unusual feature. But then, the Wirrim's an unusual place."
He looked back at Michael, and rested his arm on the mantlepiece. Michael was motionless in the chair.
I should do it now. Look him right in the eyes. And do it.
Mr Cleever smiled suddenly. "You're different, Michael, but you're not unique. Go ahead, take a look. I won't mind."
And in that sudden moment of confusion and fear, Michael did what he had been plucking up the courage to do, and looked. But he lacked entirely the arrogant composure he had hoped for, and was instead smitten, for the first time since his awakening in the Pit, with a sense of desperate peril.
He looked. And saw.
Mr Cleever was not a wart-hog, or a dung-beetle. His soul hovered by the mantlepiece, its eyes fixed firmly on Michael, and in that vital instant he knew that it was returning his gaze, sight for sight, and that if he saw, it saw too. The eyes were small and red and sparked like gemstones, and bored into him with a hungry intentness of purpose which sent a sick feeling coursing through his stomach. These eyes were set in a surface as dark and thick as treacle, with just the thinnest streaks of colour and brightness fighting free of the broiling darkness, only to be subsumed again in a moment.
And the shape was that of a reptile. It had a long thrusting blunt snout pointing right at him, and there were teeth all along the side of it, sharp and horribly even. And in a strange way, it seemed to Michael that the smile was superimposed exactly on Mr Cleever's own ordinary smile, and that the two were in no way different. The head was quite smooth, except for two lumps high up near the back, close together and extending into the hazy light which surrounded the form.
Then the mouth opened, and Michael saw the red interior flare as Mr Cleever's voice said:
"I can see your fear. But I'm not your enemy, Michael. Far from it."
Michael's terror coalesced into a single word. Even as he swore, the bottle was falling to the floor.
His focus shifted. The human face reappeared, and the smile was the same.
The bottle smashed.
Now Michael was careering up the long dark hall, toppling an aspidistra from its marble stand and sending it against the wall in a shower of soil and pottery.
"Michael! There is no point running. What you see, you will become!"
That came from behind him. From the side, from the front room, a sharp oath and hurried movement; the door opened and someone came out at a run, but who it was Michael did not see. He was already past and wrenching at the handle of the front door. As he pulled it open, fingers clenched like claws on his jacket, but he ripped himself clear and was sprinting down the garden, his eyes burning with pain.
No one followed. He did not look back.
As he shot away into the darkness, heat hovered about him like a cloud.
18
At the cottage, Sarah had gone to bed. But Stephen had emerged, and was sitting in the kitchen finishing off a fried egg sandwich when Michael burst breathlessly in.
"In the words of the song," said Stephen, "I feel fine."
Michael dropped into the chair opposite. He was haggard and drawn. "Good grief," said Stephen, with his sandwich halfway to his face. "What's happened now?"
"It's not just us."
"Eh?"
"We're not alone in this. Cleever. He's one."
"He's what? – you don't mean—?"
"And there may be more of them. In fact, I know there are. I didn't see them, but they wouldn't have been there if they weren't, would they?"
Stephen shoved his plate to one side and held up both hands in an imploring gesture. "Start again," he said. "Tell it through slowly, and don't miss anything out."
"First, I'm locking that." Michael got up and turned the key in the back door. "Right."
"Michael, what's got into you?"
He told him. Stephen listened to the end without interrupting.
"I see," he said quietly.
Michael stared at him with a stricken face. "You see? Is that all you can say? Christ, Stephen, he read my mind! He read my mind! He
He looked back at Michael, and rested his arm on the mantlepiece. Michael was motionless in the chair.
I should do it now. Look him right in the eyes. And do it.
Mr Cleever smiled suddenly. "You're different, Michael, but you're not unique. Go ahead, take a look. I won't mind."
And in that sudden moment of confusion and fear, Michael did what he had been plucking up the courage to do, and looked. But he lacked entirely the arrogant composure he had hoped for, and was instead smitten, for the first time since his awakening in the Pit, with a sense of desperate peril.
He looked. And saw.
Mr Cleever was not a wart-hog, or a dung-beetle. His soul hovered by the mantlepiece, its eyes fixed firmly on Michael, and in that vital instant he knew that it was returning his gaze, sight for sight, and that if he saw, it saw too. The eyes were small and red and sparked like gemstones, and bored into him with a hungry intentness of purpose which sent a sick feeling coursing through his stomach. These eyes were set in a surface as dark and thick as treacle, with just the thinnest streaks of colour and brightness fighting free of the broiling darkness, only to be subsumed again in a moment.
And the shape was that of a reptile. It had a long thrusting blunt snout pointing right at him, and there were teeth all along the side of it, sharp and horribly even. And in a strange way, it seemed to Michael that the smile was superimposed exactly on Mr Cleever's own ordinary smile, and that the two were in no way different. The head was quite smooth, except for two lumps high up near the back, close together and extending into the hazy light which surrounded the form.
Then the mouth opened, and Michael saw the red interior flare as Mr Cleever's voice said:
"I can see your fear. But I'm not your enemy, Michael. Far from it."
Michael's terror coalesced into a single word. Even as he swore, the bottle was falling to the floor.
His focus shifted. The human face reappeared, and the smile was the same.
The bottle smashed.
Now Michael was careering up the long dark hall, toppling an aspidistra from its marble stand and sending it against the wall in a shower of soil and pottery.
"Michael! There is no point running. What you see, you will become!"
That came from behind him. From the side, from the front room, a sharp oath and hurried movement; the door opened and someone came out at a run, but who it was Michael did not see. He was already past and wrenching at the handle of the front door. As he pulled it open, fingers clenched like claws on his jacket, but he ripped himself clear and was sprinting down the garden, his eyes burning with pain.
No one followed. He did not look back.
As he shot away into the darkness, heat hovered about him like a cloud.
18
At the cottage, Sarah had gone to bed. But Stephen had emerged, and was sitting in the kitchen finishing off a fried egg sandwich when Michael burst breathlessly in.
"In the words of the song," said Stephen, "I feel fine."
Michael dropped into the chair opposite. He was haggard and drawn. "Good grief," said Stephen, with his sandwich halfway to his face. "What's happened now?"
"It's not just us."
"Eh?"
"We're not alone in this. Cleever. He's one."
"He's what? – you don't mean—?"
"And there may be more of them. In fact, I know there are. I didn't see them, but they wouldn't have been there if they weren't, would they?"
Stephen shoved his plate to one side and held up both hands in an imploring gesture. "Start again," he said. "Tell it through slowly, and don't miss anything out."
"First, I'm locking that." Michael got up and turned the key in the back door. "Right."
"Michael, what's got into you?"
He told him. Stephen listened to the end without interrupting.
"I see," he said quietly.
Michael stared at him with a stricken face. "You see? Is that all you can say? Christ, Stephen, he read my mind! He read my mind! He
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