The Black Room

FOR A SECOND, Tom COULDN’T BELIEVE IT WAS ACTUALLY there. Was he imagining it? Was he so obsessed that his poor, exhausted brain had started conjuring up hallucinations? He blinked and looked again.

The braid was still there. So it was real. And it was exactly the right shape, even though it wasn’t long and golden orange. Neat and tight and square. He just had time to imagine how the pattern would feel under his fingers. Then the boy and the bag and the braid all disappeared into the sweet shop.

He wanted to shout triumphantly. Got you, Robbo! There’s nothing special about that braid of yours. Any old sausage-fingered kid can make one like it!

That would make Robert think, all right. And it would fix Emma, too. He could hardly wait to tell her. The braid was just as ordinary as the little woods in the park. Once she knew that—once she could see that he knew—she’d have to stop playing games with Robert. And start looking after him.

But the imaginary scene in his head started going wrong. Because he knew what Emma would say. He could almost hear her superior, sarcastic voice. So you found a twelve-strand braid, did you? Are you sure it wasn’t nine? Or ten? Did you count the strands?

And, of course, he hadn’t counted them. He couldn’t be sure there really were twelve. And even if he was sure, that wouldn’t be good enough once he was face-to-face with Emma. He had to double-check. To get a better look.

He stayed on the bench, waiting for the boy to come out of the sweet shop. Determined to track him all the way home if he had to.

But that wasn’t necessary. Because when the boy came out of the shop, he headed straight back to the bench and sat down in exactly the same place as before. He had three more paper bags in his hand, and he put them down on the bench, on his left-hand side, exactly where the other bags had been.

Then he slipped the sports bag off his shoulder and turned to put it on the other side. But there wasn’t room, because Tom was sitting there.

If their eyes had met, even for a second, things would have been different. Tom was ready to give him a smile. He was ready to slide to the end of the bench to make room for the bag. He would have done anything that gave him a chance to talk and ask a few questions about the braid.

But the boy glanced away, avoiding him. He just dropped his sports bag onto the ground, half of it in front of his own feet and half in front of Tom’s. Then he turned to the sweets and started stuffing them into his mouth.

The braid was there, right next to Tom’s feet, hanging down from the zipper toggle. He could hardly breathe. It was close enough to touch. Don’t move too fast. Don’t blow it. As casually as he could, he bent over and started retying one of his shoelaces.

As soon as he bent down, the boy’s head whipped around. The pale eyes peered suspiciously.

He said it in the friendliest voice he could and grinned cheerfully. But the boy didn’t respond. For a second he just stared, obviously startled at being spoken to. Then he glowered and turned his back ostentatiously, shielding the sweets with his body.

Right, Tom thought. If you’re going to be like that, I’ll do it another way. As the fat hand reached into the paper bags, Tom took his chance. His fingers flew to the zipper toggle, and he struggled with the knot, trying to untie the little braid.

But he couldn’t. The knot was pulled tight, and the braiding made it almost impossible to pull it apart.

He’d never stolen anything before. Even while his fingers were closing around the handles, he was telling himself that he wouldn’t really do it. But his arm kept moving, and the boy didn’t turn around, and suddenly—there Tom was, on the other side of the square, with the bag in his hand.

He slipped between two shops, into the parking lot, and then ran, as fast as he could, heading out of town toward the park and Robert’s house. There was one shout from behind him, and then—nothing. When he glanced over his shoulder, there was no one racing after him.

He slowed to a walk and started imagining what it would be like to wave the braid in Robert’s face. He wanted a really good punch line. Something smart and snappy that would really maximize the shock—without sounding as though he cared too much. He imagined himself lounging casually against the side of the doorway, saying something short and witty.

When Robert opened the door, all the cool, clever things Tom had meant to say went right out of his head. He just pushed the sports bag forward and shook it furiously.

For a second, Robert didn’t understand what Tom wanted him to see. Then Tom thrust the bag at him, zipper uppermost, so that the toggle was right under his nose.

Robert froze and all the color drained out of his face. He reached out a hand toward the braid and stopped before he touched it, as if he thought it would burn him.

“Don’t you know?” Tom flipped the braid with his finger. “I thought you were the expert. Why don’t you tell me where it comes from?” He pushed the bag at Robert again, harder this time, trying to knock him off balance.

But he wasn’t strong enough. Robert caught him by the arms, pulling him forward. “Where did you get that braid?”

For a moment Tom couldn’t speak. It was like a horrible joke. He’d spent years nagging Robert to be more aggressive (Stand up for what you want. Assert yourself. Don’t take “no” for an answer), and now all that had backfired on him.

“Tell me!” Robert shook him again, impatiently. “Where did you find it?”

For a moment he thought he was going to get hit again. Robert caught hold of the braid and flapped it in his face.

“Can’t you see how the hair’s braided into it? That’s what Lorn does. She must have made it!”

“Lorn?” Tom couldn’t make sense of the words. “What are you talking about? I thought Lorn was some kind of midget fairy. How could she make anything as big as that?”

Robert closed his eyes and spoke very slowly. “Why don’t you listen—instead of trying to be clever? It hasn’t got anything to do with fairies. Lorn’s a real person—like you and me. And when I was in the cavern, I was still here, wasn’t I? Even if I was like a zombie.”

But Robert’s voice went on relentlessly. “That’s Lorn’s pattern, Tosh. And I’ve got to find her. If I can’t get her out of the cavern before the winter comes, she’ll die of cold. So are you going to tell me where you got it from—or do I have to beat it out of you?”

Tom dropped the bag and put his hands in the air. “Calm down. Of course I’ll tell you. For what it’s worth. I swiped it from a boy in town.”

“Only so I could show you the braid,” Tom said defen sively. “And he was a stupid kid. Too busy guzzling sweets to notice what was going on.”

“You didn’t have to take it. You should have asked him where he got it from.”

“Why would I care?” Tom was beginning to feel annoyed now. “It’s just a few bits of wool twisted together, Robbo. It doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

They were still standing at the front door, Robert inside the house and Tom outside. Suddenly, Robert stepped over the threshold and pulled the door shut behind him. He bent down and picked up the sports bag.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll go back, and if the boy’s still there, we can ask him about it.”

“Yeah, right,” Tom said sarcastically. “Hi there! I’m the one who stole your bag. And now I’d like you to answer a few questions. That’s really going to work, isn’t it?”

“I’m not messing around, Tosh,” he said. Dangerously. “I’ve got to find Lorn. So either you come and point out the boy—if he’s still there—or else I go by myself. And if there’s any fuss about the bag getting stolen, I’ll tell the police where to find you.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Tom said, trying to pull his arm free. “Not to me.”

“Oh no?” Robert raised his eyebrows. “We’re past all that, Tosh. You changed the rules when you threatened to dig up the cavern.”

Robert’s face didn’t change. Tom had never seen that calm, determined expression before. He didn’t fancy his chances if he tried to run off.

“I have to find her,” Robert said. “Before it’s too late. It’s very, very important—and I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“OK,” Tom said slowly. “We’ll go back and look. As long as I don’t have to talk to him.”

“That’ll do.” Robert began walking across the garden, pulling Tom along with him. “All you need to do is show me the right person.”

“Then we’ll go back next Saturday,” Robert said steadily. “And the one after that and the one after that, until we find him.”

Tom tugged at his arm again. “You don’t have to keep hold of me. I said I’d come.”

Robert gave him a sharp look and then let go. “OK,” he said. “But it’s the same deal.”

Tom marched along without saying anything else. He just wanted to get it over with. All they had to do was go to the square and take a quick look around. He was pretty sure the boy would have cleared off by now.

He was standing over on the other side of the square, with his back to them, talking to a big man with a gray, heavy face. And he was making excuses. Tom could tell he was, even without hearing his voice. He kept shifting from foot to foot, leaning forward to speak in hesitant bursts and then stopping short.

The man wasn’t saying anything. He was standing very still, and his face was without any kind of expression apart from a terrible close attention. Whatever the boy said, the man didn’t make any kind of reply. He just let the boy go on and on with his jerky excuses. It was like watching a worm writhing on the end of a hook.

Robert was watching him. “You can see him, can’t you?” he said quickly. “Where is he?”

Tom looked at the man’s cold face and his narrow, closed mouth. “Don’t try and talk to him now, Robbo. His dad’s there. ”

“So?” Robert made a small impatient movement. His eyes traveled slowly around the square until they reached the right place. Then he glanced around. “That’s him. Isn’t it?”

“He won’t tell you anything,” Tom said. “Not while that man’s there. He’s afraid of him.”

The man was talking now, but only his lips were moving, like wet, red worms. His face was heavy and unhealthy, like something bodged out of dirty white clay.

Robert watched him for a moment. “You don’t know,” he said. “Not just from looking. He might be fine when you talk to him.”

“But suppose he’s not fine.? Suppose he just takes the bag and walks off? What are you going to do then?” Tom shook his head and edged backward. He had no intention of going anywhere near that man.

“Hang on a minute.” Robert caught hold of Tom’s sleeve. “Maybe he’ll go off somewhere. Then we can get the boy on his own.”

But it didn’t happen like that. Almost as he said it, the man did turn around and walk off. He went briskly out of the square and down the road toward the parking lot. But the boy went with him, almost jogging as he tried to keep up.

Robert tugged at Tom’s sleeve and pulled him across the square. But as they reached the edge of the parking lot, the boy and his father were already climbing into a car. Robert broke into a run, but Tom could see that was pointless. He stayed where he was, watching the car back out of its space and drive away. It turned left out of the lot and then right, so that it disappeared almost instantly.

He was amazed at the sudden burst of feeling that swept through him. He could have laughed out loud from sheer relief.