Mister Creecher (26 page)

‘Some say they are giants,’ said a voice behind him.

Billy turned to see a girl standing nearby. She was beautiful. Her face was pale and almost luminous in the strange light. She wore a dress of deep blue and her eyes were grey and glinted like pools of pure water from the shadow of her bonnet. She giggled at Billy’s lack of response.

‘Sorry, miss,’ he said, flustered. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see anyone. Especially not a pretty . . .’

The girl giggled again.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ she said. ‘But to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’

‘Clerval,’ he replied, suddenly conscious of how ugly and low-born his own name seemed. ‘William Clerval.’

‘What brings you to Cumberland, Mr Clerval?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I’m travelling with a friend – we’re heading for Scotland. I’m from London.’

He could not take his eyes from this girl. It was as if the whole world had slid away, leaving only her face, her beautiful face.

‘There were two other gentlemen from London here just a few days ago,’ said the girl. ‘They were poets. It was so exciting. I never thought to meet a real poet. I begged them to read us something they had written, but they were too shy, I think.’

‘We mustn’t keep the gentleman from whatever it is he is doing,’ said another girl, stepping forward.

Billy had not noticed her till now. He frowned. The girl frowned back. A buzzard wheeled overhead, mewing plaintively.

‘Florence,’ said the first girl. ‘Don’t be so impolite.’

‘It’s time we were getting back to the house, Jane,’ she replied. ‘Your mother will be worried.’

The two girls turned and began to walk away.

‘Jane,’ mumbled Billy quietly to himself. He liked it. Then he called after her hurriedly, ‘I write poetry myself.’

‘Well, that
is
a coincidence,’ said the girl called Florence, without looking round.

Billy frowned at her again.

‘I came to the stones for some, you know . . .’

‘Inspiration?’ Jane suggested, stopping and turning back to face him.

‘That’s it.’

Florence sighed loudly.

‘I do have to go, I’m afraid, Mr Clerval,’ said Jane. ‘It was nice meeting you.’

A slight breeze caught a few loose strands of her hair and blew them across her face. She lifted a gloved hand to push them away.

‘Perhaps I could walk some way with you?’ said Billy, approaching slowly.

Jane smiled and nodded.

‘But the stones . . . ?’ said Florence.

‘I don’t think they’re going anywhere,’ Billy replied frostily.

Florence put her arm in Jane’s and they set off along the path that ran beside the hedge Billy had hidden behind. Billy did his best to ignore Florence, but in no time at all they came to a gate and stopped.

‘Is this where you live?’ asked Billy, noticing the house for the first time.

‘It is.’

‘Jane, really,’ said Florence.

Jane opened the white gate, which creaked a little at her touch, and stepped through under an arch of climbing yellow roses. The scent was thick and heady.

‘Well, goodbye, Mr Clerval,’ she said, smiling.

‘Yes,’ said Florence. ‘Goodbye.’

Florence slammed the gate shut and a cascade of yellow petals rained down. Billy stood and watched Jane walk away and, as she approached the door of the cottage, he called out.

‘Wait!’

The girls turned round, a look of surprise on Jane’s face, one of annoyance on Florence’s. The breeze caught Jane’s hair again and it rippled across her face. She brushed it patiently aside and looked at Billy expectantly.

‘Can I see you again?’ asked Billy.

The wayward coils of hair sprung free from her fingertips. Billy was held in a grip firmer than Creecher’s Herculean grasp.

‘You may, if you’re passing,’ she replied. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

And, with that, Jane disappeared through the door, shepherded away by Florence, and Billy was left alone with the bees and the buzz of his thoughts.

He tapped his fingers on the gate and walked back towards the stones. The clouds had moved on and the effect was now reversed, with the stones standing out dark against the hills now bathed in golden light.

The change was startling. The shadowed stones seemed ominous now, less like benign figures than mourners at a funeral, or sinister witnesses to a crime, as if they had gathered to watch some terrible event long ago and been frozen there.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

When Billy closed his eyes, he saw Jane’s face smiling at him. When he opened his eyes, he seemed to hear her voice whispering to him from the brook or the wind in the bracken.

He wondered what his mind had been filled with before it had become fixed on this girl – and then realised that it had been filled with Creecher and Frankenstein.

Billy looked at the giant. He was sitting with his back against the wall they had built on their arrival, reading a book as usual.

‘Have you got any poetry I can borrow?’ Billy asked.

Creecher looked up and peered at him.

‘I just fancied reading some,’ said Billy.

‘Truly?’

‘Yeah . . . What? You think I can’t understand it or something? I’m not stupid you –’

‘Calm down, my friend,’ said Creecher. ‘I never said you were stupid. What sort of poetry?’

‘I don’t know. Not too gloomy.’

Creecher picked up a book and handed it to Billy.

‘Have a look at this,’ he said. ‘It’s new. It does not quite –’

‘Thanks,’ Billy replied, opening it up and scanning the page. ‘That’s perfect. It goes on a bit, but the first bit ought to do it.’

‘Perfect?’ said Creecher, peering at him. ‘In what way?’

‘Look, it doesn’t matter,’ said Billy. ‘Can I borrow it?’

‘Of course. I’m glad you like it, but –’

Billy never heard the rest. He headed for the farmhouse to ask Thwaite for a piece of paper and a pen. Then he sat at the kitchen table, carefully transcribing the poem, with the old man watching silently as he did so. It had been a long time since he had written anything, and it took him quite a while.

When he had finished and the ink was dry, Billy folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He stood up and went to the doorway, looking out at Creecher sitting where he’d left him.

From that distance, and with no human to compare him with, he could almost have been mistaken for any other man. Almost. Thwaite came out from the house and stood alongside Billy.

‘Can I ask you something?’ asked Billy.

‘You can ask,’ said the old man. ‘I can’t promise I’ll know the answer.’

Billy smiled and looked back towards Creecher.

‘Something troubles me,’ he said.

‘And what’s that?’

‘Why aren’t you bothered by Creecher?’

‘Why aren’t you?’ said the old man.

Billy smiled. It was a fair point.

‘I’m used to him. But when I first saw him . . . Well, let’s just say he has quite an effect on most people. But not you. Why not?’

The old man took a deep breath.

‘I do not question the ways of God,’ he said.

Billy peered at him.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.’

Thwaite smiled.

‘I think you do,’ he said, with a grin.

‘No, sir,’ said Billy. ‘I don’t.’

Thwaite scratched his stubbled chin and looked hard at Billy.

‘All right,’ he replied. ‘If it be His will that I tell, then tell I shall. I prayed for help and He sent me two angels.’

Billy laughed at the thought but saw immediately that the old man had not been joking.

‘You think that Creecher is an angel?’ he asked incredulously.

‘Well, he ain’t human, is he?’ said the old man. ‘Any fool can see that.’

Billy raised an eyebrow. He could hardly disagree. ‘But what about me?’ said Billy. ‘Don’t I look human?’

Thwaite looked Billy up and down for a long time.

‘Possibly,’ he replied eventually. ‘But I reckon there’s probably all kinds of angels.’ And he headed out into the fields.

Billy walked over to Creecher, who glanced up from his book as he approached. His skin seemed to shimmer coldly in the shadow of the wall. He looked like he came from another world all right, though Billy would not have guessed at heaven.

‘The old man thinks you’re an angel,’ he said, sitting down next to the giant.

‘Maybe I am,’ said Creecher matter-of-factly.

‘Yeah – and maybe you’re not.’

Creecher frowned.

‘Are you angry?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Billy. ‘No – I don’t know. I like old Thwaite.’

‘I like him, too.’

‘Then let’s stay here.’

‘I cannot,’ said Creecher, in a tone of finality.

‘Because you have to follow Frankenstein,’ Billy sighed with exasperation.

‘Yes.’

‘Let him go. He doesn’t want you. He hates you. He thinks you’re a monster. Why do you follow him about like a dog?’

‘He has promised to help me.’

‘But we could have a new life here,’ said Billy.

‘You perhaps,’ Creecher replied.

‘Look where we are. There’s no one for miles around. You could live here and read your books and –’

‘I need more than that,’ said Creecher, getting up and snapping his book shut.

The giant walked away, heading up to the fell top without saying another word.

The next day, Billy stood in the shadow of the clock tower in the centre of Keswick, watching Frankenstein and Clerval amble round the town. Billy had the distinct impression that Frankenstein’s work in England was drawing to a conclusion.

Frankenstein had rented a small warehouse at the edge of town, but it seemed more of a storeroom than a workplace. He had visited it once, but only briefly. Soon he would no doubt move on, and Billy and Creecher would have to move on, too, in pursuit.

Each time Billy dwelt on this, Jane’s face would appear, smiling, beautiful.

The two men disappeared inside a shop, and Billy took the opportunity to pull out his copy of the poem and read it through again. He had just reached the end, when the two men emerged once again.

They were laughing as they stepped out into the sunshine, but no sooner had Clerval started to walk away than Frankenstein stopped and turned to peer suspiciously in Billy’s direction, making him jump back into a doorway.

Frankenstein’s casual manner was a facade as always. Underneath that thin veneer he had the same old look of a hunted man.

‘He knows he’s being followed. I’m sure of it,’ said Billy, when he saw Creecher later that day. The giant nodded.

‘He knows I’m here,’ said Creecher. ‘I told him that I would be with him when his work was complete. In any event, we are bound together, he and I.’

‘How do you mean?’

Creecher grinned.

‘He used his blood in my construction. We are bound together. I can sense him – smell him.’

‘You can smell him?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Creecher. ‘Always.’

Billy screwed up his face. The more he learned of the giant’s creation, the more unsettling he found it. The idea that Frankenstein had used his own bodily fluids in the process was somehow revolting.

‘So in a way, we are family, he and I,’ Creecher continued. ‘We have the same blood in our veins.’

‘Yeah,’ said Billy, eager to move on. ‘But if you have this bond, why do you need me to track him? You could just stay nearby and move when he moves.’

Creecher took a deep breath.

‘Do you know how lonely I have been, Billy? Knowing that any person I tried to speak to would cry out in horror at best, and try to kill me at worst. To mankind, I am what Browning said I was – an ogre, a monster from fairy stories and nightmares.