The Darkening

imagining being one of those utterly helpless children not even able to turn to their parents who themselves wielded knives. . but imagining how terrible must be the face of Kali to drive loving parents to commit bloody murder.

Eleanor Bretherton. Mrs L. Quill.

Now things go bad, he thought.

At that moment, someone pounded on the rectory door.

The girl sat in one of the old club chairs, staring into space with slack eyes. She blinked occasionally and breathed slow and deep, but hadn’t shifted or spoken a word in the twenty minutes since she’d arrived at the presbytery.

‘“Hannah Gerlic, 5D”,’ read Pritam. His voice shook. He replaced the exercise book into the girl’s school bag.

He looked up to the other club chair opposite. In it sat Nicholas Close, who nodded acknowledgment. In the middle of the cleared chessboard lay the dead plover talisman. One of its claw horns had been lost, but even to look at it made Pritam’s skin prickle.

This is not hypothetical evil, he thought. Not the evil of lust, nor the evil of hate. This is fundamental evil, as old as the world itself. This is the devil’s handiwork.

The thought was electric and terrifying, as if the veneer covering the world had peeled at one corner, affording a glimpse of dark and yawning depths below.

‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Nicholas.

He sat slumped in his chair, staring at the dead bird. For an unsettling moment, Pritam thought he was talking to the tiny corpse. Then he slid his eyes to Pritam and smiled.

He’s peered into the depths, too, thought Pritam. And he looks ready to fall into them.

He shook his head. After finding that photograph of Quill, he’d been shocked to open the presbytery door to stare right into the face of the man who’d brought her to his attention. Pritam had been ready to dismiss him, tell him John Hird was dead and to come back another time — better yet, don’t come back at all! — when he saw the girl standing dumbly behind Nicholas, holding his hand and staring into space. His first impression struck him like a fist: she’s been raped. Then Nicholas said a word that was the second blow to finish the one-two: ‘Quill.’

Pritam had let them in, put the girl in the chair, listened as Nicholas briefly recounted the story about finding her outside the woods, finishing by pulling that horrible, disfigured bird from his pocket.

Now Pritam knew the girl’s name.

‘They’ll want to know,’ he said.

Nicholas cocked his head — who?

‘Her parents. They’ll want to know why you grabbed their daughter while she was walking home.’

‘I told you-’

‘I believe you,’ said Pritam. The words surprised him. But they were true; he did believe. Every poisonous bit. That abomination of a bird verified it all: so unnaturally dead, so alien. It looked like a lightning rod for evil.

‘I believe you, but I don’t think her mother will,’ he continued. ‘I don’t think the police will. Not so soon after the Thomas boy. Nicholas, I think you’re looking down the barrel of some serious questions.’

Nicholas didn’t seem to care. He was watching Hannah Gerlic, and the concern in his eyes for her was real.

She stared into space, her expression blank as glass. Pritam had seen black and white footage of World War I soldiers in hospital wards, automatons staring at infinity. Shell shock.

‘I suppose I am,’ agreed Nicholas quietly. He looked at Pritam. ‘They won’t believe the truth.’

The men regarded one another.

‘I won’t lie for you,’ said Pritam.

Nicholas frowned. ‘Who asked you to?’

There was a rustling from Hannah’s chair and they looked at her. She was staring, wide-eyed, at the dead bird. Suddenly, she sucked in a surprised breath, gagged, coughed up some briny yellow spittle, and started crying.

Andrew and Louise Gerlic were the happiest parents in the world.

Mrs Gerlic hugged Hannah tightly, tears running quicksilver paths down her red cheeks. ‘Silly girl. Silly girl. Silly girl. .’ She rocked her daughter in her arms. Mr Gerlic had his arms around them both, his eyes shut, nodding to himself.

On the drive to the Gerlics’ house, Pritam and Nicholas had worked out a story set in the awkward middle ground between lies and truth. Nicholas had been reading the development sign when Hannah appeared. She was distraught and wouldn’t respond to his queries. Uncomfortable with the idea of going through a young girl’s bag unaccompanied, he drove her immediately to his friend, the local reverend, where they discovered together the girl’s identity. Why was she so traumatised? They didn’t know. Had Nicholas seen anything unusual? No.

Police arrived at the Gerlic residence. The sight of a clergyman set the room at ease. Nicholas and Pritam were thanked together and questioned separately. One female officer was questioning Hannah without success: Hannah simply screwed up her eyes and shook her head. Another female officer spoke quietly to Mrs Gerlic, who listened a while then nodded consent. The women took Hannah to the girl’s bedroom. They emerged a few minutes later and Nicholas saw the female officer catch the eye of another uniformed officer — she shook her head. No signs of physical interference. The police began to wrap things up.

Nicholas drifted to join Pritam. ‘I don’t know if she’ll be safe,’ he whispered.

Pritam looked at him.

‘We have a great deal to discuss.’

Nicholas dropped Pritam back to the presbytery, and the men made arrangements to catch up there later that evening. Nicholas then kept driving, back to Lambeth Street.

Dinner was awkwardly silent, considering how loud it had been to prepare.

Nicholas had sat at the kitchen bench, watching Katharine chop vegetables, water chestnuts, onion, chicken. Every time he’d started to speak, she’d whacked some ingredient into submission or ground spices in her large granite mortar.

‘Want a hand?’ he’d yelled.

‘No, no,’ she’d yelled back brightly, then began throwing diced things into the wok where they shrieked loudly in the sizzling oil.

When they both sat to eat, the silence was so severe that Nicholas didn’t think he had profound enough words to break it. Katharine didn’t seem to feel compelled to; she chewed quietly, shooting the occasional cool smile to him.

‘Delicious,’ he said finally.

‘It’s nothing,’ she replied. They were quiet for a long moment, then she added, ‘I bought a tajine.’

‘Oh? Tall, pointy thing?’

‘Yes. Haven’t used it yet.’

‘Wow. Exotic.’

They ate without speaking again until their plates were clean. It was only when Nicholas made to stand and clear the table that Katharine broke the silence.

‘Sit. Please.’

He remained on his chair. Katharine licked her lips, lifted her chin and looked at him.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

Nicholas had been wondering when she would ask. He’d practised a careful, oleaginous answer that slipped neatly around issues that he knew his mother wouldn’t accept — ghosts, witchcraft, child sacrifices — while still keeping alive the notion that this had become a bit of an iffy suburb and maybe moving might not be a bad idea. However, his mother’s bright eyes seemed to burn away all his clever duplicity and he found himself simply saying, ‘What?’