Eldren: The Book of the Dark by William Meikle

happened here.
    Margaret reappeared at the door carrying a small cushion from one of the staff room chairs.
    “I couldn’t find anything else. I tried to talk to Tom, but he’s stinking of drink. I think he’s started early.”
    Brian took the cushion and laid it beside Ian.
    He was never to forget the next few moments as he raised the boy’s head and discovered that it lolled in his hands, the fingers of his left hand sinking into the gaping hole in the boy’s neck. He pulled his hand away sharply.
    Margaret’s screams as Ians’ head fell backwards were counterpointed by the insistent “nee-naw-nee-naw” of the ambulance arriving in the courtyard outside. Brian knew already that they were too late as he leaned forward and pulled closed the boy’s dead eyelids.
     

CHAPTER 3
     
    THE REST of the day passed in a blur of images for Brian. The visit to the police station with Margaret crying on his shoulder. The questions as to why the children had been allowed into the boiler room in the first place, and the long and loud denials of the kids that any of them had actually been present. All of these seemed dreamlike and distant, his thoughts always returning to the dead boy’s head lolling backwards and the sound of the ambulance echoing in his head.
    The only person who knew what had happened in the boiler room was Tony Dickie, but the boy couldn’t be found. He had been home, his mother had confirmed that, but had left again almost immediately, and was not to be found in any of the childrens’ known play areas. The police had several men out combing the surrounding countryside, anxious to find him because they had to know whether Ian’s death was due to an adult, or the result of some schoolboy maliciousness.
    The headmaster had been distraught, worrying mainly whether the boy’s parents would sue the school for lack of supervision, and had ‘suggested’ that Brian and Margaret, as the two teachers directly involved, should stay away from the school for a week or so “just until this mess gets sorted out.”
    Which was why, at four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, when he should have been taking the guitar group, he sat in the lounge bar upstairs from the bar he’d visited the night before, nursing his second double whisky and holding Margaret Brodie’s hand.
    This bar was a bit more up-market than the one downstairs...it actually had a carpet and chairs...but was no busier. Someone had obviously thought that lime green velvet was tasteful for the furniture, and had added a nice shag carpet for good measure. It was a pity that the carpet had to be navy blue.
    A lone disco globe hung forlornly from the ceiling, a remnant from the days when this bar was used for Saturday night dances. Brian had attended many of them in his youth, back when a frantic grope in a doorway was the pinnacle of his ambition. More often than not though he had ended up blind drunk on a mixture of cider and vodka. Even now, years later, he couldn’t even take the taste of either...one whiff was enough to bring back the memory of vomit in his throat.
    Brian and Margaret were the only customers and, after serving them, the bored barmaid had gone back to staring blankly into space, her only sign of life the robotic chewing as she masticated a piece of gum.
    A large television set was set above the bar. Thankfully the sound was turned down...the last thing Brian needed right now was the frantic chatter of horse racing commentary.
    Margaret was taking Ian’s death hard, and every few minutes she broke into another bout of weeping, her eyes red rimmed and bloodshot. She had hardly touched the brandy that he had brought her over half an hour ago, and it was now sitting on the table just out of her reach.
    Brian reached into his pocket and removed his cigarette packet. He got as far as lighting up when Margaret stopped him.
    “Please don’t, Brian. I think I’d be sick.”
    “It wouldn’t show against the décor,” Brian said. He