Buried Fire (9 page)

"I can see your fear. But I'm not your enemy, Michael. Far from it."

Michael's terror coalesced into a single word. Even as he swore, the bottle was falling to the floor.

His focus shifted. The human face reappeared, and the smile was the same.

The bottle smashed.

Now Michael was careering up the long dark hall, toppling an aspidistra from its marble stand and sending it against the wall in a shower of soil and pottery.

"Michael! There is no point running. What you see, you will become!"

That came from behind him. From the side, from the front room, a sharp oath and hurried movement; the door opened and someone came out at a run, but who it was Michael did not see. He was already past and wrenching at the handle of the front door. As he pulled it open, fingers clenched like claws on his jacket, but he ripped himself clear and was sprinting down the garden, his eyes burning with pain.

No one followed. He did not look back.

As he shot away into the darkness, heat hovered about him like a cloud.

At the cottage, Sarah had gone to bed. But Stephen had emerged, and was sitting in the kitchen finishing off a fried egg sandwich when Michael burst breathlessly in.

"In the words of the song," said Stephen, "I feel fine."

Michael dropped into the chair opposite. He was haggard and drawn. "Good grief," said Stephen, with his sandwich halfway to his face. "What's happened now?"

"It's not just us."

"Eh?"

"We're not alone in this. Cleever. He's one."

"He's what? – you don't mean—?"

"And there may be more of them. In fact, I know there are. I didn't see them, but they wouldn't have been there if they weren't, would they?"

Stephen shoved his plate to one side and held up both hands in an imploring gesture. "Start again," he said. "Tell it through slowly, and don't miss anything out."

"First, I'm locking that." Michael got up and turned the key in the back door. "Right."

"Michael, what's got into you?"

He told him. Stephen listened to the end without interrupting.

"I see," he said quietly.

Michael stared at him with a stricken face. "You see? Is that all you can say? Christ, Stephen, he read my mind! He read my mind! He knew I was going to look at him, and he answered me, and I hadn't said anything, nothing, only thought it! Oh God, he's probably reading it now. He knows what I'm thinking . . ."

"Calm down. There's no point panicking. We've got to think this through. We'll hole up here for a bit and work something out."

"When he said do it – when he read my mind – I didn't want to and I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't control my eyes; it was like they were burning around the rims, and the burning was only going to stop when I made the change."

"Do you feel that way now?"

"No. It's OK now, sort of. Well, it's been getting worse, but nothing like it was when I was with him. He just stood there smiling, and my eyes flared." Michael shuddered. "You know how he smiles."

"I don't wonder you were frightened, Mikey. If his soul reflects his smile, I wouldn't envy the man who sees it."

Michael sat forward eagerly. "You think it's the soul too, then?"

"What else could it be? I get an awful feeling when I look at someone that way, Mike. I tried it on Sarah just now. It's like peeling off the layers and leaving them naked. You see too much."

"Yes," said Michael slowly. "That's what I feel . . . sometimes. At the same time, why not look, if you can?"

"We don't know. But I bet Cleever looks a lot."

"Oh shit." All of a sudden, Michael was overwhelmed with a terrible certainty. "He'll get me, Stephen. He won't let me go after what I've seen."

"Calm down. Look, a crocodile shape sounds bad, but that doesn't mean it's actually evil."

"This one was." Michael was in no mood for philosophising. "Oh shit, he'll come here for me, I know he will."

"He won't have the balls; but if he does, I'll see him off. He doesn't know about me yet, does he?"

"He won't care . . . Oh God!" Michael was struck by a sudden terror. "Have you shut the windows? The downstairs ones?"

"For Christ's sake, Michael. He's not going to come climbing in after you!" Stephen drummed his fingers on the table. "Anyway, Sarah shut them when she went to bed. Now let's just calm down and think. What was it he said when you ran?"

"He said I'll become what I see. Or saw. I don't know. I was too busy getting out."

"Yes, but 'become what'? What does it mean?" Stephen picked up his fork and tapped it against his plate. "Maybe there are other effects we don't know about, which increase as time goes on. Maybe Cleever knows about them and we don't. You said yourself that your eyes are burning more and more. I don't feel that yet, but you've had the sight for longer than me."

"The burning in my eyes lessens if I switch focus. Even only for a second."

"It's like it's encouraging you to look. Weird. But I suppose you were breathing in the stuff for longer than me, so you might find it more difficult to control. Michael, what are you doing?"

Michael had risen from his chair, and was rummaging in the pile of unwashed cutlery next to the sink. When he turned round, he had a knife in his hand.

"You didn't see that soul, Stephen," he said.

"Oh, for God's sake." Stephen didn't want to admit it, but his brother's fear was infecting him too. He tried to concentrate on something positive.

"One real bonus, which I found out before you came back, is that you can see in the dark. I snapped it on in the bedroom. That's a beauty, isn't it?"

"I knew that already." Michael had slumped dismally back in his chair. Suddenly, he felt very tired.

"It's like it's infra-red, or something. We'll have to try some more experim—"

A tiny sound, as if of crunching gravel. Stephen stiffened. Michael froze. They sat motionless, every nerve straining out for noise. Seconds passed.

Michael looked at Stephen. Stephen shrugged.

"Can't hear anything now. Must have—Oh!" The bell sounded, a deep jangling noise out in the passage.

Stephen swung his legs off the table. "I'd better get it. Another ring and it'll wake Sarah. You stay here."

Michael said: "If he comes in here, I'll stab him, I swear it."

"Don't panic. Just wait here." Stephen padded out of the kitchen, closing the door almost to.

Stephen's footsteps disappeared up the passage. Michael was left in the kitchen. His eyes were tingling strongly again, and he felt hot and clammy. He fingered the knife in his hand. Breathe deeply. Keep calm. The back door was locked. The curtains were drawn.

There was a distant scrabbling as Stephen took the chain off the hook. A pause. Michael imagined the door swinging open. Silence.

Then Stephen's voice, veiled with mild surprise:

"Good evening, Mr Cleever. An unexpected visit."

Michael's stomach gave a lurch; his chest tightened, and he stood up clumsily, his hand tightening on the knife. And then his eyes flared with a sudden pain that made him gasp. Instantly, he refocused and the pain grew less. The room about him wavered and solidified again, daubed with a dull and reddish light. The knife in his hand leapt into sudden gleaming prominence, encased in a new, silvery aura. Metal pans and cutlery glowed in the dimness. Michael's head span; he leant on the table to steady himself, his head hanging downwards, trying to focus on the noises from the passage. He heard Stephen's voice again; unnaturally loud.

"I see. Yes, he said he'd had some sort of queer turn. No, he's gone out again now. He wanted to clear his head, he said."

The murmur of the other voice was inaudible. Michael's head was throbbing. His own hands, lying flat upon the tabletop, were indistinct and empty husks, and through them he saw the wood grains running. A sudden contempt for their lack of substance stuck in his heart. Only his knife was solid. Smooth hard metal. He gripped it firmly. Somewhere beyond, Stephen's voice maintained its flow, languid and assured.

"Well, I've no doubt he'll want to apologise on Monday. No, I don't know when he'll be back. That's very good of you. I'm very much obliged for your concern."

There was a long silence; Michael's head was hanging down over the table. He could see through his stomach to the cabinets behind. The silver buckle from his belt hung suspended in midair like a miraculous gem. It entranced him. In its way, it was as beautiful . . . and as mysterious, as any of the souls he'd seen. A quite marvellous thing . . .

"Michael." It was Stephen's voice, near and loud. "You were quite right. I've never seen anything like it. What a creature."

Michael snapped his eyes into the old focus, watching the buckle reluctantly fade to its old dull self. He raised his head wearily, afraid Stephen might draw attention to his condition. Somehow, though he didn't know quite why, he felt conspicuous and guilty, and had a reluctance to be questioned on the matter. But his brother's mind was elsewhere.

"I couldn't help it, Mikey; I had to look, after what you'd told me. But I waited until he turned to go, then took a quick squint at the side view. He never knew anything about it."

"I hope not."

"Well, it had to be done. Anyway, I got rid of him pretty well. Gave nothing away, unless he read my mind too, and we can't contend with that."

Michael sat in a chair, heavily. "What did he say?"

"What you'd expect. 'Most terribly sorry to disturb. Rather worried. Unfortunate incident at my house. Brother seemed quite distressed.' That sort of thing. 'Just thought I'd call round and enquire.' He did it really quite well. If you hadn't told me, I might well have invited him in to check on you himself."

"Don't." Michael flinched.

"Anyway, then he said, 'Is Michael in? I'd like to see him,' and though it sounded friendly enough, I thought I detected a kind of catch in his voice, like something trying to break through. That was when I decided I had to take a look."

"I said goodbye, and as I was shutting the door, I made the switch. And – he's bad all right. It's not the shape that gets you, but the famine in the eyes. You have to ask, what has he done to become like that?"

He left a pause, but Michael said nothing. "You're right about the colour. And the teeth. As for the crocodile shape – well, I don't know, it doesn't seem quite right somehow. I'm not sure why. Crocodile heads aren't that curved, are they? They're flatter along the snout."

"What does it matter?" Michael's tension erupted savagely. "You saw it, you felt it. Is it evil or isn't it? And what does it want with us?" He threw the knife down on the table, and pressed his palms against his weary eyes. "Oh God, Stephen. What's happening to us?"

His voice trailed off. There was silence in the kitchen, and no answer to be had.

Soon afterwards, a silent, subdued Michael bade his brother goodnight and shut himself up in his room. Overcome with a weariness greater than any he could recall he went straight to bed, put out the light and lay on his back, staring up towards the ceiling. His whole body stiff with tension, he lay invisible in the darkness, too tired to move. Gradually, imperceptibly, over what seemed an endless time, his eyes closed, and he slept . . .

. . . long, deep, and deeply – but with a wakeful eye that never quite shuts out the light from far off places. It is dark all about, the darkness of great depth, but the thick earth to him is just like folds of glass or diamond. He pierces it with his sight and knows what lies beyond it; knows the rapid movements of clouds, the quivers of small green things rising and falling with the breath-quick seasons, the endless scutterings of the occupants of that airy place, as they wear their lives out and return to ground.

A slow breath in—

A thousand lives, each one a scintillating jewel, move on the surface, their movement catching light, refracting it in a thousand different colours.

A slow breath out—

They die; the jewels wink out. The dross returns to earth, sinks slowly to him though the glassy sediment, its value gone.

He stirs, restlessly, underground, and in the bed, Michael flings his arm across his face.

Dimly now, he perceives a paradox: the watcher cannot possess the beauty of the souls, though it sees them; the owners cannot see the beauty, though it is their own.

No one can bridge this gulf between possession and desire. Except, perhaps, the gifted few.

Michael, in his sleep, feels his new strength well up inside him – with a rush of pleasure which makes his head reel. Then a voice comes, calling him by name. He hides his pleasure – jealously, guiltily. On the bed, his cheeks flush red.

"Michael. The sight is not the only gift." The voice is high, close; it speaks of a secret long concealed.

In response, his eyes burn with an eager fire; but he does not answer yet.

"There are four gifts, Michael, of which the sight is just the first." The voice is nearer, it soothes him with a sweet desire.

In response, his heart beats faster; his legs stir on the bed, but he does not answer yet.

"It will take you years to learn the other gifts, Michael, if you struggle on your own. But you do not have to struggle. We can teach you secrets now, if you wish to learn them."

The voice is poised. On the bed, fingers twitch.

"Do you want to learn them, Michael?"

In response, his head moves, his eyes open; sightlessly they dart back and forth, here and there, across the room and the inner space, searching. His mouth opens wide: his voice is dry, but he croaks an answer.

"Yes."

Now the voice is very close. He feels a breath in his ear, smells a tint of metal, of some strong chemical . . . an acrid odour . . . Far away he feels a heat in the earth.

"Michael. There is something that you should know. Your brother is foolish. He has the power, but not the will – he will struggle to use it. But you can make it easy for him. You were there first. Lead by example. Then he will follow, and admire you for it too, as is your right. But do not tell him yet; power rests with those who keep a secret. He might try to take your leadership from you."

Michael's lips twitch in his sleep. This is only too likely. But he knows now. He will be careful.

"Michael. Come to me. Let me touch you. Then you will know the four gifts and what you might do with them."

Michael struggles upright, flings the covers from the bed. His eyes are sightless. Although the room is cold, he is perspiring with a distant heat. Midway between sleep and waking, he turns his head.

There is a figure there.

He rises; his feet feel stone beneath the carpet.

He walks towards the figure and the revelation.