“But done is done and the past won’t unbreak itself, will it? What are you going to do, you brave simpleton?”
Charlie stopped picking at the hole. “Find them, I suppose.”
“And how do you intend to do that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, wretched. His tea had gone cold and he wanted his cat.
“Well, I may be able to help with that.”
Charlie jerked his head up to stare at her. “How?”
“After the nonsense you were talking yesterday, I had my suspicions about how your night would go. And I realized that you were always going to do this, fool that you are, whether I helped you or not. So I might as well help. It won’t save you, and it won’t make it hurt any less in the end, but . . . well, everything hurts in the end. That’s living for you.” Mellie paused for a moment, then shook herself out of her reverie. “Anyway, I’ve sent Bertie out on reconnaissance. When he gets back we might have some answers.”
Charlie knew, in theory, that it was ridiculous to feel a surge of hope at the fact that a pigeon was out on an information-gathering mission for him. But he felt, all the same, just a tiny bit lighter.
16
TAP-TAP-TAP.
Charlie’s eyes opened to the dark of his room. There was a heavy, warm weight on his chest and sharp points digging little pinpricks into his skin. Something soft flicked against his ear. Biscuits.
Tap-tap-tap.
Biscuits slunk, so slowly, closer to the window. Something was out there. Testing the glass.
Tap-tap-tap.
Charlie couldn’t breathe. Biscuits’s small bulk seemed to weigh a hundred kilos on his chest. He could turn to see what was on the other side of the window. That’s all it would take. Just tilt his head a little bit to the left and then he would know. But the knowing, he was absolutely sure, would be worse.
Tap-tap-tap.
Biscuits’s weight coiled tighter, her little claws digging deeper into his chest, and then—
Tap-tap-SMACK.
Biscuits thudded hard against the window, almost flying out when the latch gave way against her intent little body. Charlie bolted upright, grabbing on to Biscuits half by her body and half by her tail, which only made her wail louder. Scratches bloomed up and down his arms as he hauled her back onto the bed.
A pigeon flapped in off the window ledge and onto Charlie’s bed. It was sleek and almost purple in the dim light. Its black eyes caught the gleam of the streetlight, staring back at Charlie like beady little mirrors. The pigeon made a soft, authoritative chirp.
Charlie did not reply.
The pigeon chirped again, this time with a distinctly put-upon tone, and pecked at Charlie’s knee. Biscuits, now recovered from her ordeal, gave a yowl of fury and lunged, but Charlie managed to deflect her with a well-aimed pillow. She thunked onto the ground somewhere to the right, screeching in indignation.
“B-Bertie?”
The pigeon cooed and twitched a wing in what Charlie could sort of believe was a tiny pigeon salute.
“Bertie, I don’t know what Mellie’s told you, but—Biscuits, no!—but this reconnaissance had better be worth it.”
Bertie pecked at Charlie’s knee again and hopped back onto the window ledge. He gave another chirp and then promptly dive-bombed back outside. Charlie scrambled to the window, shoving his head out into the cold night air. A distant coo had him squinting down towards the sidewalk under the streetlamp across the street. Scrunching up his eyes, he could just make out two tiny, smudgy shapes outlined against the watery light.
Apparently Charlie and Biscuits were being summoned. Pigeon reconnaissance must have gone well.
It was a questionable idea, following strange pigeons about in the middle of the night, on the assurance of a woman called Mad Mellie, to look for monsters that spoke politely and ate only hearts. Charlie knew this. But there was a dusty little cinder of hope, deep in his insides, that had begun glowing just a tiny bit brighter with Bertie’s appearance. It had been so long since it had flared to life that Charlie had all but forgot about it. And while the rational part of his brain suspected that this was a fool’s errand that could only end in disappointment or disaster, the rest of him was so hungry for some scrap of hope that things might get better that he decided he didn’t care.
Biscuits seemed to sense his resolve and growled from the floor, disapproval setting her fur on end like a bottle brush.
“Well, I don’t have any other ideas. We’re following the pigeons unless you have another suggestion.”
Charlie pulled his Sunday jacket on over his pajamas in the dark, tiptoeing down the hall on silent stocking feet, dodging past the creaking floorboard by Grandpa Fitz’s room and the light coming from under Mum’s door even though he was sure she’d fallen asleep hours ago.
He was almost to the stairs when a sound came from Theo’s room. It wasn’t a scary, nightmare sort of sound; it wasn’t an awake sound, either. Just a kind of mumble. Theo’s door didn’t even squeak when Charlie nudged it open, like the whole house was holding its breath around him.
Theo was curled up on his side, his good knee pressed against his chest, as if he were cradling a wound there. He looked a lot smaller than a person as tall as Theo had any right to be. The covers—sheets, blankets, the quilt Mum had made three years ago—were balled up on the floor.
Theo made the sleep-mumble sound again, then shivered all up and down his body. Charlie reached for the bedclothes, but jumped, his throat tight and burning, when Theo made the noise again and rolled over suddenly in his sleep.
He was afraid of Theo. Shame bubbled up inside him, thick and soupy. It was an ugly thing, to look at yourself and see something so poisonous lurking within you. Like looking in the mirror one morning and seeing another face staring back.
He knew what sorts of things Theo had been through. He’d seen the newsreels, heard the things grown-ups whispered about when they thought he couldn’t hear. None of this was Theo’s fault.
But it didn’t change the fear.
When Theo twisted once more, restlessly, and turned his face towards the sound of Charlie breathing, Charlie turned and ran.
He shoved on his boots at the door, biting down a yelp as he discovered a bit of half-melted snow in one of the toes. He eased the door open, but despite Mr. Cleaver and his stupid oil can, the door still gave a bit of groan as it opened. He froze, but no other sounds came, no rush of feet or voices. This was the second night in a row he had sneaked out of the house. It shouldn’t be this easy, he thought, feeling suddenly wretched.
He made himself hold still to close the door, pressing until the latch just barely caught. Then he spun around, searching in the dark for the two little shapes. Bertie cooed again and Charlie followed the noise like the sonar on a submarine.
The bird was standing at attention, goose-stepping in little circles in the dim circle of light from the streetlamp. Next to him, Pudge was settled in a round, feathery lump, apparently haven fallen asleep waiting for them. Charlie grabbed Biscuits more out of instinct than anything else as she torpedoed towards Pudge. He shoved her up onto his shoulder, where she dug her claws in a bit harder than he thought was strictly necessary.
“So . . . ,” he started. “Where to, um, gents?”
He didn’t want to be outside in the cold in the middle of the night. He wanted to go home and go back to bed and pretend there were no such things as war wolves or veteran pigeons or Hollow Chest. But Biscuits settled and wrapped herself, scarf-like, around his neck, her body was rigid and warm, and the warmth seemed to seep into his skin until he could see Bertie and Pudge a little clearer against the cobblestones.
Bertie jumped into motion and flapped very dramatically before gliding a few yards down the street. Pudge fluttered his wings enthusiastically, but only managed to do a rather pathetic-looking series of looping hops. Biscuits made a derogatory sort of growl.
“How on earth did you even get here?” Bending down, careful not to jostle Biscuit
s, Charlie scooped up Pudge, cradling him gingerly in both hands. The plump pigeon weighed almost nothing. It wasn’t wise, he thought, to put one’s fate into the care of something so very breakable.
“Well, I guess we might as well go, if we’re going, right?”
Bertie, apparently satisfied, once again launched himself into the air and took off down the street. Two tiny hearts beat machine-gun fast against Charlie’s skin as he ran, matching his steps to their determined rhythm.
Bertie swooped and dived, taking corners so closely Charlie was certain his feathers would be knocked clean off. They veered off the main streets and into a narrow, looming series of alleyways. The walk wasn’t tended back here, and his feet kept slipping in his heavy boots—twice he slid and lost his footing, landing heavily on his knees, which sparked bright with pain. He kept his hands raised high above him to keep Pudge safe. Biscuits, instead of leaping to safety, just dug her claws in tighter to his skin. Perhaps she would become permanently attached, and he would forever after have to request tailors to accommodate for the cat who lived on him. Could that keep you out of the army? Was there a medical term for it? Cat-Shoulder?
Charlie nearly stepped on Bertie, who was sitting in the middle of the alley, fluffed up against the cold. Biscuits launched herself, none too gently, off his shoulders, landing next to Bertie. The pigeon hooted, his beady eyes glinting a warning. Biscuits ignored him and began washing her face.
“Why’re we stopped? Where are we?”
Pudge flapped and squirmed in Charlie’s hands. Charlie let go and the bird plopped onto the ground, narrowly avoiding Bertie, who scuttled out of the way. Pudge waddled over to an overflowing rubbish bin, picking through the bits that had fallen to the ground.
“Pudge, get away from that!”
He’d found a dirty bandage crusted with old blood, and Charlie kicked it away from the pigeon, who cooed and chased after it.
Charlie turned his attention to a door that opened up into the alley, which stood slightly ajar. A strange smell was coming from inside—a nose-searing antiseptic smell, and, under that, something sickly sweet and unpleasant. He found that he very much did not want to go in there, that he would rather do almost anything than discover the source of the smell.
But while Charlie considered the numerous and varied things he would rather do than look anywhere near the inside of the building ever in his life, Pudge had nudged it open wider and waddled inside, his head bobbing back and forth, oblivious and so stupid.
“Pudge!” Charlie hissed, shoving Biscuits and Bertie away from the crack in the door with one foot. “Pudge, get back here!”
But Pudge did not come back, and Bertie flew over his head and Biscuits sneaked over his foot and Charlie had to follow or get left behind, alone, in an alley, where there was a rubbish bin full of dirty bandages.
Just inside, in a sort of mudroom, a tarnished brass plaque mounted on the wall underneath a picture of King George read:
Mary, Queen of Peace Convalescent Hospital
Charlie almost laughed in desperate relief. All of this, secret pigeon meetings in the dark, just to come back to the hospital he’d visited a few days ago. Bertie must have taken them around the back way.
Charlie cracked open the inner door. Ladies in their neat white-and-gray uniforms and funny little hats marched past, most of them either talking very intently to each other or looking at little clipboards, quite serious. There was something reassuring about them, all the same and all so busy with their neat hair and fresh red-lipsticked mouths, even in the middle of the night. They looked, Charlie thought, like they knew what they were doing. Which put them one up on him at the moment.
What was he supposed to do? What could he do? Ask a nurse if she could point him towards the Hollow Chest ward? Was that why Bertie had brought them here? And even if it was, what was he supposed to say? Skinny nine-year-olds in their pajamas and winter boots didn’t seem to command the most respect, even if they were wearing their Sunday jackets and had very good reasons for being there.
“Are you trying to find someone, love?”
Charlie yelped, his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his wet boots. The nurse looking down at him was older than Theo, but not so old as she had looked at first, with her fancy hair and lipstick. He wasn’t sure if she actually looked a bit like Grandma Lily, or if it was just the nurse’s cap and the general air of having somewhere to be.
“Yes,” Charlie said, stepping fully into the hallway. “But I . . . I don’t know where to look.”
“What’s your name, then?”
“Um. Charlie. Charlie . . .” He knew spies always used false names on their missions, and while Charlie didn’t really think he was spying exactly, he was definitely in snooping territory. Best not to risk it. It only took him a moment to remember the name of the soldier he’d met, which wasn’t enough time to decide whether it was a good idea before he said, “. . . Pemberton-Ashby.”
“Well, Charlie, I’m Aggie. You stick with me and you’ll be fine, yeah?”
“Aggie?”
“It’s short for Agatha, which is a rubbish name to foist off on a girl, but what can you do? Mend and make do, right?” Aggie took off the down the hall, the heels on her shoes making her sound like a very small, efficient horse, clip-clopping down the white hallway. “Well, come on, then.”
Charlie jumped again and hurried after her. There wasn’t a cat or a pigeon to be found anywhere. He felt, suddenly, very much on his own.
17
“WHO ARE WE LOOKING FOR, THEN?”
“My brother.” Charlie felt immediately terrible for lying about being related to Reggie; it felt very disloyal to Theo. “He’s . . . he’s sick. I wanted to see him.”
“Of course you do, you’re a good lad, even if your fashion sense is a bit avant-garde.”
Charlie smiled like he did with the old ladies at church. As long as the birds had brought him here, he might as well try to see what they had found.
“All right, Charlie Pemberton-Ashby, let’s see where we’re storing your brother.” Aggie had click-clacked her way up to a massive blackboard, covered from floor to ceiling with little boxes done up in white paint. Some boxes looked freshly washed and black as soot, but most of them were so smudged and smeared that the scribbles inside them looked a bit like the cave paintings Charlie had seen in history class.
“Pacely, Paget, Peckford, Pemberton. Pemberton-Ashby, Reginald.”
“That’s him.”
“Ah! The dashing lieutenant! You should have said. He’s well memorable. You know, you’re the first family that’s come to visit him, which is a shame, chatterbox that he is. Never shuts his yap about his poets and philosophers, does he?”
Charlie opened his mouth to reply, but promptly choked on whatever lie he had been about to say when he spied a set of cat-sized paw prints stamped down the corridor and under a curtain towards where he could smell something vaguely resembling soup, and tea. At some point in just the last few minutes Biscuits’s feet had become acquainted with some very white chalk.
He looked up to find Aggie had already begun striding off. He got a move on, keeping a nervous eye out for a set of chalky cat feet and making sure to stay close to the nurse.
Aggie ushered him into the long, clean, white room Charlie had visited before. It smelled a bit like soap, with something sharp and a bit headachy underneath. The lights were mostly out for the night, but he followed her to a wedge of yellow glow coming from a small desk lamp set up by a metal hospital bed in the far corner. Reggie’s curtain was pulled back to reveal where he was sitting up in bed, his dense black hair neatly combed except for where it was sticking up in the back. His black-dash eyebrows were furrowed and he was frowning in concentration at a fat book propped open on his lap.
“I’ve brought someone to see you, Lieutenant.” Aggie waited for Charlie to announce himself, nudging him with a pointy elbow when he did not.
Reggie looked up with a pleasant smile that
burst into a wide, surprised grin. “Charlie! What a delightful surprise!”
“Young Charlie here said it was imperative that he visit his brother, so I thought we could bend the visiting hour rules a bit, just this once,” Aggie explained with a wink.
Charlie wanted to die just a bit. He was bothering a stranger now on his mad quest, not just Mellie and her pigeon familiars. Reggie was a real person with real hurts and real reasons for being in Mary, Queen of Peace Convalescent Hospital. Charlie was about to run for the door when Reggie set down his book to beckon him over. He looked so genuinely pleased to see him that it somehow made Charlie feel both better and infinitely worse.
“Well, it’s simply lovely to see you again. I admit, I was afraid I might have scared you off after last time. But a bit late for a visit, though, isn’t it?”
“I guess so,” Charlie said to the floor.
“Well, good of you to come, all the same. Ward sister, would you be so kind as to give my young brother and me a moment?”
Aggie smiled and went off somewhere else to do something that was probably very important, but not before shoving Charlie towards the bed.
There was a long minute of silence during which the man looked at Charlie and Charlie looked at the floor and no one said anything at all. It was very unpleasant.
“You know I’m not your brother, right?” Charlie finally said. He knew that sometimes soldiers got confused, like Grandpa Fitz did, although Mum said that was mostly because Grandpa Fitz was old and not because he had been a soldier.
Reggie settled himself back on his pillows and looked Charlie up and down. One of his thick eyebrows was set at a jaunty angle. “I am aware of that, yes.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Would you care to tell me why the very nice Nurse Aggie seems to be under the impression that I am your brother?”
“Um. It’s a bit . . . complicated.”
“Well, lucky for you I am more than just a bit clever.”
“Right, well . . . My brother, my real brother, the one I told you about? Theo. I know you said to be ready, that he might be . . . different.” Charlie felt too hot; his jumper was too scratchy against his skin. His dry fingertips kept catching against the wool. “Everyone told me that. And I was, I was ready. But it’s more than that. It’s not just that he’s different, he’s . . . there’s something wrong.” He looked up, meeting Reggie’s eyes. “He’s missing something, do you understand?”
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