he said. “We’ll make a creature out of clay and out of the strength of the Lord and out of the strength of Davie and Stephen Rose. Aye?”
“Aye. Saturday. Now wake Mary up.”
He woke her up. She smiled, touched by confusion and wonder.
“Don’t do it again,” I said. “She’s not a toy.”
“I won’t, Davie,” he said.
“Tomorrow,” I said.
“In the cave. After dark. I’ll be there.”
“I’ll be there. Goodbye, Miss Doonan.”
I headed back through the house to the door.
“But your jam and bread!” called poor Crazy Mary.
THREE
one
Saturday night. Lie on my bed, wait in the dark. No moon. The TV rumbles in the room below. I hear Dad’s barks of laughter. Hell is on my mind, its searing flames, its savage devils, its prodding, poking, sniggering imps. I hear the howls and sobs of the sinners. I imagine an eternity in Hell, time going on forever and forever without an end, with no chance of release or relief. “Let me believe in nowt,” I whisper. “Let there be life and nowt but life. Let the body be nowt but clay. Let God be gone. Let the soul be nowt but an illusion. Let death be nowt but rotting flesh and crumbling bones.” I touch the locket. “Let this be nowt but stains and dust and Sellotape and shreds of cloth.” Dad’s laughter rises from below again. “Let nowt matter,” I say. “Let it all be nowt but a bliddy joke. God, world, soul, flesh. Jokes, nowt but bliddy stupid jokes. Nowt but nowt, bliddy nowt.”
Soon they come upstairs. Mam puts her head round the door.
“Night night, son,” she whispers. “Night night.”
I pretend to sleep. I don’t say good night back until she’s gone again and closed the door again and then I want to cry and call out,
“Mammy! Come back, Mammy!”
But I go on lying there. I try to empty my head of everything, try to enter a place where there’s nothing: no world, no house, no room, no Davie. But it’s Davie, of course, who rises from the bed an hour later, Davie who quietly puts on his clothes, who picks up the locket, who steps from his room, creeps downstairs, hesitates at the front door, Davie who opens the door and holds it open and lets the cold night air into the house, Davie who wants his mam to call, “What you doing, Davie?”, Davie who wants his dad to stamp downstairs and stop him and haul him back, Davie who closes the door behind him when none of this happens, Davie who steps out alone into the night.
two
Folk have gone early to their beds. The streets of Felling are deserted. Lights burn in just a couple of upstairs windows. Streetlights are pale and orange. They hardly light the dark beneath the trees that line the lanes. The Swan is all in darkness. A few cars rumble on the unseen bypass. The sound of singing comes from somewhere far away—maybe a family party stretching into the small hours, maybe a wedding or a wake. I try to move as if to cause the least disturbance: breathe shallowly, step gently, hardly swing my arms. I hear growling from a garden and I force myself to keep from flinching. It comes again, from closer by. I keep on walking, stepping gently. It growls again, whatever it is, from close behind. “Don’t run,” I breathe. It growls again and I turn my eyes and see it in the roadway, a pitch-black shape padding on all fours. It moves ahead and when I’m closer to the garden it turns to face me from the gate. Stands there, eyes glittering, teeth gleaming, saliva dangling from its open jaws.
“Good boy,” I mutter, “good boy.”
It doesn’t move. I open my empty hands, show them.
Look, I’m telling it. I’m safe. I’m no threat to you.
It growls, steps closer.
“Good boy,” I whisper. “Good boy.”
It keeps coming. It keeps growling.
I crouch, and run my hand across the earth. I touch one of the broken jagged stones from Braddock’s house. I grip it, yank it out of the soil. I raise it as the creature comes at me, and I bring it down across its skull. I strike again,
“Aye. Saturday. Now wake Mary up.”
He woke her up. She smiled, touched by confusion and wonder.
“Don’t do it again,” I said. “She’s not a toy.”
“I won’t, Davie,” he said.
“Tomorrow,” I said.
“In the cave. After dark. I’ll be there.”
“I’ll be there. Goodbye, Miss Doonan.”
I headed back through the house to the door.
“But your jam and bread!” called poor Crazy Mary.
THREE
one
Saturday night. Lie on my bed, wait in the dark. No moon. The TV rumbles in the room below. I hear Dad’s barks of laughter. Hell is on my mind, its searing flames, its savage devils, its prodding, poking, sniggering imps. I hear the howls and sobs of the sinners. I imagine an eternity in Hell, time going on forever and forever without an end, with no chance of release or relief. “Let me believe in nowt,” I whisper. “Let there be life and nowt but life. Let the body be nowt but clay. Let God be gone. Let the soul be nowt but an illusion. Let death be nowt but rotting flesh and crumbling bones.” I touch the locket. “Let this be nowt but stains and dust and Sellotape and shreds of cloth.” Dad’s laughter rises from below again. “Let nowt matter,” I say. “Let it all be nowt but a bliddy joke. God, world, soul, flesh. Jokes, nowt but bliddy stupid jokes. Nowt but nowt, bliddy nowt.”
Soon they come upstairs. Mam puts her head round the door.
“Night night, son,” she whispers. “Night night.”
I pretend to sleep. I don’t say good night back until she’s gone again and closed the door again and then I want to cry and call out,
“Mammy! Come back, Mammy!”
But I go on lying there. I try to empty my head of everything, try to enter a place where there’s nothing: no world, no house, no room, no Davie. But it’s Davie, of course, who rises from the bed an hour later, Davie who quietly puts on his clothes, who picks up the locket, who steps from his room, creeps downstairs, hesitates at the front door, Davie who opens the door and holds it open and lets the cold night air into the house, Davie who wants his mam to call, “What you doing, Davie?”, Davie who wants his dad to stamp downstairs and stop him and haul him back, Davie who closes the door behind him when none of this happens, Davie who steps out alone into the night.
two
Folk have gone early to their beds. The streets of Felling are deserted. Lights burn in just a couple of upstairs windows. Streetlights are pale and orange. They hardly light the dark beneath the trees that line the lanes. The Swan is all in darkness. A few cars rumble on the unseen bypass. The sound of singing comes from somewhere far away—maybe a family party stretching into the small hours, maybe a wedding or a wake. I try to move as if to cause the least disturbance: breathe shallowly, step gently, hardly swing my arms. I hear growling from a garden and I force myself to keep from flinching. It comes again, from closer by. I keep on walking, stepping gently. It growls again, whatever it is, from close behind. “Don’t run,” I breathe. It growls again and I turn my eyes and see it in the roadway, a pitch-black shape padding on all fours. It moves ahead and when I’m closer to the garden it turns to face me from the gate. Stands there, eyes glittering, teeth gleaming, saliva dangling from its open jaws.
“Good boy,” I mutter, “good boy.”
It doesn’t move. I open my empty hands, show them.
Look, I’m telling it. I’m safe. I’m no threat to you.
It growls, steps closer.
“Good boy,” I whisper. “Good boy.”
It keeps coming. It keeps growling.
I crouch, and run my hand across the earth. I touch one of the broken jagged stones from Braddock’s house. I grip it, yank it out of the soil. I raise it as the creature comes at me, and I bring it down across its skull. I strike again,
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