Authors: Cathy MacPhail
And then he stopped, looked up, his eyes searching the windows, looking for Mosi.
He caught sight of him, gestured to him with a wave. He wanted to talk to him. He seemed desperate to talk to him. Patrick had been running as if the Devil himself were after him. Or Papa Blood. What if he had seen Patrick wave, saw Mosi at the window. Mosi stepped back.
But when he dared to look again, the estate was deserted. Even more deserted than usual. The rain was heavier now, the mist like a fog. A solitary dog loped between the flats, and then was gone.
He had to see Patrick, find out what was going on. What had happened.
‘I’m going out,’ he told his parents as they sat in the living room.
His mother looked alarmed. ‘Going out? Tonight?’
He smiled to reassure her. There was nothing to be afraid of. ‘Only to the landing. My friend, Patrick, is coming up in the lift. I want to talk to him.’
His father looked puzzled. When had Mosi ever called anyone a friend?
‘Patrick Cleary,’ Mosi explained. He looked at his mother. ‘You said you liked his grandmother.’
She smiled, remembering. ‘Ah, yes, a kind woman.’
His father still looked worried. ‘You’re not going into the night?’
‘No, Father, I am not going into the night.’
Mosi was waiting at the lift when the doors slid open. Patrick was out of breath, his face drained of any colour. He was covered in sweat. He stumbled from the lift and swept the hood from his head. His red hair was clamped to his scalp. He looked terrified.
Patrick shook his head, too breathless to speak. He leaned against the wall. It was a few moments before he was able to say a word. ‘Was he following me?’
‘No one was following you, Patrick.’ And Mosi could always tell. ‘Who do you think was following you?’
He wanted Patrick to answer, the police, or Cody, or even Hakim, but he had the ice-cold feeling in his heart that it was someone else. Only one person could cause such terror. He touched Patrick’s arm.
Patrick stared at him. His words came in breathless bursts. ‘Okafor . . . Papa Blood . . . He knows I know who he is, Mosi. I was in the cemetery . . . I had a great idea to get him . . . I was going to spray it on the walls, on the gravestones, that Okafor was Papa Blood . . .’ He punched the wall in anger. ‘I didn’t even manage that. He was there . . . he grabbed me . . . I’m sorry, Mosi. I couldn’t hide it. He saw by my face that I recognised him. He knows me as well. He said . . . “You’re the boy who was on the television. The boy who saw the suicide.” He knows who I am, and he knows I recognised him.’
‘He saw you writing “Okafor is Papa Blood” on the gravestones?’ There was terror in Mosi’s voice.
Patrick shook his head. ‘No, no, I never got the chance to write anything . . . and he was there . . .’
‘Then how could he know you recognised him?’
Patrick wasn’t listening. ‘I’m going to need police protection or something.’ He gripped Mosi’s hand. ‘I’ve got to go to the police. Don’t worry, I won’t bring you into it. I promise.’
‘So how are you going to explain to the police that you recognised this man? There are no photographs of him anywhere.’
Patrick was shaking his head. ‘I can’t think. I’m too scared.’
But Mosi was still puzzled. ‘Why should he have suspected that you knew who he really was? You, a boy from the estate? How could he see that you recognised him?’ he asked again.
For a moment, the idea that he might be wrong took hold of Patrick. His face seemed to light up. Mosi saw the hope there. But it only lasted for a second. Then Patrick shook his head.
‘No, Mosi, he saw the way I was looking at him. He saw how scared I was. I couldn’t hide it.’ His voice became a whisper. ‘Believe me, Mosi. I saw his face change as soon as he realised I knew who he was. That I knew he was Papa Blood.’
‘I shouldn’t have told you.’ Mosi was almost speaking to himself. ‘I’ve put you in danger.’
‘Maybe I could go to Bliss’s dad,’ Patrick was also talking to himself.
‘Bliss’s dad?’
Patrick nodded. ‘Her dad’s always helping people on the estate. Advising them of their rights and things like that. He’s a nice man. Or maybe I could make an anonymous phone call . . .’ His eyes lit up. ‘Yeah, an anonymous phone call.’
‘He would think it was one of us, one of the refugees from his country. We’re the only people who could recognise him, Patrick.’
‘But he’d be arrested, Mosi. He’d be in prison.’
‘He is magic, Patrick. No prison could hold him.’
Patrick slumped against the wall. He knew that was true too. ‘There’s got to be something we can do.’
Mosi held his shoulders, and he said again more sure than ever, ‘You must be wrong, Patrick, think about it. Because there is no way a boy like you could recognise him. You’ve been afraid and you imagined it.’
Patrick was trying to think. He’d been nervous, yes, and at that moment when Papa Blood had touched his shoulder, looked into his eyes, he had been frozen with fear.
Maybe he
was
mistaken. Maybe Mosi was right. How could this man have even thought that Patrick knew who he was? The thought comforted him. He began to breathe more easily. ‘You’re right. Of course you’re right. I was just so scared, Mosi.’
Mosi touched his arm. ‘Go home, Patrick. You’ll be safe at home. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Decide what we have to do.’
Patrick walked up the three flights to his flat. For once, he hoped his granny was in. She would have made soup. She made the best lentil soup this side of the border. He was suddenly desperate for some. Desperate to be home.
He stopped now and again and listened for noises, looking down the well of the stairs, watching for a movement. But he hadn’t been followed. Mosi had assured him of that, and Mosi would know. His fear had made him nervous, that was all. He felt better now. Of course he’d been wrong. The thought comforted him. Tomorrow, him and Mosi would talk about it, find a way to get Papa Blood. The graffiti, he was thinking, was still a good idea. He could still use it. Catch him with graffiti sprayed on the walls of the estate.
The phone buzzing in his pocket made him jump. It was Cody. ‘Did you get away OK?’ He sounded excited. Didn’t wait for Patrick’s answer. ‘It was dead good, wasn’t it? Did you get any crosses done? I only did two, and then somebody shouted they saw something, and everybody was yelling . . .’ And then he began to babble on about the police arriving, the chase, till Patrick was laughing too. ‘Hakim was running like a mad horse. Legs all over the place. He did a leap over the gates at Parkview and he still didn’t stop running. I told him I’m going to put him in for the Olympics . . . it was a brilliant night, wasn’t it?’
‘Did you really see something?’ Patrick wanted to know.
‘It was definitely the vampire I saw.’ Cody, like his granda, would always say he had seen the vampire. ‘Definitely,’ he said again. ‘Hakim saw something as well. Did you?’
He wanted to say . . . Mr Okafor. He saw Mr Okafor, but he had to think about this. ‘I saw something. I think . . . Did anybody get caught?’
‘I don’t think the police were trying to catch anybody . . . just wanted to . . . erm . . . what’s the word?’
‘Disperse us.’ For some reason the word came easily to Patrick.
‘Aye, disperse us. Anyway, we were all running in different directions, they didn’t know who to follow.’ His voice was an excited giggle, and now Patrick was laughing too. He found he was at his front door. He put the key in the lock, opened the door and stepped inside. Talking to Cody was making him feel better. ‘What about Bliss?’
‘For a minute I thought she was going to go over and talk to the police and explain things, you know Bliss. But then, Ameira grabbed her and shouted, “Your dad will never understand,” and Bliss was away, running like the rest of us. It’s the best night I’ve had in ages. Who says we’ll do it again the morrow night?’
‘Mrs Telford will have us all chained to the school railings when she finds out.’
Cody dismissed that. ‘I don’t see how she can be annoyed. She’s always saying we should do things together, and we did. Hakim and me had a great time. He’s all right, you know.’
‘I don’t think vampire hunting was what Mrs Telford had in mind.’ But Patrick was laughing too.
He was glad Cody had phoned. That call, talking about what had happened, laughing, all put a distance between what he’d seen later, as if it hadn’t really happened. And of course, he’d been wrong. He could see that now. Okafor hadn’t seen that he recognised him. He certainly hadn’t chased him out of the cemetery. Probably just lumbered home with his shopping. His own fear had made him overreact. Yes, that was it.
Anyway, he was safe now. He was home.
‘Granny?’ he called out, but he knew his granny wasn’t here. There were no lights on, no smell of her in the flat. Nothing. Patrick walked into the living room and switched on the television to see if there was anything about their adventure on the local news.
But he had missed the news. Would have to wait another hour for the next bulletin. He switched to News 24. They were reporting on a riot in Asia somewhere.
‘We had a riot here, pal,’ he said to the TV. ‘A home-grown one.’
But the reporter wasn’t listening. And Patrick didn’t want to hear the news. He needed cheering up. He flicked through the channels till he found a horror movie. Now that was more like it. Teenagers being chased by a mad axe man always cheered him up.
The phone rang. It was his granny. ‘Good thing you’re in. There was trouble on the estate the night.’
‘Was there?’ he said casually. ‘Never heard.’
‘Never heard indeed!’ You could never get away with a lie to his granny. ‘Where’s that mother of yours?’
He tried to cover for her. Was she in a bath? Having a nap? Busy in the kitchen making him something special to eat? None of them sounded believable and he hesitated a moment too long.
‘She’s no’ in.’
His granny gave a big sigh. Exasperated. And he wondered then if he could tell his granny about Papa Blood. But in the same second he thought of it, he knew that his magic might get to her too. Even his granny, who was scared of no one, wouldn’t be safe.
‘As long as you’re in,’ she said at last. ‘Have you done your homework?’
She didn’t wait for an answer. Knew he would probably lie anyway. ‘I’ll phone in the morning. Make sure you’re up for school.’
He opened the balcony doors and stood looking out over the estate. He loved living this high up, surveying the world, seeing it spread out in front of him, the people like ants on the ground below. It was raining so hard now he could see nothing. The other flats were shrouded in an eerie mist. It made what he could see look even more atmospheric. He wished, as he’d done so often before, that he could recite the names of the hills. The hills that peeked between the tower blocks on a clear day. He knew nothing. But he could change that, he thought, in a sudden fit of enthusiasm. Tomorrow he would learn them. He would make a goal of learning things. Something new every day.
But he couldn’t keep Papa Blood’s face out of his mind for long. He saw it again, saw his face change from that of a simpleton, to the man who had terrified Mosi. He saw again that flash in his eyes, when he saw that Patrick knew who he really was. Saw the cruel coldness in them.
Yet, Mosi was right, how could Patrick know that? He’d been wrong. Of course, he’d been wrong. That thought lifted his spirits. Yes, that was it. He’d been so scared he’d imagined something that wasn’t there.
In his mind he played out that scene in the cemetery again and again. The hand on his shoulder that seemed to come from nowhere, the diamond in his ring catching the light, his voice soft as smoke.
You’re the boy who was on the television. The boy who saw that suicide
. Still smiling, till he saw that Patrick had shrunk back, had recognised him. And, yes, that was when his look had changed. That was when those eyes had turned to ice.
The scene played over and over in his mind. The hand on his shoulder, the ring shining in the light, that voice, those eyes. There was something here that was knocking on his memory. But what was it?
The diamond in Papa Blood’s ring catching the light . . .
And in a flash, another scene was being played out in front of Patrick’s eyes. His legs went weak. And he knew he was in even more danger.
Mosi sat in his bedroom. Patrick had been wrong. Papa Blood had not realised that he recognised him. That was impossible. Had to be impossible.
From the living room he heard his mother laugh at something on television and her laugh made him smile. His mother laughed so rarely. He had to protect his parents. They had risked everything to keep him safe. Everything.
But perhaps now it was time to face up to his past too. He had to protect Patrick.
If only he had not told Patrick about Papa Blood.
It was all Mosi’s fault.
And yet . . .
His head ached trying to work this out. Something gnawed at his brain. Patrick had been so sure. What if he was right? That Papa Blood sensed that Patrick knew his real identity? Why should he think that look of recognition meant Patrick knew his real identity?