Sea Change (12 page)

"So if someone
got the rock..." John said.

"It would give
them the power of the Hob,” Charles replied. "Or so the story goes.
All that power, the power of this place, the dreams of Saltcliff
and those who have lived here, stored up over a thousand and more
years. They could take it all, bind the Hob to their will too—and
do great evil, if that was in their mind. Which is why Cedric
protected the jet, so that no-one of evil heart could take it from
the ground. But he did one other thing too. He set his dog, his
loyal servant, to stay in the village to be the eyes and the ears
of the Hob, to show his gratitude for it having saved his life that
time. And though the dog disappeared after a time, and everyone
thought that it had died...well, later on people saw it from time
to time, walking the village. Watching. Guiding them on to the
right path. And they have done to this day, hundreds of years
since."

"So the dog's
not dangerous—I mean, I know it's just a story," John said quickly.
"But the shuck, the stories are that it's not something you'd want
to meet."

"That's Parnaby
for you," Charles said. "Misses the real legend, the interesting
one, and writes some guff down that turns Hob's dog into some
spectral beast from hell."

"Wow," John
said, and then felt straight away that it had been a stupid thing
to say, and that Charles would be disappointed in him. But he could
not think of anything more intelligent to say, because all that he
wanted to tell Charles was that he had seen the dog, he had seen it
and it was protecting him but he did not know what for. Then
Charles went on, and John was suddenly glad that he had not
interrupted more.

"Long time
since anyone showed as much interest in that legend as you. Won't
forget the last one who was obsessed with it. Miserable, nasty
piece of work, came here from Wales, I think it was, or maybe the
Lakes. Rented a house down in the village, always creeping round at
night, forever haunting the bookshop asking me if I had this or
that which might shed any light on it. Spent a fortune on old maps,
walking the cliff tops with divining rods, wanting to know where I
thought the jet might be, if any of the legend was true. He was a
one for magic. Not this new age nonsense like your sister's
crystals—no offence—but the dark, unpleasant side of things.
Crowley and his depraved circle. Books on prolonging life, eternal
life, all that too, bought anything that came into the shop. Nasty
piece of work he was, though I try not to judge, there was just
something about him that was wrong, like a bad smell. He was just
wrong."

"Is—" John
began to speak and then stopped.

"Spit it out,
lad." Charles coughed, and this time it went on for what seemed
like minutes. When he finished, he gestured at John, who heard
Alan's footsteps on the stairs. "Go on then. I can see that
something's troubling you."

John took a
deep breath. "This man. Is his name Elias?"

Charles stared
at him, and although the old man's body was weak, the gaze of his
clear blue eyes was strong, and made John feel as if any pretence
was being stripped bare.

"Now how do you
know that name, young John?" he said very quietly. "I'm wondering
how you know that name. It might have been from Davey Allthrop, but
then again it might not. No call for him to mention Elias." He
coughed again, and this time reached for a tap on the oxygen
cylinder and adjusted it.

"I, um..." John
said. "I ran into him, I think."

"You think,
eh?" Charles said, his voice still quiet. "I hope not. I very much
hope not. Because that man died thirty year ago or more."

The door
opened, and Alan came in. "Glad to see the two of you are getting
on so well. See, he's not as scary as he makes out to be, is he
John? Bark worse than his bite you know. Always has been. But dad,
sorry, if I can hear you coughing like that from downstairs in the
shop, then I'm afraid you need to be getting some rest. D'you mind
John?"

Charles started
to protest, but Alan was having none of it. "Sorry, I'm going to
insist. John, if you want to have a look round the shop, you're
more than welcome, but I'm afraid you'll have to continue your chat
with Dad another time.

"Do," Charles
said with emphasis, his breath coming shallow and rasping now, as
if he were really having to fight for each lungful of air, but his
wide, staring at John. "We
need
to talk some more, John. In
the mean time, you be careful. You must trust in those who are your
friends. If you are ever in any trouble, you must trust in those
who are your friends."

"I will," John
said, and he felt the thrill of thinking yes, I can do that because
I have friends here, friends who I can trust.

"You all right,
John?" Alan said, ushering John towards the door. "Trouble?"

"Just talking
about things back at school," John said. "At home. It's fine,
there's no problem, but it's been good to talk." He looked back as
he left the room. Charles was lying down again, his eyes closed,
his face nearly as white as the pillow that he lay on. The hissing
of the air from the oxygen tank was nearly drowned out by the
halting wheeze of his breath.

"Sorry," John
said to Alan when they were back down in the shop. "I'm really
sorry. We must have talked too much."

"Nonsense,"
Alan said. "He'll have loved it. Will have done him the world of
good. He gets like this sometimes, it's nothing to do with you.
Good days and bad days, good hours and bad hours. Don't be put off,
come back and see him again. I appreciate you spending the time
with him."

"It's no
bother," John said. "I enjoyed talking to him. Really. About the
old legends."

"Ah well, he's
your man for that. Someday I'm going to have to put all his notes
in order. Write them up in the book he's never got round to doing.
Never done it yet because...well, keep thinking he might do it
himself. One day."

"With luck,"
John said. "When's he's better."

"Yes," Alan
said. "When he's better."

There was a
long silence, and then Alan said, "Well, anyway, feel free to
browse if you like," just as John said, "Better be going," and they
both laughed, but neither of them sounded as if they meant it.

"Thank you,"
John said. "I will another time. But right now I need to go and see
my friends. I think I've got something to tell them."

Chapter
Eleven

"Dead?" Simon
said, and there was a very long silence.

In the end,
John shrugged and said, "I know how it sounds." He smiled at Sal,
but she just looked away, and John felt as if he had been
slapped.

They were in
Simon's room, Sal and Simon sitting on the bed, John leaning
against Simon's desk, too nervous to sit down. He looked around the
room at Simon's Leeds United posters, at the chaotic mess of comics
and books dumped in a pile at the end of the bed, at anything other
than Sal so he didn't have to see how she was not meeting his
eye.

"I know how it
sounds, too,” Simon said. "Sounds like you've had a bang on the
head."

"Si," Sal said,
but she did not say it with much conviction.

“Well, come on,
Sal. A ghost dog from thousands of years ago and a spooky bad man,
who no-one else ever sees, who just turns out to be dead? I told
more convincing stories when I was four.”

"Look," John
said, "I know you haven't seen what I've seen, how all this must be
coming across. But believe me Simon, if you had seen Elias, just
once, you'd understand, you'd know."

"Know what?"
Simon stood up, angry. "Know that you think we're a couple of
gullible mugs because you've come up from the city, and we’re just
dumb country kids who don't know any better, and besides, we
believe in Hob's Holes and all that sort of thing, so you can show
us how stupid we are by making up some stupid story of your own and
laughing at us when we fall for it? Oh yeah, I can see that, ha ha
Simon, ha ha Sal, really had you going there. What do you need to
do this for, eh?"

"I'm not," John
said, "I wouldn't," but it was lost in the torrent.

"Showing off to
Sal or something? Trying to make out you're all mysterious and
cool? Hey, look at me, I'm battling the dark forces of the undead,
coming soon to an X-Box near you. Nice try, John. I don't know what
the hell for, or why, but nice try. We're not having it
though."

"Simon," John
said. "Get real. Why would I lie? What reason would I have to make
something up that sounds this stupid?"

"You tell me,"
Simon said, pointing a finger in John's face. "You're the one who's
come up with it.
You
get real."

"I haven't come
up with anything," John said, "I know it sounds mad, I know it
sounds stupid, but it's
true
."

Simon snorted,
folded his arms, and turned away.

"Hang on Si,"
Sal said, and John thought thank you, thank you, thank you. "Maybe
it's not made up, not like how you said.”

"Don't you
start," Simon said.

"No, come on,
John's right. Why would he trick us like that? He's not that sort
of person."

I could kiss
you right now, John thought. Even more than I do every moment I’m
around you.

"He's had
something really scary happen to him, some old dosser harassing
him, you know what the village can be like for them that aren't
used to it, it's a maze—"

"Hang on," John
said, but Sal ignored him and carried on.

"—and don't
tell me you've never been spooked when the mist rolls in and you're
wandering through the ginnels on your own. Now imagine somebody's
big dog comes looming out the mist, and then some weirdo starts
hassling you, for god knows what, it would frighten the hell out of
me. As it would you Si, and don't you deny it."

"S'pose," Simon
said, and he turned back round. "Should make allowances. Seeing as
you're not from round here. Still think it's stupid though."

They looked at
him. John looked at Sal, then at Simon, then back at Sal,
wide-eyed, not able to believe what he was hearing.

"You think
that's what it is?" he said in the end, his voice rising. "You
really think that little of me? That I'm some townie mouse who gets
frightened by his own shadow and invents some story to make
everything all right again? Like I'm an eight year old, still
nervous without mummy's hand? Is that really what you think?" He
was shouting now.

"Oh, John," Sal
said, but Simon just shrugged and said, "Well, take your pick.
Because if it ain't that, then we're back to you making it up as a
stupid trick, and if that's how you want it, then I don't want any
more to do with someone who'd try that one on with me and my
sister, make out like we're stupid."

"For God's
sake," John yelled. "You
are
being stupid, because you just
won't listen to me. I wouldn't lie to you, I wouldn't, I'm telling
you—"

Simon walked to
the door of his room and opened it. His cheeks were burning red.
"Stupid eh? Just the stupid kids of a stupid, dead fisherman. Not
smart like you. Beneath you. Well, don't let us take up any more of
your precious, smart time. We know what it’s like to see dead
people too. Every time I think about our dad, I see one. Every
time.”

"Si," John
said.

"Si," Sal
said.

"Out! Or I'll
throw you down the stairs, I swear I will. Get out of our
house!"

John pushed
past Simon and down the stairs towards the front door, trying
desperately to control the hot sting of tears in his eyes, not
wanting to give Simon the satisfaction.

"Watch out for
the monsters, mind," Simon shouted after him. John scrabbled at the
latch, fingers useless, everything consumed by the anger and
frustration and pain that he felt. Then the door opened, and he was
out into the clear cool air of the night. He slammed the door
behind him so hard he heard the glass rattle in the frame, and he
walked away.

If I hear the
door open by the time I get to the end of the street, he thought,
it means she's come after me. He realised he was walking slowly,
and hated himself for it, but didn't walk any faster all the same.
If I hear it open, it means she cares. We can talk, sort it out.
She'll convince Simon. I'll have them on my side. I won't be alone.
I won't be alone.

John reached
the end of the street, and there was nothing but silence and the
night and the bitter taste in his mouth. He hesitated for a moment,
took a deep breath, then another, trying to still the panic and
fear and sadness that flowed through him like his blood.

I'm alone, he
thought. Again. I can't fight Elias alone. I can't.

A mist started
to creep into the street, thin, tenuous, the first strands sneaking
in from the sea. The silent street mocked him.

I can run, John
thought. Back to Laura, then back to my family. Let Elias find
someone else here to help him. Or take them into the mist and
darkness if they don't. It's not my village, not my fight.

He walked off,
going nowhere, just walking, his last words echoing in his mind,
the narrow streets like a corridor, like
that
corridor. He
thought about the scorn in Simon's voice, the way Sal turned her
head and wouldn't meet his eye. You can leave this place, he
thought, but will it leave you? Everything we do we take with us,
and that includes the things we haven't done.

John felt a
terrible longing for normal things, for his dad's occasional bad
temper and the smell of cigar smoke by the back door where mum made
him stand to smoke, for his room, posters on the wall that were
tattered and peeling at the edges, the dull ordinary familiarity of
the street they lived on, where nothing dramatic happened except
the everyday play of people's lives. It had always seemed boring to
John, something to rebel against. For a moment though, nothing
seemed more desirable.