Blackbriar (17 page)

It was only a few minutes later that, still standing in the doorway, Danny noticed two glittering orange disks watching him from the darkness under the trees. “Islington?” he said. Cautiously he began to walk toward them.

The disks dissolved and Islington loped out of the woods. “Islington!” Danny cried, relief flooding through him like hot tea in his stomach. But at the sound of his name the cat froze, then took a step or two backwards. Danny stopped walking and watched, silently. After a moment Islington began to walk toward him again, but strangely. Something was different about the way he moved, but it was too subtle for Danny to tell what it was. When the cat came very close, Danny reached out to pet him. Islington growled and spat, his hair standing on end, and bit Danny’s finger, drawing blood.

“Ouch! Damn you!” Danny cried, and began to suck on his finger. Islington hurried into the house.

At first Danny couldn’t see the cat anywhere inside. He wasn’t in his usual places by the fire or the stove.

But he found him at last in his own room. He was clawing violently at Danny’s chest of drawers, shivering and making pitiful moaning noises.

“Now what are you doing
that
for, you nasty beast?” Danny said. And then he remembered what was hidden inside the dresser.

Philippa brooded silently over one cigarette after another as Danny bolted down his two eggs and three pieces of toast. He swallowed the last crust and hurriedly began clearing the table, balancing cups and plates on his arms to get it over with as soon as possible. He dropped them into the sink, then headed for the door.

“Danny,” she said.

“What?” He paused restlessly in the dining room doorway.

“Sit down. We’ve got to talk.”

He slumped into a chair, drumming on the table with his fingertips.

“I just can’t stop thinking about Islington. You
must
tell me everything that happened. I can’t
bear
to see him like this.”

“But I told you everything, about ten times.” He sighed again, then began to speak with exaggerated patience. “He came out of the woods. He was walking strangely. He bit my hand when I tried to pet him. He went inside. You know all the rest, you came back right after that.”

“Yes, but don’t you have any idea what might have happened? Why, he doesn’t eat, he won’t even let
me
touch him, he doesn’t hunt mice, he just moons around all the time. You must have some idea.”

“But why should I know any more about it than you?” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “And I’ve got to go get some firewood.”

“Well, if you don’t know anything,” she said, suddenly angry, “why do you keep trying to avoid my questions?” She stabbed out her cigarette and began fumbling for a new one.

“I’m not avoiding your questions. We just need some more firewood, that’s all.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. I know you. I can tell when you’re hiding something. And it’s cruel, cruel of you to keep anything about Islington from me!
You’ve
changed as much as he has.”

He stood up quickly, scraping back his chair. “I’m going outside, I can’t take this anymore!” he shouted, and stormed out of the house.

Islington was standing in the yard, quivering and shaking helplessly. As Danny ran past, the cat howled and dashed away. He remembered how proud and brave Islington used to be; and even though he had always considered the cat obnoxious, now a sudden feeling of pity for the animal swept over him. He stopped and turned around to try and find Islington and comfort him, but then he remembered his anger at Philippa and continued on his way.

He walked quickly down the track. Instead of his coat, he wore a jacket and heavy sweater, for it was less cold today than ever. He could still see his breath, but his face did not sting, and as he walked quickly he began to feel warm.

And, of course, he did have ideas about what had happened to Islington. That part of the conversation in the library had been difficult to hear, but he had noticed how special they seemed to think Islington was, and with what glee they had discussed doing something to him. And whatever it was, Danny speculated, they must have done it.

He turned right, following a path into the woods on the side of the hill. But what could they have done to produce such an eerie change in Islington’s behavior? There were no signs that he had been physically hurt in any way. And why should anyone
want
to do anything to a helpless cat? It just didn’t make sense.

And, of course, he couldn’t tell Philippa. Without knowing definitely that something had happened to him, she might eventually be able to convince herself that Islington was just going through some sort of phase, and stop worrying. But if she knew that someone had actually mistreated him deliberately she would be beside herself; she might even go to them and do something about it; she might even want to leave. It was better to prevent these possibilities. And this time, he reflected, he wasn’t at all worried that she would succeed in prying it out of him.

The woods were mostly pine, and on this day the pathway was flecked with brilliant patches of sunlight. The other trees were still bare, but there was so much green that it really didn’t feel like winter at all. He began to walk more slowly, and soon stopped altogether. What was that noise, over to the left? It sounded a bit like the wind in the trees, but seemed to come from one particular spot. He left the path and began to walk through the trees, following the sound. There was no underbrush, the ground was covered with pine needles, and the trees were not very close together, so that he had no trouble making his way. The patches of sunlight danced when the wind blew.

The sound grew louder, more distinct. The ground began to slope steeply down, and soon he was sliding on the needles, grabbing trees for support.

At the bottom of the gully was a brook. Here, its sound was very loud, almost drowning out everything else. The water was perfectly clear, he could see the stony bottom, and it splashed and churned over mossy rocks, making small, foamy waterfalls. The sun sparkled on its surface. He squatted at the edge and dipped in his hand, then quickly pulled it out. The water was icy.

I’ve got to show this to Lark, he thought, as proud of his discovery as if he had made the brook himself. Do brooks come from springs? he wondered. Maybe I’ll find the beginning if I follow it up the hillside. He stood up and started off along its edge. It was fascinating to watch the different waterfalls, the different patterns the brook made as it raced down the hill. As he went on, he saw places where the brook was fed by tiny trickles of water sliding down to it over slippery rocks. Occasionally he had to step from rock to rock in the brook itself, when there was no room to walk along the edge. It was cold under the trees, but the patches of sunlight were warm on his forehead.

The surrounding countryside soon became very familiar to him, for he began to spend as little time as possible at home. At night, however, he could not stay away—and at night he would lie awake and listen. Above the sounds of Philippa tossing in bed, above the sound of her snores, he listened for noises from the basement, or at the cellar door. He heard the creaking of the house, and the wind and the rain, and the scuffling of all the mice that Islington no longer chased. But from the tunnel there was an ominous silence.

When he slept, he dreamed, always. And the dreams were the same, but more terrifying, more real. The room was longer, the window farther away, the bodies were warm and clutched him more roughly. And he waited, as he struggled through them, for the laughter that would end the dream. For the laughter was familiar, almost comforting now, and he longed for it to last as it faded away in the darkness . . .

“What were you and Lark doing while I was at the hairdresser’s that day?”

Danny set down his glass of milk. “Nothing.”

“You must have been doing
some
thing.”

“I don’t know. What difference does it make? It took us a long time to walk up here, then we lit the lamps and built the fires and everything, and . . . went for a little walk, then we just sat by the fire and talked.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I don’t
remember
. Nothing important. Why does it matter so much?”

“It matters so much because you’ve been different lately. You were both different that night. As though you were hiding something. What did she tell you?”

“Nothing!’’

Philippa pushed away her half-eaten lamb chop and lit a cigarette. “I wonder if we ever should have come here at all. It’s changed you. And that girl’s been part of it. I should have known what she was like. She’s made you secretive and two-faced.”

“She has not. We’re just friends. What’s wrong with that?”

“Everything in her case. I don’t want you seeing her anymore.”

“How interesting. But
I
happen to want to see her, and I don’t care what you say. And may I ask what’s so terrible about her?”

“Look at the way she’s been brought up. No mother, an irresponsible artist for a father—”

“What makes you think he’s irresponsible?”

“—traipsing in and out of that pub whenever she likes, going to that awful country school, never learning any manners.”

“She always helps out when she’s here.”

“Well, she’s not coming here anymore.”

“But what has she done?”

“You two have secrets. I’m sure you know something about this house that I don’t know. I’m sure you know something about poor Islington.
She
must know about Lord . . . Lord Barley, or whatever his name is, she’s been living here for so long.
Why
do you have to keep secrets from me?”

“But I don’t know any more than you.”

“Then why do you always make sure the cellar door is latched before you go to bed?”

“Do I?” he said, taken aback. He hadn’t realized she had noticed. “I don’t know why. Because that basement scares me, I suppose. You know I’ve always thought it was creepy down there.”

“Oh, you may be very glib, but I know you’re keeping something from me, and I can’t bear it. I won’t allow it!”

“Look,” Danny said, strangely calm, “I am getting very tired of the way you constantly pick at me and tell me what to do and pry into every little corner of my life. And no matter what you say, I’m simply not going to put up with it anymore. There’s no reason in the world why I should let you treat me this way. Do you want the rest of your lamb chop?”

For a moment, Philippa gazed blankly at him with her mouth half opened, and it suddenly dawned on Danny what he had just said. His natural impulse was quickly to say something that would soften the impact of his words; but before he had a chance to think what he might say, Philippa rose from the table. “Here,” she said, pushing her plate toward him, “take it.” And, almost as if she had been hit, she stumbled from the room.

And then, picking up firewood one afternoon, he noticed something green starting to push its way up out of the ground. It was only the smallest beginning of a leaf, but he had been waiting so long for something like this that he was suddenly bursting to tell someone. As he hurried back to the house he felt a quick wave of compassion for Philippa. Maybe this will make her feel better, he thought, she
has
been having it pretty rough lately.

“Guess what?” he called as he staggered inside and dropped the wood in a heap on the hearth. “Guess what I saw in the woods?”

There was no answer.

Oh, God, is she still sulking? he thought. “Hey, I have some good news,” he called again. “Philippa?” He noticed that she hadn’t lit the fire, which was odd. It was usually blazing when he got back with the wood. And one of the chairs was pushed back from the hearth, wrinkling the rug underneath it.

In the kitchen, there was a pan of potatoes on the oil stove, but no flame under them. The fire in the coal stove was almost out.

“Philippa!” he called again. She never lets the stove go out, he thought, and suddenly he felt afraid.

He ran up the stairs two at a time. The second floor was as empty as the first. He started to call her name again, from her bedroom, but stopped. His mind filled with all kinds of possibilities. She’s probably just gone for a walk, he told himself.

The sun was setting, and her room was becoming very dark. Outside, the car sagged tiredly at the edge of the woods. He had never felt so alone. I’ve got to light the lamps all by myself, he thought idly. Now there was only one more place to look.

Downstairs, he took the flashlight from its kitchen shelf. He didn’t want to turn it on, because that would mean it was truly night now; but when he reached the cellar door his finger moved almost automatically. “Mary Peachy” stood out in the sudden oval of light, and trying not to think, he quickly pulled open the door.

He kept his mind a blank as he walked slowly down the damp steps, not wanting them to end. He stopped on the last step and flashed his light into the corner.

The bedspring had been pushed away and was lying flat on the floor about three feet from the wall. The little door hung loosely on its hinges. Numbly, he walked across the room. Lying just outside the passageway, on the cellar floor was a silver chain. It was Islington’s collar.

“Oh, no,” he said aloud. “Oh, no. Why was I so stupid, why, why, why?” He closed his eyes and let the flashlight dangle from his hand. “Why?” he moaned again. Almost as clearly as if he had been there, he imagined Philippa and Islington being dragged through the door. Did she fight? Were they rough? Did they have to knock her out? He put his hand over his eyes and shook his head slowly back and forth. And what was happening to her now?