Taken Away (9 page)

WE CLIMBED THE
dark stairs, Dom's hand on my elbow. When we got to the bedroom he guided me inside, then turned and shut the door with a quiet little
snick
. We didn't turn the lamp on. The moon blared in through the two windows, fragmenting the bedroom into hard shadows and gleaming white surfaces. It was all as crisp and as clear as a black-and-white photograph.

I scanned the room, my eyes jumping from place to place. Dom stood at my side, holding my elbow, quietly supporting me, waiting for my cue. Every molecule in my body seemed ready to fight or flee. I was thrumming with anticipation. But gradually, as I looked around and as the room asserted itself on me, I began floating down into reality. I felt myself calming, reconnecting with my surroundings – and I realised that there was nothing here. Absolutely nothing.

I looked at the bunk, forced myself to really take it in. The covers were lumpy and steeped in darkness, the bottom bunk, in particular, a depthless well of darkness, but innocent of any horrors. There was no vibe here. Nothing at all. The room was empty, just a sparsely furnished bedroom, shabby and filled with dust. My whole body loosened at once with relief.

I can honestly say that if I hadn't had that reaction – that completely unexpected reaction – there would have been no earthly power that could have made me remain in the house. I had built myself up into such a frenzy in the kitchen that the relief of this – this
nothingness
– was almost a physical blow. My legs started to shake; my lips began to quiver. Absurdly, I thought,
Oh great. Dom is never going to believe me now.

I must have looked pretty pathetic, because Dom got a blanket from the bunk and wrapped it round me like a cloak. He still hadn't said a word. He led me to the window, where he left me sitting while he went and grabbed his own blanket before joining me. We sat like two Apaches, our backs to the draughty windowpanes, silently regarding the empty, threatless room.

He was no fool, my brother. I have no doubt that had he tried to get me to talk, I would have clammed up. But obviously Dom had a better handle on me than I would have ever given him credit for. That, or he was too afraid to ask. Whatever his reasons, he didn't say a word – just sat gazing pensively out into the room, his eyes roaming from place to place, his face unusually solemn.

Eventually I started talking, and I didn't stop until I'd told him everything. I'm not sure what kind of a reaction I expected; certainly not the silence I received. He listened calmly to everything I had to say. When I was done, he waited a minute to be sure I was finished, then his eyes got far away and he rested his chin on his chest, his arms folded underneath his blanket. He chewed absently on the collar of his dressing-gown while he thought about what I'd said.

The utter normality of the room mocked my every word, and at that moment I felt even my own belief slipping. All sorts of rationales began to wriggle and crawl across the face of my certainty. Perhaps it actually
had
been a dream? I mean, which would have been the saner option? And in the long run, which wouldI have preferred? I may have spent all my days writing stories about creatures from hell and creatures from space and demons from within – but when it came down to it, what was worse? To be proven right and have this awful truth revealed, or to find that I was just a hysterical baby who'd been frightened by a bad dream?

I thought about that child's face, and about that child's arm and the way its teeth were black against its white lips, and I had no hesitation about which option I would take.

I waited for Dom to voice his opinion, and for the gentle but insistent rationalisations to begin.

Let him talk you out of this
, I thought,
let him rescue you.

Dom shifted slightly. ‘I was scared of that man,' he said.

For a moment I thought he meant one of the men at the pub. But then I remembered his reaction to the other man, the soldier, who had drawn me up the hill, who had led us to the poor auld fella in the sea, and I knew that he was who Dom meant. I felt a little flare of anger cut through my fear. What the hell did
he
have to do with anything? I'd just told Dom that a
monster had crawled out of his bed
and he was talking about some bloody sightseeing soldier?

‘We saw him on the top of that hill,' continued Dom, ‘and all I could think was,
That's him; that's the bad man. He's found me. He'll take me away.
' He looked at me to see if I understood.

I understood alright.
The bad man
. Those were the exact words the goblin-boy had just used.
The bad man.
Only Dom had thought them first – hours ago.

‘It was a really
loud
thought, Pat. Do you know what I mean? It filled up my head.' Dom made a gesture at his temples, a squeezing gesture, and squinted his eyes to indicate the kind of pressure he had experienced. ‘It seemed to push all my other thoughts out of the way. All I knew, all that
mattered
, was that this was the
bad man
, and he wanted to take me away . . . When we got to the hill, and he wasn't there, Jesus, Pat.' Dom closed his eyes. ‘It's no lie, I thought I'd
die
from relief. I thought I'd bloody faint.'

His eyes filled with tears then, and I was a bit lost as to what to do. I hadn't expected this; I hadn't expected Dom to be upset. Afraid, maybe; scornful, definitely – but not emotional, not
upset
. It shocked me that I hadn't even noticed how scared he was.

‘That soldier is a
terrible person
, Pat. He's
terrible.
He makes me . . . ' Dom pressed his fist to his mouth. I could see the skin whitening where he was pushing his lips against his teeth, but he didn't let the tears come and when he spoke again his voice was steady. ‘He's done something awful, I just know it.'

‘How do you know?'

He shook his head. ‘It's like someone told me. I just . . . I just
know
.'

‘Well, he's not half as scary as that boy thing. At least he isn't living in our bed.'

Dom moaned. ‘Stop. That's not funny.' He pushed his fingers in under his eyes, then looked at me sideways, knowing what way I'd react when he said, ‘Maybe we're going the way of Nan.'

I huffed an impatient breath. ‘Don't start that rubbish again,' I said. ‘This is real.'

‘Oh yeah,' he whispered, pulling the blanket tight around him and looking bleakly out into the room. ‘Real. I'm afraid of
bad men
and you're seeing demons. No way we're losing our minds.'

A knock on the door made us jump like frogs. Dad stuck his head around the corner to find us saucer-eyed and clutching each other, wrapped in our blankets on the windowsill. He was momentarily surprised, then his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

‘What are you two up to? You look like Sitting Bull and Tonto perched there.'

We just kind of gaped uselessly at him, and he rolled his eyes to heaven and directed us to bed with a jerk of his thumb. ‘Into the
leaba
, the two of you. Your mother'll have your guts if you catch a cold.'

We complied and he went downstairs singing ‘Waterloo' quietly to himself. We heard him and Ma go into the sitting room. When the sounds of their voices were safely muffled by the sitting-room door, Dom crept down the ladder and stood wrapped in his blanket by the side of my bunk.

‘Can I sleep in with you?'

I shifted all the way over to the wall without a word of complaint. Truth be told, I was never so grateful for the warmth of my brother crawling into bed beside me. He lay with his back to me, wrapped head-to-toe in his blanket and looking out across the room to the dressing-table mirror.

‘Pat?' he said.

‘Yeah.'

‘I wish I believed in God. Then I could say a prayer.'

‘Say one anyway.'

‘Will you?'

I always say my prayers.' ‘

‘I know. Say one now, okay?'

‘Alright . . . Dom?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Just go ahead and say one anyway. It couldn't hurt.'

‘Alright.'

But I don't think he did. Dom was no hypocrite, not even when he was scared out of his wits.

JOLLY HANDS ME a mug of tea. He has a knack with tea, does Jolly. Of course it tastes of petrol – that's unavoidable – but somehow Jolly always gets the tea good and hot. I seal my letter and tuck it into my breast pocket along with my pencil. Shamie is watching me from his niche across the trench, his pale-blue eyes the only colour in the dry mud-mask of his face.

I nod at him and he understands. I've asked my darling Lacy to talk to May for him, to try and get May to stop returning Shamie's letters. I doubt it will make any difference. I don't think Shamie understands how much May meant it when she said he'd have to choose: he could have the British uniform or he could have her, but not both. I think he still believes he has a chance of getting her back. I'm less than sure of that – beneath her smile, my sister has a core of steel that not even Shamie's charm can melt.

Jolly passes between us, his back to me as he hands Shamie a cuppa.

‘'Ere you go, Wee Paddy.'

Shamie smiles gratefully up at him. He doesn't climb out of his niche, just curls out an arm and brings the cup into himself. He's crouched like a little mud gargoyle in that snug cell. He closes his eyes in bliss as the petrol-scented steam rises up into his face.

The sun is blazing down for once. We've finally stopped steaming under its glare, and now every one of us is pale-grey cracked mud from the knee up. From the knee down, we're still caked in heavy slime and trench slobber. Jolly flops down beside Shamie and gestures at me.

‘Been writing 'ome then, Big Paddy? Reminding them to send you some burfday cake next week?'

I nod and smile. Jolly's a decent bloke. They're all decent blokes, our new trenchmates. Them being the ragged ends of three Lancashire-Pals Regiments; and Shamie and I, the last men standing of the Meath Volunteers.

Jolly looks around and sucks his teeth. ‘Wot a place to celebrate your burfday,' he sighs. ‘Dunno why yer here, anyroad. Shouldn't you be off home in t' Em'rald Isle, burning down post offices and blowing up peelers like good Irish rebels?'

It's said with no rancour, and despite how unintentionally cutting his words are, I just smile. Jolly is a Marxist and doesn't believe
any
of us should be here. He skates the thin ice of insubordination every minute he's alive. If we weren't blessed with such a decent sarge, most any day would see us marching Jolly out before dawn to meet his maker.

Shamie feels the sting of Jolly's remark as deeply as I do, but we smile and roll our eyes tolerantly at each other. If you're Irish, you must be a rebel – even if you're side-by-side with a bunch of Tommies in a trench full of mud, fighting the Kaiser in the name of the English King.

My expression amuses Shamie and he grins. His mud-mask cracks into crazy lines and dust puffs up from his cheeks. This makes me laugh, and I feel my skin stretch and pull under its own coating of mud. Shamie's grin widens. His eyes sparkle over the rim of his cup, and his monkey-faced delight breaks his mask into a million flaking pieces.

I sit forward, a cold feeling growing in my chest. What's wrong with Shamie's face? He looks so old.

Jolly says, ‘Give us a song, Wee Paddy.'

Shamie nods, boyish shyness incongruous on his suddenly ancient face.

It's a trick of the mud
, I think. It must be.

‘None of your black Mick rebel songs, now,' Jolly tells him. ‘Sing summat nice.'

I feel the world tilt as Shamie cocks his head back and begins to sing. He's launched into his favourite hymn, the ‘Panis Angelicus'. Coming from an old man's throat, his voice is bell-clear; a swallow in May, it soars over the squalor of the trench. Soldiers, like clay statues of men all up and down the section, have paused in eating their dinners and are looking at him with wistful expressions. But the ground is heaving beneath me, and the air around Shamie is filled with dancing grey spots, like ash. My tin cup slips from my fingers. It clatters to the duckboards; the precious tea splashes onto my gaiters and over my boots.

Jolly looks over as I slide from my perch and land on my knees in the clay. There's something dribbling from my nose. I can feel it, cold, running in thin rivulets from each nostril. I raise my hand to brush it away, embarrassed. But it is only water. Shamie's voice is lifting easily into the highest registers of the song, and Jolly is leaning across as if to reach for me. I open my mouth to tell him that I'm fine, but choke on the sudden gush of seawater that comes pouring from my throat and nose.

I fall forward.

There's confusion and voices for a moment, and the upside-down churning feel of being caught underwater. When I come out of it suddenly – returning to the bright sunshine and the sound of flies – I'm on my back in the clay, with the dark shapes of my companions cutting the blue sky above me.