The Thief of Time

by John Boyne

  I watched as Tommy took off his make-up, seated in front of a Broadway-style mirror, a row of lightbulbs presented in an archway around the star’s face. He saw me watching him in the mirror and smiled, not turning around as he spoke but speaking directly to my reflection instead. ‘Last year, Madonna used this dressing room before appearing on the National Lottery,’ he said with a grin. ‘She sang “Frozen” and left behind a demo of her new album. I sent it on and never got so much as a thank you in return.’

  ‘Really,’ I said in a dry voice. ‘How very impressive.’

  ‘I had to clear the whole place out in advance for her but she left a whole pile of her shit behind afterwards for me to clean up. I held on to some of it, of course, but don’t tell anyone.’

  I shrugged and looked around me. There was a lot of television paraphernalia to be seen there. Pictures, posters, tapes and reels. There were so many scripts littered around the floor, each printed in a different colour to signify updates and revisions, that the place resembled a Montessori school. I wondered whether there was a little man sitting somewhere in the building, surrounded by a rainbow of paper, deciding which day would be signified by which colour and filling them all in on an enormous chart in order to justify his existence. I flicked around in them for a moment, pulling a few out to glance at their content but found the dialogue so risible that I was forced to toss them aside again.

  ‘Do you like working here, Tommy?’ I asked him after a while.

  ‘Like it? How do you mean?’

  I laughed. ‘How do you think I mean it? Do you enjoy it? Do you enjoy your job? Do you like coming in here every day?’

  He thought about it for a moment and shrugged. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘Turn around if you don’t want to see this, by the way.’ He was blading what I took to be a small amount of cocaine on a jagged mirror and his concentration on refining it was immense.

  ‘Really, Tommy,’ I said. ‘How many times do I -’

  ’don’t start,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve cut down, I promise you. Just don’t go on about it, all right? I’ve spent the morning having the crap beaten out of me by an irate stepbrother who thinks I’ve got his wife up the spout. I need a little relaxant.’ I sighed and said nothing more as he leaned down, snorted the entire amount into his nose through a thin cylinder of paper he kept in a drawer in his dressing table and, after a moment’s hesitation, shook his whole body as if he was having a fit, his arms outstretched, fists clenched, eyes shut tight. ‘Goddamit,’ he said eventually, tugging at his nose violently and opening and closing his eyes many times. ‘What a fucking day.’ He started to put all his paraphernalia away and I turned away from him, not wishing to see any more. I wondered what would be the result if someone just happened to walk in while he was doing that, whether he would even care.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, his face free of its make-up now, his Sam Cutler clothes changed into his regulation Tommy DuMarque ones, ‘I’ve a bone to pick with you.’ I looked across at him in surprise. What? I wondered. Had another one of my cheques not lodged into his account in time to pay off his debts? ‘I got a script sent to me this week. Recommended by you, apparently.’

  I stood back in surprise. ‘What?’ I asked, not having the first clue what he was talking about. ‘What sort of a script?’

  He shrugged and started rooting around his mess, looking for something. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I didn’t read it of course. It’s more than my career’s worth. We have a hard and fast policy here. If anyone sends us a script, we have to return it to them the same day with a standard BBC statement maintaining that neither I, nor my agent, nor anyone appointed by my agent, nor any agent appointed by me, nor any representative of the BBC or its agents, has even opened it past the first page. Otherwise there’s all sorts of legal difficulties involved with unsolicited manuscripts.’

  ‘But what’s that got to do with me?’ I asked, confused by what he was saying.

  ‘Well I don’t know,’ he said again, finding his keys now in the rubble and reaching for his coat. ‘I mean I read the letter that went with it before sending back the script and it was from some guy who said that he met you at a party, talked to you about the thing, and you’d recommended that he send it on to me. That I might be able to do something with it somehow.’

  I shook my head. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. ‘I haven’t met any such person. What was his name?’

  He thought about it. ‘Can’t remember. He just said you’d talked recently at a party and you’d liked what he’d -’

  ‘Dear God,’ I said, a penny dropping in my mind which I was sure could not be the right one. ‘It wasn’t Lee Hocknell, was it?’

  Tommy clicked his fingers and pointed them at me. ‘Yeah, that was him,’ he said. ‘Name stuck in my head because it was the same as that guy who we sorted out a couple of months ago. Guy who OD’d and you got dragged into it.’

  ‘That was his father,’ I said, astonished. ‘And we didn’t meet at a party, we met at his father’s funeral. Jesus!’

  ‘Well, that’s what he said.’

  ‘And I never told him to send you anything. That’s bizarre. I remember him saying that he was writing some crime story or something. Some drama for TV. Somehow your name came up but I never dreamed that he’d actually send it to you.’

  Tommy shrugged and switched off his lights as we went through the doors to go to lunch. ‘No harm done,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Like I said, I returned it to him anyway.’

  ‘Still, it’s strange that he should send it,’ I said. ‘And a little rude. I promise you I never told him that he should.’

  He laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter, honestly,’ he said. ‘Forget about it. So tell me,’ he continued, changing the subject. ‘What’s new with you?’

  Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘You’re never going to believe who I’m supposed to go out and charm the pants off next week.’

  Chapter 16

  Missing Dominique

  Nat Pepys was not a handsome man but from the way he carried himself it was easy to see that he had the self-confidence of a man completely at ease with both his appearance and his status in the world. He strode around the grounds like a peacock, his legs stretching further ahead of his body than seemed entirely natural; his neck bobbing back and forth like a consumptive turkey. He arrived at Cageley House alone one Tuesday afternoon, riding his horse so hard down the driveway that when he pulled up in front of us at the stables, the poor creature had to call on all its reserves to stop itself from falling over. The damn fool might have been thrown head forwards where he would have undoubtedly broken his neck and I could see the horse’s face break into an expression of surprise and pain and I felt sorry for her; although I had never met Nat before, Jack had already filled my head with his contempt for the man and I was quick to resent his behaviour.

  It was a drizzly afternoon and, as he jumped off his horse, he looked up towards the heavens as if one cold stare at the skies above would piece the clouds back together above his head. I watched as he strolled towards us without a care in the world, sniffing the air as if he owned it and was pleased to come back to Cageley to claim it as his own. He was not as tall as either Jack or I – standing in his riding boots he commanded no more than five foot seven or eight – and although it was only his twenty-first birthday upon him, his long brown hair was falling out to reveal great clumps of empty scalp beneath. His face bore the scars of an adolescent acne, although his eyes were of a deep blue colour and were the first thing one noticed about him; perhaps his only attractive characteristic. Above his lip was a pencil thin moustache which he pressed flat every so often, as if he suspected it might have fallen off during the ride.

  ‘Hello, Colby,’ he said, ignoring me completely as he strode towards Jack, who stopped shovelling out the stables for a moment and leaned on his pitchfork instead, squinting at Nat with barely concealed distaste. ‘Doing all right, are you?’

  ‘It’s Hol
by, Mr Pepys,’ said Jack in a cold tone. ‘Jack Holby. Remember?’

  Nat shrugged and smiled up at him in a condescending manner. The differences between them were obvious; Jack was tall, strong and handsome, his fair hair glistened in the sun, his whole body testified to the fact that he spent most of his time outdoors; Nat was none of these things. His complexion was sallow, his build slight. It would have been clear to anyone which of these two boys, not far separated in age, had worked throughout his youth and which had not. Knowing Jack’s dislike of him, I wondered why Nat was acting in so cocksure a fashion; any fight between them could have had only one outcome. But then I remembered Jack’s ambition; he wanted to make something of his life and, if kowtowing to a creep like Nat Pepys for a few years was what it took to see those dreams fulfilled, then he had the strength of character to do that very thing.

  ‘Now I can’t be expected to remember the names of every man, woman and child in my employ, can I, Holby?’ he asked cheerfully. ‘Man in my position in life,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘Don’t matter much considering I’m not in your employ, am I?’ asked Jack, keeping his tone polite even as his words grew more insolent. ‘It’s your father who pays my wages; always has been. Same as he pays yours, I expect.’

  ‘Yes and who do you think makes sure there’s still money in the coffers for him to use every month?’ asked Nat with a wide grin, spinning around to look at me now, probably not wanting to get into a war of words with an underling only seconds after his arrival. I didn’t know for sure what conversations had passed between these two in the past, but I knew one thing that this fellow also knew – that Jack was not one for standing on ceremony where Nat Pepys was concerned. ‘So,’ he asked, looking me up and down carefully, his mouth twisting a little as he decided whether or not he liked the look of me, ‘who the devil are you then?’ His tone wasn’t as aggressive as the words sounded but for some reason I wasn’t quite sure what was the right way to address him. I’d never had any dealings with his father or mother and he was the closest thing to an employer who had spoken to me since my arrival at Cageley. I looked over his shoulder at Jack for some reassurance.

  ‘That’s Matthieu Zéla,’ said Jack after a moment, coming to my rescue. ‘Stable lad now.’

  ‘Matthieu what?’ asked Nat, looking back at Jack in surprise. ‘What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Zéla.’

  ‘Zéla? Good God, man, what kind of name is that? Where are you from, boy, with a name like that?’

  ‘I’m from Paris, sir,’ I said quietly, my face growing hot with anxiety as I explained. ‘I’m French.’

  ‘I know where Paris is, thank you very much,’ he said irritably. ‘Believe it or not, I do have a little schooling in the basics of world geography. What brings you from Paris to here then, might I ask?’

  I shrugged. It was a long story after all. ‘I just seem to have ended up here,’ I began. ‘I left —’ He turned away from me as I spoke, uninterested, and began to talk to Jack, removing his leather riding gloves and putting them in his pocket as he did so. I had yet to learn the meaning of the word rhetorical.

  ‘I’m sure Davies has told you I’ve got some friends coming down for the weekend,’ he said quickly and Jack nodded. ‘Bit of a birthday bash and the city’s not the place for it. Now there’s seven of them in all and they won’t be here until tomorrow so that gives you a little time to be ready for them. Clean the place up a bit, will you?’ he added, looking around the ground with disdain even though it was about as clean and well kept as any stable ground should be. ‘Make it look a bit respectable. You, boy,’ he said, turning back to me, give my horse a wash and then stable her, will you?’ I nodded and reached over to take the reins when she reared up at me in panic. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Nat, coming over and grabbing the horse fiercely. It was clear that she was terrified of him.’ That’s how you take hold of a horse,’ he said. ‘You have to show her who’s the master. Same as with anyone.’ He smiled at me and I could feel his eyes looking me up and down again as if I was some peasant off the side of the road and it made me uncomfortable. I stared down at the ground and took the reins off him. ‘You’ll have room for seven extra horses, I presume?’ he asked Jack, stepping away from me now.

  ‘I dare say,’ said Jack with a shrug. ‘Plenty of room in number three and we’ll fit another one or two in here easy enough.’

  ‘Well ...’ said Nat, thinking about it for a while. ‘As long as they have room to breathe, that’s all. We’ll be hunting so I need them in good condition. Take some of pater’s horses out for the time being if necessary. They live far too well as it is. Eat better than some of the villagers, I dare say.’ Jack didn’t reply and I could tell there was no way on this earth he was going to sacrifice one of his beloved horses’ comfort for the horses of any of Nat Pepys’s friends. All right then,’ said Nat eventually with a quick nod, taking his small carpet bag off his horse’s back. ‘Better go inside and pay the respects to the old ones. I’ll see you both later, I expect.’ He turned around and gave me a quizzical look once again, shaking his head as he muttered ‘Paris’ in disdain before walking away. I stepped closer to Jack and we watched as he headed out of sight and towards the old house. I noticed that Jack’s jaw was set in grim resolution and as Nat left his eyes followed him with something close to pure hatred.

  Nat’s seven friends arrived the following afternoon and Jack and I were there to meet them when they came charging up the driveway with just as much speed and just as little concern for their steeds as Nat had had twenty-four hours earlier. They practically fell off their horses to greet their friend, who was standing no more than a few feet behind the two of us, going towards him with complete confidence that someone -namely Jack or I – would attend to their horses and prevent them from simply turning on their heels and galloping away to freedom. We brought them all into the stables and spent the rest of the evening washing and brushing them down, which was a long and tiring business. They had all travelled down from London in good time, so the horses were sweating and hungry. As I finished arranging the hay around each one, Jack made a large trough of hot oats for them, more than we had ever been obliged to make for the horses before. By the time we were ready to go home for the evening, we were both exhausted.

  ‘How about we go into the kitchens and see if we can’t help ourselves to a drink after all that hard work,’ suggested Jack as we locked the stable doors and pulled on them quickly to double check. The last thing we could afford was a break-out in the night.

  ‘I don’t know ...’ I said apprehensively. ‘What if -’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mattie, don’t be such a coward. Take a look; lights are off.’ I looked in the direction of the kitchens and, sure enough, it was dark in there and there wasn’t a soul to be seen. It wasn’t against the rules for us to help ourselves to a bite to eat at the end of the day either so, without too much more encouragement, I agreed to join him.

  ‘The doors are open,’ said Jack with a smile as we stepped inside. ‘Doesn’t that sister of yours know she’s supposed to lock them up before she goes off to ‘er bed?’ I shrugged and sat down as he went into the pantry, returning with two bottles of ale which he presented to me delightedly. ‘There you go, Mattie,’ he said, placing them down firmly on the table in front of me with a smile. ‘What do you make of these then?’ I picked one up gratefully and took a long drink from the bottle. I wasn’t accustomed to beer and the bitter taste of it made me gag at first. I coughed a little, some of the drink dribbled down my chin and Jack laughed. ‘Well, don’t waste it, for God’s sake,’ he said, grinning. ‘We’re not supposed to be drinking this anyway. Last thing we need is for you to pour it all down your jersey instead of your throat.’

  ‘Sorry Jack,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I’ve never drunk this before.’ We lit our pipes and settled back in our chairs, the picture of relaxation. It dawned on me how wonderful it must be to be a man of leisure, relaxing like this w
henever you felt like it, eating, drinking and smoking your pipe in peace. Even the working man was able to sit back at the end of the day and enjoy the fruits of his labour. All my money went into my savings, for the day that Dominique and I might leave Cageley and start our lives together somewhere else.

  I’ll need a lot of this over the next few days,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘What with that bunch of wastrels floating around, shouting at us wherever they go. I swear to you, I’ve half a mind to ...’ He drifted off, not finishing his sentence but biting on his lip in suppressed anger.

  ‘What exactly happened between Nat and your Elsie?’ I asked him, using the word ‘your’ only because he had referred to her as ‘his’ on every single occasion that he had mentioned her name during my time at Cageley House and not because I myself had ever noticed any particular relationship existing between the two. He shrugged and looked as if he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to discuss it or not.

  ‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘I’ve tried to put that whole business behind me now. I suppose it’s going back a bit anyway. Two years it must be since it all took place.’ I looked at him and raised an eyebrow, urging him to go on and eventually he did. ‘You see, I’ve been at Cageley House since I was about five years old,’ he told me. ‘On account of my olds working for Sir Alfred. I were brought up here and ol’ Nat there, we used to play together a bit as kids. All that stuff he does now, calling me ‘Colby’ instead of using my real name. He’s only known me most of his life. He only does it to annoy me.’

  ‘But why?’ I asked. ‘If you were friends once?’

  He shook his head. ‘We were never really friends,’ he said. ‘We just happened to be both here at the same time with not that much difference in our ages. Sir Alfred spent most of his time in London back then; they only came to Cageley at weekends and they didn’t even come then half the time. We were more like caretakers here than anything else. The real work began when Sir Alfred retired. So I only saw Nat from time to time. And he tended to stay in the house while I was always outside. No, the real trouble started when my Elsie came here.’