Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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How come you’ve never mentioned this before?’
‘Because I couldn’t fucking cope with it. I’ve not told anyone before – not even my own sister. I’d trust her with anything, but not this. I can’t lump her with this.’
Her bright eyes didn’t blink. ‘What happened then?’
‘Nothing. I just waited. I was too afraid to move. And Christ, I thought the dawn would never come.’ He breathed in deeply. ‘When it did, I found that I could see.’ Another pause. He shrugged. ‘The house was empty.’
‘And nothing since?’
‘Not a whisper. Nothing for two years. That’s why I’ve kept searching. I need to look them in the face again.’
Lucy sat there, watching, with her back against the wall. ‘You sound like my old boyfriend,’ she said drily. ‘He backed down from a fight one time, then kept on reliving it, and winning. It wasn’t as if I minded. Stupid git.’ Her tone was shrewd but amiable enough. He smiled thinly, scuffing at the cinders.
‘Believe me, girl, I’d run a mile from this lot.’
Her expression grew more pensive. ‘You’ve considered—’
‘That it might be something psychiatric?’ He shoved his hands into his pockets; took a breath. ‘Jesus, Luce: of course I have. That’s another reason why I have to keep on looking. I know what I saw. It’s just, I need to prove it to myself.
‘There’s something else. I’m sure that what I saw that night was something from outside. Something science doesn’t understand – not yet. And if it’s there, I want another look.’ He crossed the room abruptly, startling her. ‘I’m going upstairs now.’
She stared up at him. ‘Hey, listen …’
‘There might be something up there. If there is, I have to see it. Are you coming?’
She hesitated. He saw how much her confidence had dwindled; she was looking very young now. ‘No,’ she said, and shook her head. ‘I’m not.’
‘I don’t blame you. I really don’t. But don’t go away, all right?’ He turned towards the stairs.
‘What images?’ she asked, belatedly.
Looking back, he hesitated: trying to find the words.
‘Like predators with human skins,’ he said.
The house, of course, was empty. Though its past was real and horrible enough, he sensed no echoes from it. The upper floor was desolate: just empty, mournful darkness. If something evil had been here, it had gone its way long since.
His reaction was the same as always: frustration and relief in equal measure. They wiped each other out, and he was left there feeling nothing.
Lucy ventured up a short while later, not wanting to be left alone downstairs. He saw her torchlight flashing from the corner of his eye, but stayed where he was: letting her track him to the scorched shell of the bathroom. One of the window-boards was missing here. He’d switched his own torch off so that his eyesight could adjust.
‘What … ?’ she asked, still waiting on the threshold.
‘It’s all right. Put the light out. Come and see.’
She joined him cautiously. In the black frame of the window, the stars were very bright: scores of them compressed in that small gap.
‘There’s the Plough,’ he told her, peering out. ‘Up overhead … you see?’ The names began to form again, like whispers in his head. Dubhe. Merak. Phecda. Megrez … He forced them out of focus, and tried to fix his thoughts on something else. Like chasing Vicki round the field, beneath those same bright stars.
‘I had this girlfriend, back in school. I used to try and teach her constellations.’
‘And was she interested?’ asked Lucy wryly.
Martin’s smile came easier. ‘Only in the mnemonic for classifying stars. Wow, Oh Be A Fine Girl and Kiss Me Right Now – Smack.’
She giggled. ‘Snog or slap?’
He shared her grin, relieved at last. However briefly.
‘Now that would be telling.’
They left the house, and lingered in the road. Martin adjusted his rucksack, looking round. The junction was deserted. The Burnt House seemed to hold it like a strongpoint.
‘Want me to walk you home? I will.’
‘Just to the bus stop, Martin, thanks.’ They turned towards the railway arch. After a pause, she glanced at him. ‘You’re going to keep on looking?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m going off to Uni in October; but anything before that, let me know …’
He nodded wordlessly, and then looked back. The instinct was a primal one: alertness to some danger. Nobody was following, and yet the itch persisted: a nervous urge to grasp her hand and run. To flee, and keep on fleeing down these endless lamplit corridors of night.
3
It was one o’clock when he slipped into the flat. Locking the door, he tiptoed through the dark. Every sound seemed magnified; but Claire didn’t wake. Not even when he slithered into bed.
He settled down beside her, and listened to her breathe; trying not to think of how she must have spent her evening. Coming back from her shift to an empty house and a scrawled note on the table. Perhaps she’d cried a little, as she sat and watched TV. A pang of guilt transfixed him – but it faded soon enough.
Perhaps he’d feel the same with a more everyday addiction: alcohol, or gambling, or drugs. Hurting somebody he loved – and yet not sparing her. Watching while things went to hell, unable to let up.
1
If you fancy her, she’s got a boyfriend. Since leaving school, he’d found it was a universal rule: like the second law of thermodynamics, only stricter. But then he’d met Claire – attractive, unattached. If she goes out with me, he’d thought, the universe collapses. And yet, despite his disbelief, they’d somehow got this far.
He’d been portering at the hospital – the latest in a string of low-paid jobs – and met her when he’d come to fetch a body, of all things. Claire had been the nurse in charge: confident and friendly as she took things in her stride. Heartened, he had noticed she was rather pretty too, with her gilded, gamine haircut and clear blue eyes. He’d asked her out (not then, of course), already gearing up for a rebuttal. But she’d said yes. The universe continued to exist. And six months later, here he was: sharing her flat like a partner, not a boyfriend.
He stirred in the bed, still half-asleep. A shape of warmth was dwindling beside him – as if she’d left her shadow on the sheet. Claire was in the kitchen now; he could hear the kettle boiling in the background. He tried to gauge her mood by her movements. Sloppy and resigned – or brisk and angry? Sitting up, he listened like a guilty little boy.
She hadn’t dumped her sleepshirt, but her dressing gown was missing from its hook. Gone were the days when she’d bring him tea, wearing nothing but her briefs. He pictured her, still pasty and dishevelled – and felt a surge of longing. So maybe it was really love this time.
And he looked set to let it go to waste.
She’d seen behind his mask by now: she knew he’d been disturbed by things he wouldn’t talk about. When she’d failed to coax them out, she’d given him some