CHAPTER

12

BEFORE

ONE NIGHT, MICHAEL woke up in a darkness so complete it hummed. The safe, warm electric light that burned from the shaded bulb in the ceiling had vanished, casting him into the black; sending him back, in an instant, to the cupboard. Suddenly it was impossible to know where he was, who he was, which way was up. He gasped in great whooping breaths of hot, fetid air, air that tasted of musty clothes, of old food and fresh shit, of the red coat, the red coat, the red coat …

He flung his arms out, and when his fingernails skittered against old splintered panels he began to shriek over and over again. Soon his mother would come storming up the stairs to see what the noise was about, her doughy arms trembling with rage, or his father, already whipping the belt from his trouser loops, or worse, perhaps she would come, smiling and kind, her sharp hands seeking his skin … but the noises from his own throat wouldn’t stop—he was a wounded animal caught in a trap, tearing itself to pieces. Abruptly he felt a hot muzzle press itself into his hand, a wet blast of breath through his fingers, and the sensation surprised him so much he clamped his mouth shut, his teeth nipping the end of his tongue.

A second later and the man was in the doorway, the beam from an old electric torch chasing away the confines of the cupboard to reveal the room, exactly as it had been. The dog wasn’t there.

“It’s nowt but a power cut, lad.” In the dazzle from the torch, the boy couldn’t see the man’s face, but the shape of him was so unlike anything from home—the red coat the red coat the red coat—that he felt the air transform, becoming clear again, slick and clean and free of terror. “Come downstairs if you’re going to take on so, I’ve all the candles out. Is your mouth bleeding?”

The next day was wet and blustery, but the man made him put a coat on—again too big, the bottom of it came down to his knees—and they went walking outside. The area around the house was green and isolated; Michael could see fields and hedgerows, and a tangle of dark woods. It was this that the man led him toward, their trousers quickly becoming heavy with water from the tall grass, and as they passed under the dark twisted trees, Michael shivered and blinked, feeling more awake than he had for days.

“This is Fiddler’s Wood,” said the man. “It’s ancient.” There was a clear note of pride in his voice. “Primrose, wood anemone, yellow rattle, dog roses. Bluebells, in the spring. Flowers that mean a place is old, that a place is a leftover from the ice age.” He looked down at Michael, his false eye dull. “You don’t care for flowers none, I expect, but that’s not what I’m going to show you.”