Sacrament by Clive Barker Page B

them.
    'Mum?' he said.
    She raised her eyes from the pills, a look of genteel despair upon her face. 'What's wrong?' she said. He told her.
'You are careless,' she replied. 'Wasps always get nasty in the autumn. You shouldn't annoy them.'
    He began to protest that he hadn't annoyed it at all, he'd been the innocent party, but he could see by the
expression on her face that she'd already tuned him out. A moment later, she returned to counting the pills.
Feeling frustrated but utterly ineffectual, he withdrew.
The sting was really throbbing now, the discomfort fuelling his rage. He went back up to the bathroom, found
some ointment for insect bites in the medicine cabinet and gingerly applied it to the sting. Then he washed his
face, removing any evidence of tears. He was never going to cry again, he told his reflection; it was stupid. It
didn't make anybody listen.
Feeling not in the least happier, he headed back downstairs. Little had changed. Craig was lounging in the
kitchen, his mouth stuffed with something Adele had cooked up; Eleanor was sitting with her pills; and Hugo
had taken his argument with Donald - who looked bull-headed enough to give as good as he got - out into the
front garden, where they were talking at each other in a red rage. Nobody noticed Will stamp off towards the
village; or if they did, nobody cared sufficiently to stop him.
     

CHAPTER III
     
    The streets of Burnt Yarley were virtually deserted, the shops all closed. Even the little sweet-shop, where Will
had hoped he might soothe his frustration and his dry throat with an ice-cream, was locked up. He peered in
through the window, cupping his hands around his face. The interior was as small as the facade suggested, but
packed to the rafters with goods, some clearly targeted at the ramblers and hikers who passed through the town:
postcards, maps, even knapsacks. Curiosity satisfied, Will wandered on to the bridge. It wasn't large -a span of
maybe twelve feet - and built of the same grey stone as the tiny cottages in its immediate vicinity. He sat on the
low wall and peered down into the river. The summer had been dry, and there was presently little more than a
stream creeping between the rocks below, but the banks were fringed with marsh marigolds and clumps of
balsam. There were bees around the balsam in their dozens. Will watched them warily, ready to retreat if one
winged its way towards him.
    'It's all stupid,' he muttered.
'What is?' said somebody at his back.
    He turned round, and found not one but two pairs of eyes upon him. The speaker, a fair-haired, fair-skinned and
presently heavily-freckled girl a little older than himself, was standing at the rise of the bridge, while her
companion squatted against the wall opposite Will and picked his nose. The boy was plainly her brother; they
had common broad, plain features and grave, grey eyes. But while she still looked to be in her Sunday best, her
sibling was a mess, his clothes wrinkled and grimy, his mouth stained with berry juice. He stared at Will with a
scowl.
    'What's stupid?' the girl said again.
'This place.'
    "Tisn't,' said the boy. 'You're stupid.' 'Hush, Sherwood,' the girl said.
    'Sherwood?' said Will.
    'Yeah, Sherwood,' came the boy's defiant reply. He scrambled to his feet as if ready for a fight, his legs scabby
with old scrapes. His belligerence lasted ten seconds. Then he said: 'I want to go and play somewhere else.' His
interest in the stranger had plainly already waned. 'Come on, Frannie.
    'That's not my real name,' the girl put in, before Will could remark upon it. 'It's Frances.'
    'Sherwood's a daft name,' Will said.
    'Oh yeah?' said Sherwood.
    'Yeah.'
    'So who are you?' Frannie wanted to know.
    'He's the Rabjohns kid,' scabby-kneed Sherwood said.
    'How'd you know that?' Will demanded.
    Sherwood shrugged. 'I heard,' he said with a mischievous little smile, "cause I listen.'
    Frannie laughed. 'The things you hear,' she said.
    Sherwood giggled, pleased