No Shelter from Darkness (8 page)

The water in the scullery stopped. Beth came back in and started to collect the plates. “Aren't you going to finish that?” asked Lynne, seeing that her daughter's plate still had some toast left on it.

Beth shook her head. “I-I think I'm full.”

“Is everything okay? You look … pale.” She was almost afraid to say the word.

“I'm fine.”

Lynne looked knowingly at her daughter, and Beth seemed to take the hint.

“I just can't believe it's sports day today,” she said with a shrug.

“You're not fit for it, Beth.”

“I know, Mum.” Then there was a glint in her eye before she went back into the scullery. “I can go and watch though, can't I?”

“I don't see why not. Mary'll need some cheering on.”

The water started running again.

“Hold on, darling. Come and sit back down. I need to take a look at your stitches before I go to work.” Lynne arranged two chairs opposite each other by the table. Beth sat down, and Lynne took her leg on her lap. “How have you managed to get it so filthy?” she asked as she unrolled the fabric.

She never got an answer, but forgot she'd asked the question after she removed the bandage. Only a few days ago it looked like the wound would take weeks to heal, yet now it looked high time for the stitches to be removed.

With a well-concealed gasp under her breath, Lynne went to fetch her medical bag.

SEVEN

MARY WAS UPSTAIRS,
pulling on her socks when she heard the front door close as Mrs. Wade left for work. She walked out of the room, realizing Beth was now halfway up the stairs. She waited at the top, expecting some remark on her outfit, but Beth simply went straight into her room.

Expecting a deserted downstairs, Mary froze in the sitting room when she found Oliver sitting at the kitchen table. He looked up from whatever it was he was doing and lurched forward with a stern grin. It looked like he wanted to burst out laughing.

“What are you grinning at?” Mary asked.

“You look stupid,” said Oliver between escaping chuckles.

She walked up to the kitchen table where he sat. “
That
looks stupid.” She frowned at the piece of paper, upon which a vaguely symmetrical pattern of circles and squares had been drawn and colored in with crayons. “What's it supposed to be anyway?”

“It's a kite,” stated Oliver, as if it should be obvious. “Me and Dave are gonna fly it later.”

“What about sports day?”

“We're in the first races. It'll be boring after that.” He looked Mary up and down once more, shaking his head. “God, you look stupid.”

Mary clipped him across the back of the head.

“Ow! Mary! I'm telling Mum.”

Mary smiled. An only child, she'd never had the experience of bickering like this, and Oliver's threat did the opposite of what he intended; she was warmed, feeling almost like a part of the family.

“See if I care,” she said.

He did have a point though. Dressed in short blue shorts, a white vest and with socks up to her knees, she looked ridiculous. They were Beth's clothes. The only items of her own that she wore were the plimsolls, salvaged from her old house. She started back up the stairs but slowed with every step, stopping at the top in the darkened hall. The house had a certain sprightly atmosphere about it that morning, but the reason for the lifted gloom had hidden herself away in her room. Getting past her hesitancy, Mary knocked on the door. Seconds later it opened a crack and Beth peered out, but didn't speak.

“Are you okay?” asked Mary.

Beth gave a quick, shallow nod. The gap was too small to tell if she was smiling or not, but Mary guessed she wasn't. “I was wondering if you had a cardigan I could borrow. The longer the better.” She stepped back and presented herself, smiling at the obvious goofiness of her appearance. Beth vanished from the gap. Tentatively, Mary held her hand up to the door and was about to push it open when it suddenly did so without her touch. Holding a woolen garment, Beth stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind her.

“Thanks,” said Mary, taking the top.

The smile Beth gave in response was cold and false. She hurried down the stairs and opened the front door.

“Where're you going?”

Beth stopped and looked up the stairs at her. She looked so healthy, so well. Yet something was so wrong. “The park,” she said, breaking her silence. She went to close the door.

“Bit early, aren't you?”

Again Beth faltered, held the door firmly ajar, and stared for a couple of seconds at the wall before answering. “I thought I'd get a bit of fresh air.”

“Wait up,” Mary urgently called. “I'll come with you.”

“No,” said Beth abruptly. “I mean, it's fine. Really.”

No it's not
, thought Mary as she hurried down. She peered around the door to the kitchen. “See you up there, Ollie.”

Oliver grunted, as any artist would when distracted from their masterpiece. Mary ushered Beth out and away from the door, realizing she'd just called Oliver by Beth's nickname for him. Neither of them had batted an eyelid.

On days like this, with hardly a cloud in the sky, it was easy to forget there was a war going on. Almost. The occasional gap by the side of the road where a building used to be was a cold reminder, but not as constant as the unfashionable accessory everybody wore: a gas mask disguised as a gray box hanging from their neck.

The first bomb that dropped on London had done so just shy of one year ago. Mary remembered how in that second the world felt changed, as if it were ending.

The sun shone in her eyes and brought her back to the present, to the notion of how war had simply become a way of life. People walked around like they didn't have a care in the world—or at least not for the ever-impending danger.

Except for Beth.

Mary glanced at her friend, who had said nothing since leaving the house. She'd set a pace that was neither fast nor slow. It was the walk of someone uncertain of where they were going, but determined to get there nonetheless. Nothing was adding up. Why wasn't she hopping and skipping along? From what Mrs. Wade had been saying these past few days, it sounded like it was a miracle that Beth was out of bed, let alone walking beside her. But the silence was uncomfortable, and Mary couldn't take it any longer.

“What's up with you, then?” Beth kept walking, clearly focused on something, though it was nothing Mary could identify. “Beth!”

“What?” She looked at Mary warily.

“Did you hear me?”

“Oh … no. Sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked what's wrong with you, and don't bother saying ‘nothing'.”

Beth looked down briefly. “I'm just thinking.” And then, as though she'd had a second wind, “I'm trying to think of anything that might have happened to make me better, maybe while I was sleeping.”

“How're you going to know if you were sleeping?”

Beth shrugged.

“Well, whatever happened to you, I'm glad you're better,” said Mary, with no small amount of relief.

“Yeah, me too.” Beth smiled back. It still had that falsity, but at least she was talking now, and Mary frantically thought of how to turn it into a conversation.

“Shame you're not feeling well enough to run today, though.” She quickly realized it should have been a question. “Isn't it?”

Beth thought for a second and shrugged. “I feel fine.” She leant forward while she walked and looked at the short pink line running jaggedly down her shin. It looked a lot better; the wound had practically closed up, and there was only light bruising around it.

“Why don't you run, then?” asked Mary.

“There won't be any room.”

“You can take my place.” Beth looked confused at Mary's suggestion. “You know I hate sports,” she clarified.

For a second, it appeared that Beth was actually considering it. Then the defeated look that had accompanied her previous silence returned. “I-I can't. There's something I …”

“You … ?”

Beth shook her head. “Never mind.”

Mary didn't want to push anything. It felt like a miracle Beth was talking at all. “I'm not getting out of this race, am I?” she asked. Beth seemed too preoccupied to grace her with a response. The miracle was short lived, but the silence they walked in was now a little less awkward.

They approached the familiar entrance to the park, passing a block of houses that had been flattened like a doll's house. It was now simply part of the scenery. Like seeing a familiar scar on a hand or a leg, their eyes got used to those of war. As they walked across Bonner Bridge over the calm canal, Mary heard Beth taking a deep breath and then a second. They had reached the openness of the park, and while they were early for sports day, the preparations were well underway. Teachers and volunteers were struggling with erecting tables and chairs. Mary veered to the left toward them but became instantly aware that she moved across the grass alone. Light-footed as ever, Beth had silently veered to the right, toward the lake.

“Beth?”

“I'll catch up,” she called over while looking back. But Mary hadn't come along to be pushed away, so she quick-stepped over. “Mary,” pleaded Beth, “Please, I just want to have a—”

A young girl's scream, short but shrill, stopped Beth dead. It came from behind her, from behind the trees that lined the lake.

From the edge of the tree line a girl came running. Kevin Gibson's younger cousin, Joyce, ran straight past them, tears in her eyes. Moments later, Gibson calmly walked out in his cousin's footsteps. His grin gave away the likelihood of a prank having been played. Mary's initial fear of something devastating having happened was relieved. She smiled shyly and automatically, and before she even realized she was walking toward the roguish boy, something gripped her arm and pulled her back.

“Mary … don't.” Beth's command was succinct. Mary sucked air and winced, pulling her arm free. Beth's wide, worried eyes mirrored the misplaced fear Mary had felt only moments earlier. It had gripped her and wasn't letting go.

“Mary, you gotta come see this,” Gibson shouted as he neared them.

Mary glared at Beth, confused and considering if she'd gone crazy, before starting toward her classmate. “Mary!” Beth called, but Mary ignored her and followed Gibson, leading the way back to the trees.

Around the sweeping corner of the tree line, the trunks were spread out and the lake glistened beyond the sporadic columns of wood. Gibson kept waving his hand, urging Mary to follow. She wafted a fly away only for it to return. Then there were two. Three or four. Many.

“Here,” said Gibson. He stopped at the edge of the lake with its water gently and silently lapping on the sodden bank. Through the distraction of the flies, Mary hadn't been looking where she was going, only now focusing on what must have caused Joyce to scream.

As the putrid smell drifted around her, its source caused Mary to do the same.

EIGHT

BETH HEARD MARY'S SCREAM,
but stood frozen on the grass staring at the trees. Beyond them was the lake from where she'd walked home last night. It was where she had been heading this morning, but she wanted to go there alone. All that blood on her nightgown, she'd wondered if it had come from where she'd woken up, and by the sound of it, it had. It couldn't be coincidence. And then her wonder turned into fear at an unexpected theory.
What if I'm responsible?
A cold sweat prickled her brow, and her foot twitched slightly at the thought of the easy way out: running. But she had to know what they'd found. And then a more unsettling determination came to her: she had to confront whatever it was that she might have done. Fighting against some invisible puppet-master, she stepped forward.

Every step grew heavier as did the strange and inexplicable guilt she felt. The world around her seemed to blur, her fear mixing with hope that this was all a dream. Her thoughts kept returning to all the blood from last night. The notion that she could ever harm anyone gave the world a kind of surreal film; she was sure if she bent down and touched the grass it wouldn't feel quite right.

Her heart was beating double-time, and erratic thoughts fought to be heard. She rounded the corner, closing her eyes and frowning as if she'd sucked bitter lemon. A stench had assaulted her nose. She only got a whiff, but it was bad enough to want to hurl. And yet she recognized it as an infinitely worse manifestation of the stench from last night. It stayed but a second. There was no wind, but when she sniffed the air again it was gone. She halted and snapped her head round toward the center of the park. The buzz of generators had
returned, but this time it oscillated unpredictably. She shook her head slightly, troubled at the odd behavior of her own senses, as though they were being switched on and off without her consent. She could no longer blame it on illness.

She went a few steps further and saw Gibson and Mary by the bank some twenty yards away through some more trees. Gibson had his back to her and held a stick, which he kept poking into something on the ground. From his side, Mary glanced at what he was doing every now and then, between turning away and looking like she was about to heave. It only intensified the gory images in Beth's mind.
This is it
, she thought, walking between the trees with her head down, back to the bank on which she'd lain only hours before.

She now knew the buzzing to be caused by the flies; it was everywhere and she found it hard to believe the other two could put up with it. The putrid smell had returned and filled her nostrils. She covered her mouth with her hand.

“Don't, Beth. Stay there. It's disgusting. It's—” Mary clutched her stomach, narrowly managing to avoid vomiting.

Beth crept to Kevin's side and looked down at the thing he was poking. The glistening end of his stick disappeared amongst what looked like torn raw sausages, making the swarm of flies depart, fly around and then land back down on the splayed guts. It sounded like Mary had glanced over at the wrong moment, and she heaved again behind Beth.