Chapter Five: Probing
The first thing Bill saw when his eyes opened on Sunday morning was George's face, barely inches away from his own. He jumped back in shock.
"Juh-juh-Jeezus Cuh-Christ!" he exclaimed as he hit his head on the wall behind his bed.
"Boat," George said simply, with eyes wide in fear.
"Wuh-wuh-wuh-wuh," Bill was stuttering so badly that he couldn't articulate any coherent word. George caught on to what his brother meant quickly.
"My boat. S.S. Georgie. Something's happened to her."
It was the tone in George's voice and the look in his eyes that galvanised Bill into action. He threw back his bedsheets and leapt to his feet.
There was a foul, all too familiar odour that filled George's room as Bill ran inside. Although it sent alarm bells ringing, he did not stop, racing over to the bedside table. When he'd been here last night to say goodnight to George, the boat had been perched cheerfully on top of a book on his bedside table.
Now, half the boat had been consumed by a puddle of black mucus that sat on the cover of the book. The bow, still bearing the crudely scribbled letters S.S. GEORGIE, was pointed in the air, as if the boat was really sinking in the ocean.
George came up from behind. Bill stuck out his arm to keep his brother back.
"What is it?" George asked in a whisper, staring at the source of the demise of his boat.
Bill did not respond, reaching forward with trembling fingers. He pinned the sides of the book between his fore- and middle-fingers, before lifting it up slowly and carefully, making sure to keep it as level as possible. He worked the rest of his fingers under the back cover for more support.
"Georgie," Bill said, calmly in defiance of the fear rolling in his stomach. "I'm guh-going to take this down to the buh-basement. I want you to open the d-doors for me."
George nodded determinedly, before running out of the room. Bill followed at a far slower rate, anxious to avoid spilling any of the black substance. The stairs to the ground floor proved the most treacherous to navigate. To his credit, Bill kept his hands as steady as possible, despite everything, despite the fear inside him that was screaming to drop the book, to keep away from the goop.
The basement light flickered and turned the dust in motes of gleam, like hovering fireflies. After opening the door and turning on the switch, George had kept well away from the doorway until Bill had arrived. But with his big brother to lead the way, George knew he had no reason to fear, following closely and confidently as they stepped down into the dank basement together.
An empty metal bucket, covered in fading and crumbling blue paint, sat at the foot of the shelf on the other side of the basement. Bill made a beeline straight for it. He knelt down in front of it, lowering the book and its dangerous cargo down, before putting it in the bucket. Its narrow bowl meant that Bill had to put the book in on an extreme angle, that would have sent anything liquid sliding off. The black substance merely clung to the surface of the book, in complete ignorance of the shift in gravity, although the S.S. Georgie was crushed closer to the front cover by the inside of the bucket.
For a short while, the two pyjama clad boys stared at the bucket, as the putrid smell wafted out and up, starting to burn away at their nostrils. Then Bill grabbed a rag off the shelf and a bottle of cleaning fluid. When he cracked the latter open, a strong, sharp smell of cleanliness blasted into the air. Bill jammed the rag inside the bottle, soaking it in the colourful liquid, before drawing it out, flicking a spray to splatter across the stone wall. He quickly chucked the rag into the bucket, covering its new occupant. He was hoping that the two smells would counter each other out, because otherwise their parents might get suspicious about the unusually foul smell coming from the basement.
"What was that?" George asked in a trembly voice, eyes fixed on the bucket as if he expected something horrible and slimy to emerge from it.
"I d-d-don't know," Bill replied, although he most certainly did. How could he tell his brother that he found the same substance in the backyard of Greta Bowie only yesterday? How could he tell his brother about his quiet yet growing suspicions, his gently gnawing fears, that maybe, just maybe, this unnatural substance had a connection with the disappearances?
Bill was somewhat thankful that George was too afraid to press questions about what the substance was. He offered to make George another newspaper boat, but that would have meant going back into the basement for the paraffin, and neither of them were anxious to descend those steps again. During breakfast, Bill kept his eyes on his parents, watching in fearful anticipation, ready for and dreading the moment when they would frown and take a deep inhale, their nostrils twitching as they detected the foreign scent. He tensed up every time they walked past the basement, but they did not enter it, or even pause in front of the door.
Bill also did not let George out of his sight for one moment. He desperately hoped that his suspicions were wrong, that the black substance was not the herald for the disappearance of another victim, the calling card of whatever was responsible for the four missing posters that plastered the town.
Despite his fears Bill was also interested in the substance. What exactly was it made of? Where did it come from? Were his suspicions and fears justified, or incorrect? Curiosity kills cats, and although Bill was not a cat, his curiosity about the substance was drilling away at his insides in just the same way his worries were.
That is why he went out to the garage before the morning was half gone, pulled Silver out of its stall, and spun the pedals twice to clear out cobwebs. The bicycle was like the legendary horse Bill had named it after, raring and ready to be released from all tethers, ready to tear down Witcham Street. Bill patted it and whispered a few words of encouragement to it, just like he imagined riders of real horses did. He swung his leg over the horizontal railing, ready to mount up into the saddle, when he heard his mother's voice.
"Bill?"
She was standing on the front steps, just outside the door.
"Y-yes?"
"Where are you off to?"
". . . Th-the library," Bill responded with difficulty. "I wanted to d-d-do some ruh-research."
His mother nodded her silent permission for her son's request. Bill was about to vault into the seat again when he stopped for a second time. "Where's Juh-Juh-Georgie?"
"In the kitchen, with your father."
"D-d-do you th-think I should take him wuh-with me?"
Sharon Denbrough cast a sceptical eye towards Silver, tilted at nearly a forty-five-degree angle in order for Bill to be able to get in the seat. "Can he keep up with you while you're on that?"
Bill joined her scrutiny of his oversized bike, although his crotch muscles were starting to burn from having to stand awkwardly with one leg over it. "I d-d-don't know. Puh-probably not."
He knew that when Silver got up to speed, it was a very fast bike. There was no way that a pair of six-year-old legs, even pedalling as fast as humanly possible, would be able to keep up forever.
His mother nodded again. "Okay. Just be careful."
Bill returned the nod, before adding, "Puh-please keep an eye on Juh-Georgie while I'm g-gone?"
In his words, Sharon detected the worry, the worry that maybe his little brother might become the next victim of the disappearances. She thought it to be ironic: how he could be so concerned about George yet go riding off alone through the town. She gave him a small sad smile as he rocked his bike upright and rammed on the stiff pedals. The bike gave a timid groan but got started just as it clunked off the curb and onto the street. Bill stood up on the pedals, putting extreme force into every push to get it up to speed.
"Hi-yo, Silver! AWAYYYY!" Bill whooped, his voice ringing out across the street. When Silver got past its wobbly, hesitant, first few metres, that bike could really go. Already, Sharon could not make out the collar on her eldest son's shirt, he was dwindling into the distance so quickly.
Sharon suddenly noticed a bare-headed man that was leaning one elbow on the letterbox. She shot him a withering glare, but he was focussed Bill's rapidly withdrawing figure under the gloomy grey clouds overhead.
"Is he yours?" the man asked, glancing over at her. Sharon crossed her arms and frowned, both very clear indicators that she wanted him to make like a tree and leave.
"He's a very healthy boy," the man observed. "Much healthier than most of the boys in the Old Country."
Sharon detected an English accent in his voice. That explained what he meant by "Old Country". The man took his arm off the post box, kicked the ground twice with the heel of his faded black boots, and gave her a two-fingered salute while a wide grin split his face. And just like that, he walked away, quickly fading from both sight and memory.
"Hi-yo, Silver! AWAYYYY!"
At the first intersection, Bill turned left onto Jackson Street, heading deeper into town. He whipped past the school, pushing thoughts of school the next day from his mind with the exhilaration of the ride and another resounding cheer. A right turn took him onto Costello Avenue, curving past McCarron Park, and there was the public library, standing grandly and magnificently in defiance of the grey weather.
Bill applied the brakes, aided by the rising incline of the street as he slowed to a stop perfectly at the bottom of the steps up to the library. All in all, a magnificent manoeuvre, one that made Bill swell with pride as he dismounted, leant Silver against the wall, and the trotted up the steps and through the doors of the library.
It was when he entered the foyer that he stopped dead and the pride deflated. He knew what he was looking for, answers about the mysterious black sludge, but the question was where would he start? He didn't know anything about it, not even its name, aside from a vague idea of its properties and danger.
In the end, he started wandering, steering into the non-fiction side of the adult sections of the library. Chemistry seemed like a logical destination, but when he saw the sheer scale of section, he despaired. After all, it wasn't like there was a book titled Mysterious Black Substances of the Modern World. Matters weren't helped when he pulled a random book off the shelf, flicked open to a random page, and saw the word enzymes, a word that he didn't even know existed.
Running his finger along the spines of the many, many books, Bill sighed as he turned the corner into the next aisle. He wasn't prepared, however, to run into something sharp and hard that dug into his stomach and chest, kicking all his breath out and sending him toppling to the floor.
Something yelped, before exclaiming, "Sorry!"
Looking up through blurry eyes while he desperately sucked air back into his lungs and held his rapidly bruising stomach, Bill noticed a shortish overweight boy standing there, who'd dropped a pile of books that he was now bending down to pick up.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the boy repeated as he piled one book on top of the other in his hands. "I was going too fast. I didn't see you until after we collided. I'm sorry."
Bill coughed before pushing himself up to his feet. He grabbed one of the books that had landed beside him and held it up to the boy. "It's okay. Th-th-there's no puh-permanent d-damage."
The other boy took the book, and Bill noticed that he was looking at him with an unusual expression.
"You're Bill Denbrough, aren't you?" the boy remarked after a solid beat. "Stuttering Bill?"
Bill nodded reluctantly upon hearing the nickname. Then he frowned. "Yeah, I nuh-nuh-know you too. You're in th-th-the other cuh-class."
The boy nodded. He shifted the books around in his arms. "I'm Ben Hanscom."
"You already nuh-nuh-know me, evidently," Bill responded.
"Know of you," Ben corrected. "So, what brings you here? I don't remember seeing you in here very often."
"I'm juh-just here to d-d-do some research," Bill replied. "M-m-maybe you cuh-cuh-could help me. I'm a luh-little lost."
Ben perked up at the opportunity. He put his substantial pile of books down on a nearby table. "Of course. What are you looking for?"
"I th-thought it m-might be in cuh-cuh-cuh-chemistry, buh-but I have no idea where to s-start."
With a thoughtful expression written into his face, Ben stroked his chin. "Chemistry's not really my area of expertise. Do you need it for school?"
Bill shook his head. He glanced around to make sure that nobody else was close enough to hear him spill the beans. "I fuh-fuh-fuh-found something. Something th-th-that I think might buh-buh-be related to the d-disappearances."
In a hushed tone, he quickly explained to Ben what he had found in Greta Bowie's backyard, what had happened to George's boat, and tried to convey his half-formed conclusions regarding the whole situation. Ben listened quietly, maintaining his thoughtful expression, although several times both worry and interest bled through.
"Well, that's a lot of very distinct features for a substance," he concluded once Bill was finished, scratching his chin. "I don't know of anything with all those traits."
Bill gave a nod and a sigh; his shoulders and his chin drooped. "I nuh-nuh-knew it was a buh-bit of a long sh-sh-shot. Thanks anyway."
Ben felt bad for dashing Bill's hopes. A thought came to mind. "Maybe this is the wrong section of the library to be looking in."
"Wuh-wuh-what do you mean?"
"Well, if what you say is true, and this is related to the disappearances, maybe we should be looking at the crime section. Old newspaper clippings. A starting place could be finding out if this has happened before."
"Of cuh-course!" Bill exclaimed. "Th-that makes so much s-s-sense! Can you h-h-help me?"
Ben nodded. As Bill departed at a slow jog for the crime section, Ben gave a wistful glance towards the pile of books he would be abandoning. Ah, well. He could always come back and grab them later.