The Dark Inside (7 page)

Like an item on the six o’clock news.

James opened his eyes and drew up the covers around him, and stared at the wall for a long time, listening to Webster. The man’s breathing gave nothing away. It rolled like a river right
through him. James could not be sure if he was awake or not. Whether he might be waiting for him to say something. Finally, he rolled on to his back and stared at the ceiling.

‘Sometimes,’ he said quietly, ‘I speak to my mum. And I tell her things I would never have told her when she was alive. And I don’t know what to think about that. And
then I just tell myself she probably knows everything now anyway.’

Webster said nothing.

His breathing kept to its same rhythm.

The man did not even stir.

When James woke up, he sensed he had overslept by the bloated feeling in his head. He panicked for a moment, unsure of where he was. The sensation passed when he saw Webster,
showered and dressed, appearing from the bathroom, towelling down his head to leave spikes of black hair.

‘Morning,’ he said.

‘Morning,’ said James. ‘How did you sleep?’

But Webster didn’t seem to hear with the towel buzzing his hair.

The suit smelt clean and soapy and was glassy in spots. The white shirt and tie fitted well. James smoothed down his hair and in the mirror he saw the glimmer of a future where
he was grown up, with a job and a house and a family of his own, although he was unsure how he would ever get there.

‘Life is everything you want to make of it,’ said Webster, as if reading his mind.

And James’s heart gleamed because he hoped it was true. But the longer he stared into the mirror, the more he felt something black unwinding through his guts. And the black was cold.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Webster softly.

But James just shook his head. ‘Nothing. I’m OK. Let’s go.’

The church was open. An organ was playing as Webster and James crunched along the gravel path between the gravestones. The boy picked at the threads around the buttons of his
suit as a shiver licked goosebumps over his skin. That black was in his guts again.

When he looked up, Webster was staring at him. James realized he was standing quite still on the path with his fists clenched.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, opening his hands.

But then he licked his lips.

Folded his arms.

Shivered in the sunlight and shook his head.

‘I’m not as brave as I thought I was.’

Webster bent down beside him. ‘I thought the suit might make a good impression,’ he said quietly. ‘That it was a good idea. I didn’t think hard enough about it. I’m
sorry. And I’m sorry about your mum too.’

‘That’s OK. It’s not your fault.’

‘Think you’ll be all right?’

‘Yes. I think so. Just give me a moment.’

‘Nobody lives forever,’ said Webster.

‘Why?’ asked James in a tiny, cracked voice.

And Webster sighed and shook his head and looked at the gravestones. Some of them lying face down on the grass. Others slowly falling.

James wiped his eyes. Shuddered as he sucked up a breath. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘No. It’s not. Whoever decided it must have been as mad as a hatter.’

James managed a smile at that.

Webster crouched down and took hold of the boy’s wrists as though they were made of glass. ‘I bet your mum’s listening to everything you tell her. Wherever she is. So never
give up on telling her things.’

And then James bit his lip because he realized what Webster was really trying to tell him. That he had been awake last night.

‘I don’t have anyone else,’ said Webster.

‘Neither do I,’ James said quickly and squeezed Webster’s hands as hard as he could. When the man squeezed gently back, something prickly in James’s chest vanished and he
breathed more easily after that.

They stayed in the sun, warming themselves, looking into the open black mouth of the church as the organ played. When James stopped shaking, Webster let go of his hands. And when they were ready
they went on down the path.

Inside the church, the air was cool, bitter with polish. The stained-glass windows down one side glowed as sunlight played over the flagstone floor. An old man in a dark suit
handed both of them a prayer book and a green hymn book as soon as they walked in.

‘Feel free to sit wherever you can,’ he said, raising his eyebrows because the church was empty except for two old ladies in the front pew.

As Webster and James sat and listened to the music, a handful of other people arrived in ones and twos and took their places.

The service took less than an hour. Webster sang the hymns as loudly as he could, chest puffed out like a pigeon.

James remembered the rhythm of everything as they stood and sat and knelt, just as he had done it with his mother. When he listened to the reading, he closed his eyes to see the story of what
was being told. He knelt for communion beside Webster and offered out his hands. In his cupped palms he received a round paper wafer which tasted of nothing except stale air. The sip of wine that
followed ran hot into his chest.

Whenever he felt the black in his guts, he worked harder at following the service properly, hoping it might make a difference. And when that didn’t work he looked around the church,
searching for any clues about St Hubert or the key.

Finally, when the service was over, the organ began to wheeze and play. The two old women at the front rose and shuffled down the nave, drifting like ghosts, their arms locked together as though
letting go might mean the end for both of them.

Webster gripped James by the shoulder. He could feel the man’s heart beating.

‘What do you think? Seen anything that might be important?’ James shook his head. Webster pursed his lips and sat back, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. Then he leant in close to
the boy. ‘Maybe we didn’t pray hard enough,’ he said before settling back in the pew.

James looked around again for anything that might be helpful and noticed the young vicar talking to a middle-aged couple near the entrance. All three of them were laughing. When the vicar
glanced directly at him, James looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring.

‘We’ll have to ask if we want to find out anything,’ he whispered.

When everyone else had left, they approached the vestry and peered at the vicar through a crack in the door. He had already changed out of his robes and was dressed in a black
shirt and trousers with a white dog collar around his throat.

‘Hello there,’ he said when he opened the door and saw them waiting.

‘Good morning, Reverend,’ said Webster and put out his hand. James noticed that it was shaking. The vicar smiled as he shook it.

‘Thank you for coming to the service. And for your marvellous singing.’

Webster beamed. When the vicar looked at James, he suddenly remembered Webster had bought him the suit to help make a good impression.

‘I’m James,’ he said and held out his hand as Webster had done, making sure it was steady.

‘Lovely to meet you, James.’ And, for a moment, there was nothing but grace as the vicar smiled, and the pews ticked, and the sunlight moved noiselessly over the stone walls.

Webster wiped his brow with the back of his hand, making it shine.

‘We were wondering about the key,’ he said quietly.

The young vicar looked taken aback for a moment. And then his face became ashen. James grinned all the harder to try and make up for it. But the vicar looked down at the flagstone floor and
shuffled his feet. He planted his hands in his trouser pockets and then straightened up.

‘I don’t have the key to the donations box,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. It can’t be opened.’

Webster shook his head. Licked his lips. Patted one of the vicar’s shoulders. ‘We’re not here to take any money. We’re not looking to piss you off. That’s the last
thing we want to do.’

‘Oh,’ replied the vicar. His forehead creased. His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’

‘St Hubert’s key is what we want to know about,’ said James.

‘I need to be cured,’ said Webster. ‘Cured of evil.’

‘I see.’

But James knew the vicar did not understand so he took the printed pages out of the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘St Hubert’s key,’ he said, holding up a picture of it. ‘It was used as a cure for rabies, but we were told it might also help with other things . . . evil
things.’

‘And who told you that?’

But neither of them said a word.

‘I see. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there’s no key here. I’m not sure there ever has been. That sort of artefact is very rare. A museum piece. Like the one in
your picture.’

Webster planted a hand on James’s shoulder, squeezing hard, as if to stop himself from falling.

‘What if we made a devotion to St Hubert?’ asked James, eyes racing across the text he had highlighted and starred in the margin.

The young vicar folded his hands together in a ball of graceful fingers. His smile was small, but warm and wise.

‘What sort of dark and evil things do you need to be cured of?’

‘I’ve been done wrong,’ said Webster. ‘Someone’s done me a great wrong. And now I’m dark inside because of it. I’m something else. Broken apart then put
back together.’ He wiped his hands over his greatcoat and placed them in his pockets. And then he took them out again and wiped them again. And then he folded his arms tight across his chest,
unsure how to stand.

The vicar nodded. As if everything was suddenly clear to him.

‘The best and the simplest way to defeat dark and evil things is through love,’ he said.

‘Love? Who am I supposed to love?’ asked Webster.

‘Whoever has done you this wrong. It sounds simple, but it’s not easy. It’s the best advice I can give you.’

‘What about asking God?’ asked James. ‘Could you do that? For us? Just to be sure.’

The vicar pressed his hands together harder and squeezed his lips white, and James thought he might be about to pray. But then he peeled his palms apart and just smiled. Bigger than before. His
lips pumping themselves pink again. ‘There’s no need for that. You’ll find out for yourselves that it’s true.’

They walked back up the path through the gravestones, crunching gravel. Webster kicked out hard, sending stones skittering into the grass.

‘What the hell does he mean?’ he asked in an angry voice. ‘What do we do now?’ He stopped and stared down at his feet then threw back his head and blew out a long
breath.

‘I think he means you have to forgive whoever attacked you.’ James looked through his sheets of paper until he found what he was looking for. ‘According to most legends, and
what the travellers told you, if someone is attacked on the night of a full moon and survives then they’re cursed just like the one who attacks them.’

‘So?’

‘So, if the vicar’s right, you need to find the person who left you cursed and forgive them. They must be out there somewhere.’

‘And that’ll work? I’ll be cured?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘A vicar like that wouldn’t lie, I suppose.’ Webster kicked out at the gravel again. ‘It’s all shot to shit then. Everything happened like that.’ He slapped
his palms together with a bang. ‘I don’t remember anything.’

‘Can you remember the place where it happened?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then we’ll have to start there,’ said James. ‘See if that helps.’

Webster looked up at the sky. Cupped his hands round his mouth.

‘Hey!’ he shouted at the blue and the clouds hanging in it. ‘Up there! Is this what we’re supposed to do? Is this all part of the plan? Well, is it?’

The sun beat down.

Birds flickered and hopped.

The trees hissed as a warm breeze blew.

And it was all they heard.

James took Webster’s shaking hands in his and held them until they were steady.

Only then did they walk on down the path.

Billy unlocked the steel door of the wagon and glared into the empty corners, just as he had done on the day Webster had vanished. And then he spat into the dirty, brittle
straw that covered the wooden floor.

He had checked the boards under his feet and not one of them was loose. All the black iron bars along the front were intact. And the panels on the back wall and at either end were made of hard,
solid oak. The ceiling was a flat bed of steel. The only way Webster could have escaped was if someone had let him out.

He turned round when he heard her walking over the grass towards the wagon, the charms and amulets clinking inside the small leather pouch strung around her neck.

‘Airght?’

‘Airght, Ma,’ replied Billy. Her silver hair was scraped back into a bun. Looped over one shoulder was a red leather bag.

She wrapped her black shawl tight around her and walked up the four wooden steps into the wagon, her black shoes clipping and clopping.

‘You should’ve told me sooner about him leaving.’

‘I didn’t want to worry ya.’

‘That right?’ Billy heard his blood swelling in his cheeks as she looked at him with a grey half-moon of a smile. She tugged on a couple of the iron bars. ‘He en’t made
of air too, is he?’