The Other Book

by Philip Womack

  He felt himself drawn to the biggest monument in the churchyard, a stone block, taller than he was, with carvings around the edges of leaves and vines that looked like intertwined Ms and Vs. He ran his fingers over a large shield, feeling the bumps and grooves of its design. It had an inscription under it, in Latin, but he couldn’t read it because it was too faint. The crest was a bird, poised for flight. There was a name on the tomb, almost rubbed away. He could just about make it out:

  TRISTRAM DE LA ZOUCHE

  A curious name, gentle and fierce at the same time.

  He hoisted himself up on to the monument, keeping the bird in the crook of his arm, and scrabbled for the centre. He laid the raven down on its back, with its wings outstretched. He studied it, and the thought came into his mind that it was an angel, lost and fallen. More flies came to it and he tried to bat them away, but they kept returning. And still he felt that he had something more to do. His haunches were beginning to hurt. He needed something to dignify the raven, to make its death worthwhile. He leapt down from the monument, and decided that he would pick some flowers. He took them from the beds, and from other graves, choosing not white lilies but bright red, yellow and pink blooms. When he had his arms full he climbed back up on to the monument, scuffing his knee, and laid them around the raven. He sat back on his heels to look at it, filled with serenity.

  Afterwards, Edward couldn’t say how long he had been there. Time seemed to be a little different.

  The vicar, Reverend Smallwood, a tall and expansive man, found him there, sitting on top of the monument, gazing at the raven. He tapped him gently on his wet shoulder.

  ‘Good evening, Pollock,’ he said, with a friendly gesture. ‘Are you all right?’

  Edward didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. He felt more than a little foolish.

  ‘Well, my boy. Is there anything that you’d like to tell me?’ the Reverend said, peering down.

  Edward couldn’t cover up the dead bird, and shook his head. He got down, jarring his body as he came into contact with the ground.

  ‘The poor thing would have died one way or another, you know,’ said the Reverend.

  Edward looked at him. Smallwood hadn’t understood. It wasn’t the death so much. It was that the raven’s story had been brutally cut off. There was a difference. It didn’t seem right.

  ‘All the same,’ the Reverend continued, ‘there was no need to pluck up all these flowers, now, was there?’ His jolly tones grated on Edward’s ear.

  Edward shook his head slowly. He hadn’t really thought about it. He didn’t know what he had been thinking. He could see Smallwood looking at him searchingly–at his muddied knees and hands, and the rain dripping down his face.

  ‘I think,’ the Reverend said, stretching his arms behind his back casually, ‘that you and I should take a walk back to the school, and that we should see Mr Fraser. Do you think that would be a good idea?’ He always spoke as if he were in public–perhaps because he had once been a barrister. Edward always wondered why he’d given up his wig for a dustier cassock.

  The odd pair walked through the churchyard. The Reverend was a little ahead of Edward. The rain had let off, and the clouds were clearing quickly, as if they had been ripped apart. The graveyard was quiet. Smallwood talked as they went. Edward drank in the words, but did not really taste them, letting them flow over him. They wandered slowly past the entrance to the church. It was dark, and sombre, and nothing stirred inside. Birds perched on some of the headstones of the graves, and in his mind Edward made them mourners for the raven.

  Soon Smallwood and Edward came to the gate that opened into the courtyard of Oldstone Manor, just below Edward’s dormitory window. The gate was wrought iron, rusty and ancient. It was topped with spikes, as if it had been designed to keep something out. As they passed through it, Edward felt that he was returning to what was solid and real again, and his mind became clearer. He ran over what had happened and could not understand what he had done. It was the sort of thing that he would have done when he was much younger, and he and his brothers and sisters would bury dead baby birds in cotton wool in shoeboxes.

  As they came through the mellow stone of the courtyard, the church clock struck six. I’ve missed the end of the match, thought Edward, so at least some good has come out of it. He’d also missed five o’clock roll call. Everyone is going up to do their prep now, he thought.

  The headmaster’s study gave on to the courtyard, and had the same view over the valley as Edward’s dorm. Smallwood knocked on the door, which was open, letting in the cool air, and went in. Edward crept in behind him, not sure whether he was about to be punished or absolved.

  He saw Mr Fraser sitting at his creaky red-leather-topped desk. It was covered in messy piles of papers, and a computer hummed irritably on one corner. A half-smoked cigarette lay in a stone ashtray by his hand. Fraser stubbed it out as they entered and picked up a clutch of papers almost defensively, before he yawned, covering his mouth with the sheaf. He was peering inquisitively at the computer, as if he was only half aware of what it was doing.

  ‘Damned mysterious, these things. Ah, the Rev. Good evening.’

  ‘Good evening, Headmaster.’ The Reverend was almost courtly, giving a little bow that no doubt he had used to charm judges in court.

  ‘And hello, Pollock,’ Fraser said, as if he had just noticed him, giving Edward a wink that creased up one side of his face, revealing his yellow teeth.

  ‘Evening, sir,’ he said, half-heartedly.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ said the headmaster. He sounded very much as if he had other things to worry about.

  ‘I just brought Pollock in to see you. I found him in the churchyard. He’s a little distracted. Distrait, if you will,’ said the Reverend, and laughed fruitily.

  ‘Thank you, Rev.’

  ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get back for Vespers.’ The Reverend smiled at Edward, and patted him on the back. As Smallwood was leaving, Edward saw him exchange a glance with the headmaster before striding out of the study, back across the courtyard into his own domain.

  Fraser waited till he had gone. Then he swung around in his battered swivel chair, and faced Edward fully. His black, curlyish hair was tousled and his leathery skin was creased. He laid down the papers which he had been clutching, and smoothed them repeatedly. The computer beeped. He jumped slightly at the noise, and clicked his tongue.

  ‘What on earth does that beep mean? I haven’t told it to do anything … Oh, do sit down, old chap,’ he said. Edward sat down in the chair in front of the desk. ‘So you’ve missed roll call, have you?’

  Edward nodded.

  ‘And skiving off games, too. We’ve had this before, haven’t we?’

  He nodded, again.

  ‘What are we going to do with you?’

  Edward remained silent.

  ‘Can you tell me why you were late? What were you doing in the churchyard?’ said Fraser, a little more forcefully.

  The trouble was that Edward couldn’t tell him. It was all dreamlike now. If he didn’t understand his own actions, how on earth could Fraser? For a moment Edward thought about confessing everything, and then was prevented by the thought that Fraser would think he was a lunatic or worse. He murmured something.

  ‘What was that, Pollock? Speak up.’

  He looked him right in the eye.

  ‘You know I hate football, sir.’

  ‘I do, Pollock, yes.’

  ‘Well, I was bored at the match, sir, and I went through the field into the churchyard and went exploring round it, sir, and then I lost track of the time, sir, and the Reverend found me and I didn’t realise it was so late, sir.’ He said all this very quickly.

  Fraser looked at him. ‘Is that the truth, Pollock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fraser smiled, and showed all of his yellow teeth, like little moons, pitted and cratered by many decades of bad eating.

  ‘Well, Pollock. I know you don’t like foot
ball. But it is very good for you–not just physically–and you must learn to do things that you do not like–even things that you hate. Ninety per cent of life, you’ll find out soon enough, is rather dull. The other ten per cent makes it worthwhile.’

  Only ten per cent, thought Edward. Not great.

  Fraser looked at the clock on the wall. ‘I think that you will be doing your prep in the library today, under my supervision.’

  This wasn’t such a bad punishment. Edward relaxed.

  ‘Go on, then, off you go. Get changed first. Ten minutes.’

  Supervised prep in the library was a standard punishment. But Edward loved the library. He loved its musty smells and ragged sofas. He would sit on the Victorian radiators in winter, when the boys still had to wear shorts and it was so cold their knees would go blue. ‘Don’t sit on the radiator, you’ll get piles,’ Mrs Ferrers used to say (although she never satisfactorily explained what piles were).

  In the changing room, Edward stuck his head under a tap (to give the impression that he’d showered), hung up his games kit, pulled on his clothes and sprinted back to Eudoky, which nestled on its own near the tennis courts, a few hundred yards from a bend in the drive. Eudoky was empty, since everyone else was in the main teaching block. He opened up his desk, pulled out the books that he needed and ran out. He hesitated. He would have to take the long way round, which would make him late. The internal prefect in his mind was advising him against it, but he was compelled to go to the drive.

  Boys were not allowed to go down the drive. Only prefects, masters and God (the headmaster used to joke) were allowed on it. Pausing just before he got there, he thought to himself that there could be absolutely no risk of anyone being on it at this point in the evening, so he ran down it, ignoring the little voice in his mind, his shoes clattering awkwardly.

  And then, against all odds, he heard the sound of a car purring; it stopped, and he heard low voices.

  Trying not to crunch the gravel, he reached a bend, and crouched behind a thick shrub, waiting to make a move. He was terrified of being caught by a master. He was panting more than he ought to have been. He tried to hold his breath, but it was difficult. He could not hear what the voices were saying, and strained his ears as much as he could. If he could identify which teacher it was, he’d know how lenient they might be. If it was O’Brien he’d have to go all the way back.

  When he heard two women’s voices, both very low, he relaxed a little. It was probably two of the matrons, back from their half-day out, who wouldn’t mind so much. But as he prepared to leave the bush, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, as if a cold, invisible hand had just grazed it.

  ‘Thank you, you may park up now,’ said a cultivated voice; there was something rich and warm in it, but also something inhuman. Edward watched as the car slid off, and the women remained where they stood on the drive.

  ‘Well, Mrs Phipps,’ said the voice. ‘I don’t think we lost any time at all, do you?’

  ‘You answered the call so quickly, my Lady,’ said a rasping voice.

  ‘You are right. Though how could you be anything other than right. It is useful to have … connections. And now, we are here. And I–I am at home.’ She put great emphasis on those two words. At home. ‘I think that I am very near my goal, Mrs Phipps. All my work, all those long, long years, and I think that we have nearly found it. It’s such a shame that I lost …’ Edward heard her pause, and then resume, resigned. ‘Well, never mind. He knew what was coming to him, though.’ She sounded sad for a moment, then sighed. Her voice took on a harder tone. ‘Do you think that they’ll resist?’

  ‘We will break them, my Lady.’ Edward shuddered. Mrs Phipps’s voice was grating–an inversion of the other lady’s.

  ‘I suppose you could say that, although it is a little harsh. No, Phipps, we shall have to be very subtle. This place is full of obstinacy. But they won’t be able to resist. Nobody will be able to resist.’ She paused. ‘They will be eating out of our hands. Once we have what we came for … and it is here, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s here, my Lady,’ said the other. ‘I know it is here.’

  ‘I can feel it is here, Phipps, in my blood … it is part of me, remember …’

  Edward’s nerves were screaming at him to run. His reasoning held him back. He had to know more. He leant in closer. Only a slender branch separated him from the voices. He wondered if he could risk taking a look.

  ‘All the signs have been pointing this way for years. We just needed that one, conclusive proof, and then it came. It is time to reclaim it.’ She sounded proud and strong.

  ‘And me, my Lady? You will not forget me? You who have made me.’

  ‘Of course not.’ But something in what she said made Edward feel she was not telling the truth. ‘The power to do what one wills, the power to make others do as you will … power over matter, over life, over … what was that? Look, here! You, boy!’

  Edward froze. He had not been able to stifle a cough, and it had come sputtering out. The branch had been pulled back and the lady was staring straight at him. He felt as if a phantom were around his neck, strangling him, and he sprang out of the bush and started to run.

  But it was too late. A hand had gripped his shoulder, and he was forced round, and was face to face with the two ladies.

  ‘Well, Phipps, looks like we’ve caught one already,’ said the lady with the sophisticated voice. She had a long face, that was delicately featured and carefully made up. Her brown-blonde hair had been artfully arranged to look as if she hadn’t spent much time on it. She was dressed in a dark green suit jacket that fitted her slim body perfectly, and if she hadn’t been so well dressed, perhaps she might not have looked so beautiful. Intelligence shone in her eyes.

  The other woman didn’t say anything. She was older, with a face full of wrinkles, straggly, black-grey hair, and her blank, cold eyes stared at nothing. A black, shapeless dress was billowing around her, much more than the slight wind should allow.

  ‘What are you doing hiding there? What did you hear?’ the lady asked sharply.

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Edward, feeling the woman’s fingers pressing into his shoulder. ‘I’m going to see Mr Fraser. Please, I’m going to be late.’

  ‘I’d just like to ask you a few questions first.’ The tall, elegant lady leant in closer.

  Edward felt thoughts rising unbidden–first of the boy he had dreamt of that morning in the dark smoke of Great Hall, and the terrifying man who had been his father; and suddenly the snarling image of Imp, and then the raven in the churchyard. He wrenched himself free of her grip, and started running wildly, blindly, back up the way he’d come, gravel spraying from his shoes, full pelt, all the way around Oldstone Manor, past Eudoky and the empty tennis courts, down the side passageway and through the back door, up the spiral staircase and into the library. He was gasping with fear.

  ‘Mr Fraser …’ he wheezed. ‘Mr Fraser …’

  The headmaster looked up from where he was seated in a leather armchair, surrounded by tottering piles of papers, some of which looked as old and creased as his face. ‘Late, Pollock? I’m afraid I can’t supervise you. Something has come up which needs my urgent attention. I’m sure you won’t cause any trouble. Goodnight.’ He stamped down the stairs. Edward ran to the window and looked out at the drive.

  The two ladies he had seen were entering the Manor. The younger one bore a look of intense fury; and as she came into Oldstone Edward thought that he saw her shudder–with fear, or excitement, he could not tell. Mrs Phipps flapped in after her, and to Edward she seemed insubstantial, a creature made from the nightmare he’d had that morning.

  Three

  Edward watched the two women disappear inside. Then he moved away from the window and ran to the other side of the library, and curled up on the sofa, like a hedgehog. They had threatened him, in some obscure way, and he was on edge. Danger signals flashed through his body.

  Here, in the corn
er of the vast library, he felt exposed. All these books could do nothing for him. Galahad could not leap out of Idylls of the King–he’d be too busy looking for the Grail anyway. Edward had no horn to blow, like in Prince Caspian, or a helpful Phoenix or Psammead. His thoughts rushed helter-skelter. He wondered if the ladies would recognise him if they saw him again. It occurred to him that they might not have had enough time to see what he looked like in the half-light of a May evening.

  He went over the strange things that he had heard. They were here to find something that would bring them power. What was it the younger women had said? She had answered a call–but who had made it? Somebody in the Manor was in contact with them. Nobody will be able to resist, she had said. Edward feared what they might do when they found what they were looking for, here, in these walls which were his home and his sanctuary … the power to do what one wills, power over matter, over life … The words seemed almost mad as he recounted them to himself. He could not possibly have heard her say such things … but however much he tried to persuade himself that he hadn’t, he still came back to it, and the sound of the other woman’s voice as she had said break …

  He imagined the two ladies storming up the stairs, terrible, furious, looking for the boy who had overheard them. He wondered if his face would give it all away, and if he would crack under interrogation. He tried to remember all the techniques somebody had once told him to use in case he ever got caught by enemy spies, but could not conjure them up.

  Five, then ten minutes passed. No one came up the stairs. Edward breathed out.