No Shelter from Darkness (18 page)

She stared into the red jar. The soreness in her gums intensified. The flesh around and under all four canines seemed to pulsate. The craving inside her was starting to demand things of her, now that the blood was but an arm's length away.

Beth closed her eyes and lifted the jar to her lips. The warm liquid sloshed and splashed. She opened her mouth and warm blood ran in and down her throat.

All-too-soon the jar was empty, and Beth was slightly breathless. A film of blood stuck to the inside of it as Beth screwed the lid back on with trembling hands, replacing it in the coffer. She closed the lid and slid it under the bunk with her foot before leaning back and resting her head on the thin mattress. The thirst had been quenched, the craving had already disappeared. She closed her eyes and felt herself smile at the feeling of the fresh life force being introduced to her system. Her nerves tingled, as though her extremities were being warmed up after exposure to the cold. She could almost follow the warmth as it pumped through her veins all the way down to her toes.

She felt she'd been held under water by the craving for all this time, and finally she'd come up for air.

*   *   *

“What's wrong?” asked Mary.

Beth looked up from her lunch. They both sat in their usual spot on the elevated walkway at the front of the playground. “Nothing. What's wrong with you?”

Mary shrugged. “Nothing.”

They both looked back down into their tin boxes while their minds returned to the things neither would speak of. Beth knew she should probe. Right now, she wasn't being a very good friend, letting Mary dwell on whatever it was that was eating her up inside.

But the thing gnawing at Beth wouldn't allow any other considerations. She had no choice but to believe—to
accept
—what she was. But doing so raised so many more questions. Every time
her kind
had been depicted, whether in myth, legend, lore, fiction or most recently celluloid, they were always evil. They were the villains, and she had no reason to doubt that trait. Having been brought up a good Catholic girl, she suddenly felt like an impostor. She kept thinking back to all the times over the past month when her anger uncharacteristically flared: hitting Susan fuelled by rage, winning the sports day race through sheer fury. She dwelled on those occasions and wondered if it was only the start of her descent into sin, if she would become someone—or some
thing
—fuelled only by anger and blood.

The speculation was enough to put Beth off her food … almost. She fumbled for the corned beef in her tin. Finding it, she blindly bit into it and froze after feeling the unmistakable sensation of a tooth giving way. The loose eyetooth had pivoted back slightly as though it was on a hinge. It made Beth wince. “Uh-oh.”

Covering her mouth with her hand, she got up and made her way to Mrs. Humphries. “Miss?” Her hand made her voice muffled. “I need to go to the toilet.”

“My goodness, what's happened now?”

“It's my tooth.”

The teacher looked like she'd misheard.

“It's a long story,” mumbled Beth before she removed her hand long enough for the teacher to see the blood in her mouth. She called over Mrs. Whitcombe, Kimberley's mother and new break-time volunteer, to escort Beth downstairs.

Beth stood alone in front of the mirror while Mrs. Whitcombe waited for her outside. Removing her hand, she saw the saliva-diluted blood on her palm. As she snarled up one side of her mouth, she saw the baby canine pointing to the back of her mouth. She pulled it back straight, which made her squint. It had moved surprisingly easily. She began to wobble it, making it squelch and crunch. Then, she took
a deep breath and gave a sharp tug. The tooth came away in her fingers. Tonguing the gap, she could taste her own blood (
even that tastes good)
. She snarled once more at the mirror. The gum was red and sore, but there was hardly any bleeding. She looked like one of the slum kids from the parts of the East End she was happy to avoid; they always seemed to have teeth missing.

She licked the gap again, cleaning away what blood was left. Something hard was in there. A tiny protrusion. Then she saw it: a new tooth was peeking out from the reddened gum … the sharp, pointed tip of a fang. Her heart skipped a beat, and her spine tingled.

With her little finger, she pushed up against the new canine. It was as sharp as it looked. When she took her finger away, it had a defined indentation. The new tooth felt like the nib of a pen or a sharpened pencil. Either could be pressed fairly hard against skin and leave nothing more than a tiny dimple, but each was sharp enough to be used as a weapon if one was so inclined. She was sure if she pressed hard enough, her fang would break the skin.

A knock on the door broke the moment.

“Elizabeth? Are you okay?”

“Coming.”

Beth looked at herself in the mirror. The glimmer of excitement was misplaced, and it quickly turned to self-hatred.

What am I becoming?

EIGHTEEN

IT WAS FRIDAY,
and almost the end of another week. Mary never considered it the finite end because of Saturday morning school: the thorn in her side, the last hurdle before the weekend started. Lying on the upper bunk next to the back wall of the shelter, she watched the light from the oil lamp cast flickering shadows across the corrugated roof.
Another night, another inconvenient raid.
That's all they were nowadays—a nuisance.

A bit like her.

She was an inconvenience to the Wades now, and she knew it.
So what if it's the weekend?
she thought. If it was anything like the last one, she'd be spending it in the park, walking aimlessly and reading nonchalantly. She figured that the less time she spent in the Wade's house, the smaller the chance they'd ship her off to distant relatives. She didn't want to leave London, and the thought of doing so made her uncomfortable.

She turned and faced the lump of blanket that was Beth's feet and looked down the bed. Beth was fast asleep with black hair flowing out over the top of the covers. They were supposedly friends, yet they had hardly talked since Beth woke from her sleep—or her coma, or whatever it had been. And that was almost two weeks ago.

Mary began to wonder exactly what it was she was staying in London for.

The night outside had been free of distant bangs and booms for a while. Its silence was broken by the continuous tone of the all clear. Oliver and both of his parents sounded as if they were being disturbed, groaning and yawning as they emerged from their slumber. But Beth
didn't flinch or make a sound. Then, all at once, she simply sat up and jumped down to the floor. She hadn't been fast asleep after all. They both had been lying awake with their troubles.

It was past midnight, and all five of them went straight from the bunks in the shelter to the beds in their rooms. Without saying a word, Mary followed Beth to her room and closed the door.

On the floor next to the bed were the rumpled blankets that doubled as Mary's mattress. It wasn't bad as far as beds went, and in these summer months the cooler air near the floor was almost welcome. Sitting down on her blankets, Mary could hear Lynne in the washroom. After her, Bill would take his turn, and then Beth. Mary would wait until she was sure everyone else had finished their pre-bed ritual before performing her own. Only Oliver had done it before the sirens had sounded earlier.

Beth went to her wardrobe and changed into her nightgown, once more revealing the scars running down her spine. Mary had seen them countless times before, but they were so peculiar it was hard not to stare every time. There were six in total, all of them composed by a muddle of lines, none of which were straight. They looked like symbols of some kind; hieroglyphs. Each seemed an equal distance apart and each looked like they'd been burnt or branded into the flesh, leaving behind shiny, raised scar tissue of a lighter tone than the surrounding skin. No explanation had ever been given, and Beth had no recollection of it happening. They were a mystery, and it only further fuelled the imagination, for surely such intricate scarring could only have been purposefully done.
But who would do that … and why?
Mary wondered.
And what do they mean?

The toilet flushed, and Mary was snapped from wild theories. It had been a welcome break from worrying about her situation, to ponder the origin of those permanent marks. But as Beth left the room in silence to brush her teeth, Mary once more returned to her own concerns, wondering where her future lay.

*   *   *

Mary walked out into the summer's day from the last bit of school of the week and headed straight for Victoria Park, as had become usual. Occasionally Gibson walked after her and they would talk and hold hands. On those days, Mary felt like her old self; it gave her the reason she needed to want to stay in London. But Gibson would soon be gone. The school term was coming to an end, and before the next one started he would turn fourteen. No one in the East End continued school after turning working age, because no family could afford it. But Gibson wasn't going to work. He'd made up his mind to devote himself to the army. Though he was too young at present, he'd already hatched a plan to join up: he wouldn't stay here in London where recruitment was strict, but would instead go live with relatives near York, working on farms while trying to sneak into service.

Thinking about his plans, Mary realized how much it distracted her from her woes. But it was Saturday, and he would be on his way to the Scout group, helping out the local forces. He wouldn't be accompanying her today. She walked over Bonner Bridge into the park alone.

She had feelings for Gibson. She really liked him.

And soon he would leave her too.

In contrast to Mary's misery, the day was beautiful. The western quarter of the park was the largest area that remained open to the public, and it was teeming. Victoria Park was likely the busiest park in London. Whereas with the richer parts of the city many might've left to live in the relative safety of smaller towns or villages, in the East End the population only wavered through the partial evacuation of children, men going to fight or—and what certainly seemed most common—war-related death.

Mary passed a bench as a mother with two children got up, and she pounced on the opening. It was a perfect spot, in the shadow of a barrage balloon floating high above. She took out her creased and dog-eared copy of
Great Expectations
. She was normally a magazine girl, but this was required reading.

Each page took an age to read. By the end of a few she needed to lift her head and take a breath to refresh herself and prevent her eyes from closing. The sounds of people having fun contrasted with the
wire barricade across the lake. Beyond, patrols of the Home Guard were taking watch. A young boy ran past, and Mary followed him with her eyes as the rudimentary wooden plane he held attacked thousands of imaginary Nazis hiding between blades of grass. On the bench a few yards to her left, Beth watched the same air strike. The boy went off to attack another front, but Beth kept watching, staring through the ground. Was she ignoring Mary, or was she just oblivious?

How long had she been sitting there?

Mary bit her lip, closed her book and gathered her things. She walked over, but even when she stood in front of her, Beth kept staring, unfocused. She was in a trance.

“Hey, Beth.”

She blinked and looked up. “Mary!” She cleared her throat, sounding like she'd only just awoken.

“Budge up a bit?”

It was a brave request after such a long silence between them. But Beth looked at the small space between her and the armrest and slid up the other way as much as she could to the person next to her. Mary put her things on the ground and sat down.

“It's not indoor weather, is it?” Mary asked.

“No,” said Beth.

Mary was hoping for more of a response and wondered what to say next. She sighed quietly. Beth looked at her and went on. “To be honest, I just don't want to go home.” She paused. “Sorry if I'm interrupting your … what are you doing?”

Mary patted her worn satchel. “Trying to read, but it wasn't going very well. Why don't you want to go home?”

Beth stuttered slightly. “J-just, y'know … recent memories.”

No. Mary didn't know. She frowned.

“Getting sick and everything. I've spent so much time in that house, in my room. It holds bad memories.” Beth looked down. “And then there's Dad,” she mumbled.

“What's wrong with your dad?” asked Mary.

Beth thought for a second. “Nothing. Never mind. Anyway, what's going on with you? You're never home anymore.”

Mary smiled.

“What's so funny?” asked Beth.

“
Home
.” She over-emphasized the word.

“Well it
is
home.”

“Yes—
your
home.”

“And yours, Mary.”

“I'm just in the way. Now your dad's back there's no room. I'm taking up your bedroom floor, there's barely enough space around the table at dinner. And with your dad there all the time I just feel …” Mary shrugged, “ … a nuisance.”

“Don't be so silly. You're a part of the family.”

“Doesn't feel like it.” Mary felt sheepish all of a sudden. “It's not like you talk to me.”

“Me?”

“Everyone.”

Beth fell silent. Mary couldn't tell if she was just thinking or if she was hurt by what she'd said. “I think,” Beth began, “there's just a lot going on. I'm sure they're not ignoring you on purpose, or they might think you just want some time alone. I know Mum loves having you around. And he'll never admit it, but Ollie would be sad to see you go.”

The corner of Mary's mouth turned up at the thought of the brother she never had. “What about your dad?”

“Dad can be a little … I dunno …
scary
sometimes. But he does care. He wouldn't let anything happen to you.”

Mary hesitated, wondering if she could really believe that. He certainly didn't act like he cared. “What about you?”