Alyzon Whitestarr (37 page)

“I know who you are,” Davey said, not even glancing at Harrison. “But you shouldn’t say your name because the air
remembers it and some people can read the air. Sniff the names out of it like dogs sniff up each other’s pee words,” Davey said earnestly.

Rose Cobb bustled into the startled silence with a tray, and Harrison sprang up to help her set the table. “What awful weather it is, but that’s winter for you,” she said. It was only after we each had tea and a scone with jam that she asked what we were doing in Shaletown.

“We had some stuff to do,” I said vaguely. “I actually thought you might be across the road. Silly, when it’s raining.”

“We try not to let rain stop us,” Rose said. “But today there were some of the other protesters there and … well, sometimes things get rough when they’re there, so I don’t go over on those days.”

“Other protesters?” I asked curiously.

“Oh, there are all kinds of protesters, not that I would have known that once upon a time. There are the ones like Gwenny and her friends, who are peaceful protesters, and then there are those who are determined to make a point no matter what it takes. Angry protesters,” she added, looking to see if I remembered our last conversation. I nodded. “The ones over there today seem to be what I call political protesters. I like that sort least, because what they want never seems to have much to do with helping people.”

“They are bad,” Davey said.

Rose took his hand. “No, Davey, they are only a bit exclusive.” She looked back at Harrison and me and added, “I’m afraid they were rather rude to me when I went to offer
them some tea and scones, and it upset Davey.” She patted his hand.

“Simon says they are bad,” he told her, patting her hand back in exactly the same consoling way and leaving no mark despite the stains on his hands. “Simon says Davey needs to go home soon.”

“But it’s still raining, dear,” Rose objected.

“Davey will not get wet,” Davey said serenely.

“You know what, we have a friend with a car, and we were supposed tae call him tae pick us up,” Harrison said. “We can give Davey a lift home.”

“What a good idea. What do you think, Davey?” Rose asked.

“Davey must go in the car and show the driver where to go,” Davey said complacently, as if repeating instructions.

Harrison called Raoul while Rose told me with some pleasure that one of her daughters had sent a lovely long letter. “But tell me now, what other errand did you have in Shale-town?” she asked with sudden curiosity.

I glanced at Harrison, who had put the phone away. He said, “We’ve been trying tae find out about a private school that used tae be here in Shaletown.”

“The Boys Academy at Carmine Street?” Rose asked.

We both stared at her, and I realized what a fool I was not to think she would know about the school. Shaletown was relatively small, after all, and she had lived here for a long time.

“I remember when it opened. It was called Shaletown
Institute, and a grim place it was back then, with very serious ideas about discipline. It closed down for a time, and then it was opened up as the Shaletown Boys Academy and set out to target wealthy families with problem sons. It was run along very military lines to start with, but then the management changed and the school seemed to go through a sort of renaissance. Instead of fierce exhausting sports, the boys were introduced to the arts. Music in particular. There were a great many concerts in those days, and it was a real pleasure to attend them. In the end the place became rather a model school.”

“But it burned down,” Harrison said.

Rose sighed. “Yes. I remember thinking at the time what a pity it was.”

“Why didnae they rebuild if it was so successful?” Harrison asked. “There must have been insurance.”

“There was a great deal of damage to the school buildings, but I think it was more that there seemed no heart to rebuild. You see, one of the music teachers—actually the man who had really been responsible for the school’s renaissance—died in the fire. A terrible tragedy.” She sighed.

Suddenly there was the sound of a horn from outside. I explained quickly about Raoul so Rose would not think him rude. We pulled on our damp outer clothes in the tiny entrance hall, Davey’s size making it even more cramped.

“Davey, you can show them the way,” Rose said. “He knows it very well,” she added reassuringly to me. Then she gave me a hug and said, “You come and visit again with your
young man here.” I blushed and didn’t dare to look at Harrison, which caused Rose’s sharp eyes to narrow speculatively so that I was quite glad to get out into the rain and wind again.

But when we were all squashed in the car, I saw that Harrison looked unperturbed and realized that her teasing would probably mean no more to him than kissing me had meant. I felt rather aggrieved that I had made so little impression on him, then wondered at my own contrariness. I ought to be glad that his kiss and my reaction to it hadn’t marred our friendship!

Raoul greeted Davey, who only said, “Davey came so he could show you the way.” Then he proceeded to point out the way to the industrial park where he said he had his trailer. The area lay beyond the straggling residential edge of the town, over a stretch of barren hill paddocks. The road brought us around the hill and past a group of enormous warehouses rising above the shabby clutter of little shacks and sheds that made up the rest of the industrial park. Most of them looked to be closed up and derelict.

Then Davey cried out that Raoul should turn into a driveway leading to a small gray-timber shack with a dribble of smoke coming from its chimney. It was surrounded by a herd of half-rusted and disassembled relics that might once have been cars, and there was a sign on a post that said “Dolen Spare Parts.” Under it, so faded that it was barely discernible, was “Scrap Metal Supplies.” I wondered if Davey operated the business. His blackened hands seemed to suggest it, but how could he make a living from this run-down shack when
it looked as if all the other businesses around it had failed? Then I realized Davey was probably on some sort of disability payment.

“Davey lives in the trailer in back,” Davey said cheerfully. “You park here.” Raoul pulled up in front of the shack as he had been directed, and Harrison and I got out to let Davey out. It was still raining, but not as heavily as before. Davey went round to say “thank you” to Raoul and shake his hand.

“I’m sorry, Davey, I can’t get out because …,” Raoul began.

“Davey knows. Legs no good. Davey once had a cat with legs that didn’t work. They shot that cat, and Davey cried.”

“I guess he was a good cat,” Raoul said gently, as if there was no hurry, though the rain saturated his shoulder and wet his cheeks.

“Davey loved that cat,” Davey said sadly. Then, seeming to cheer up, he said, “Simon says go that way now.” He was pointing in the direction of the warehouses.

“Thank you, Davey,” Raoul said. “Maybe we’ll see you again sometime.”

“Oh yes, you will, Simon says,” Davey told him. He tapped the hood of the car with his black finger. “You got something in there needs replacing. That’ll be a good reason to come back. Davey will get a new one for when it breaks.”

He pumped Raoul’s hand again with his huge black hand, then Harrison’s, but when he came to me, his smile faded. He looked at me with his guileless blue eyes, his sweet scent filling the air. “You gotta be careful here, Alyzon Whitestarr.
This is one of their places, and they’re stronger in their own places.” Then he turned and trotted over to the hut, waving before he entered.

Harrison had got into the car and I followed, trying to shake the unease that Davey’s nonsense had made me feel.

“Did he just tell you that you should be careful?” Harrison asked me.

I shrugged. “It’s probably what people tell him all the time, and he thinks that’s just how you say goodbye.”

Raoul started up the engine and drove back onto the road, the headlights picking up little more than the rain slanting down. He headed the way Davey had indicated, but a few minutes later we came to a dead end: a cul-de-sac with the enormous metal warehouses on all sides.

Raoul began to turn the car around, but there was not much space so he had to go back and forth a few times. I was wondering how trucks managed when Harrison let out a cry that startled Raoul so much he stalled. We both followed Harrison’s gaze to a warehouse door with a security light angled toward it. It looked no different from any of the other warehouses around us, and I looked at Harrison in puzzlement.

“Look at the name above the door,” Harrison said. “It’s the name of the guy you said was married tae Dita Rayc—her first husband.”

“Second,” Raoul corrected. “And you’re right. Makiaros Inc. This must be one of the properties he left her.”

“It’s on the other warehouses, too,” I said, squinting back
through the rain. In fact, it turned out to be on all of the warehouses; Harrison insisted on getting out and looking.

“What an odd coincidence that we should just come upon them like that,” Harrison said as we were driving back along the road.

On the way home, Harrison asked Raoul about his visit to Aaron Rayc’s office. It was still raining steadily, and the wipers were on high.

“Dita was definitely a wealthy woman before she married Aaron Rayc,” Raoul said. “The office building turns out to be the highest building in Shaletown, with gold-tinted glass windows and a foyer that wouldn’t be out of place in New York. I know from my research that Makiaros practically made a religion of keeping business in one’s own backyard, but the building seemed overdone. I commented on it to the woman who spoke with me. I was told that the man who built it—she meant Makiaros, I’m sure—believed that Shaletown had the potential to be a major industrial city. I suppose that is why he had so many warehouses built. Other than the showiness of the office, the only thing I noticed was the amount of electronic security in the building, but it was very inconspicuous. I doubt I would have noticed if I hadn’t been looking.”

“Why would a charitable organization want so much security? They must be hiding something,” Harrison said.

“For all I know, half of it may not have been operating. Or it might just have been more grandiose planning on Makiaros’s part,” Raoul said.

“Did the woman say anything about what Rayc Inc. does?” I asked curiously.

“Not specifically. Apparently neither Rayc Inc. nor its international associate, ORBA, operate in the same areas as such organizations as Oxfam, World Vision, or Community Aid Abroad. Their interest is in trying to change society so that the sorts of problems these other groups deal with would cease to exist. I said that I thought this was admirable though ambitious, but that I was definitely interested if I could be convinced that a donation of mine would effect some specific and concrete change for good in the world. The woman who spoke with me suggested I meet with someone more senior who could explain some of their projects to me. I said I was a busy man, and we left it at that, but I don’t have any doubt they will contact me. But now it’s your turn. Tell me what you learned about Harlen Sanderson’s old school.”

I left it to Harrison, and let myself be lulled by the sound of the rain and the rhythmic
slap slap
of the wipers. Raoul listened, then finally shook his head. “So we don’t have any real proof that the explosion was the work of a gang, or even that this bakery fire was the work of a gang. In fact, there’s no true indication that a gang even exists.”

I roused myself to say that the woman in the bus shelter had mentioned a Shaletown gang.

“That could still be a rumor,” Raoul said. “I wonder if it
would be possible to track down a teacher who worked at the academy. It shouldn’t be that difficult. I have a friend in the education department.”

It wasn’t until we were close to home that Raoul mentioned the journal, saying he had read part of it but wanted to finish it, if I would let him keep it for a while longer. He suggested that I come to his place for dinner with the others the following night, and he would return it then.

“Just one thing puzzles me. Who is Professor Kirke?”

That made me smile, and when I told him I’d addressed my journal to a fictional character, he laughed.

Raoul insisted on dropping me at my door. I had told him I would be fine catching the bus, but getting out of the car into the wet, cold evening, I was very glad to know that a warm kitchen and a hot shower were only a few steps away.

* * *

There was no one in the kitchen when I entered, although the room smelled of cooking. I went upstairs, glad there was no one around to wonder why I wasn’t in school uniform. Ten minutes later I had filled the bath and was neck-deep in hot water. I sank down into it and indulged in sheer mindless pleasure for a while.

But eventually I found myself thinking about Shaletown Boys Academy. A chill crept into the bath as I realized what a perfect place a school for delinquent boys must have been for a sickness that preyed on wounded spirits. And then along had come the music teacher, lifting those boys up, inspiring them. If the sickness had led Harlen to get his friends to burn
down Gilly’s house just because she had gotten in the way of his pursuit of me, what might it do to remove someone like the music teacher? Could it have prompted Harlen to get the teacher permanently out of the way?