Darkwater

fifteen

For five minutes he sweated and prowled among the houses, sick with fear. Finally, with a great effort, he managed to get himself to the door and turn the handle. There was a bell on the door; it jangled.

The shop smelled of Christmas trees, polish, cabbages, chewing gum. Its fluorescent lights flickered and hummed.

Steve Tate was lounging by the cash register. The other two were leaning over some magazine, giggling, until the small one, Mark, looked up and nudged his friends. Instantly Steve was on his feet. “Well! Look who’s crawled in. Little Tom Thumb.”

The name hit Tom like a blow. They’d called him that since they were all kids. He’d been small then; he wasn’t now. But they knew how much he hated it.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

It was a mistake. Steve went wide-eyed. “Touchy, isn’t he?”

Mark grinned and the big one, Rob, came over and blocked the way through the shop.

“Can we help you?” he asked sarcastically.

Tom’s heart sank. He glanced past. The post office counter was empty; he could hear Steve’s dad rummaging for something in the storeroom at the back. Simon had vanished. He was on his own.

“No. Thanks.” He even felt small; his whole self shriveling up inside. His voice went tight and scared. He hated himself for trying to sound friendly. “I’ve just got to get this posted, that’s all.”

He stepped to one side; Rob stepped with him, as if in some ludicrous dance.

“I’ll weigh it for you,” he said.

He snatched the package, tossed it to Steve.

Tom swung around, despairing. “Be careful!”

“Why? Fragile, is it? Watch it, Mark, it’s fragile.” Steve juggled the small box from hand to hand, then threw it to Mark, who only just caught it, slamming back into a shelf of cans and sending a few rolling down the aisle. Tom felt sick, though he knew there was nothing breakable in the box. Hot and humiliated, he let his mind grope miserably after Simon, but there was no one there.

“Come on,” he said, managing a weak smile. “Let’s have it.”

“Did you hear that?” Steve came out from behind the counter. “He’s asking for it, boys.”

Tom froze. Cold chilled his back. The other two were idiots, but Steve was worse. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Years ago, just for the hell of it, he’d pushed Tom down the old tin shaft out on the moor. The terror of that fall flashed over him now, the black sludge, his head bleeding, the way he’d curled in the corner and sobbed. He’d been lucky not to have broken his back.

That was then. He raised his head and looked at Steve’s eyes. They were pale blue and cold. He was grinning.

“Not like you to come in here, Tom. Thought you were too keen on the old schoolbooks. Think yourself a bit above us, don’t you.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

The shop door clanged. A blond girl with a backpack came in and looked at them. Then she went around to the groceries. Tom almost let the relief show.

Steve stepped closer. “Like those snobs up at the Hall. Bet you’d like it up there, Tommy. Pity your mother’s just the cleaner.”

Rob snorted. But the door at the back opened and Mr. Tate came in. “Right. Who’s next?”

There was silence.

Then Steve took the package and threw it back to Tom. “He is.” He came up and rumpled Tom’s hair and whispered in his ear. “See you later, bright boy.”

Tom pushed past. It was better to say nothing. Dumping the hated package on the scales, he pulled out some money and counted the slithering coins out blindly, feeling his face heat up as if it were swollen or had been slapped.

“One sixty.” Mr. Tate tore stamps out of the book.

Tom glanced in the convex mirror, nervous. The girl was watching him. Behind the rows of soup and baked beans she was watching his back thoughtfully, and then she turned and took four cans to the shop counter. “Do you cut keys?” she asked.

Carelessly jabbing the cash register buttons, Steve nodded.

“Thanks.” Tom shoved the package across and headed for the shop counter quickly. He had to get the rest of the stuff while there were people here. But to his despair he saw Steve’s dad glance around and go back outside.

Grabbing the potatoes and some margarine from the fridge he dumped it hastily next to the girl’s cans. She glanced at him as she took a bill from a small velvet purse. But she’d go, wouldn’t she. And he’d be left with them. Steve was already counting her change. Tom felt Rob come close behind him. Something tapped him on the back of the head.

The girl put the cans in her backpack. Then she swung it onto her back and put her hands in her pockets. She took out a pair of blue woolen gloves and pulled them on. Slowly.

Tom slapped his money down. Straight-faced, Steve punched the cash register buttons, then tutted. “Oh dear. Done it wrong.” He smiled. “Bear with me.”

His back wet with sweat, Tom gave the girl a quick glance. She looked away, and put her hands in her pockets.

But she didn’t go.

Steve stared at her. “Anything else?”

The girl eyed him. She was their age, but her look had a straight confidence. “I’m waiting for him. Hurry up and serve him.”

Steve’s surprise turned to instant mockery. “Fancy him, do you? Didn’t know you had it in you, Tommy.” Tom pushed the money at him, grabbed the potatoes, and said, “Keep the change.” He was desperate to get out, but the girl said, “Oh no. You give him his change. Come on.”

The cash drawer sprang open. Steve glared at it. He pretended to pick up coins, but the girl said, “Stop fooling around. Bit of a jerk really, aren’t you.”

Tom went cold.

Steve looked at her, and put the pound coin deliberately on the newspapers. “You’ll wish you hadn’t said that,” he whispered.

She smiled. “I’m terrified.”

“Come on.” Tom lunged for the door and dragged it open, the bell clanging. Cold wet air engulfed him like a welcome; he ran into it, down the steps, chilled with sweat.

The girl followed more slowly. She walked after him around the corner and found him leaning against the wall of the garage, breathing hard. “You shouldn’t let them mess you around.”

He stared down the lane. “I don’t.”

“Liar. I could see.”

“I can handle them. They were just . . .”

“They crushed you. Made you feel like nothing.” She pushed her short, bleached hair behind one ear. “You have to face them down.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” he breathed, furious.

She looked at him. “Yes. Maybe it is.”

At once he saw Simon. Or rather his reflection, in the grimy garage window. Beyond the walls of the holiday cottage opposite, just sitting there. And waving, sadly.

Tom started to walk, fast. The girl walked with him.

At the stile he stopped. “I go across here.”

“Do you?” Interested, she looked over the field. “You live in the back lane?”

“Martha’s cottage,” he said, without knowing why.

The girl seemed startled. “Is it still called that? I used to live there.”

“You can’t have.” Tom hefted the potatoes. “We’ve always lived there.”

The girl laughed, amused, and walked away up the lane. “Always,” she said drily. “That’s a very long time.”