The Darkening (8 page)

Winter sunlight winked in the crystal dew on the ridge caps of houses and rippled silver in gutter puddles. The air was raw and clean and things felt . . . good. Nicholas nodded to himself: yes, things felt
quite
good. He topped the crest of Ithaca Lane and glanced downhill.

He stopped, rock still. His good mood blew away in an instant, as if stolen like smoke by the wind.

At the bottom of the lane was Carmichael Road and, beyond it, the woods and their dark, countless trees.

Just turn around
, he thought. But he didn’t move. The woods held his eye, a broad and gently rippling lure. From here, even on this low rise, he could sense their size. A huge lopsided square of silver green, emerald green, olive green and chalcedony treetops, each side more than a kilometre, rising and falling back to the distant glimpses of brown river. Why were they still so disturbing? Gazing upon their inscrutable surface, Nicholas had the feeling that the trees were merely a veneer; a cloak over some dark creature, the shape of which remained hidden and the heart of which was as cold as deep earth.

I’m not going past them. Not today.
He shifted to return home the way he’d come. But as he turned, movement caught his eye.

On the path through the grass strip that hemmed the woods, a boy was kneeling.

Nicholas’s blood seemed to slow to a syrupy stop. He felt as if twenty-five years of life had suddenly fallen away and he was ten again.

The boy was bending to peer at the spot where, so many years ago, young Nicholas had found the dead bird with the woven head.

Nicholas felt ill.
It’s Tristram
.

Then the boy looked up and around, and Nicholas could see it wasn’t his childhood friend. Yet he recognised the boy’s face. The huge policeman had held up a photo of him four nights ago. It was the dead Thomas boy.

The child leaned closer to touch something on the path.

Nicholas felt his stomach fill with cold.
Turn around
, he thought.
Go home. Forget it. He’s dead. He’s a dream. Like Cate, he’s not really there, he can’t be there. He’s gone . . .

But he couldn’t turn. A wave of disgust rolled through him. He wanted to see what happened next.

The dead child rose on milkstraw legs, dropped with horror something offensive and spoiled, wiped his hands on his pants. Then he stiffened like a cat hearing thunder and his face turned to the woods. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and suddenly one arm jerked straight, as if grabbed by someone invisible and strong, and Dylan Thomas flew backwards into the trees.

Nicholas’s heart suddenly remembered to pump. Without thinking, he ran down the hill, across Carmichael Road, through the tall, damp grass and into the woods.

Dylan Thomas was being dragged by an impalpable force, his fair hair streaming over his pale face as he flew between tree trunks. Where the sun hit him, he glowed brighter, like a dust mote caught in a spotlight.

Nicholas strained to keep up. Already, the sharp brass pain of a stitch blared in his side and his breaths were raggedly insufficient. When was the last time he’d run like this? Years. He should stop, turn around, go home . . . but the sight of the dead boy flickering between the trees ahead kept him running.

The woods quickly grew thicker, the moist ground between the trunks of brush box and devil’s apple crowded with saplings and lantana, lush vines, fallen branches and spider webs glistening coldly with droplets.

Ahead, the boy’s arm pointed straight as a compass, and his body whipped behind it, flailing hopelessly. Yet his dark eyes were resigned. They were locked on Nicholas.

Nicholas’s breaths came fast and hard. He was running as fast as he could. His heavy feet churned through an ankle-deep gruel of wet, rotting leaves. His shins fouled on moss-thick roots. Scrabbling branches scratched his face and slapped him with dark, prickling leaves. Parasitic vines, as thick as wrists and mottled with grey fungus, looped like fallen question marks, lurking and ready to strangle. The wide, striated trunks of native elms and ancient figs were only arm spans apart, and the canopy overhead grew closer and tighter until it was almost solid and only tiny sapphires of sky winked into the thick emerald gloom below. It was as dark as dusk. The damp air was cold enough to burn the back of Nicholas’s throat.

The distance between him and the boy was growing. Nicholas ran harder.

The Thomas boy’s face was a bobbing flurry. His small free arm scrabbled at trees, reaching silently at damp, green-flecked trunks. He flew up a steep, shaly slope.

Nicholas’s lungs burned as he strained to follow. What would he see when the boy finally stopped? Him struggling? Pleading? Crying for his mother as his invisible killer made him kneel and his white throat opened up? Would he find Tristram, his face set hard as a knife came from behind?

Would he find the murderer himself?

Nicholas suddenly felt sick. He had no plan. What if he ran into some makeshift camp in the middle of the woods, straight into a cold-eyed man with a knife on his belt and a gun in his hands?

You’ll end up as dead as the Thomas boy. Dead as Tristram.

That thought in mind, Nicholas crested the rise - and the ground beneath fell away into space.

He barely stopped himself going over into a sharp gully. His arms pinwheeled a moment, then he found his balance and took a careful step back from the brink. Beyond, the ground fell sharply several metres to a narrow, stony creek bed. He caught his breath and looked around.

The Thomas boy had vanished.

He felt disappointment riding a wave of guilty relief that he wouldn’t need to see the boy die. He could leave, able to tell himself he
did
try. And at home, with time and distance between him and these sunless trees, he could convince himself never to come here again.

Traitor. Coward.

‘Shut up,’ he whispered.

He turned to go.

But as he did, his foot hit a sly rock wet with moss and shot from under him, out over space. His body followed an instant later . . . and he fell. He tumbled down the steep gully face, arms flailing, trying to stay upright. Angry branched saplings slapped him for his clumsiness. He hit the gully floor with a sodden crunch, his impact blunted by a wet and tangy clump of native ginger.

His panting breaths were loud in the silence. He awkwardly got to his feet. Both his palms were scratched and bleeding. His upper lip was wet - his fingers came away red. A little blood, but nothing broken.

The air down here seemed even colder, and even denser with trees. The narrow creek bed was the only place where no plants grew. In the half-light, the rocks and stones of the dry stream stood out like bones protruding through flesh. The gully was suddenly familiar. Nicholas nodded. It had been a quarter-century, but he knew where he was. He knew what lay ahead if he followed the uneven creek bed.

The pale, rounded stones clacked nervously underfoot. The larger ones looked like skullcaps, as if this were a road of the dead.

And that’s just what it is
.

The shadows behind the trees here seemed deeper, more solid, as if something lurked there, something waiting and patient. Hungry.

We were running. Tristram and I were running for our lives. This is where we parted. This is . . .

Then Nicholas saw it.

Almost masked by the mossy trunks of booyong and red ash was the huge water pipe. It was almost three metres in diameter; its steel flanks were rusted to a dark red and it sat on a green patinated concrete footing half a metre thick. It ran perpendicular to the creek bed, maybe seven or eight metres in each direction, before it was swallowed by blood vine and silver-furred star nightshade. If he were to tap its dark, rusty curve, it would ring hollow and mournful as an oubliette.

This is where we left each other
, he thought.
Tristram and I.
His mouth was dry. The remembered taste of terror was as strong as alum.

Where the hulking pipe crossed the rocky stream bed, its ancient concrete foundation was deeper. Two parallel tunnels, each almost a metre wide, pierced the concrete foundation like dark nostrils.

Nicholas stopped, lungs still working hard to reclaim the oxygen he’d spent in the frantic chase. His panting was the only sound. No wind shifted leaves. No bird called. No insect chirped.

The pipe, he could see, was too high to climb. It ran who-knew-how-far into the woods in each direction. The only way to pass beyond it was to go under, through the narrow tunnels.

He walked up the creek bed closer to the pipe, and his footsteps castaneted stones together; the sound echoed in the shotgun tunnels like the cavernous clicking of some dead giant’s teeth.

He knelt.

The twin tunnels ran right through the concrete base of the pipe, four metres or more. They were as dark as night, but he could just make out circles of light at their far ends. But those circles were dimly shrouded and imperfect. Black shapes moved across them, roughening their edges and peppering them with little shifting silhouettes.

Spiders.

Both tunnels were thick with webs and spiders. And whatever happened to the dead boys happened on the other side.

Nicholas got to his feet, turned around, and started back down the creek towards the gully cliff, heading back to Carmichael Road.

For the second time in his life, the spiders had beaten him.

5

NOVEMBER 1982

I
t was Sunday morning, and Nicholas and Tristram were deep in concentration, hunkered in patches of sunlight on the hardwood boards of the Boyes’ front veranda. They had set up two enormous opposing ramps made from Tristram’s seemingly inexhaustible supply of orange Hot Wheels racetrack. Every so often, the boys would look up from their labours and grin at one another. They were getting ready for one hell of a car crash.

Tristram and his family lived in the street behind the Closes, in (if you asked Katharine Close) a palace of a house. Nicholas would jump the Closes’ back fence (a rickety line of perennially damp hardwood palings held together by a thick crest of trumpet vine), run through Mrs Giles’s yard, then up Airlie Crescent to the enormous house at number seven.

The Boyes had moved in two and a half years ago.

Nicholas and Tristram became friends. Tristram would short-cut through Mrs Giles’s at a quarter to eight every school morning, and he and Nicholas would begrudgingly escort Suzette to school. Imagining that he and Tristram were her bodyguards, ready to pounce on would-be attackers or leap in front of assassins’ bullets, compensated for her girlish chatter about love spells and how smart bees were and bar graphs.

After school when homework was done, and at weekends, Nicholas would visit the Boyes’ house. This was better, because their place
was
a palace compared with 68 Lambeth Street. The Boyes had four bedrooms as well as Mr and Mrs Boyes’ ‘master bedroom’, which had its own bathroom (Tristram snuck Nicholas in for a look one Saturday when his parents had left them home alone and Gavin was at some football final), another
two
bathrooms (Tristram called them ‘dunny cans’), and wide verandas on three sides. Best of all, the entire house was on stumps, so there was a palace-worth of cool, dark dirt underneath for racing scooters, conducting experiments with bleach and sundry garage chemicals, building Owen guns, and torturing ants by dropping them in conical ant lion pits and watching them taken from below like hapless sailors by hungry kraken.

Nicholas sometimes had Tristram over to his house, but there was less to do. The Closes’ house was small, its underneath exposed and useless for private things like making army IDs and shanghais and plans of conquest. The only place that was dark and away from his mother’s scowl and Suzette’s curiosity was the garage. But Nicholas didn’t like taking anyone else in there. It was Dad’s space. His tools were there. His old ports were there. Being in the garage made him feel weird - angry and sad and a bit lonely. He could hardly remember his father, but stepping into the dark garage with its smell of grease and sawdust brought a flash of the only enduring image of him: a scarecrow-thin man leaning over the white-washed garage bench as he sharpened a saw with one hand while drinking from a squat bottle of amber liquid with the other; then, hearing Nicholas, he looked down and smiled - half of his face bright with yellow light through the dusty window, half as dark as the cobwebbed shadows in the garage’s far corners - and slid the bottle away into the bench drawer. No, the garage was not a place for games.

This Sunday morning, Nicholas had come over straight from church (the Boyes didn’t go to church - further evidence of their grand good fortune). Suzette had changed into shorts and T-shirt to tend her little garden patch. She’d found an old book somewhere that had belonged to their dad, and had become excited about planting tiny seeds and urging them up into curling green things. After a spat over TV channels, Nicholas had once threatened to dig up Suze’s garden and she’d gone totally spack, hitting him and screaming that he’d better not
dare
! The one male in a house with two females, he was wise enough not to. As Suzette screwed on her sunhat, Nicholas had pulled on his gym boots, kissed his mother’s cheek, and jumped the back fence.