole in the dust. Cobwebs brushed his eyelashes as he gazed in.
Steve Tate lay on a white bed. He was still, as if asleep, and tiny—so tiny Tom could have picked him up with finger and thumb. His face was filthy, his hands bandaged, as if he had banged and scraped for hours on door and walls. He looked exhausted and half starved. Pitiful.
Tom should have felt glad. But he didn’t.
“And the worst thing was,” Azrael’s voice said behind him, “that you planned to offer this soul to me.”
Tom closed his eyes.
“And if you think”—Sarah stalked up and down in utter contempt—“that I would ever let anyone t
ake my place . . .”
“You weren’t supposed to know.”
Azrael came and covered the jar with a black velvet cloth. He turned. “Whose idea was this?”
“Mine.”
“Not entirely. Someone else suggested it.” He stepped closer. “I think I know who.”
“No.”
“Tell me, Tom.”
Tom was stubbornly silent. Simon’s voice startled them all.
“The tramp put him up to it.”
Azrael looked straight at him. To Tom’s astonishment he nodded, curtly. “As I thought. Scrab!”
He yelled it; instantly the door flew open and Scrab sloped in, a dark coat slung over one arm.
“’Eard it all.” He held the coat up; Azrael flung it on and was gone, sweeping through the library, all the book pages ruffling in his draft, the papers flying.
Tom looked at Sarah in terror. “What will he do to him?”
She looked uneasy. “I never saw, last time. But they’re enemies, Tom, all down the centuries.”
Doors banged below.
Running down the stairs, they found the house was crackling into life, shadows gathering, the corridors full of footsteps, the slavering of hounds. Azrael leaped the last step, coat flying.
“Stay here!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Don’t let them out, Scrab.”
Breathless, the caretaker shuffled behind. “Still giving yer blasted orders,” he muttered.
Out of the rooms, the cupboards, the desks, a host of presences gathered, invisibly slipping past on the stairs, a running emptiness. Sarah grabbed Tom. “Quick!”
They had to push their way through; the air hummed and jostled with the whisper and crackle of beings they couldn’t see. Powers and principalities, Tom found himself whispering. Angels and demons.
“Oy! You get back ’ere!”
Scrab was screeching, but they were out, and the gray afternoon was agitated by sudden wind, and out to sea a storm cloud was looming down on them, terrifyingly black, its underside lit by electric glimmers.
“There he is!” Simon yelled.
Azrael was a fleet shape among the trees; they struggled after him. Huge drops of rain fell, icy, the wind buffeting them back.