Arcadia Read online

  He turns away, smarting with a kind of bitter triumph. “Yeah. Well. It’s true.”

  “I’m telling your mum you said that.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I bet They taste all slimy. Eurgh.”

  “You’ve never seen Them,” he mutters, furious at her stupidity.

  “Yeah, well, neither have you.”

  “I might have.” There’s something irresistible about shocking her. If he does it enough times maybe she’ll finally be quiet, or even run away.

  “You never!”

  “You don’t know.”

  “You can’t. Boys aren’t allowed.”

  “Who says?”

  “Have you?” She says it quietly, sort of breathlessly. “Have you really?”

  “I’d never tell you, would I?”

  “Please.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Please, Rory. I won’t tell. Have you really?”

  She’s horrified, but she’s also thrilled. He’s made a mistake. He should have known what she’s like whenever she suspects anyone’s got a secret. He goes back to ignoring her completely. He should have stuck to that all along. She begs and cajoles and threatens and then starts whining, but he still refuses to answer, so she gets cross.

  “You’re such a liar. Liar liar. I know you’re lying anyway. I know you never ’cos you can’t, you’d be dead if you did. I know, They’ve got a special hole They suck boys into the sea with, soon as you look at them. You just think you’re being clever.”

  He’s so angry it’s like a film in front of his eyes. Pink’s a whining baby and he hates the way her voice sounds like it’s coming out of her nose. When She talks it’s water humming. Even the words She uses are different from Pink’s, like it’s not even the same language. She never whines.

  “Anyway I won’t marry you, I’m going to be queen all by myself, and when I’m queen I’m going to order all the boats out with big nets and catch all of Them and kill Them. And you can’t be king because you have to stay inside like Ol was supposed to. I won’t even let you go look at Them when they’re all dead. You big stupid liar liar.”

  Rory’s mouth goes without him meaning it to. “At least They’re not stupid. And They make you look like a pig, so shut! Up! Now!”

  “They’re evil!”

  He hates the way these ridiculous arguments make everything go cloudy. He forces himself to turn away and just breathe. That’s when he notices that she’s stopped yelling.

  “You did see Them,” she says. “Didn’t you.”

  “None of your business,” he says.

  She puts her bags down—there’s almost nothing in them anyway—and squelches over to stand right in front of him. “I swear, Rory. I swear I won’t tell anyone. On my mother’s life. On the Bible.”

  He moves away, raking with his fingers. It’s slow work. Everything’s slow work.

  “When did you see Them? You really did. I know you did.”

  “Haven’t you got work to do?”

  “Please, Rory.”

  He gives her a superior look and says nothing.

  “I’m telling Mum. If you don’t tell me, I’m telling everyone.”

  How has he let this happen? Today’s turning out like quicksand. Every step he takes sinks him deeper.

  “Right now,” she says, stamping a few theatrical steps away. “I’m going! Here I go.”

  She doesn’t mean it, of course. But the mere sight of her moving away gives him a sudden brainwave.

  “All right,” he says, straightening up.

  She squints suspiciously.

  “I’ll show you,” he says.

  He has the satisfaction of seeing her lumpy face wash over with awestruck wonder.

  “But,” he says. The brainwave’s already beginning to fizzle a bit. He keeps talking, surfing it as long as he can. “You have to stay here. You can’t come with me. Or it won’t work.”

  “What won’t work?”

  “Seeing Them. I have to go on my own. If She’s— If They’re there”—he’s horrified that he’s spoken Her name in front of Pink—“I’ll come back and tell you.”

  She’s paralyzed with an incredulous thrill. “Really?”

  “Yeah. But you can’t come. You have to wait.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Do you want to see Them or not?”

  “All right.”

  “OK, then.” He can’t believe this is actually going to work, but when he takes a step back she stays rooted to the spot. “So, stay here.”

  “How long?” she says. Her voice is whispery and tight.

  “I’ll be back in a bit.” He was about to forget the plastic bag, the bag of food. He grabs it quickly.

  “Wait,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Too late,” he says.

  She grabs his arm. “I don’t. I’m scared.”

  This gives him the chance to use the only line that ever works on her. “Don’t be such a baby.”

  “I’m not a baby!”

  “Then why are you scared?”

  “Is it safe?” she says.

  “’Course it is. You just keep gathering stuff. I’ll come back and tell you if it’s OK. They might not be there.”

  “Wait!”

  “Chickening out?”

  “No!” she says.

  “Right, then,” Rory says triumphantly, and scampers away through the trees. She squeaks at him to stop but she’s wavering, he can tell by the sound of her, so he keeps going. The bag bangs on his knees. She’s not following. Another few steps and it’ll be too late for her to change her mind. He puts in a burst of speed. He’s done it!

  Almost done it. He remembers about the clothes.

  But it’s easier to think now there’s no idiotic chatter in his ears. He’s on his own, he can work it out. He’s going to have to get to the Stash, which is in one of the houses that belonged to the Club, across on the other side of the island. That’s where they’ve gathered everything they found in all the different abandoned houses, all the clothes and towels and blankets and curtains and paper rolls. There are tons of clothes in there, that’s not a problem. The problem is that there’s almost always someone around that part of Home, working in the Drying Room or on the Beach or the old Laundry, and if anyone sees him it’ll be a disaster. He’s about to head that way anyway—he’ll just have to be careful and hope for the best—when his brainwave surges again, prompted by a glimpse of a dirty white house at the edge of the trees.

  The solution’s so obvious and simple and perfect it almost bowls him over.

  The dirty white house is The Larches. It’s the one Molly and Ol used, because of all the houses that didn’t get wrecked it’s farthest from any view of the water. And since it’s Ol’s house, all his clothes must still be there.

  It’s not like he needs them anymore, is it?

  Rory’s brain is going at triple speed now. He’s thinking how much quicker it’ll be to nip into The Larches and then around the back way to the Lane instead of having to go over to the Club where anyone might see him, and at the same time he’s remembering that the angry foreign man who attacked him seemed small so Ol’s clothes will probably be the right size for him, and while all these thoughts are falling satisfyingly into place he’s still managing to keep up a jog in case Pink loses her nerve and comes after him. He reaches the house, has a quick look around, and tramps through the weeds and long grass to the front door, feeling almost defiantly brilliant.

  It’s only been a few days since he was last here, playing with Ol. He expects it to look different now Ol’s gone but it doesn’t. Lots of the things they played with are still scattered around. Rory’s bubble of glee pops. He tiptoes through the downstairs rooms as if he’s afraid that Ol’s going to appear at any moment, naked and ghastly and dripping. You could have stopped me. The stairs creak accusingly as he goes up. On the windowsill at the top there’s a photo of Ol an
d Molly and Ol’s dad, all grinning. He’s passed the photo hundreds of times but this is the first time he’s noticed that they all look dead, as if the faces have been painted onto their skulls. He averts his eyes and hurries to the room Ol used.

  There’s Ol’s bed, and the old chest of drawers and the two built-in cupboards with slatted doors. The Manchester United mug and the Top Gear annuals are still on the table by the bed. Nothing’s changed at all. The air in the room is very still. It’s like one of those Egyptian tombs where the kings were buried with all their possessions.

  And he’s come to rob it. He starts with the chest of drawers. Pants and socks. For the first time he wonders what clothes the stranger wants. He tries to think about it but his brainwave’s passed, crashed, and expired against rocks. He just wants to get out of here quickly. He pulls out another of the bags Missus Shark gave him and begins packing as if he was getting dressed himself, but with two of everything instead of one. Shirts and sweaters and trousers. He’s about to go when he thinks of shoes, and a coat. He opens one of the cupboards.

  There’s a noise downstairs. The front door scrapes and Molly’s voice calls, “Is someone there?”

  Rory freezes, going blank.

  “Hello?”

  He stands as if he’s forgotten how to move. He hears Molly come in the house.

  Hide, he thinks, and slides into the cupboard, and pulls the slatted door closed after him, as lightly as he can.

  “Who’s there?” The stairs creak.

  Rory realizes he’s not breathing. He takes a few frantic gulps. He’s squashed between hanging coats. He hears Molly on the landing.

  She comes into Ol’s room. He can actually see her, through the slats. He’s looking right at her. She peers around with raw-looking eyes. Her shoulders are sagging and her hands look horribly thin. She comes into the room and sits down on Ol’s bed. She puts one of her thin hands out and spreads her fingers across the pillow. She bows her head. She starts quivering, silently.

  The handles of the plastic bags are starting to dig into Rory’s fingers. His fingertips feel numb. He can’t move them at all or they’ll rustle. All he can do is watch.

  He’s never been able to understand how adults can sit for so long without doing anything. Sometimes Molly sniffles a bit and moves her fingers or tightens them into a fist, but mostly she just sits there for he can’t guess how long while his legs seize up and his fingers start to burn and he realizes he needs to pee. He’s not far from giving himself away out of sheer hopelessness when there’s another sound outside and the door scrapes again downstairs. Molly jerks upright and wipes her eyes.

  “Molly? Are you there?”

  It’s his mother, though he doesn’t actually care who it is; all that matters is that Molly’s scrambling to her feet and going out of the room, which means he can finally put the bags down and shift his feet. He carefully shunts a few shoes out of the way and folds himself silently down to sit on the cupboard floor.

  The bad news is that his mother’s coming upstairs. She and Molly start talking, just outside the room. The talking, Rory knows from experience, can go on for a very long time. He wonders whether he can pee without making a noise, right here in the cupboard.

  “How did you get on?” he hears Molly ask. She’s always polite like that. He can hear the strain in her voice, pretending she cares.

  “Pretty well.”

  “They let you have something?”

  “A twenty-footer. It’s a bit banged up but it’s not too bad. No fuel, though, they wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Never mind. We’ll sort that out for you.”

  “Yes,” his mother says. “We will.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Molly,” his mother says. Molly starts sobbing.

  “Let’s sit down for a bit,” his mother says. No, Rory thinks, no, let’s not, please let’s not do that, but into Ol’s room they come, Molly crying and shaking and looking like a limp wet rag—she used to be plump, but no one’s plump anymore—bundled in his mother’s sturdier embrace like a child. They sit down on the end of the bed. He can see them both perfectly clearly through the slats, so clearly it’s almost unbelievable that they can’t see him.

  “I’m sorry,” Molly whimpers. “I should pull myself together, I know.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I just hoped . . . I thought . . .”

  “You cry as much as you want to,” his mother says, as if this was reassuring. But instead Molly sort of braces herself, sitting up, swallowing, taking deep breaths.

  “We should have left,” she says. “Shouldn’t we.”

  “Hush,” his mother says. “Don’t say that.”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have been braver.”

  “You did what you thought was best.”

  “A teenager. How could he have ever grown up here?” She turns to touch the pillow again. “I should have known. I should have known.”

  More sobbing and shaking.

  “You and Ol had a good life here,” his mother says, not very convincingly. “Who’s to say it wasn’t the right thing to do? None of us know what’s going on out there. Do we? You mustn’t torture yourself with what’s past.” She wraps Molly in an awkward cuddle. “You know, maybe Ol had more happy days here than most people have managed since . . .”

  Rory’s noticed before how none of the adults like saying anything about What Happened.

  “I tried to make it easy for him,” Molly says, between whimpers.

  “You did. You really did. You were wonderful.” Rory knows his mother doesn’t really think this but it’s another thing he’s noticed about the adults, they spend a lot of time not saying what they really think.

  Molly looks at the ceiling and heaves a long sigh. “Oh, listen to me. As if I’m the only one. I’m sorry.”

  “Just ’cause we’ve all been there doesn’t make it any better,” his mother says. “You remember that.”

  “I just wish . . .” Molly looks hesitantly at his mother. “I wish I’d had your courage.”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps you did the right thing.”

  “But you’ve made up your mind?”

  His mother nods.

  “It’s going to be terrible for us,” Molly says, in a very small voice.

  “I’m not sitting around waiting for Them to take Rory as well. I’m just not. Oh, Mol.” Molly’s bent over and scrunched up her eyes again. “I’m not saying that’s what you did. Oliver was a teenager; it’s different. You never had the choice. Rory’s just a little boy.”

  “I know.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  “No. I’ll try not to. It’s just . . . Maybe you’ll feel differently by the spring.”

  His mother lets go of Molly and sits straighter. Her face has gone hard as rock.

  “I’m not waiting till spring.”

  “What?” Molly’s changed in an instant, shocked out of her ­misery.

  “I’m not waiting. We can’t.”

  “But . . . Six months can’t make any difference?”

  “It might. I read that boys are getting to puberty earlier. Anyway, there’s lots of calm days still at this time of year.”

  “But won’t it take time to get ready?”

  Rory’s not really listening to them. He’s too busy trying to get them to go away using just the force of his mind, not to mention the horrible squeezing distraction of his urge to pee, but for a moment he thinks: Ready for what? What’s his mother talking about?

  “Ready for what?” his mother says bitterly. “Whatever we find, it can’t be much worse than this. I’ll take my chances.”

  Molly turns away, abashed. “It could be. Mary’s was worse.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It was. Last summer was worse here. At least we’re at peace now. We’re safe.”

  “Safe until They show up and flash their boobs at our children.” Molly goes completely limp. His mother as good
as has to catch her. “Oh no. Oh, I’m sorry. Mol, don’t listen to me, I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I lie awake all night only ever thinking about me and Rory. Mol, please, I’m sorry.” She rubs Molly’s back clumsily. The look on her face is resigned irritation. “Come on now. It’s doing you no good sitting here. Let’s get you some food. You’ve got to eat, you’re wasting away.” She pulls Molly upright. “You’ve got to think about yourself now. For him. Oliver wouldn’t have wanted you to . . .” The sentence peters out. Ol wasn’t very nice to his mother, everyone knows that. Rory’s not interested in what his mother’s saying, though, beyond the fact that she’s trying to get Molly to leave, which at the moment is the one thing he cares about in the whole world.

  A squeaky shout comes from outside: “Rory?”

  The feeling in the room changes instantly. Both women sit up and look out the door.

  “Rory!”

  “That’s Pink,” his mother says.

  “She and Rory went foraging in the Borough woods.”

  For a moment neither of them move, and Rory can hear what they’re thinking just as if it was written in cloudy bubbles above their heads like in the comics: Rory must have gone off on his own. The moment ends and they both scramble downstairs. Rory’s beyond guessing how deep a hole he’s in or how he’s going to get out of it, but at least he can stand up now and stretch his legs.

  “Pink!” his mother shouts.

  “Connie?” Pink’s amazingly loud. She must be at the edge of the woods but she sounds like she’s right under the bedroom window. “Where are you?”

  “In the house!”

  Pink’s in a total panic. Rory picks up the bags and then stops. He still can’t go anywhere. The women are just by the front door. He’s going to have to pee very soon, he can’t help it.

  “What’s wrong?” he hears his mother shout. “Where’s Rory?”

  “He went off!” Pink shouts back. Molly says something, but her voice is naturally quiet and he can’t hear. Pink comes scrambling up to the house.

  “Where’s he gone?” They must be just inside the front door. Rory can tell by the sounds that they’re not outside. Pink’s panting. His mother’s voice is crisp with rising panic. “You were supposed to stay together.”