Boys in the Valley(33)

“What d’you want?” he yells, not wanting to move any closer, something deep inside him telling him to stay right where he is.

Thump . . . thump thump . . . thump thump thump . . .

Simon turns around to study the beating door a moment, then turns back toward Basil. He motions at him. “Come here, dummy, I want to show you something.”

Basil doesn’t move, but he also doesn’t run. The orphanage doors are close, less than twenty steps, give or take. But despite himself, he’s curious. Were it anyone but Simon, he would have told them to toss off and then run like hell for the building.

But Simon has never been cruel to him, never even teased him. Not once.

“What is it?”

Simon’s smile broadens. “It’s a garter snake! At least three feet long. We’ve trapped it in a corner of the shed. Come take a look at . . .”

“Who’s we?” Basil interrupts. He takes a couple steps toward the shed, without even realizing he’s done it. He loves snakes, something everyone knows about him. Mainly because it’s weird, seeing as how he is such a scaredy-cat about so many other things (the dark, Father Poole, loud noises, the wind, Father White, being alone . . .) and yet simply adores snakes. Even the snake in the Garden of Eden—Satan in disguise—is Basil’s favorite character in the Bible. Not that he’d tell the priests that . . .

“It’s just me and Terrence. Come on, you like Terrence, right? He’s trapped the thing, and I came out to find a sack or something to put it in and saw you there. Figured you could help us. So come on! You’ve got to see it before it gets away.”

Basil continues walking slowly toward Simon as he speaks, his interest in seeing the snake outweighing his innate radar for danger. And besides, so what if he’s being fooled? He’s been fooled lots of time. But if they aren’t fooling, then there really might be a three-foot-long garter snake in there. And boy, he’d love to see it. Maybe even keep it, like a pet.

“What’s it look like?”

Simon’s eyes brighten, and he puts a hand on the door. “He’s black, with a white stripe going all the way down his side. He’s quite something. Come on.”

Basil’s only a few feet away. He tries to see through the thin opening, where the door thumps against the rotted frame.

Without another word, Simon opens the door and steps inside. Into the dark.

Basil stands still for a moment, debating; staring at the door as if all of life’s answers are carved into its stripped, faded wood. A sudden, strong gust of wind blows through his thin clothes. He shivers.

Thump thump . . . thump . . . thump . . .

He takes two more steps, puts a hand on the door. It stops beating against the shed, its broken pattern temporarily halted.

“No tricks,” he says, not knowing if they can hear him.

He hears someone giggle, and is about to let go of the door, to turn away and run, when Simon’s voice comes once more, now from inside. “Come on, Basil. It’s really neat. Maybe we’ll let you name it. Would you like to name it?”

Basil pulls open the door. The interior is pitch dark. He can’t see Simon, or Terrence, and certainly not any snake.

“Where are you?”

“Get inside!” a voice says urgently. Terrence? “You want it to escape? Close the door!”

The urgency of the voice prompts Basil into action. He steps inside quickly. The wind slams the door shut behind him. He reaches out one arm toward the dark, then steps cautiously forward, moving deeper into the large shed. It’s so dark he can hardly see his hand in front of him, and he’s afraid of running into something sharp.

“I don’t see you!” Basil nearly yells, and—as if he’s only now realizing what he’s done, what kind of situation he’s put himself into, as if waking up to find you’ve been sleepwalking—turns to leave.

Idiot!

Once outside, he’s going to run hard and fast as he can, back to the orphanage and up to the dorm. To the safety of his warm bed. He’ll wait there until Peter comes back, and then he’ll make him listen. Make him understand what’s going on. What he can’t see for himself.

“I’m leaving!” Basil yells into the dark, surprised to feel tears running down his face.

“Basil! Wait!”

Basil turns back, flustered and scared and angry. “What!”

A warm hand closes over his and pulls him hard into a world of living shadows and shuffling feet. The air is heavy with the weight of others.

Now more hands are on him, gripping him, tugging him, shoving him down.

He grunts and struggles. All around him is hard breathing and laughter. He’s about to scream when something coarse wraps around his neck—and now he can’t scream.

He can’t even breathe.

“Stop . . .” he croaks.

Oh please stop it hurts!

There’s a heavy, painful pressure on his arms, as if someone is driving their knees into his wrists. He can’t move. His throat is on fire.

He feels his clothes being ripped from his body. The air clings to him like ice.

Something sharp pierces his skin . . .

He wants to beg. Wants to tell them he’s sorry, to ask them not to tease him any further, to please stop, to stop and leave him alone.

I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell. Just please stop now please please . . .