فصل سی و یکم

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Little Tragedy

Edie sat in front of the heater, pulling on her tights. George looked over at her.

“Are they dry already?”

She tugged them on with satisfaction.

“Any drier and they’d be burning. You want to watch your jeans don’t scorch.” He reached over and felt his trousers. They were pretty dry. He took them off to a dark corner of the pub and changed into them. Edie disappeared behind the bar, and from the crunching noise she was making, he knew she was taking more packets of crisps.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Nicking food. You want some?”

“No.”

She carried on rustling. Then clinking. Then her head popped up over the bar and looked at him through the gloom.

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, you did. I heard you, I . . .” She cocked her head, hearing something. It was George’s turn to ask the questions.

“What?”

She shook her head and stuffed a juice bottle inside her coat.

“Nothing.”

“Did you hear something?”

“I thought I did. It’s this place. All the mirrors and the dark nooks. Feels like there’s more people in here than you think.” “There are more people in here than you think,” said a voice neither of them had heard before.

It was a puckish London voice, like that of a very old child with a swagger in it. They looked toward the pillared alcove and saw a mask hanging upside down in the archway, grimacing at them. Then a hand pulled the mask away, and they saw it was one of the imp-cherubs that had been sitting on the cornicing. His face was grinning and mischievous, and his hair hung down in an unruly mane beneath it.

“Really,” said George, speaking slowly.

He had the impression that this small boy might disappear at any moment, a thought confirmed by the way the child kept one eye on the door at all times, as if waiting for it to open and the Friar to return.

“Ho, yes. And there are more ‘heres’ here too, if you know how to see them,” said the boy.

Edie opened her mouth, but George waved at her to keep quiet—which she unexpectedly did.

“What’s your name?” George asked.

“Me? I’m Tragedy. Or Little Tragedy. Or You Imp.” George pointed at the boy’s grinning face.

“Shouldn’t you be Comedy?”

“Garn, ‘course not. That’s why I got given the bleedin’ mask, to hide my face. Comedy don’t need a mask, trust me!

“Why?” said Edie.

“Why what?”

“Why trust you? People wearing masks usually have something to hide.” Little Tragedy looked hurt and offended.

“Edie,” said George in a low, warning tone.

“I ain’t wearing it now, am I?” said the boy, waving the mask in the air beneath him.

“No,” admitted Edie, after a sharp glance from George.

Little Tragedy’s face split in a smile.

“There you go, then. Besides, everyone’s got a mask of some kind, don’t they? Everyone’s not quite what they seem.” “Aren’t they?” said Edie.

“No, they ain’t. Blimey, sit under a pub roof without ever leaving for a hundred years, you see things. You hear things. And after a bit, you think things and all.” “What do you think?” George asked carefully. He sensed that the boy wanted to say something to them, but needed it to be teased out of him somehow.

“Well. It’s all a lark, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“So he says. Old Black. He says it’s all a great lark, and that the trick of it is to have the last laugh, and the first laugh, and as many of the ones in between as we can.” His face dropped the smile and became suddenly worried as he went on. “Only, my question is, who are you?

“Who am I?”

“Who am both of you? Because, like I said, I seen things, but I never seen Old Black stop smiling—or looking like he’s smiling—like he done when you telled him what you been up to and how you got here. So what I’m thinking is, who are you?” George shrugged. His fingers itched and felt for something that wasn’t there. He picked his coat off the back of the chair where it was hanging and put it on. He found the piece of plasticene and squished it with his thumb.

“I’m just ordinary. I mean, today I can see spits like you. I mean, I hope you’re a spit. . . .” “Which I certainly ain’t a taint, begging your pardon, I don’t think so!” spluttered the boy in outrage.

“Sorry. No offense. And I see taints and I’m in this nightmare. But most of the time I’m just ordinary.” “It’s not seeing us as we are what makes you different. We seen people who can see us before—” “What happens to them?” broke in Edie.

“Dunno. They don’t usually hang around for long. I think they get got.” “’Got’ by what?”

“Dunno. But something gets them, because they don’t come back.” “Cheerful,” said Edie grimly. “Thanks.” “I’m not saying they get snuffed out, mind. Not necessarily. There’s other ways to go than popping your clogs, other places. I’m just saying they maybe go there.” “To other places?” asked George. Little Tragedy wasn’t making much sense to him, but he still had the feeling that the mischievous-looking boy was bursting to tell them something. Or maybe, he thought, he wasn’t bursting to tell them something at all, but just swollen with the big joke that he knew something he wasn’t going to tell them. Despite his snub nose and twinkling eyes, there was perhaps something not entirely wholesome about him.

“What other places?” asked Edie.

He paused for effect, and his smile went from puckish to something closer to a leer. He said the words slowly and deliberately.

“Other ‘heres.’”

“What other ‘heres’?”

The boy grinned conspiratorially and reached out his arm toward her, little fingers beckoning.

“I’ll tell you if you touch me,” said the boy.

“What?” said George.

“She’s a glint, isn’t she? So if she touches me, she’ll know.” “Know what?” asked George.

“Know if something bad happened to me. And if she can tell me that, then I’ll tell her about the other places. I might even show her how to get to them, too.” Edie and George exchanged a look. She cleared her throat.

“Do you think something bad happened to you?” Little Tragedy put the mask in front of his face. Then took it away. Then put it in front and then took it away again.

“See? Two of me.”

“One’s a mask.”

“I know it’s a mask,” he said, as if explaining something very obvious to two people who were very slow on the uptake. “I’m just showing you what I feel like. Two people, two types of people, and I don’t feel right. Like I’m made wrong. So if you glint me, you can see if I’m made proper. Or if something bad happened that I don’t know about.” He smiled at Edie, and George could see it was a brave smile, as if he were trying not to cry. Edie walked toward him.

“I don’t like glinting,” she said. “It hurts me.” Little Tragedy reached out a thin arm and waggled his fingers again.

“Don’t do it,” said George sharply.

Edie stopped in the archway and looked back at him.

“What?”

“All the other statues, the Sphinxes, the Gunner, all of them are frightened of you. Or at least they really don’t like being around you when you glint.” “So?” she asked, the old challenging look rekindling in her eyes.

“So it’s not right, him being so keen to be glinted. It might be a trap.” “A trap? You’re joking,” snorted the boy. “Bit late to worry about that, isn’t it?” George looked at Edie. Edie looked at the door. They both were remembering the snick the lock had made as the Black Friar had left.

“Are you saying we can’t trust the Black Friar?” “Trust Old Black? ‘Course you can trust him! You can trust him for just about anything. Just as long as you trust him never to be what he seems. …” Edie shivered suddenly as she remembered the drowning girl shouting “He’s not what he seems!” “George—”

Click. The door unlocked. Little Tragedy put his fingers to his lips and spoke very fast.

“I never said nothing and I wasn’t here.”