Yesterday he’d done everything in such a rush and had made many bad decisions but this time he planned more carefully. He went to a supermarket and chose food that would keep a long time and also got essential things like matches, candles and lavatory paper. At another shop he bought a little camping stove, a spare canister of gas, and a small saucepan. Lastly, he bought some adhesive tape in case he needed to break a window to get into the house.
He was a bit worried that someone might see him in town but the only really dangerous moment came when he got near the house. If Mrs Solomon happened to spot him out of the window, there was always the chance that she might say something to somebody. It was a risk he had to take, though. He ran down the alleyway at the side of number 56, keeping as close to the wall as possible. He rounded the corner and then peeped up at Mrs Solomon’s side window. It was empty and he felt sure that he hadn’t been seen.
As he’d expected, the back door of 56 was locked and the little larder window was closed. The police would have come back after Friday evening to check if there were any more stolen goods in the house and they would have made sure everything was closed up after they left.
He found some loose bricks in the garden and piled them up high enough for him to reach the window. Tearing strips of adhesive tape he covered the whole pane of glass with it. Then he got a stone and smashed it hard against the window. The glass shattered but made hardly any noise. He peeled the tape off carefully, bringing most of the glass with it, and reached inside to unlatch the window. He pulled it open and began trying to climb up. It took all his strength but finally he heaved himself up and into the larder.
By the time he’d cleared up outside and brought all his things in, he felt exhausted. His jeans were still damp so he took them off and hung them in a corner then got into the sleeping bag and lay down on the camp-bed.
It was strange to be lying on the Beast’s bed. He pulled off his sweater and arranged it so that his head wouldn’t be touching the canvas. The Beast wasn’t dirty, but he was strange and perhaps you could catch the strangeness like a disease. He didn’t want to end up like the Beast. Yet here he was, living in the Beast’s room, sleeping in his bed.
He tried to tell himself that it wouldn’t be for long but it didn’t help. He’d hoped that he would feel more cheerful once he’d found somewhere safe to stay but, although he was better off here than in the bus shelter, he still felt depressed and lifeless. How long could he go on living like this? Sooner or later somebody would find him, wherever he was. Then they would put him in a Home. They’d probably still let him go to school, but that would be even worse. He could just imagine what some of the kids there would say and do. He’d try anything rather than have to face that. Yet each time it came back to that same problem what could he do and where could he go? The questions went round and round in his head until he fell asleep.
It was totally dark when he woke and he thought he was back in the bus shelter. Then he realized that there was no sound of rain and he remembered where he was. The darkness frightened him and he groped across the room until he found the matches. The light from one candle wasn’t enough to drive the shadows from the corners so he lit another two. His watch said one-twenty and he assumed it must be early Tuesday morning. Since Friday, though, he’d spent so much time sleeping or half-asleep that it wouldn’t have surprised him if he’d slept through a whole day. Perhaps it was now Wednesday. Time didn’t matter any more. He had nothing to do and nowhere to go.
Regular mealtimes didn’t matter either so he decided to eat now. He lit the stove and heated up a tin of stew. He sat on the edge of the bed and started to eat it out of the saucepan. He wasn’t as bad as the Beast yet – he ate his food cold, straight out of the tin. Charmian had noticed that the first time they’d come here. Charmian and Julius – what would they be doing now? Asleep, of course. They were leading proper lives, not eating meals in the middle of the night. And what about the Beast? In prison somewhere – all because of what Buddy had done. Not just the Beast, either. His dad.
Since Friday evening, Buddy hadn’t allowed himself to think about his dad for more than a few seconds at a time. Now, however, there was no holding it back. He’d tried to forget it but every single moment of the evening was burned into his brain. The look his dad had given him when he’d said that he’d called the police. The calm way he’d got into the police car. The way he’d put his arm round the Beast’s shoulder.
Buddy got up and put the saucepan in the old stone sink. He’d only eaten a couple of mouthfuls but he wasn’t hungry any more. Until now, all he’d done was feel sorry for himself and worry about what was going to happen to him. But what about his dad? Being in prison was worse than being in a Home – they wouldn’t have bars and locked doors in a Home. A terrible picture flashed across his mind – his dad alone in a cell, looking at the sky through a barred window.
He put out the candles and threw himself on the bed. All he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep and forget. That must be why people killed themselves – to forget. It was obvious, of course, but he’d never seen it so clearly before. The man who had owned this house, for instance. After he’d killed his wife, all he’d wanted to do was forget, but sleep hadn’t been enough for him – he’d hanged himself to make sure that he never woke up and remembered.
Buddy was frightened in the dark but he wouldn’t let himself light a candle. Being frightened stopped him thinking about other things. The house was full of sounds – creaks, rustlings and tappings. He lay, tense and motionless, listening to each one until gradually he came to know them all. They still scared him when they came suddenly after a long period of silence, but they were just noises. They would still be happening if he wasn’t there to hear them. The noises didn’t know he was there. The room didn’t know he was there. The bed he was lying on didn’t know he was lying on it. In fact, he wasn’t even sure that he was lying on it. His body was lying on the bed, but suddenly he knew that his body wasn’t him. People looked at his body and said, ‘There’s Buddy Clark’ but, in fact, his body was really only like a painting he’d seen in a film once. The painting was of a man’s face and there were little flaps for the eyes. Somebody behind the painting had kept opening the eye-flaps and looking out. Just like the real Buddy Clark now, tiny and hidden somewhere deep inside his body, was peering out through the holes in his head that people called eyes.
Shafts of light came in through the planks of wood nailed over the window. He watched them move slowly across the walls and ceiling as the day passed and night filled the room again.
Now there was a noise he hadn’t heard before – a click, a scrape and a bang. Then footsteps. He froze in alarm and held his breath. The door opened and a huge shape, darker than the darkness, came into the room. A match flared. The figure bent down and lit a candle, then stood up. It was the Beast.
Buddy sat up and the Beast turned at the noise. His face was blank – no fear, not even surprise. He held the candle up higher so that the light fell more fully on Buddy. Then he seemed to remember something. He looked round the room.
‘Where are the black boys?’ he asked.
Buddy realized what he was talking about. ‘They’re not here. I’m by myself. One of them was a girl.’
The Beast nodded. He stared at Buddy for a long time, then shrugged his shoulders and busied himself lighting another two candles and putting them in the corners of the room, as though there was nothing more to be said. Buddy got off the bed and crossed quickly to get his jeans. The Beast saw what he was doing and turned his back while Buddy put them on.
‘I’m sorry I’m in your house – I haven’t got anywhere else to go,’ he said, feeling that he owed the Beast some kind of explanation even though he didn’t seem at all angry.
‘It’s my house,’ the Beast said. ‘Uncle Des told me, “It’s your house, Ralphie, and that’s that.”’
Uncle Des. Des King. Was Mr King the Beast’s uncle? The shock of seeing the Beast had driven all other thoughts out of his mind, but suddenly they all came rushing back. The Beast was out of prison. What had happened? Was his dad free, too?
‘I thought you weren’t here. I thought you were in prison. You went away with the police.’
The Beast’s face looked just as it had done when Charmian had accused him of killing the cat.
‘I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know,’ he said, his voice full of a desperate desire to be believed. ‘Mr Clark told them. He told them I didn’t steal anything. Mr Clark told them.’
Of course he did, Buddy thought. His dad had put his arm round the Beast’s shoulder. His dad would never have let the police accuse this simple man. He had undone some of the harm that Buddy had done. He had taken all the blame himself and the police had let the Beast go.
‘I didn’t steal anything,’ the Beast repeated.
‘I know. I know you didn’t.’
The Beast looked relieved. A shy smile crept round his mouth. He folded his arms self-consciously then unfolded them and let them hang by his side. Buddy didn’t know what to do. Should he go? The Beast didn’t appear to be at all bothered about finding someone in his room. On the contrary, he seemed pleased.
‘I brought a stove,’ Buddy said, for something to say. ‘You can cook your food on it.’
The Beast smiled and nodded, then looked hopefully at him. Buddy set to work. He took the saucepan outside and threw the remains of the stew into the garden, then went back and washed it. The Beast sat on the bed watching his every move. Buddy lit the stove and held up a selection of cans.
‘You choose,’ he said, but the Beast shook his head and pointed at Buddy. ‘All right, then – beans.’
He opened two cans, poured them into the saucepan and put it on the stove. When the beans were hot enough, he put half of them back in the can and gave it to the Beast, who sat waiting with his fork poised until Buddy was ready to start. They each took a mouthful then nodded and smiled at each other to show they liked it. They ate slowly – Buddy, because he was really enjoying the taste of food after such a long time without eating properly, and the Beast, as though he had been taught that he must chew everything thoroughly before swallowing.
They didn’t speak. Normally, Buddy would have been embarrassed at being in a room with someone without talking, but with the Beast it didn’t seem to matter. They finished their food and while Buddy washed the saucepan and the cutlery, the Beast tidied things up. He stacked the unopened cans along one wall and took the others outside. Then he carefully lifted Buddy’s things and piled them neatly against the other wall. Finally, he took the sleeping bag off the bed and put it in the middle of the floor. He arranged the blankets on the camp bed and lay down.
Buddy stood, unsure what to do. Well then, ask.
‘Would you mind if I stayed?’
The Beast thought for a moment, and it was obvious that he was thinking – no attempt to cover up or pretend to be polite like most people. Finally he folded his arms across his chest and said, ‘You can stay.’
Buddy lay on the sleeping bag. The yellow light from the candles flickered on the ceiling. He felt strangely peaceful and happy. It was good to be with another human being. As soon as he thought it, though, he felt a stab of sorrow. It couldn’t last. He couldn’t stay here. The Beast wouldn’t want him here all the time. Besides, there was always the chance that Uncle Des would come.
He turned on to his side and looked over at the Beast. ‘Is Uncle Des’s name Mr King?’ he asked, aware now of how easy it was to talk directly and simply to someone who was direct and simple.
The Beast rolled over and looked at him. ‘Mr King,’ he said, as if he was pleased that Buddy knew him. ‘He’s a good man. He said I didn’t have to stay in Chandos House. I didn’t like it there.’
Even if Buddy hadn’t known what it was, there would have been no need to ask about Chandos House. The look on the Beast’s face told everything. Chandos House was a mental home on the outskirts of the city, not far from Buddy’s school. Kids at school often made jokes about it.
Buddy stared at the ceiling again. So, even Mr King wasn’t as bad as he’d seemed. True, he’d used his simple nephew’s house as a place for storing stolen goods, but at least he’d rescued him from a loony bin. And he certainly hadn’t been responsible for getting him arrested – nobody but Buddy could claim that honour.
The candles began to burn low and the long shadows danced nearer and nearer each other. Buddy suddenly felt that he didn’t want the darkness to come again. He wanted the warm light to last until he decided to put it out because he wanted to sleep – and perhaps not even then. It would be good to wake up and be able to see where he was.
As if he had read Buddy’s thoughts, the Beast got up and lit three new candles from the stubs of the old ones. He brought one and put it near Buddy, then stood the other two near his own bed. He lay down again then raised himself on one elbow, staring at Buddy openly and without embarrassment. He looked as if he were about to say something but then just pointed at the candles and laughed gently. Buddy knew exactly what he meant – yes, it was silly to need the light to chase the dark away but it was good to have it.
‘Haven’t you got a mum and dad?’ The Beast asked the question just like a little boy but there was something dangerous about it.
Buddy felt a slight sweat break out on his face. He shook his head. No mum and dad – that was what it felt like. They would certainly have stopped thinking of him as their son since Friday.
The Beast swung his legs round and sat on the edge of the bed. The news had really interested him. The candlelight shone in his dark eyes just as it had the night Buddy had seen him through the letter-box.
‘I haven’t got a mum and dad,’ he said, staring intently at Buddy as if that made them brothers.
Buddy didn’t know what to say.
The Beast’s eyes wandered away towards the corner of the room but he wasn’t seeing anything. He shook his head and spoke slowly and sadly. ‘I haven’t got….’
Buddy couldn’t tell whether the Beast had forgotten the words or whether he just couldn’t bear to say them again. The room had grown hot and stuffy in the last few minutes.
‘You’ve got an uncle, though,’ Buddy said, trying to break the tension.
The Beast nodded. Buddy thought rapidly – he felt uncomfortable in the silence – he wanted to keep talking to cover it up. Uncle – that was the brother of one of your parents.
‘Was your Uncle Des, your dad’s brother or your mum’s brother?’
‘My mum. Uncle Des was my mum’s brother. My mum. My mum. My mum.’
The Beast’s eyelids flicked wider. Buddy’s ears popped as the pressure in the room seemed to change. He heard each whispered word and saw every movement that the Beast’s mouth made in order to say, ‘My – dad – killed – her.’
A shiver shot up Buddy’s back like a shock wave. The news scrambled wildly round his brain and then suddenly lurched into position. The Beast was their son.
The Beast’s eyes were totally blank. The pupils were huge. Buddy hardly dared imagine what those eyes were seeing from all those years ago. The young Ralph James Campbell – perhaps younger than Buddy – coming home from school and finding his mother on the floor surrounded by the blood that had poured from her throat. The young Ralph James Campbell calling for his father, running all over the house looking for him and finally finding him, hanging from a rope.
The eyes were blank and Buddy couldn’t tear his gaze from them. They were empty like the eyes of the painting in that film. Perhaps, somewhere deep behind them, the real Ralph James Campbell was peering out of the holes at him – tiny and terrified.
The Beast’s eyelids flickered and closed for a couple of seconds. When he opened them he was seeing things again. He smiled slightly at Buddy and then looked at the candles. Buddy’s mind was still racing to cope with his shock and confusion and he leaped at the chance to say something, anything.
‘I’m not tired. I’ll keep the candles alight if you want to sleep.’
The Beast nodded and lay down on the bed. He covered himself with the blankets. A few minutes later, his whole body jerked slightly. He sighed deeply and Buddy knew he was asleep.
Buddy blew out two of the candles and put the other one directly in line with the Beast’s face so that it would be the first thing he saw if he woke up. Then he sat on the floor at the far side of the room, staring at the candle’s steady flame and waiting for his brain to calm down so that he could think. When the first candle was just a small flickering stump, he replaced it with a new one, then another. By the time the third candle had burned out, daylight was coming through the cracks in the window.
It hadn’t been much – seeing the Beast through one night. Not much at all, after the trouble he had caused him by calling the police. But what could he do for him, anyway? There was only one thing that the Beast wanted, and nobody on earth could help him with that. His parents were dead and there was the end of it. But Buddy’s weren’t and no matter how difficult the situation was, it could never be as hopeless as the Beast’s.
‘Ralph,’ he said, gently shaking his shoulder. The Beast’s eyes opened sleepily but closed again. ‘Can you hear me?’ The Beast nodded. ‘It’s morning. I’ve got to go now. I’ll see you around. Ok? Thanks for letting me stay. ’Bye.’
‘’Bye,’ he mumbled and snuggled down in sleep.
Buddy got his things together – leaving the food and the stove – and crept quietly out of the dark house.