The Dark Inside by Rupert Wallis Page A

with his mother. When he listened to the reading, he closed his eyes to see the story of what
was being told. He knelt for communion beside Webster and offered out his hands. In his cupped palms he received a round paper wafer which tasted of nothing except stale air. The sip of wine that
followed ran hot into his chest.
    Whenever he felt the black in his guts, he worked harder at following the service properly, hoping it might make a difference. And when that didn’t work he looked around the church,
searching for any clues about St Hubert or the key.
    Finally, when the service was over, the organ began to wheeze and play. The two old women at the front rose and shuffled down the nave, drifting like ghosts, their arms locked together as though
letting go might mean the end for both of them.
    Webster gripped James by the shoulder. He could feel the man’s heart beating.
    ‘What do you think? Seen anything that might be important?’ James shook his head. Webster pursed his lips and sat back, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. Then he leant in close to
the boy. ‘Maybe we didn’t pray hard enough,’ he said before settling back in the pew.
    James looked around again for anything that might be helpful and noticed the young vicar talking to a middle-aged couple near the entrance. All three of them were laughing. When the vicar
glanced directly at him, James looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring.
    ‘We’ll have to ask if we want to find out anything,’ he whispered.
    When everyone else had left, they approached the vestry and peered at the vicar through a crack in the door. He had already changed out of his robes and was dressed in a black
shirt and trousers with a white dog collar around his throat.
    ‘Hello there,’ he said when he opened the door and saw them waiting.
    ‘Good morning, Reverend,’ said Webster and put out his hand. James noticed that it was shaking. The vicar smiled as he shook it.
    ‘Thank you for coming to the service. And for your marvellous singing.’
    Webster beamed. When the vicar looked at James, he suddenly remembered Webster had bought him the suit to help make a good impression.
    ‘I’m James,’ he said and held out his hand as Webster had done, making sure it was steady.
    ‘Lovely to meet you, James.’ And, for a moment, there was nothing but grace as the vicar smiled, and the pews ticked, and the sunlight moved noiselessly over the stone walls.
    Webster wiped his brow with the back of his hand, making it shine.
    ‘We were wondering about the key,’ he said quietly.
    The young vicar looked taken aback for a moment. And then his face became ashen. James grinned all the harder to try and make up for it. But the vicar looked down at the flagstone floor and
shuffled his feet. He planted his hands in his trouser pockets and then straightened up.
    ‘I don’t have the key to the donations box,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. It can’t be opened.’
    Webster shook his head. Licked his lips. Patted one of the vicar’s shoulders. ‘We’re not here to take any money. We’re not looking to piss you off. That’s the last
thing we want to do.’
    ‘Oh,’ replied the vicar. His forehead creased. His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’
    ‘St Hubert’s key is what we want to know about,’ said James.
    ‘I need to be cured,’ said Webster. ‘Cured of evil.’
    ‘I see.’
    But James knew the vicar did not understand so he took the printed pages out of the inside pocket of his jacket.
    ‘St Hubert’s key,’ he said, holding up a picture of it. ‘It was used as a cure for rabies, but we were told it might also help with other things . . . evil
things.’
    ‘And who told you that?’
    But neither of them said a word.
    ‘I see. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there’s no key here. I’m not sure there ever has been. That sort of artefact is very rare. A museum piece. Like the one in
your picture.’
    Webster planted a hand on James’s