The mystery of George’s friend in the tunnel didn’t stop with his fleeing from the vast magnitude of the opening that morning.
Amid the pangs of the starving season, Freya remem-bered other traditions: the devotion to family, to friends, good food and good company. Afraid for her son and his detachment from the village she spent as much time as she could with him. They watched films together; festive and fantastic and ringing with Christmas spirit. They took Eaton for long walks, touring Lynnwood’s cobbled streets, illuminated with strings of tasteful lights. And she cooked him hearty meals, the likes of which every growing boy needed; dripping meats, crisp, golden skins, thick gravies and sweet sauces, all washed down with carbonated drinks, which sparkled sharp and refreshing in his face and down his throat. After these meals, when she was briefly sated, her mouth coated with the lingering glaze of dinner, she would sit with him and talk. They spoke of many things, which he might not otherwise have disclosed to her. And while some of these things saddened her, or made her hot and anxious, she wasn’t upset because through speaking they grew closer.
He still returned to the old Brockenhurst line each afternoon. They often talked about the place, which seemed so special to him. The tunnel frightened him, as the dark frightened all children, but there was a part of him that recognised the darkness and was excited by it.
* * *
One late October afternoon, while visiting the tracks, George had heard shouts behind him. The unwelcome voices startled him, his heart racing in his chest. Still on his hands and knees, where he had been inspecting the sleepers for beetles, he looked around. Three boys were moving towards him from the trees.
“What the hell?” said the closest. He thought it might have been Andy.
“What’s he doing up there?”
“He’s playing with dirt –”
“No, worms! He’s eating worms!”
He lost track of who was speaking because he had turned back around to pack away his things, and then it didn’t matter because they started to chant, their ugly voices joined in childish ritual. They reached him just as he was refilling his rucksack. Chris snatched the bag from beneath him while Andy interposed himself between the two. Stewart took the bag from Chris and emptied it onto the grass. His equipment tumbled out.
“So this is where you go after school every day,” said Andy.
“You said we should follow him,” added Chris. “Look at all this stuff.”
“Looks like shit to me.” Stewart picked up the poly-thene bag and emptied the crumbs across the ground. He retrieved one of the jam jars – the clean one – and stared at him through the glass. It did strange things to his eye, making it appear larger than it actually was, multifaceted and sharp. “What d’you use this stuff for?”
When he didn’t speak, Stewart hurled the jar against the tracks. The glass shattered against the metal so that only the jagged base remained. “I said what do you use this stuff for?”
Still he didn’t answer. His mouth felt dry, powdery, like the wings of those butterflies in the display cabinet at home. This was his place. His private place. And the others had followed him here.
“You’re an idiot, Georgie,” said Stewart flatly. “Can’t speak to save your life, eh?”
“Mouth full of worms, probably,” said Chris.
“Mouth full of shit more like.”
They taunted him like this for some minutes. He stopped listening after the first, retreating into himself. He wished he were an insect, with glistening black skin hard enough to withstand their words, three pairs of legs, sharp mandibles with which to nip the limbs neatly from the other children, until they were armless, legless stumps, flailing, moaning by the old tracks –
He wasn’t sure which one of them pushed him over. He slipped and rolled down the embankment, only stopping when he reached the base. Mud streaked down his back and across his face. His belongings followed after him: some schoolbooks, the second jam jar, his pencil case. His neck ached, his chest constricted. He didn’t cry.
“See you tomorrow, Georgie,” shouted Stewart. “Don’t be late.”
He struggled to his feet in time to see Michael hurl his magnifying glass into the tunnel. Then the three of them ran off through the trees.
For a long time he didn’t move. A fresh wind played through the orange leaves. Autumn was in full sway, the Forest appearing rich, almost golden, beneath the drab sky, but he saw through that. His was a different Lynnwood, far removed from the village other people seemed to see. Of that much he assured Freya, when they spoke about it.
Eventually he moved, climbing the embankment to the tracks. He found his rucksack and some of his books, which he carefully retrieved from the grass, and was about to leave when he heard it again, as he had before: a scraping sound, of something being dragged against loose rock. He turned to the mouth of the tunnel. The darkness made it near impossible to see and yet he thought he could discern something within: a shape, gaunt and grey in the shadows.
He leant in, his eyes squinting, just as it emerged from the tunnel mouth. Not all of it, but an arm, long and thin. The limb stretched out from the darkness, hurled something through the air, then withdrew in a flash. George stared down at the grass by his feet and at his magnifying glass, lens cracked, which had landed there.
He approached the tunnel slowly. It was darker than he remembered. Colder. It towered over him. There was no more movement, no sign of anything within, except the distant echo of dislodged stones. He stared a moment longer, then spared a backwards glance to make sure he was unwatched. Only the magpie witnessed his actions.
He turned back to the tunnel. His pockets bulged with the collected detritus of the afternoon’s efforts: a handful of dead woodlice, a shrivelled earthworm, caught above ground for too long, a small Tupperware box that he had placed two large snails inside. Each of these things he took slowly from his pockets and arranged on the ground before the tunnel. He wasn’t so close that the figure inside could reach him; of that he was certain. Friendship was still a strange thing, whatever form it took, and he treated it accordingly.
Seated on the ground, surrounded by his menagerie of insects, living and dead, he opened his mouth and began to talk. He talked about arthropods and habitats and how lonely he felt in a village where no one understood him. He spoke of other things too; the beating inside him, a soft, insistent pulsing, like a pupa pressing at its cocoon.
It didn’t matter that the figure in the cave remained anonymous. In fact, he thought, it was better that way. He talked to it, the figure who had watched him when he came to the tracks each day, the figure who had returned his magnifying glass to him. He talked and, though he didn’t smile, he was happy because he heard the scattering of tiny stones and he knew it was listening. There were other sounds too; sometimes the sharp, hollow crack of distressed bone, as when Eaton gnawed a chew-treat, and he realised it must be feeding in there, or had fed recently. This didn’t bother him unduly, he told Freya, for all things must eat, and he wasn’t so alone in Lynnwood anymore.