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Kevin Creeley knew there was no such thing as silence. Even before, when he’d sir in his brightly coloured bedroom, he could hear the whining of the boiler, the rustling of bushes outside his window, the dim rush of cars from the distant A474. Sometimes, when he was half-asleep, he could trick his brain into hearing pitches and progressionsI, making music out of chaos, until he fully awoke and they separated into their component parts. There was always something to listen to, and that was especially true at St Churnley’s.
Even putting aside that Roland could not sleep quietly if his life depended on it, with his murmuring and snoring throughout the night, the roiling Plagueround was the loudest quiet Kevin had ever heard. It rushed like waves that never hit a shore, and screamed like distant voices but for too long and too shrill. There was murmuring, he was certain, somewhere under the surface, but never enough for him to put his finger on one word, or one voice. They swirled around the school, sneaking in through narrow windows, pushing at the leaded diamonds that cast long red-lit shadows across the darkened room.
So when he rolled over to stare at the shifting crimson light on the ceiling, it took him a moment to figure out what was making every hair stand on end. The chittering continue on the other side of thick glass, rippled from old shoddy glasswork, moving into the muffled howls that he was almost used to. He picked at the heavy duvet, trying to shove the rising anxiety down. Perhaps he’d been dreaming. Kevin sighed, and turned over to go back to sleep. It wasn’t until the perfectly still shadow solidified in the dark that he realised. It was the wrong kind of quiet.
“Roland?” His roommate didn’t move, sitting at the very end of his bed staring down at the floor. Kevin blinked hard, pushing himself upright. Even in the dim light, he could see the boy’s blond hair plastered to his head with sweat, his breathing quiet and shallow. Kevin sighed. He’d been there. The waking in the night, something loud and horrified caught in his throat, body screaming at him to run, although he was never sure if it was towards or away from that incessantly ringing bell that haunted his dreams. Feet hit the cold stone floor and he padded across the room, settling on the edge of Roland’s bed.
“Roland,” he murmured, “You alright?”.
“I’m fine,” came the reply and Kevin’s hand froze before it came down on his friend’s shoulder. The feeling in the pit of his stomach flooded up until he could taste it, like pennies on his tongue.
The timbre of his voice was all wrong and Kevin knew, even before Roland’s head turned just that little bit too far, what colour those eyes would be.
“What’s the matter, Kevin Creeley?” Wrong, wrong, the voice was so wrong coming out of Roland’s mouth, too smooth, too lilting. There was blood on the chubby boy’s teeth, like he’d bit down on his tongue, but he didn’t seem to feel it. Kevin scrambled backwards.
“R-Roland, don’t.” He barely managed to force the words out. Roland, Not-Roland, cocked his head, too quickly. Kevin heard vertebrae pop as he twisted to fully face him, grinning, stubby hands curling into the covers. The pure white eyes were fixed. Kevin wasn’t even sure Roland was seeing him. No, he was certain he wasn’t. Roland wasn’t even there.
“Give-give Roland back,” he tried demanding, but his voice was hoarse and quiet and shaking. Damn it. The boy in front of him held up a chubby hand, seemingly relishing in the jerking motion of each finger.
“But I am Roland,” came the reply, the perfectly enunciated reply.
“You’re not,” Kevin spat and then he was close. Too close.
“I’m not?” The grin widen as Not-Roland dragged his finger down the side of Kevin’s face, watching it, fascinated. “Are you sure? How do you know?”
“Don’t touch me.” He smacked the hand away, heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“Aw, why not?” Roland pouted. Not Roland, Kevin reminded himself, as the face dropped into the familiar wide-eyed expression for just a moment. Then that smile, stretching across his face until it seemed the skin would split. Not-Roland touched his own face and gave a deep sigh. Was it relief? Kevin wasn’t sure. The boy looked past him, blankly, and then dragged his fingernails down Roland’s face, leaving bright red marks on his white skin.
“Stop it!” Kevin grabbed his friend’s wrists, pulling the clawing hands away from him.“I said, stop it!”
“Stop what?” The chuckle was so weird coming from his friend’s mouth. “You just had to wake up, didn’t you?”
“Stop it. Stop laughing. Roland!”
Those eyes flashed, glowed, and Kevin felt like he’d been plunged into ice. He knew that Voice. He’d know it anywhere, but last time it had spilled from the clumsy broken face of the shadowed wolf, mocking him, goading him.
“And what are you going to do, hm?” The hissing menace was so sudden that Kevin jerked away, slamming back into the wall. He’d so hoped he was wrong, when Roland’s white eyed attack had sent him careening up the spiralling staircase, but now, as those same eyes cast a bright glow over the usually dimpled face, everything screamed at him to run. Because what was he going to do? He couldn’t help Roland, he couldn’t. Kevin took a deep breath, to scream for help, for Monty, for Edgar, for somebody, but Roland snapped a hand out and it slammed into the wall next to his ear, and the world went silent.
“Ah, ah, ah, I think not, Kevin Creeley,” Not-Roland murmured, or at least, that’s what it looked like. Kevin could see his lips moving, feel the breath on his skin as the white-eyed face crept closer, but he couldn’t hear him. He felt it, just at the edge of his mind, a splinter of cold light, as the words slunk into his head. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t make a sound. Oh god, he couldn’t cast like this.
He tried. God, he tried, but his scream was swallowed by whatever spell billowed out from Roland. No, Not-Roland, whoever this was, whatever curse this was, whatever goddamn nightmare he’d woken up to.
“Look at you.” The voice hissed into his head as chubby fingers locked around his throat. Roland had always been strong but Kevin hadn’t really thought about it. Not until he was pressed into the hard stone wall, unable to breathe. “Without your little tricks, you’re nothing. Unworthy. And… oh, what was it?”
Kevin’s scrabbling fingers found metal and his arm snapped up, the dagger from behind the bedside table burying itself in Roland’s thick wrist. Not-Roland tilted his head, looking at the blade, and Kevin swore for a second, the white light stuttered.
And then, very slowly, Not-Roland pulled the dagger from the pale flesh, oozing blood. It ran down his fingers as he tightened his grip on Kevin’s neck.
“That was it.” Kevin choked, silently in the confines of the spell, desperately scrambling for purchase. “A joke.”
Oh, fuck you, Kevin tried to spit at him, and the anger coiling in his stomach erupted. Not-Roland flinched away in pain as a particularly loud and off-key rendition of It’s A Small World screamed into his mind. Kevin ripped himself out of the boy’s grip, hurling himself off the bed and towards the door. He felt the spell drop just as he reached it, and took a deep breath to scream for the others as he flung open the door.
*
There was something wet on his face. Roland blinked sleepily, rubbing his cheek and frowning at his hand. In the dim light, it took a moment for the deep crimson to register and a moment more for his tired eyes to focus on the crumpled figure in the doorway.
“What… Kevin?” Roland tried to step forward, almost tripping over the Warhammer he had gripped in his hands. The head was dripping onto the floorboard. He dropped it in horror.
“Kevin!” He fell to his knees, cradling the boy’s head in his hands. There was a lot of blood. More blood than Roland knew what to do about. He pressed his pudgy hands against the angular wound, matching perfectly with his own, still glowing weapon.
Oh dear, dear Roland. What have you done?
“I-I didn’t, I-“ Roland’s voice cracked. “Oh god, Kevin…”
Now, now, Roland. It was self-defence. He attacked you.
“What? No, he wouldn’t have, I wouldn’t have…” He shook his head, trying not to panic. His lungs strained in his chest. Every breath hurt. He couldn’t think about that, he had to do something. “I’m sorry, my Lord, I need to, I need to get help, I need to-“
Look at your arm. Is that not the wound made by young Kevin’s dagger?
It was. Rivulets of blood ran down his arm, so white in the dark, mingling with Kevin’s as he tried to put pressure on a wound. He’d been stabbed. Had Kevin stabbed him? Why would…
A pinprick of cold white pain at the nape of his neck and Roland felt sick.
“What did you do?” He whispered.
Me? Surely you’re not suggesting I had anything to do with this. You were the one holding the hammer. You struck down the sinner. As is your right.
“No. No, I wouldn’t hurt Kevin, I wouldn’t-“
A door slammed open and Monty skidded to a stop, nose in the air. His eyes felt on Roland, sobbing quietly, and then he was there, taking over with the pressure.
“I smelled blood, what happened?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know what, I think I-“ Roland stumbled over his words, trying to block out the Voice that carried on, swimming in the back of his mind.
He attacked you, you merely defended yourself, and now you’re trying to save him? That disgrace? That joke? What weakness you are showing.
“I’m not, I’m not weak, he’s not-“
“Roland.”
Of course you are. You’re unfit to carry out my work.
“I’m not, please, I’m not, I can’t, he’s a good person, I-“
Such a disappointing waste of my time.
“Roland!” Roland gasped back into the room, slapped around the face by a very pale Edgar, who shook his sharply. “Roland, you have to heal him!”
“Right. Yes.” He needed to calm down. With a deep breath, Roland’s hands lit up with white light.
“I’m going to get help,” Edgar said, panicked, and Monty nodded, muttering his own version of a pep talk to Kevin, who was getting noticeably paler by the second. Roland laid his hands on Kevin’s head, feeling the sickly movement of bone beneath the skin. He could do this. He’d do this, he’d explain, they’d tell Sarge, or Mr Hinks, or somebody else, they’d get help. He’d apologise. Kevin would forgive him. Kevin knew it wasn’t him. He had to.
The light in his hands sputtered out.
“No…” Roland murmured.
“Roland? Roland, heal him!” Monty said desperately.
“I’m trying, I am, I can’t-“ His hands wouldn’t light. The burn of the Sunset Dawn wasn’t there anymore. “No, no, no, no, please, please, please!” He pleaded, as Monty begged him to heal their friend, whose chest had stopped rising, whose blood had slowed, whose sharp eyes were slowly glazing over with a white film both boys had seen before.
“Please,” Roland sobbed, curling into himself.
There was no answer except the screaming, desperate howl as the class gained an empty seat.