The Forgotten Son

by Andy Frankham-Allen

  ‘Hours,’ Lethbridge-Stewart said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s eleven-fifty hours.’

  Sally just looked at him, blinked and returned to her map. She pointed to the pin nearest Kenton. ‘The first report we have was on Grasmere Avenue, Kenton, around 2:20am…’

  Behind her Lethbridge-Stewart folded his arms and raised an eyebrow at Dougie. The man smiled. Lethbridge-Stewart was reminded why it was never a good idea to work alongside someone with whom you were romantically involved. After this business was all dealt with, he would make sure Sally returned to Hamilton’s side.

  ‘…Which matches the report given at Paddington and St Mark’s; people walking in interweaving circles. What with London still relatively empty it has been difficult to track these instances. However, the second instance seems to have been on Elmstead Avenue around oh-five-hundred-hours, followed by a report some miles further away on the A4088 near Neasden Lane at 6:45am. Luckily traffic is pretty thin so no casualties were reported, just massive disruption. Following that we had a report from Kensal Rise Underground Station at 9:10am, the last before Paddington itself.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart waited a few moments to take it all in. This confirmed the link, although it left the answer to the most important question of all – why? – no clearer in his mind. Why were people walking in circles? And on top of that, what did this have to do with Arnold’s resurrection, and just where was he going? That Arnold was going in some specific direction seemed a reasonable assumption. Lethbridge-Stewart doubted it was random; nineteen years of military service showed him that very little happened by accident.

  ‘Would it be safe to assume, taking into account the time it took him to reach Paddington, that the staff sergeant stopped at these places?’ Dougie asked. ‘Maybe it was his extended presence that caused these… disturbances?’

  ‘A safe assumption,’ Lethbridge-Stewart agreed. He turned to Sally. ‘And there have been no further instances beyond Paddington?’

  She double-checked the reports before answering. ‘Not within London, no, sir.’

  ‘So, Arnold has almost certainly left London. No doubt on a train from Paddington. Very well. Corporal Wright, please contact British Rail and see which trains left Paddington within the half-hour period during which the incident occurred. Then see if any further incidents happened along those stops. Get any help you need from Major Douglas’ staff, but keep Bell free for Major Douglas. He still has a city to re-populate, after all.’

  Sally nodded and left the office, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Well, Colonel,’ Dougie said, ‘looks like I do need to know after all. You can’t disrupt my operation without filling me in on this London Event now.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart was inclined to agree, although now that his leave was cancelled he wasn’t sure it could be called Dougie’s operation. Still, since Hamilton hadn’t reassigned Dougie, Lethbridge-Stewart was more than happy to share the load. ‘Very well,’ he said and nodded towards the decanter on the table. ‘But a drop of scotch may be needed.’ Dougie couldn’t very well deny him – after all the whisky was his.

  Two small glasses poured, Dougie sat back in his chair and waited. Lethbridge-Stewart swirled the scotch in the glass before starting.

  ‘As you know, London was evacuated at the end of last month, but what you don’t know is that this all started a long time ago. 1935 to be exact, in Tibet of all places. India now, of course, but back then…’ He waved away the small but important detail. ‘Anyway, Professor Edward Travers was an anthropologist back then and a member of the Royal Geographical Society to boot. Well, he had this fanciful notion of exploring Tibet and proving the existence of the abominable snowmen. By all accounts most of the RGS laughed at him, but his oldest friend, a chap named Mackay, joined him and off they went. Unfortunately Mackay died early on, and Travers happened upon a monastery called Det-Sen, although one suspects he probably wished he remained in old Blighty…’

  Sally looked back at the closed door.

  ‘Men and their secrets, eh?’ Caroline Bell said, looking up from the report she was writing, having put down the phone just as Sally left Alistair’s office.

  Sally walked over to her own desk. ‘As ever.’

  ‘Maybe you could do with a cuppa?’

  Sally thought that was a great idea, but she offered to get it. Caroline was busy writing up the report she had just received. Contacting British Rail could wait a short while. It wasn’t like Alistair needed it immediately; he and Dougie would talk for a while yet, no doubt sharing a glass or two of scotch.

  As he neared the small town, passing through the Cornish countryside, Dingle Hill Wood in the near distance on his right, the old soldier could feel it. He was coming to the end of his journey, and he’d be able to rest again.

  The train slowed as it crossed a small bridge over the A38. For a short while the train remained there, once again halted by a red signal. Around him the other passengers started preparing themselves for their arrival. A child, a girl, kept looking at him. He frowned, his cracked skin hurting as he did.

  ‘You smell,’ she said.

  She was probably right. He had died, he knew that. He still did not understand how he was living again, since almost all of his memory was gone. All he knew is what he needed to do. Where he needed to go.

  Something is wrong.

  The child’s voice came from nowhere. But he knew it was right. Something was tugging at him, pulling him away. Not his body, but his mind. Trying to empty him out.

  People started crowding the right side of the carriage, peering out of the windows with exclamations of shock. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.

  He closed his eyes, urging the train to move on. He had to keep moving.

  He didn’t even register the sounds of tyres screeching down on the A38, or the crunch of metal on metal as cars collided…

  Somehow Mary had managed to drift off shortly after Desert Island Discs had finished – she was far too exhausted by the mental strain of trying to understand what was happening. Her dreams, such as they were, were haunted by a little boy. He was about twelve, dressed in grey shorts that reached just above the knees, a tank-top over a smart shirt. They were both standing in the woods, looking out across a gorge of cascading water. There was something familiar about it, as if she had been there before. The next minute he was on the opposite side, waving her across. She looked down at the rushing water. She couldn’t cross that.

  ‘You must. I need you,’ the boy said.

  ‘But I don’t know who you are.’

  The boy looked agitated by that, his eyes moving around quickly, like he expected something to jump out of the trees. ‘You do, it’s me. Gordon.’

  ‘But I…’ Mary shook her head. It couldn’t be her Gordon, he was too young. She had never known him as a boy but… In death could her husband have been reduced to his innocence? Wasn’t that the definition of Heaven: being free of all sin and evil influences?

  Decided, Mary took a step forward. She would cross the gorge and be with Gordon again.

  She snapped awake, disorientated by the suddenness of it all. Her dream was still very clear in her mind, more like a memory from the previous day. She looked around, hoping to see Gordon, but instead all she saw was the countryside rushing past her at great speed.

  She was still in the little Morris, rushing up an A-road. She recognised the geography around her. Not too far away on her right was Dingle Hill Wood, which meant she was approaching Liskeard. Her destination was now obvious. She hadn’t thought about the place in nearly twenty years. And it made perfect sense; where else would Gordon be waiting for her than where they had lived so happily together?

  Only they were driving too fast. Up ahead cars were losing control, careering all across the A-road; those going the opposite way were crossing the verge. She leaned forward.

  ‘Slow down, look!’

  The driver didn’t even flinch. His hands held the steering whe
el tightly, the Morris not diverting from its direct course towards the cars that were even now crashing into each other. Mary tried to move across the man, to take the wheel off him, but there wasn’t enough space. The man didn’t blink; his eyes were glazed over, looking at nothing.

  Ahead, like an albatross, a train waited on a bridge that ran across the A-road. Even as the Morris drove her to her death, Mary couldn’t help but notice all the people on the train, faces pressing against the windows, watching with horror and ineptness at the carnage beneath them.

  She wanted to scream out. Wanted to be back in Coleshill having a nice dinner with Mr Cooper. But it was too late. Much too late.

  Owain didn’t want to be back at the Manor, but he could feel the cold hand of the little boy leading him forward. He glanced down. There was no one there, of course, but still he could feel the smaller hand clasped around his.

  He didn’t even know what the boy looked like. But he could hear him; the voice hadn’t changed since Owain had first heard it a week earlier in the Manor. The Whisperer was real – a ghost, perhaps, but real nonetheless. And it wanted him. Wanted his help. For the past week the boy simply wanted to talk, to tell him stories of all the things he had seen. The futures he had witnessed, the strange worlds. Owain wasn’t sure he believed a word the boy said, but he felt such a need from the voice that he couldn’t help but continue to listen.

  It was nice to be wanted. To be needed. Lewis no longer needed him, of that Owain was sure, he didn’t need the voice to tell him that.

  Owain stopped, his hand free once more. He looked around to see if the boy was there. Nothing, just the woods nearby and the gate that was still open from when they had broken in last weekend.

  Owain swallowed and walked towards the Manor. He passed through the gates and looked around. In the distance, just left of the house he saw what appeared to be an army truck, but before he could question the oddity of such a thing, he spotted the boy.

  For the first time Owain could see him. Not very clear, but definitely there. Dressed in clothes a good thirty years old: grey cap on his brown hair, grey shorts and tank-top, the sort of uniform he’d seen in old pictures at his school.

  The boy looked worried.

  Something is wrong. We need to go.

  ‘Where?’ Owain asked.

  For a moment the boy did not answer, but then he spoke again. As he spoke he vanished and reappeared a split second later next to Owain, holding out his hand.

  Liskeard, the boy said.

  — CHAPTER FOUR —

  All Roads Lead to Bledoe

  WE RAN THROUGH THE WOODS, joking and laughing, kicking the can between us, completely unaware of what trouble we were about to find ourselves in. How could we have known? Three boys not yet teenagers, ignorant to the dangers life could bring. But we soon learned.

  Jimmy was the one who got the blame, but of course it was not his fault. How could he be blamed? Only children could be so mean. He kicked the can high over my head. I thought about jumping for a header but I didn’t fancy the dent the can may have left in my head. So I let the can fly past me. We all watched it as it flew in slow motion, like time itself was pausing around it. It stopped in mid-air. Moments later lightning erupted out of it. We stood there mesmerized.

  We could only look on in shock as light crackled around us, like a thunderstorm at ground level. A man stepped out of the crackling light, a man from a bygone era, dressed as he was in the clothes of a Victorian gentleman, complete with top hat and cravat. He looked around, his steely eyes taking in the woods, the foreboding Carrington Lodge in the distance and eventually us. His cold eyes rested on us, a look that I can only describe as malevolent.

  Ray looked up from the book, the first one he’d ever written, back in 1952. The Hollow Man of Carrington Lodge, just like all his other books, was inspired by real events, although none would believe it. Sometimes he didn’t even believe it himself. Sometimes he looked back and wrote it off as the disturbed imaginings of an insecure child. Except the events of September 1937 to March 1938 were real, and his life was not the only one affected by them.

  Everybody had heard stories about the Manor, ghost stories he had turned into fiction, almost as a warning to the young boys who wanted to explore the place. Whether the books helped to keep the place closed, Ray could not say, but he liked to think they played their part. Of course most people just saw them as fiction; very few believed them to be embellishments of things he had personally experienced. Only a few could confirm the fact of the fiction, and two of them were gone, while the other hadn’t mentioned it once in thirty years. The others who had been affected by the events, his family and his friends, had either left Bledoe or passed on themselves. He was the only one left in Bledoe who would admit the truth. Who would accept that the Whisperer, as the locals called the ghost, had began life as the Hollow Man who had appeared in 1937 and made that Manor his home.

  Only a fool would go up there.

  Ray looked down at Jack, who was curled up in front of the fire.

  Only a fool like Ray. He had to go to the Manor. The Vine boy was up there now, he was certain about it. He’d popped by the post office hoping to talk to Owain, but Mrs Vine said he’d not been back in hours. There was only one place he could have gone, as far as Ray was concerned. If the Hollow Man had got to him, then Owain would have no choice.

  Which meant Ray had no choice.

  He knelt down and ruffled Jack’s fur. ‘Material for a new book, eh?’ he said, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt.

  He stood up and took a deep breath. Time to get on with it. He’d put this off for thirty years. Now it was time to confront the Hollow Man and hold him to account.

  People were still shaken when they disembarked the train at Liskeard, some of them worried that family or friends may have been in the accident on the bypass. But one person was unaffected. The dead staff sergeant didn’t pause as he stepped out of the station, didn’t blink as the small panda cars rushed through the town to help in the emergency.

  He had expected to get transport from Liskeard, but the bypass incident had prevented that. Now he had to walk the rest of the way. Due north to Bledoe. What should have been a journey of no more than twenty minutes would now take him over an hour.

  The delay was bad. The boy’s voice kept telling him this. The boy could not reach Liskeard. He could barely manage to exist in Bledoe. The staff sergeant had to go further, to Golitha Falls. The boy was waiting for him, waiting for both of them.

  Lethbridge-Stewart’s vision blurred as he looked up from the reports. He’d been reading over them for what seemed like hours. Major Douglas had gone to deal with a little trouble in Greenwich, leaving him on his own to read the reports and co-ordinate the continual influx of people. It was almost six o’clock, but it seemed much later. The day was dragging, no doubt because he had expected to be well on the way to Brighton by now. When he’d woken up that morning he had prepared himself to turn off from work, hand over to Dougie and then go home, with no further thought of reports or logistics or recalcitrant privates crossing his mind for a week. And here he was, still at work, with no sign of going home any time soon.

  ‘Come on in,’ he called barely a second after the knock came. Tired he may have been, but Lethbridge-Stewart prided himself on keeping his reactions sharp.

  Sally entered, holding a mug in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. ‘Thought you could do with a cuppa,’ she said, walking across the office and placing the cup on the desk before him. He took it gratefully as she closed the door and took a seat opposite him. She placed the papers on the desk and leaned down to remove her shoes. ‘So much for our break, Alistair.’

  ‘Yes, can’t be helped,’ he said, and walked around the desk. He took one of her stockinged feet in his hands and began to massage the sole. ‘Better?’

  ‘Much,’ she said, trying to smile around a rising yawn. ‘Sorry. Hamilton rarely keeps me on my feet this much. Is it always like t
his for you?’

  ‘Most of the time, yes. You don’t reach colonel after eighteen years by sitting around. Rank has its privileges and all that.’ He smiled laconically. ‘Any luck with British Rail?’

  ‘Oh.’ Sally pulled her foot away quickly, and handed him the sheaf. ‘Sorry, that’s why I came in here. Got distracted.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart stood up. ‘It’s quite alright, no one but us noticed.’ He looked down at the papers in his hand. The top one showed the time-table for the 11:15 to Penzance. ‘This would be Arnold’s train?’

  ‘Looks like.’ Sally also stood. Removing the papers from him, she flicked through them, her expression troubled. ‘Incidents in Exeter St David, Newton Abbot and Plymouth. All around the times the train stopped at those stations.’

  ‘Why would he be heading to Penzance?’

  ‘Perhaps he fancied a mid-death skinny dip?’

  Lethbridge-Stewart allowed a smile.

  ‘Something at sea, maybe? It is on the coast.’ Sally blew out air and sat back down, still studying the papers in her hands. ‘I really have no idea. I’m still trying to grasp the idea that there is a living corpse travelling across country.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ Lethbridge-Stewart pointed out.

  ‘Well, since I am not cleared for such things, I shall have to take your word for it.’

  ‘Quite right, too.’ He offered her a smile, but knew it lacked conviction. He sat on the desk, suddenly tired. ‘At least that gives us something to work with. Which company is closest to Penzance?’

  ‘Off the top of my head, I don’t know.’

  ‘Hmm. I think it may be D Company.’

  ‘Want me to alert them?’

  ‘Yes, arrange for a platoon to meet the train at Penzance. Tell them…’

  He was interrupted by another knock at the door. A cadet doing on-field experience poked his head through the gap and saluted.