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Authors: David Almond
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Vincent-bliddy-McAlinden now!”
“Oh, Vincent,” she said. “Not now.”
She reached out to him. He glared.
“Go back to your mam,” she said.
It was then that we saw Jack Law, at the far side of the fire with the smoke swirling around him. His mouth was opening, closing, opening, closing, as if in a ceaseless stream of sounds or words.
Vincent ran through the smouldering waste to him.
“How come you’re the one that’s always there?” he screamed. “How come it’s always you that’s always lookin with your beady bliddy stupid eyes?”
He picked up a rock and raised it high as if to bring it down on Jack’s head. Jack backed away, backed away. Then he turned and walked, strode quickly past us. He met my eye, he opened his mouth as if to speak, and nothing came. Then he was gone, and Vincent was on the earth, beating it as if it were some great enemy.
His mam stood uselessly over him.
“Nothing we can do,” said Dad.
We went back into the estate, past the police cars, the fire engine, the ambulance. Here came kind Dr. Molly in distress, with her doctor’s bag in her hand, and then the priest, with his hand against his heart and his black cloak flapping as he ran.
No one was ever found. Nobody ever confessed. There were tales of a gang of scorched and gleeful boys running across the square that dusk. There was talk that the burners were wild kids from down Wardley way. But nobody came forward. No parents gave up their children. How could they live with themselves, knowing what they’d done? How could they live with such sin on their soul? And what would await them after their own deaths?
An evil act, some said.
No, said others. Just a prank that went wrong.
But what was the name for a prank with such effects?
How bitter that winter was, how beautiful. For weeks the temperature hardly rose above zero. Snow fell, it hardened, frost formed on the snow and turned to ice, snow fell again and hardened, hardened. I woke each morning to flowers of frost on the window. We scattered sand and salt onto the paths and pavements. We made thirty-yard-long slides in the schoolyard. In the estate, we carved out blocks of ice and formed igloos against the walls. We raced across the playing fields on sledges.
Bernard didn’t leave us. He was there in all our minds. We prayed for him in church. We prayed for Vincent, his friend. Vincent was rarely in his wasteland now, and when he was, he had forgotten all about his name-calling and threatening. His body slumped, he kept his eyes downcast. Even the dogs became subdued. We saw an ambulance draw up at his house one day. It was to take him away to the mental hospital in Prudhoe, we heard. But Vincent screamed and fought and would not go and the ambulance drove away again.
Once, Holly and I found him in his shirtsleeves, scratching the earth with a stick. Frozen mist hung over the wasteland. Foghorns sounded far away.
He didn’t turn as we approached.
“I see him,” he said.
“See who?”
“Bernard. He walks out here where the fire was.”
He scraped the earth, lit a cigarette.
“Do you think he does? Or d’you think his soul’s at peace?”
“Vincent,” I said. “Do you want to come with us?”
“Where to?”
“Dunno,” I answered. “Anywhere.”
He pointed into the mist, towards the blurred lights of the estate.
“There,” he said. “And over there. He doesn’t look at me.”
I looked where he pointed. Nothing.
“I hear him comin up the stairs at night. Hear him comin in the room, see him standin there beside me bed. You think that’s possible?”
“No,” said Holly. “It’s nothing but a troubled dream.”
“You believe in what comes afterwards? In Hell?”
“That’s all nonsense, Vincent,” Holly said.
“Go
away
from me, with your curse upon
you
, to the eternal fire.”
“It’s just a tale to scare us, Vincent.”
“Fire and flames and smoke forevermore. Burnin burnin bliddy burnin.”
“Oh, Vincent.”
He
“Oh, Vincent,” she said. “Not now.”
She reached out to him. He glared.
“Go back to your mam,” she said.
It was then that we saw Jack Law, at the far side of the fire with the smoke swirling around him. His mouth was opening, closing, opening, closing, as if in a ceaseless stream of sounds or words.
Vincent ran through the smouldering waste to him.
“How come you’re the one that’s always there?” he screamed. “How come it’s always you that’s always lookin with your beady bliddy stupid eyes?”
He picked up a rock and raised it high as if to bring it down on Jack’s head. Jack backed away, backed away. Then he turned and walked, strode quickly past us. He met my eye, he opened his mouth as if to speak, and nothing came. Then he was gone, and Vincent was on the earth, beating it as if it were some great enemy.
His mam stood uselessly over him.
“Nothing we can do,” said Dad.
We went back into the estate, past the police cars, the fire engine, the ambulance. Here came kind Dr. Molly in distress, with her doctor’s bag in her hand, and then the priest, with his hand against his heart and his black cloak flapping as he ran.
No one was ever found. Nobody ever confessed. There were tales of a gang of scorched and gleeful boys running across the square that dusk. There was talk that the burners were wild kids from down Wardley way. But nobody came forward. No parents gave up their children. How could they live with themselves, knowing what they’d done? How could they live with such sin on their soul? And what would await them after their own deaths?
An evil act, some said.
No, said others. Just a prank that went wrong.
But what was the name for a prank with such effects?
How bitter that winter was, how beautiful. For weeks the temperature hardly rose above zero. Snow fell, it hardened, frost formed on the snow and turned to ice, snow fell again and hardened, hardened. I woke each morning to flowers of frost on the window. We scattered sand and salt onto the paths and pavements. We made thirty-yard-long slides in the schoolyard. In the estate, we carved out blocks of ice and formed igloos against the walls. We raced across the playing fields on sledges.
Bernard didn’t leave us. He was there in all our minds. We prayed for him in church. We prayed for Vincent, his friend. Vincent was rarely in his wasteland now, and when he was, he had forgotten all about his name-calling and threatening. His body slumped, he kept his eyes downcast. Even the dogs became subdued. We saw an ambulance draw up at his house one day. It was to take him away to the mental hospital in Prudhoe, we heard. But Vincent screamed and fought and would not go and the ambulance drove away again.
Once, Holly and I found him in his shirtsleeves, scratching the earth with a stick. Frozen mist hung over the wasteland. Foghorns sounded far away.
He didn’t turn as we approached.
“I see him,” he said.
“See who?”
“Bernard. He walks out here where the fire was.”
He scraped the earth, lit a cigarette.
“Do you think he does? Or d’you think his soul’s at peace?”
“Vincent,” I said. “Do you want to come with us?”
“Where to?”
“Dunno,” I answered. “Anywhere.”
He pointed into the mist, towards the blurred lights of the estate.
“There,” he said. “And over there. He doesn’t look at me.”
I looked where he pointed. Nothing.
“I hear him comin up the stairs at night. Hear him comin in the room, see him standin there beside me bed. You think that’s possible?”
“No,” said Holly. “It’s nothing but a troubled dream.”
“You believe in what comes afterwards? In Hell?”
“That’s all nonsense, Vincent,” Holly said.
“Go
away
from me, with your curse upon
you
, to the eternal fire.”
“It’s just a tale to scare us, Vincent.”
“Fire and flames and smoke forevermore. Burnin burnin bliddy burnin.”
“Oh, Vincent.”
He
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