Outside the straw was no longer blazing as brightly, but the light of fire and candles and burning body still made him squint after the dark interior.
‘Come on lad,’ he said, lifting the kid through the flames. The boy’s eyes were button-bright, lunatic-bright. They said futility.
They crossed the sty to the gate, skipping Leverthal’s corpse, and headed into the darkness of the open field.
The boy seemed to be stirring from his stricken state with every step they took away from the farm. Behind them the sty was already a blazing memory. Ahead, the night was as still and impenetrable as ever.
Redman tried not to think of the pig. It must be dead by now, surely.
But as they ran, there seemed to be a noise in the earth as something huge kept pace with them, content to keep its distance, wary now but relentless in its pursuit.
He dragged on Lacey’s arm, and hurried on, the ground sun baked beneath their feet. Lacey was whimpering now, no words as yet, but sound at least. It was a good sign, a sign Redman needed.
He’d had about his fill of insanity.
They reached the building without incident. The corridors were as empty as they’d been when he’d left an hour ago. Perhaps nobody had found Slape’s corpse yet. It was possible. None of the boys had seemed in a fit mood for recreation. Perhaps they had slipped silently to their dormitories, to sleep off their worship.
It was time to find a phone and call the Police.
Man and boy walked down the corridor towards the Governor’s Office hand in hand. Lacey had fallen silent again, but his expression was no longer so manic; it looked as though cleansing tears might be close. He sniffed; made noises in his throat.
His grip on Redman’s hand tightened, then relaxed completely.
Ahead, the vestibule was in darkness. Somebody had smashed the bulb recently. It still rocked gently on its
cable, illuminated by a seepage of dull light from the window.
‘Come on. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Come on, boy.’
Lacey bent to Redman’s hand and bit the flesh. The trick was so quick he let the boy go before he could prevent himself, and Lacey was showing his heels as he scooted away down the corridor away from the vestibule.
No matter. He couldn’t get far. For once Redman was glad the place had walls and bars.
Redman crossed the darkened vestibule to the Secretary’s Office. Nothing moved. Whoever had broken the bulb was keeping very quiet, very still.
The telephone had been smashed too. Not just broken, smashed to smithereens.
Redman doubled back to the Governor’s room. There was a telephone there; he’d not be stopped by vandals.
The door was locked, of course, but Redman was prepared for that. He smashed the frosted glass in the window of the door with his elbow, and reached through to the other side. No key there.
To hell with it, he thought, and put his shoulder to the door. It was sturdy, strong wood, and the lock was good quality. His shoulder ached and the wound in his stomach had reopened by the time the lock gave, and he gained access to the room.
The floor was littered with straw; the smell inside made the sty seem sweet. The Governor was lying behind his desk, his heart eaten out.
‘The pig,’ said Redman. ‘The pig. The pig.’ And saying, ‘the pig’, he reached for the phone.
A sound. He turned, and met the blow full-face. It broke his cheek-bone and his nose. The room mottled, and went white.
The vestibule was no longer dark. Candles were burning, it seemed hundreds of them, in every corner, on every edge. But then his head was swimming, his eyesight blurred with concussion. It could have been a single candle, multiplied by senses that could no longer be trusted to tell the truth.
He stood in the middle of the arena of the vestibule, not quite knowing how he could be standing, for his legs felt numb and useless beneath him. At the periphery of his vision, beyond the light of the candles, he could hear people talking. No, not really talking. They weren’t proper words. They were nonsense sounds, made by people who may or may not have been there.