The Gift (17 page)

In the new dark he saw Wolf's image of him, sly and pasty-faced and treacherous, with the points of his two lower canine teeth showing outside his upper lip.

“That's not me,” he said. “I'm Davy. I won't hurt you.”

Black squiggles began to dart into the picture.

“Send them away,” said Davy quietly. “Send them away, Dick.”

Boy and squiggles were wiped out, and instead there was a much more realistic picture of Davy, carefully registered in his exact position as he crouched by the front wheel. Still crouching, Davy moved forward, sliding close by the radiator so that his shape would not show against the faint light from the entrance. At such close quarters as this he could actually sense where Wolf's thoughts were coming from, and mark his stealthy progress around behind the tractor.

It would be a bad idea, Davy realized, to let Wolf get as far as where he had been standing and experience the frustration and fury of a missed blow.

“You're tired, Dick, aren't you?” he said. “And you're hungry.”

He had to keep his voice calm and easy, despite the strain and fear. But here the gift helped, allowing him to feel and share Wolf's exhaustion and hunger as well as his despairing rage. Wolf swore again at the sound of his voice, but in a vague, almost emotionless fashion. Furthermore he stayed where he was, leaning against the tractor's rear wheel guard.

“I 'aven't 'ad a bite in two days,” he said suddenly. Apart from the two oaths those were the first words he'd spoken. His voice was deep and soft, but with a whining note in it which might have come from hunger or might have been habit.

“I could get you a mug of milk,” said Davy.

Wolf made a grunting noise of acceptance.

“Okay,” said Davy. “You wait here.”

He longed to run, to dart sideways out of any line of fire. Instead he forced himself to walk steadily across the yard toward the milkshed door. He turned on the light—most of the farm lights were out so there was no danger of straining the accumulators—and the important thing was to be quick, not to leave Wolf alone long enough for him to remember why he had come, perhaps even to realize that Davy must have moved the jerrican. Dadda liked milk and kept a white enamel mug in the milkshed and sterilized it with the other equipment. He dipped this into a half-filled churn, turned the light off, and walked quietly back across the yard. As he came, he realized that Wolf had moved almost out into the open and had, even in those few seconds, already been alone too long with his thoughts. His mind was full of the swarming squiggles, whose abstract rage was as much a hatred of himself as of the world that had made him like he was. Poor Wolf. Poor Dick.

Davy halted and licked his lips before he dared to speak.

“Send them away, Dick,” he called. “I've brought your milk. Send them away.”

The picture convulsed, staggered, and was gone, replaced by the lurching darkness of the yard with a human shape standing vague in the middle.

“That's better,” said Davy. “Here's your milk. I'll put it on the tractor for you.”

He walked delicately forward, poised for any warning in the mad mind. If he had to run, he hoped his own knowledge of the farmyard might allow him to beat Wolf's speed and strength. He would race for the gap between Granny's henhouse and the feedstore and slip through; he thought Wolf would be too bulky to follow. But now Wolf's mind was thinking about milk, and hunger, and cold, and the dreadful dark. Davy kept the bulk of the tractor between the two of them and settled the mug on the metal, holding it steady until Wolf's groping hand found it. In the process their fingers touched. Wolf's seemed as cold and hard as the iron itself. Davy had his ears cocked for the first far sound of Ian's bike taking the inclines. He'd leave it far down the lane and walk up. Or perhaps his friends would bring him by car. In either case it would be dangerous for them to come with Wolf in this natural ambush by the farmyard gate. The noise of Wolf's swallowing ceased.

“Ah,” he said. “Any more where that came from?”

“Gallons,” said Davy. “You can have as much as you like. And it's warmer in the milkshed, too. You bring the mug.”

He walked quickly off across the yard without looking back. As soon as he was in the milkshed, he flicked the light on and scampered halfway up the stairs to the hayloft. His idea was that on an instant of warning from Wolf's mind he'd be able to race up into the musty dark, across the cloying hay and down the far ladder by feel, leaving Wolf wallowing.

But Wolf stood hesitating by the door. Again his mind was filled with the image of that slab-faced man with the black truncheon, this time waiting hidden behind the door of the shed.

“It's all right,” called Davy. “It's only me. He's not here.”

Wolf moved blinking into the light. Tiredness had not changed that strange, poised walk. He clutched the mug in one large hand and from the other dangled a big black pistol.

“You know the bastard?” he said.

“No,” said Davy.

“You're lucky,” said Wolf.

“The milk's in that churn there,” said Davy. “Just dip in.”

Wolf did so. He was drinking his third mugful when he suddenly tensed, with his pistol up. In his mind the dark crystal-veined calm was replaced by the glaring shed, with shapes prowling in the outside dark. Davy heard something shift and rustle beyond the partition.

“It's all right,” said Davy. “It's only a cow, Bella. She broke out and didn't get milked, so she's come for it now.”

“Yeah,” said Wolf. “A cow. That's right. I always wanted a cow of my own.”

But his pistol was still pointing at the dark.

“Would you like to see her?” said Davy.

He nipped down the stair, opened the half door into the milking stalls, and slipped back to his perch. All Wolf's mind was taken up with Bella, who, inquisitive even by the normal standards of cows, had immediately poked her head into the light to see what was going on. She started to scratch the underside of her jaw on the rough top of the door.

“'Ullo, old lady,” said Wolf.

The warm, slightly acid cow odor breathed across into the milkshed. Wolf put his mug down, walked across, and with a firm but gentle hand teased the hummock on Bella's head where the horns should have grown. Bella enjoyed it for a few moments, but she was restless with her need to be milked and desire for her bit of cattle cake, and suddenly she backed away. Davy had been watching her through Wolf's mind, where her eyes were great violet pools and her hide as soft as the fur of a black cat. Now he saw how her solemn gentleness, followed by her refusal of Wolf's caress, hurt like a whip. The picture changed to a brown cow lying by a road with her flank sliced open and a tangle of innards showing. The pistol rose.

“Dick,” whispered Davy. “Tell me about Trevor, Dick.”

It was the best he could think of. Wolf hesitated, trapped by the worshiped name. He looked around the milkshed with a frown and suddenly remembered why he was at the farm at all.

“Where's that Price bloke?” he said fiercely. “Trev said to do him. Sent me a message out of jail.”

“Mr. Price is very ill,” said Davy. “He got lost on the hill in a storm and now he's got pneumonia.”

“Done for?” asked Wolf.

“I don't know,” said Davy. “The doctor said it was very serious.”

“That's right,” said Wolf. “Mucking old Trev about like that. Pneumonia done for my granddad.”

Davy saw a picture of a wizened old man with a bluish face; he had a thick strap coiled around his right fist.

“What's the belt for?” said Davy to keep the conversation going.

“Lay into me with,” said Wolf. “'E was a cruel one, bad drunk and worse sober. Pneumonia done for 'im, too. That's right.”

Wolf seemed to accept without question Davy's ability to see into his mind—it might be something to do with the way his horrible imaginings were just as real to him as the outer world. Now he stood gazing at the half door, where Bella was scratching her jaw again with a steady, rasping rhythm.

“Always fancied a cow of my own,” he muttered. “Found a dog, once, when I was a kid, but they took him away and drowned him. I like dogs. Pity about that other one. Shouldn't of gone for me.”

“Rud?” said Davy.

“I dunno 'is name. Shouldn't of gone for me, but the old bloke let 'im.”

Davy swallowed and forced himself to think and talk as though all that were something in a story.

“What happened?” he said.

“Shot 'im, I suppose,” said Wolf, gesturing vaguely with the gun as though it were a thing with a will of its own. “The old bloke ran inside. 'E shouldn't of gone for me.”

“I'm sorry,” said Davy. “He couldn't help it. It's what he'd been trained to do.”

“Vicious, that is,” said Wolf, “learning a dog to go for a bloke. Got any more of that milk?”

“Help yourself,” said Davy.

Wolf settled his pistol on the ledge where Dadda kept his cow medicines. He still looked very tired, but there was something less tense and wary about his walk as he went to the churn, dipped the mug, and settled on Dadda's old milking stool to sip slowly. Davy was worried about Ian, worried about how long he had been and also about what would happen when he came back. Wolf seemed so quiet now, so manageable—but if those silly Nationalists came charging in with guns … and besides, the reason why Wolf was quiet and manageable was that he was learning to trust Davy, to treat him as a friend—but Davy, by keeping him calm and unsuspecting, was all the time betraying that trust. It was the only thing to do, but that made it no less shameful.

He watched through Wolf's eyes the various whites of the empty mug where the dim yellow light from the naked bulb sent a shadowed parabola across the inner surface. Into this purity swam a whirling squiggle, and then another.

“Send them away, Dick,” said Davy. “Send them away. You can do it.”

Wolf looked up. He saw the whitewashed walls of the milkshed almost as they were, not wavering or lurching, and the dark diagonal of the worn old stair where Davy sat, and Davy himself, a very fine kid, large-eyed and clear-skinned, and clever with it—the sort of kid a bloke could get along with all right …

“Them worms—you get 'em, too?” said Wolf.

Davy hesitated.

“I call them squiggles,” he said.

“Yeah. That's right. Once told Trev 'ow they bothered me, but 'e only laughed.”

“Poor Dick,” said Davy. “They're bad, aren't they?”

“That's right—but I can't do nothing for 'em.”

“But there's something else,” said Davy. “It's sort of dark, with white veins across it.”

Wolf immediately made a picture of it.

“That's right,” he said. “That's me marble job. Like a bit of pretty stone, see? Good, innit?”

“It's peaceful,” said Davy.

“That's right,” said Wolf.

They looked at each other, bound by a cord of trust. Davy didn't know what to do. He was sure that doctors could help Wolf, with drugs or somehow, if only he could be persuaded to try. Davy would have to do that, using the trust between them to keep Wolf safe and calm. The first thing was to get him food and persuade him to sleep in the hayloft, and then explain to Dadda. Dadda would understand because he knew about the gift. But the police … you couldn't expect the police to stop thinking of Wolf as a dangerous criminal with a record of violence, just because a boy said he could be trusted now …

Wolf was looking at Davy as he used to look at Mr. Black Hat, with a kind of worship. Davy didn't like it. Uncomfortable, he stood up.

“Now, Dick …” he began.

“All right,” snapped Ian's voice at the door, “put your hands up.”

Wolf sprang from the stool with that ugly, bubbling snarl which Davy had heard when he lost the jerrican. His hand flashed to his jacket pocket.

“It's all right, Dick,” said Davy urgently. “It's all right.”

But already the cord of trust was broken.

“I said put your hands up,” said Ian, walking into the light, with the squat machine gun steady at his hip. He looked monstrous in his leathers and goggles and that was how Wolf saw him, a black predator, a creature of night, not human at all. Wolf paid no attention to the order to put his hands up. His mind was filled with flashes of the night monster and crimson explosions and sharp, realistic images of the missing gun. The walls of the milkshed reeled and threatened. Suddenly, beside the gun, Wolf summoned up a picture of the medicine bottles.

Davy leaped down the stairs and snatched the gun off the shelf. As Wolf with unbelievable quickness sprang across the shed toward him, he flung it out over Ian's shoulder into the dark. Its safety catch must have been off, for just as Wolf's rush bashed Davy headlong against the wall, it hit the ground and fired. Davy crouched, head ringing. Wolf swung around, lowered his head like a charging bull, cuffed Ian out of the way with a backhanded flip, and plunged out into the dark. Ian switched the light out.

“Huw wouldn't give me any ammo,” said Ian in a stupid voice. “Sorry, Dave. I didn't think it mattered.”

Davy shook his head, trying to clear it from the whirlpool of dark nothings that pulsed through Wolf's mind as he staggered grunting around the yard, searching for his weapon.

“Stand clear, boys,” called Dadda's voice from an upper window. The night was seared by another shot. Davy heard a few pellets that must have ricocheted off a flagstone rattle against the henhouse. The hens squawked sleepily. Wolf snarled in the dark.

“Don't shoot,” called Davy desperately. “Don't shoot, Dadda. Dick's all right, aren't you, Dick?”

But the cord of trust could not be tied again. At the sound of Davy's voice Wolf stood still and swore; he raised his head to Dadda's window and shouted, no words but a racking wail. It lasted several seconds before he wheeled away and plunged out into the dark.