One for Sorrow

by Philip Caveney

  Then the hatch above them slid back with a loud thud and a hideous face peered triumphantly down at them, a grinning skull that seemed to emanate a dull, malevolent glow. ‘Hello Tom!’ cried a familiar rasping voice. ‘Welcome back to Edinburgh!’

  Lloyd stared up in goggle-eyed amazement for a moment and then began to scream, high and shrill, like a bird.

  McSweeny cackled in delight. ‘And you’ve brought a wee friend along for the ride!’ he roared. ‘How splendid!’

  The hatch slid shut again and Tom sat there, numb with shock, in the bucketing, clattering cab, telling himself that he mustn’t panic, that there was a way out of this, there had to be. But Lloyd was still shrieking dementedly and Tom couldn’t think straight, couldn’t pull his scattered thoughts together.

  Almost without thinking, he reached out and slapped Lloyd hard, across the face. Even in the midst of such panic he was astonished to register how satisfying it felt. Lloyd fell abruptly silent. He slumped back in his seat and sat there, staring at Tom open-mouthed.

  ‘What was that for?’ he whined.

  ‘I need to think,’ Tom assured him.

  ‘But, I . . .’

  ‘Shush!’

  Above him, he heard McSweeny’s voice as it broke into a tuneless song.

  ‘What’ll we do with the herring’s heads?

  The herring’s heads, the herring’s heads?

  Make them into loaves of bread

  And all sorts of things.

  Of all the fish that swim in the sea

  The herring is the one for me . . .’

  Tom cursed. He grabbed the handle of the cab’s door and struggled to twist it open but couldn’t make it budge. So he shifted around onto his backside and launched a kick at the lock, putting all his strength behind it and sending a shudder up the entire length of his spine. The door remained resolutely shut.

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried Lloyd. ‘You’ll damage the door!’

  ‘I’m trying to get it open,’ Tom told him. ‘Don’t just sit there like an idiot, give me a hand!’

  ‘But . . . who is that?’ gasped Lloyd, pointing upwards.

  Tom ignored the question and lashed another kick at the door. The varnished wood seemed to buckle a little, but the lock held fast.

  What’ll we do with the herring’s eyes?

  The herring’s eyes, the herring’s eyes?

  Make them into puddings and pies.

  And all sorts of things

  Of all the fish that swim in the sea,

  The herring is the one for me!

  Tom suddenly had a terrible thought. Why was McSweeny singing about fish? He swung around, clambered up onto the seat and grabbing the handle of the hatch, he slid it open and pushed his head through, cringing because he knew that McSweeny’s hideous figure was only inches behind him. A foul smell filled his nostrils, a stench of decay that almost made him gag, but he steeled himself and looked in the direction the coach was heading. He saw that it was racing along a narrow street that plunged steeply downhill. Several hundred yards further on there was a stone wharf which ended suddenly in a sheer drop to the river below. Tom’s eyes bulged. He tried to drop down again but a gloved hand closed around the back of his neck, holding him in place. He could feel the deadly grip of bare bones beneath the leather gauntlet.

  ‘What’s the big hurry, Tom?’ snarled a voice in his ear. ‘Don’t you fancy a wee swim? Are ye not in the mood?’

  Tom made a supreme effort and wrenched himself free, tearing tufts of hair from the back of his neck in the process. He yelped, dropped onto the seat and twisted around onto his back again. Lloyd sat there, staring open-mouthed at him as he renewed his efforts, pounding both feet repeatedly against the lock, putting all his strength into the task. The door buckled a little more, but continued to hold as he kicked and kicked, sweating profusely in the cramped interior of the coach.

  ‘What are you doing?’ screamed Lloyd, but Tom ignored him, horribly aware that time was fast running out. He gave one last kick, putting everything he had left into it and this time the door smashed crazily open, tore itself from its hinges and tumbled away, revealing the sight of grey stone tenements blurring past as the coach gathered pace for the final push. The whip cracked again and above them McSweeny was laughing dementedly. Tom looked at Lloyd. ‘We have to jump,’ he yelled.

  Lloyd seemed to shrink down in his seat. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I won’t. You can’t make me.’

  ‘We have to!’ insisted Tom, but the boy was having none of it, so Tom grabbed him around the waist and pulled him headlong towards the door. Lloyd began to struggle, kicking his legs, shaking his head from side to side.

  ‘No,’ he gasped, ‘no, NO!’

  Tom somehow got him to the very edge of the door, aware as he did so that they had left the last houses behind and were entering the final empty space that bordered the wharf. ‘Do you want to drown?’ he bellowed.

  Lloyd froze, staring back at him in the shuddering, bucketing gloom and that was when Tom made his move, rising to his feet and throwing the two of them out through the doorway, trying to ensure that he got them clear of the coach’s rear wheels as it sped past. As they fell, Tom thought he heard a yell from above him, a great howl of frustration as McSweeny registered that once again, Tom had eluded him.

  The two boys seemed to fall for a very long time. Tom anticipated pain as they hit the cobbles but miraculously, a pile of full sacks intervened, deadening their fall. As they landed in a sprawl of arms and legs, Tom turned his head and saw the coach racing on, passing over the edge of the wharf and then the horse, the cab and McSweeny hurtled downwards, hit the grey surface of the river in a great splash of foam and disappeared from sight.

  Tom lay for a moment, trying to get his breath back. Then he struggled upright, pulling Lloyd with him. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We need to run.’

  ‘But . . . the cab, it . . .’

  ‘He won’t be dead!’ screamed Tom.

  ‘He went in the water. He must have drowned.’

  ‘Nothing kills him. Nothing! Do you understand? Now, come on.’ He began to run back along the street and Lloyd, clearly terrified, ran after him. They pounded uphill, running for all they were worth and they kept going until they were both out of breath and were finally obliged to slow to a walk, but even then Tom wasn’t going to stop. He led the way onwards, throwing occasional glances back down the hill, but thankfully, nothing seemed to be following them.

  ‘What?’ gasped Lloyd. ‘What happened back there? Who . . . what, was that thing?’

  ‘An old friend,’ murmured Tom.

  ‘A friend?’ Lloyd looked bewildered. ‘He, he tried to kill us.’

  ‘They don’t get much past you,’ said Tom, acidly. His mind was whirling as he tried to decide what to do. It was clear he was going to have to level with Lloyd, much as he hated the idea. There simply didn’t seem to be any other choice and he realised he had to work fast, before the two of them were reunited with Lou. He looked at the boy. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain everything, but you’ll have to listen until I’ve finished talking.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I mean it Lloyd. Are you going to listen?’

  Lloyd scowled, but he nodded.

  ‘All right,’ said Tom. ‘It all began in a place called Mary King’s Close, in the year 2013.’

  As they walked he told Lloyd, as briefly as he could, everything that had happened to him since his first trip into the past. To give the boy his due he did listen carefully to every word, but the shifting expressions on his face ranged from doubtful to downright disbelieving. When Tom had finally got to the end of his story, he looked at Lloyd and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, that’s about it,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  Lloyd scowled, which seemed to be his default expression. ‘You’re saying that you’re . . . from the future?’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes. I know how it sounds, but . . . well, that’s how I know
that your dad is going to be one of the most famous writers in history. That book he’s written?’

  ‘The Wreck of the Hispaniola?’

  ‘Don’t start! Treasure Island! It’s going to be read for hundreds of years. It’s going to become a children’s classic. On the way to Edinburgh, I was reading that book. But not on paper. I was using an electronic book, a kind of little box that can hold thousands of stories−’ He broke off as Lloyd gave a grunt of exasperation and on reflection Tom had to admit that it did sound pretty unbelievable. He pointed back down the street. ‘That man – or what’s left of him – has been chasing me ever since I first came back in time. Don’t tell me he’s not real, because you’ve seen him, you’ve seen what he can do.’

  Lloyd sighed. ‘I’ve seen him,’ he agreed. ‘And I really wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘The thing is, Lloyd, this is going to have to be our secret.’

  Lloyd glared at him. ‘But why?’ he demanded. ‘I tell my parents everything that happens to me.’

  ‘I get that, I really do. But see . . .’ Tom struggled to think of a way he could explain it. ‘Time is like . . . it’s like, you know, dominoes?’

  Lloyd looked puzzled. ‘The game? The little black squares?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, you must have done that thing, right, where you line them all up and you knock one over? And they all fall down, one after the other, even if the line goes for miles and miles?’

  Lloyd grinned, nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Once I made a line that stretched from . . .’

  ‘Never mind that now! Just think about it. Time is sort of like that row of dominoes. If we take out just one of them, the line is broken. And things will stop falling. So, like I said, your dad is going to be really famous. But only if he does the things he’s supposed to do.’

  Lloyd frowned. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘Well, remember what he said to Mr Henley before? That he was going to revise Treasure Island before he sends it out to the publishers? He really needs to do that if he wants to get it published as a book. But, if we turn up talking about time travel and . . . and plague doctors trying to kill us and mad stuff like that, he’s going to get distracted, isn’t he? The last thing he’s going to think about is working on some book. So he won’t bother making the changes. And that way, well, that way Treasure Island might never happen. Maybe it’ll just stay as a serial in a kid’s magazine and nobody will ever hear about it again.’

  Lloyd looked crestfallen. ‘You’re saying Papa isn’t going to be famous?’

  ‘I’m saying he might not be. Not unless we help. And the best way to help is to keep quiet about what’s happened and just encourage him to get on with

  those revisions. Because believe me, Lloyd, if he doesn’t do them, you can kiss it all goodbye. And it will be your fault. ’ He gave Lloyd a stern look. ‘So it’s up to you, mate.’

  ‘But that’s not fair,’ protested Lloyd.

  ‘Nobody said it had to be,’ Tom assured him. He lifted his head at the sound of approaching hooves. Another hansom cab was rattling towards them from the other end of the street and a familiar face was leaning anxiously out of the window. Tom lifted a hand to wave. ‘Remember,’ he urged Lloyd. ‘If you want everything to work out for your dad . . .’

  ‘I understand,’ muttered Lloyd, but he didn’t look at all happy about it. Then he seemed to think of something. ‘It works two ways though,’ he said.

  Tom glanced at him suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that I know all about you now. So if you want me to stay quiet about it, you’re going to have to start doing what I say.’

  ‘Oh, now look . . .’

  ‘I mean it, Tom.’ For the first time that night Lloyd was smiling, but it was a creepy, supercilious kind of smile. ‘From now on, I say what happens. You have to do what I tell you. Deal?’

  Tom sighed. He didn’t like the idea but realised that he was in no position to argue. ‘Deal,’ he said.

  Now the cab was pulling to a halt a short distance from them. The door opened and Lou jumped out. ‘What in the name of heaven just happened?’ he cried. ‘It took me an age to find another cab. Are you two all right?’

  ‘We’re fine, Papa,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘Something must have spooked the other horse,’ said Tom. ‘The driver couldn’t get it to stop.’

  ‘My word!’ Lou stared down the street. ‘Where’s the cab now?’

  ‘It just kept going,’ Tom assured him. ‘So we . . . hopped out.’

  Lou stared at him. ‘You hopped out?’ He shook his head. ‘But the horse was going at a gallop. It looked to me as though the driver was using the whip!’

  ‘Only to try and get it to stop,’ Lloyd assured him.

  ‘But that doesn’t make sense!’

  ‘That’s what we thought,’ Tom assured him. ‘That’s kind of why we hopped out.’

  ‘You could have been killed!’

  Tom forced a smile. ‘No, no, seriously, it wasn’t that big a deal. We’re fine now, aren’t we Lloyd?’

  ‘Yes, Tom, we’re fine.’

  ‘Well, all right,’ said Lou. ‘But I’ve a mind to complain to the cab company.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t want to be bothered with that,’ said Tom. ‘You’ve got all those revisions to make.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lloyd. ‘You have to rewrite Treasure Island.’ He stepped past Lou and clambered up into the cab.

  Lou gazed at Tom suspiciously. ‘Treasure Island?’ he murmured.

  Lloyd’s voice came from within the cab. ‘I’ve decided, Papa, that is the better title. Tom convinced me.’

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘Go figure,’ he said and he too, climbed up into the cab.

  Lou stood for a moment, thinking about it. Then, with a shake of his head, he signalled to the driver that he should turn the vehicle around. He climbed up into the cab, pulling the door shut behind him and the three of them went on their way.

  Ten

  Tom tried to sleep but it wasn’t easy. Frances had lit the fire in the guest room to warm the place up and the dull glow of the coals illuminated the room with an eerie red glow. She had also found him an old-fashioned nightshirt to wear – one of Lloyd’s, so it fit Tom’s chunkier frame a little too snugly – and he tossed and turned for several hours while a succession of thoughts and images passed through his mind. He didn’t like the fact that Lloyd now knew so much about him and he didn’t really trust the boy to keep the information to himself.

  Furthermore, the knowledge that William McSweeny had somehow survived being dunked in a barrel of quicklime and was still hell-bent on revenge, tormented him, because who knew when and where he might turn up next?

  He was dimly aware of a distant church bell tolling three o’clock when he finally began to drift off. Even as he descended into the warm arms of sleep, he

  was aware of the stirring of black and white feathers in the air above him and he found himself wondering what a magpie had to do with all this. But then he was sinking like a stone into the depths, leaving not a ripple behind him.

  ‘Tom, wake up!’

  He blinked himself awake and registered that sunlight was spilling through the window of his bedroom. Almost as quickly, he realised that he was in a different room to the one he had fallen asleep in. He was back in his bedroom in Fairmilehead and it was Mum who was standing beside his bed, smiling fondly down at him. He was relieved to see that there were no bruises on her face.

  ‘Come on, sleepyhead, it’s nearly ten o’clock. Get dressed and get yourself down for breakfast. Hamish is waiting for you.’

  He got himself into a sitting position and looked at her warily. ‘Hamish?’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes. Did you forget? You’re going to the Writers’ Museum today.’

  ‘Er . . . no, of course not.’ He glanced around the room, checking for any differences, but everything looked reassuringly familiar – his clothes draped messily across a chair, his iPod and Kindle
sitting on the bedside cabinet, his computer on the small writing desk. But still he was wary. He knew only too well how the supposedly normal could turn out to be anything but. Mum was already heading for the door.

  ‘Breakfast will be on the table in ten minutes,’ she told him. ‘Be there.’ She went out, closing the door behind her.

  Tom sighed, shook the last traces of sleep from his head and threw back the covers. He was glad to see that he was no longer wearing a long cotton nightshirt but a pair of striped pyjamas. He went out to the bathroom and performed his morning ritual. The face that looked back at him from the mirror was definitely his (there’d been one terrifying occasion when it had belonged to somebody else) so he brushed his teeth and headed back to his room, noting as he did so the appetising aroma of bacon wafting from downstairs. He dressed himself (his normal clothes, good,) and took a moment to switch on the Kindle. He found that he was still halfway through Treasure Island, exactly where he’d left off reading it. On an impulse he scrolled back to the title page just to check that it wasn’t called The Sea Cook, but no, that too was still the same. On the next page, there was the photograph of Lou, exactly as Tom remembered him and on the next page−

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ whispered Tom. There was the book’s dedication, which he knew had previously been to S.L.O, Samuel Lloyd Osbourne. But now, it read slightly differently.

  To Tom Afflick, an English gentleman in accordance with whose classic taste the following narrative has been designed, it is now, in return for numerous delightful hours, and with the kindest wishes, dedicated by his affectionate friend, the author.

  He stared at the dedication, as if he hoped that doing so might change it back to its original form. But annoyingly it stayed exactly the same as it was. What was he supposed to do about this? How was he ever going to explain it if anybody noticed – and it would be noticed, it was only a matter of time before somebody did and started asking awkward questions. Like, who was this mysterious friend of Robert Louis Stevenson and why didn’t he feature in any history books?