The Skull

by Christian Darkin

  He lifted the sledgehammer and put his full weight behind it. The shell splintered into a powder of glittering crystals.

  Henry dropped the hammer and stood up, staring defiantly at his father through his tears. Still, his father said nothing. With a look of disdain he turned away, and headed back towards the house.

  Henry spent the day at school barely listening to his teachers’ droning repetitions. He thought about the shell and his dream and about the skull in the old tomb. Most of all, he thought about his father. Something told him that his punishment was not over. Something had changed between them. Whatever he now did with his life, he would have to do it alone.

  When he got home, his father was at the church and his mother was busy in the kitchen. But as soon as he entered the dining room, he noticed it. The writing desk was always scrupulously tidy, just as everything his father touched was scrupulously tidy. Every object had a proper place and nothing was ever moved unless it was being used. Even the blotting paper was cut into equally sized pieces and arranged in a neat pile, held down by a carved wooden paperweight inlaid with brass leaves.

  Anything out of place immediately caught the eye, and today, a long, white envelope sat at an angle in the middle of the desk. It was addressed, in his father’s writing, to the headmaster of St Mary’s.

  The letter was sealed, but Henry didn’t need to read it. There was only one reason for his father to write to St Mary’s. Henry was to be sent there. He turned, ran upstairs to his room and threw himself down on his bed, sobbing. This was it. Quite simply, it was the end of his life.

  He cried until the sun started to fade, sliding in a golden-red ball towards the treetops. His mind took him out into the woods where his secret lay hidden in the old tomb. He thought of the savage world the dinosaur must have grown up in and wished he could have its nature. Its strength. What, he wondered, could a boy achieve if he had the courage of a dinosaur in this polite, slow-moving world? He would not achieve anything at St Mary’s, that much was certain.

  By the time he came down to dinner, his eyes were dry and his face was set in an emotionless mask. His father was still not home and would not be until late. His mother tried to make conversation about the day at school, but Henry responded as little as he could. She smiled at him once or twice. A calm, sympathetic sort of smile that worked for a bruised knee, but would do no good now. His mind was fixed and nothing could be allowed to change it.

  When dinner was finished and cleared away, it was time for bed. Before going upstairs, Henry watched his mother gather up a handful of his clothes from the washing basket and pile them in the dining room. With his father out, she could settle to mending and altering them.

  As she sat there, darning with an oil lamp beside her, he wanted to go to her. To tell her he wouldn’t be needing his school clothes any more. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood at the door, and said softly, ‘Goodnight.’ Then he turned, closed the dining room door and walked up the stairs.

  When he reached the top, he opened his bedroom door, picked up the large leather bag he had already packed with a few of his toughest clothes and most precious belongings, and crept back down the stairs and out of the back door.

  He crossed the garden and the road at a run, and then he was into the woods. A little further on, he met the path that led away from the village.

  It was that easy.

  As he walked, he thought to himself, It was the right decision. I had no choice. At any rate, it was his decision, and his alone. He knew that children younger than him had made their way in England. Besides, he was educated and willing to learn more. And London was just a week’s walk away.

  He shifted the weight of his bag to his other shoulder and walked on. He wouldn’t be missed until morning and by then he would be miles away.

  He followed the curve of the path up and over the hill. When he reached the top, he could see out over the downs in the blue moonlight. He turned to look back down into the closed valley that had been his life, and for the first time, he felt free.

  Chapter 8

  Stanley Marchant: 1932

  ‘That’s extraordinary!’

  Stanley Marchant’s geography teacher, Mr Grantham, was standing in their dining room, sloshing whiskey around his glass. Smoke was drifting up from a thin black cigarette dangling from his lip and Stanley didn’t like it one bit.

  Ever since Stanley had mentioned the picture to Herbert, Mr Grantham’s son, his teacher had become uncomfortably chummy. Now he had brought Herbert over, using their friendship as a pretext to find out more about his father. Stanley knew this because the friendship between himself and Herbert was weak at best. They shared a desk, that was all.

  Herbert was interested in nothing. Right now, he was taking the carefully arranged bolts out of Stanley’s Meccano set one by one and flicking them idly around the room.

  Stanley turned his attention back to his father and Mr Grantham.

  ‘And you say you’ve never been back in all these years, Henry?’

  Henry Marchant took a sip from his drink and then stared deep into it. His son thought he looked sad.

  ‘Never quite had the nerve.’ He looked at the picture, then gestured at Stanley. ‘I was barely more than his age when I left home that night.’ He paused. ‘My father had the best intentions for me, of that I have no doubt. But intentions are not always enough.’

  ‘But you know exactly where it is?’ Mr Grantham’s voice was casual, but his eyes were gleaming.

  ‘Oh, yes, I should say. I did live there my whole childhood, you know.’ Henry reeled off the address of the vicarage where he had lived as a child. ‘The tomb is well enough known in the village – although its contents are not.’

  ‘And this picture? It’s exactly what you saw?’

  ‘On the morning after I ran away, I sketched it. It’s not the world’s greatest work of art, but I fancy I’ve an eye for detail. And it made quite an impression on me.’ Henry laughed a little, but he looked slightly uncomfortable.

  The picture had been on the wall in Stanley’s house for as long as he could remember. It was a pencil drawing, outlined in ink, washed over with faded watercolours. The paper had been rolled, creased and torn. It had been with his father through a difficult time in his life, and contained the stains of the mud of four counties, and the dirt, soot and oil of a dozen dirty jobs. Now, it was framed and safe, and his father was standing beside it in a pressed suit.

  At the top of the picture was a rough drawing of an old, ruined tomb. It was overgrown with ivy and blocking its doorway was a slab of stone, carved with shapes that Stanley could not make out. Below this image was another drawing. A detailed sketch of the skull of a dinosaur with a huge, empty eye-socket and a blunt mouth filled with curved, serrated teeth. The label underneath read simply: ‘Megalosaurus’.

  Stanley had always felt there was something strange about the sketch. He could not help but look at it every time he entered the room. It seemed somehow alive, as though the creature’s great eye was staring at him through time. It had been watching him from the wall since the day he was born. It was familiar, but monstrous. The skull frightened him and drew him in at the same time.

  ‘So it’s still just sitting there, waiting to be dug up?’ said Mr Grantham with poorly disguised excitement.

  ‘As far as I know,’ said Henry. ‘If it had been found, I’m sure it would be in the British Museum. That’s where it should be.’

  ‘Possibly, possibly,’ said Mr Grantham. ‘But, you know, there are private collectors who would be exceedingly excited by such a piece.’ He paused. ‘Considerable sums of money have been known to change hands. I could make introductions if you are interested?’

  Stanley’s father reddened. ‘Thank you, but I am not at all interested,’ he said shortly. ‘The place for the thing is in a museum where scientists can study it. What the devil use would it be in the house of some rich gentleman? The world should see it and learn its secrets. How else do we progress? H
ow else do we leave ignorance and superstition behind? You teach geography: you must have some interest in science.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Mr Grantham softly. ‘But nobody can study it underground.’

  ‘One day I’ll go back.’ Stanley could see Henry was stung by the remark. ‘One day I’ll bring it out. I will!’

  ‘Of course,’ soothed Mr Grantham with a smile that Stanley didn’t trust. He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘You know, we really should be getting back. New term starts in three days – lots to do.’

  The train was a monster of green and black iron. Huge clouds of filthy steam billowed from its funnel and from under its wheels as it hauled its coaches through the countryside. Inside, Stanley and his luggage could have been in his own living room. The walls were walnut. The seats were comfortable, and although the carriage rattled a little, he could still eat ice cream out of his Thermos flask without fear of staining his school uniform.

  By the time he arrived, most of the other boys were already there. His tardiness didn’t bother him: he wasn’t new, so had already claimed his place in the dorms. He unpacked quickly and set out to find out what his friends had been up to during the holidays.

  Herbert, of course, was already there. His family lived at the school even when it was empty because his father taught there, and he treated the place as his own. Today, he had been asked to make sure all the new boys knew their way around. Instead, he was making sure they knew who was boss.

  Once unpacked and signed in, there wasn’t much to do until the formal start of school on Monday. The teachers all either had their hands full with the new arrivals, or were preparing their lessons, so Stanley knew he’d be left pretty much to his own devices. He decided to leave the hectic, crowded corridors and take a walk around the grounds.

  That was when he spotted the bag. It was a large, thick canvas bag, and it was lying at the back of the school. He noticed it because it was sitting in the middle of a flowerbed, leaning against the wall. It looked as though the bag had been dropped out of the window above, and indeed, the upstairs window above it was still open.

  Why would anyone drop a bag out of a window? wondered Stanley.

  It was probably someone playing a practical joke. In that case, someone would be in trouble. These were the teachers’ living quarters.

  He took a closer look. The bag was open at the top, and contained a few old working clothes, a pair of muddy boots, a crowbar and a pickaxe. Underneath them lay some old books and a pile of maps. Stanley was just about to walk away when he noticed something else protruding from the bag. It was a curved metal shape with a rough texture. Stanley recognised it immediately as the handle of a pistol.

  ‘What are you doing there?’ The voice came from behind him. He sprang up. Mr Grantham was jogging across the field towards him.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ Stanley replied hastily. ‘I just thought…’

  ‘Leave that alone!’ snapped Mr Grantham, stopping right in front of him. ‘That’s mine.’ He picked up the bag, obviously flustered. ‘It’s… erm, quite all right, Stanley. I’m just taking… er… You know you shouldn’t be round here. Off you go.’ He swung the bag over his shoulder and jogged off towards the school’s back gate.

  Stanley watched him go. What was that about? Why dump his bag in the flowerbed and then creep round the back of the school to pick it up? If he wanted to go out, why not go out through the front entrance like everyone else? Obviously, he didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing.

  Stanley waited until his teacher had stepped through the gate before cautiously following him.

  At the edge of the field, Stanley flattened himself into the thick hedge that separated the school grounds from the road. He pushed his way through to the inside of the hedge so he couldn’t be seen from the road or the school buildings, and edged his way along the fence.

  He didn’t have to go far before he heard voices.

  ‘You’re certain of this?’ a gruff voice was saying.

  ‘Yes, it’s just sitting there waiting to be dug out. A complete Megalosaurus skull!’ Mr Grantham’s voice was easily recognisable. ‘It’d be the pride of your collection. You’ll be the envy of the Royal Society.’

  Stanley peered out from between the bushes. The other man was a little older than Mr Grantham and judging by his suit, he was not short of money. On the road beside them, a smart new canvas-sided lorry was parked. It was shiny and black and not at all like the rusty old commercial vehicles Stanley was used to seeing around. Mr Grantham dumped his heavy bag in the open front of the lorry.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied the other man. ‘Well, if it is there, and it is what you say it is, there’ll be plenty in it for you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ oozed Mr Grantham. ‘There is, of course,’ he continued carefully, ‘a small question of provenance. Technically, the father of one of my pupils was the first to make the discovery. Technically, the find could be credited to him. Of course, Marchant has some damn fool notion of giving over it to the British Museum.’

  ‘Provenance?’ The stranger sniffed. ‘My dear boy, its provenance is whatever I say it is.’

  Mr Grantham spoke as though he felt obliged to continue. ‘Of course, technically, we should seek the permission of the land owner to even search for it.’

  ‘Then we will dig quietly,’ said the man. ‘Once the find is in the back of my lorry, who’s to say where it came from? Plus, if anyone should turn up while we’re working, it will be your job to discourage them from asking questions.’ He raised an eyebrow at Mr Grantham. ‘You are prepared for that eventuality, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Hampton,’ said Mr Grantham nervously. Stanley thought of the pistol he’d seen nestling in the bottom of the canvas bag. Mr Grantham was prepared all right.

  ‘Then we’d better get going.’ Mr Hampton jumped into the driver’s seat of the lorry and Mr Grantham got into the other side. The engine coughed into life.

  Without stopping to think, Stanley stepped quickly out of the bushes and dived into the back of the lorry. What am I doing? he thought to himself, as the vehicle sped off and his school disappeared from sight.

  The lorry bumped and rattled along the road. In the back, Stanley held on tight to the leather straps holding the canvas roof in place. The lorry was empty apart from a few sacks and a tarpaulin draped over the metal floor. Stanley already regretted jumping in. He had no idea what was going to happen next or what he could do about it. He had a fair idea of where they were going, but he knew it was a long way from school and he had no way of getting back before he was missed.

  As the lorry headed out into the countryside, Stanley tried out a few excuses. Perhaps he had been involved in an accident. Nothing serious, but he’d been knocked unconscious. Maybe he’d seen a robbery and had had to help the police identify suspects. On second thoughts, it might be better to go for something a bit less heroic. Something that didn’t sound so much like an adventure. A mundane excuse would be far more convincing. Perhaps he’d just fallen asleep in the library for two days and nobody had noticed.

  Suddenly, the lorry turned into a long drive, and pulled up outside a country house. He heard Mr Grantham and Mr Hampton jump out and crunch off across the gravel driveway. Stanley popped his head out of the back of the lorry and looked around. It was a huge house. Newly built, but evidently meant to look like one of the mansions of the rich old families. Mr Hampton had obviously made a lot of money, and recently by the look of it. Most people who’d done that had either played dangerous games on the American stock market, or had somehow turned the war to their advantage.

  Stanley heard the crunch of feet on small stones, and saw the two men trudging back across the gravel. Mr Grantham was dragging a wooden box full of heavy mallets, chisels and thick chains and pulleys. Mr Hampton carried equipment more suited to an archaeological dig. He had clearly done this sort of thing before.

  Stanley ducked quickly back inside the lorry and looked around. There was nowhere to hide.
He only had one chance. He dived under the tarpaulin at the back of the lorry, and lay as still and flat as he could.

  He shut his eyes and listened intently as the two men loaded their equipment into the lorry. At any moment they could pull up the tarpaulin or, worse, drop an axe or heavy box on his head. Digging implements clattered onto the floor around him. Then there was silence.

  Moments later the engine started. Stanley lifted his head out and sighed with relief.

  They didn’t stop again for a long time. The lorry’s solid tyres did nothing to cushion Stanley from the potholes and bumps in the rough, uneven roadway. As the journey went on, roads made for cars gave way to roads made for horses and carts, and then to winding country lanes made for horses and pedestrians.

  Small, ancient villages passed by, the twisting roads taking them first through open farmland, then through wide, flat moorland where ponies, gorse and the odd, incongruous boulder were the only landmarks. Suddenly, the road seemed to close in around them. Dense trees and thick bushes lined the road, making it impossible for Stanley to tell how fast or in what direction they were travelling.

  The landscape seemed to confuse the drivers too. Every so often, Stanley was thrown suddenly against the back of the lorry as it lurched to a halt, then backed up, or turned around completely to go back the way it had come. At one point, they stopped completely and Stanley could hear the two men shouting at each other in the front seat. Then the engine started up again and they rattled off in a new direction.

  Eventually, they slowed to jogging pace, and turned off the road on to a footpath along the heavily wooded side of a hill. The path turned back and forth as it slowly climbed. Branches scraped along the canvas side of the lorry. For Stanley, it was as though clawed fingers were pushing into the cloth from all sides, trying to grab him.

  Now the lorry was moving at walking speed, labouring over every bump and pothole in the path. It lurched and rocked so much, Stanley thought it might topple over, but they kept going, back and forth and upward.