Dark Companions Read Free Page A

was a hot summer evening. By then I was thirteen. Dust and fumes drifted in the wakes of cars; wagons clattered repetitively across the railway bridge. We lolled about the pavement, kicking Coca-Cola caps. Suddenly Ben said “I know something we can do.”
    We trooped after him, dodging an aggressive gang of taxis, towards the police station. He might have meant us to play some trick there; when he swaggered past, I’m sure everyone was relieved—everyone except Mark, for Ben was leading us onto Orphan Drive.
    Heat shivered above the tarmac. Beside us in the park, twilight gathered beneath the trees, which stirred stealthily. The island in the lake creaked with ducks; swollen litter drifted sluggishly, or tried to climb the bank. I could sense Mark’s nervousness. He had turned his radio louder; a misshapen Elvis Presley blundered out of the static, then sank back into incoherence as a neighbouring wave band seeped into his voice. Why was Mark on edge? I could see only the dimming sky, trees on the far side of the lake diluted by haze, the gleam of bottle caps like eyes atop a floating mound of litter, the glittering of broken bottles in the lawns.
    We passed the locked ice-cream kiosk. Ben was heading for the circular pool, whose margin was surrounded by a fluorescent orange tape tied between iron poles, a makeshift fence. I felt Mark’s hesitation, as though he were a scared dog dragged by a lead. The lead was pride: he couldn’t show fear, especially when none of us knew Ben’s plan.
    A new concrete path had been laid around the pool. “We’ll write our names in that,” Ben said.
    The dark pool swayed as though trying to douse reflected lights. Black clouds spread over the sky and loomed in the pool; the threat of a storm lurked behind us. The brick shelter was very dim, and looked cavernous. I strode to the orange fence, not wanting to be last, and poked the concrete with my toe. “We can’t,” I said; for some reason, I felt relieved. “It’s set.”
    Someone had been there before us, before the concrete had hardened. Footprints led from the dark shelter towards us. As they advanced they faded, no doubt because the concrete had been setting. They looked as though the man had suffered from a limp.
    When I pointed them out, Mark flinched, for we heard the radio swing wide of comprehensibility. “What’s up with you?” Ben demanded.
    “Nothing.”
    “It’s getting dark,” I said, not as an answer but to coax everyone back towards the main road. But my remark inspired Ben; contempt grew in his eyes. “I know what it is,” he said, gesturing at Mark. “This is where he used to be scared.”
    “Who was scared? I wasn’t bloody scared.”
    “Not much you weren’t. You didn’t look it,” Ben scoffed, and told us “Old Willy used to chase him all round the pool. He used to hate him, did old Willy. Mark used to run away from him. I never. I wasn’t scared.”
    “You watch who you’re calling scared.   If you’d seen what I did to that old bastard—”
    Perhaps the movements around us silenced him. Our surroundings were crowded with dark shifting: the sky unfurled darkness, muddy shapes rushed at us in the pool, a shadow huddled restlessly in one corner of the shelter. But Ben wasn’t impressed by the drooping boast. “Go on,” he sneered. “You’re scared now. Bet you wouldn’t dare go in his shelter.”
    “Who wouldn’t? You watch it, you!”
    “Go on, then. Let’s see you do it.”
    We must all have been aware of Mark’s fear. His whole body was stiff as a puppet’s. I was ready to intervene—to say, lying, that I thought the police were near—when he gave a shrug of despair and stepped forward. Climbing gingerly over the tape as though it were electrified, he advanced onto the concrete.
    He strode towards the shelter. He had turned the radio full on; I could hear nothing else, only watch the shifting of dim shapes deep in the reflected sky, watch Mark stepping in the footprints