The 1,000 year old Boy

by Ross Welford

  ‘But … but how?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Shh!’

  I shushed. We were just the other side of the fence, and I heard the door of Roxy’s garage bang shut and footsteps heading into the woods.

  ‘Come on,’ whispered Roxy. ‘Let’s follow him.’

  We smelt it before we got there. Burnt wood, burnt leaves, all of it wet. By the time we were in sight of the ruined cottage, Roxy and I were soaked through from the still-dripping trees.

  It was twilight. Between the branches of the trees the sky was a milky royal blue with one or two early-evening stars, but no moon yet. Down by our feet it was black-dark. Here and there, huge chunks of the forest were burnt away, allowing in more light, but everything was bleak and black, sorrowful and silent. Roxy used the light on her phone to show the path, but it made everything not in its beam even blacker in contrast.

  Plastic tape saying POLICE LINE DO NOT ENTER was stretched round sections of the burnt-out forest. I hesitated but Roxy didn’t; we ducked under it and went in anyway.

  Then we heard him.

  ‘Biff-a! Biff-a! Komm, komm, Biff-a!’

  ‘What the heck’s that about?’ I whispered to Roxy but she shrugged.

  We approached as quietly as we could, trying not to snap twigs under our feet. I think we both saw him at the same time, sitting on the circular stone fireplace and staring at the charred ruins of his home, the dusk light making his blond hair look white.

  ‘Biii-fa! Biii-fa!’

  Have you ever seen a burnt-out house? It’s pretty scary. This one still had the basic outline of a house: most of the blackened walls were still standing, and part of the upstairs, although the upper part was mostly destroyed, the floorboards hanging down into the lower rooms.

  Some things, oddly, seemed untouched. Although black with soot, the big kitchen table stood solidly, bearing the weight of some metal boxes. A stone kitchen sink seemed undamaged. In one small room, a wall of bookshelves held some charred books, and loose pages drifted on the floor in the breeze, while, above, the beams of the roof stuck into the sky like a grim house-skeleton.

  Other than that, though, the destruction was more or less total.

  ‘I know you are there,’ Alfie said, and Roxy and I both gasped. He had not turned round. We said nothing, but stood up from our crouched position.

  ‘You would make poor spies,’ he said, as we approached him by the stone fireplace. ‘I heard you long ago.’

  ‘We … we didn’t mean to spy on you …’ Roxy began, but he cut her off.

  ‘It is all right. I do not mind. You are curious. It is not surprising.’ His tone was flat. He had not met our eyes, but remained stony-faced, staring ahead at the ruins of his home.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alfie,’ I said. ‘About what happened. And … and your mum, an’ that.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Roxy.

  Something changed then. I still don’t know if it was what we said, or the moment we said it, or neither, or both, but I can look back now and know that that was the moment our adventure started.

  It was as if Alfie was making an effort to drag his eyes away from the black stumps. He took a deep breath and looked straight at us.

  ‘Thank you.’

  It was a connection, a bond formed between us.

  ‘If there’s anything we can do, you know … to help, or, you know …’ I trailed off. I had no idea what I was saying, really: it was just the sort of thing I had heard grown-ups say to each other.

  ‘Do you mean that?’ he asked.

  Well, what could I say? ‘No, not really, I was just being insincere’? It’s not that I didn’t want to help, it was just that I couldn’t think of a single thing I could do that would be any good in this situation.

  So I said, ‘Absolutely,’ and nodded firmly.

  Roxy added, ‘Yup!’ and gave a bigger nod.

  Alfie nodded back and said simply, ‘Good. There may be something I need help with.’ He got down wearily from the stone fireplace and started to walk towards the shell of the house, then he turned back to us.

  ‘I need to know I can trust you.’

  ‘You can trust us, Alfie,’ said Roxy.

  I wanted to add, ‘It kind of depends what you want us to do,’ but the words dried in my throat, so I just said, ‘Yep.’

  Alfie stepped over some charred wooden beams that had fallen to the floor.

  ‘Erm … Alfie? I’m not sure that’s safe in there, mate. I mean …’ I said, but he stopped me with a look that said, This is my house not yours.

  We followed him into the burnt ruin, picking our feet through the ashes on the ground, and keeping a wary eye on the beams above us. Alfie stopped by the bookcases. Close up, the damage was even more obvious. Literally hundreds of books had been destroyed; nothing was undamaged. Any pages that were not burnt to nothing were covered in a film of greasy soot.

  From what I could see, these were all old books, with hard, plain covers – not like the ones with illustrations and bright jackets that I had. I picked one up that seemed less damaged and flicked it open, peering at the page in the dim light. I couldn’t read a word.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  Alfie came closer and glanced at it. ‘That’s Confessions by Augustine of Hippo.’

  ‘Who’s Christine the Hippo?’

  ‘Of Hippo. It is a place, or was, anyway. In North Africa. Augustine is Saint Augustine, you know?’ His tone suggested that he really expected me to know who Saint Augustine was.

  ‘Never heard of her. What language is it?’

  Alfie squinted at me, and said in a quizzical tone, ‘It is a ‘he’ not a ‘she’, and the language is Latin.’ He didn’t need to add ‘obviously’, because it was in his voice.

  ‘What’s it about?’

  Alfie took it from me with his good hand, and fingered the sooty pages sadly. ‘It is probably the world’s first autobiography. It is a bit heavy-going in places, by modern standards, but rather compelling nonetheless.’

  Rather compelling nonetheless. Who speaks like that? I said to myself. Out loud I said, ‘You’ve read it?’

  Alfie nodded.

  ‘In Latin?’ I squeaked. He nodded again, a bit shyly.

  Roxy was next to us by now. ‘Hey! Mr Brainbox! Go on: read some out!’

  Reluctantly, I thought, Alfie began reading aloud as Roxy shone the light from her phone on the page. I didn’t understand a word but Roxy was wide-eyed.

  ‘Wow!’ was all she said when he faltered to a stop. ‘Do some more!’ But Alfie placed the book back on the shelf.

  ‘These were all mine,’ he said. ‘Mine and Mam’s.’

  I left him alone for a moment while I checked out the yard. The chicken coop in the corner was destroyed, and several burnt chickens with blackened feathers lay among the ashes.

  ‘I think your goat escaped,’ I called to Alfie, but he didn’t reply and I immediately hoped he hadn’t heard. It sounded as though I was saying, ‘Ah, well, look on the bright side,’ when there really wasn’t much of a bright side at all.

  Roxy had wandered off to the corner of the room we were in. ‘What’s in here?’ she said, kicking charred bits of wood off the top of a thick metal trunk.

  Alfie said something I didn’t understand under his breath, and knelt down next to the trunk. There was a hinged metal closure on the lid with holes for a padlock, but no lock. He opened the lid.

  ‘Hmm. More books!’ said Roxy. ‘They look OK – I mean, unburnt.’

  Alfie closed the lid again, and stood up, facing us. For the first time, I could detect slightly less sad emptiness on his face. There was something in his eyes that might have been hope.

  ‘We have to take these. Take them away from here.’

  I lifted one end of the trunk by the handle. It was heavy. ‘You’re kidding, Alfie. I can’t carry this. It’s far too heavy. Besides, the police or fire brigade or somebody will look after it. They’ll take everything away and keep it safe.’

/>   Alfie shook his head defiantly.

  ‘No. We take it now.’

  ‘Alfie, listen …’

  ‘We take it now!’

  There was no arguing with him. So, step after step, we lugged the trunk through the shadowy woods. I kept changing my carrying arm; Alfie could not and so we paused often for rests. Roxy tried to make herself useful by shining her phone on the ground and warning us of holes and roots that would trip us up.

  The thin metal handles dug into my palms, and the weight pulled at my shoulders, but eventually we saw the flickering pink of the neon garage sign. We dragged the trunk inside, and slumped down on the chairs. I looked round: we were soot and sweat-streaked. Somehow I was going to have to clean up before I got back into bed.

  ‘So – are you going to show us what’s inside?’ I asked, flexing my aching arms. Alfie lifted the lid to reveal a stack of books, fifteen or twenty of them. They were thick volumes with stiff leather covers and I went to pick one up.

  ‘Careful!’ warned Alfie. ‘Please.’

  I wiped my hands on my shirt and lifted one out, turning it to read the gold lettering on the spine.

  ‘Barnaby Rudge,’ I read out. I looked at Alfie quizzically.

  ‘Not one of his better-known titles. Try this one.’ He handed me another book.

  ‘Great Expectations. Oh yeah! That was a TV series. Mum watched it! So these are all by whatsisname …’

  ‘Charles Dickens,’ said Roxy. ‘He wrote Oliver Twist as well.’

  Alfie smiled. ‘You have read it?’

  Roxy shrugged. ‘Sort of. Here it is.’ She flipped open the cover. There was a handwritten inscription which she read out. ‘To Dear Alve, with my Compliments, Charles Dickens.’ She gave a low whistle. ‘So this is a full set of Charles Dickens’s books? Are they all signed by him? But who’s this Alve? It can’t be you?’ She peered sideways through narrowed eyes. There was a long pause and then she drawled, ‘Can it?’

  Alfie coughed. ‘Ah … an old relative. And it is not quite the full set. One was stolen, or somehow went … I do not know. Suffice to say, A Tale of Two Cities is missing.’

  ‘What a shame. Still – I’ll bet these are worth a bit!’

  Alfie nodded. ‘Yes. But I estimate their value is probably halved because of the missing volume. Anyhow, may I …’ He gently retrieved the books we were holding and replaced them in the trunk, closing the lid. ‘May I leave them here? For the time being?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Roxy. Together we lugged the trunk under the burst sofa.

  ‘Alfie,’ I said. ‘What are you going to do now? Where are you going to go?’

  He said nothing, and Roxy flashed me a look of warning. She tried a gentler approach.

  ‘Your mum, Alfie? Is there anyone else who, you know, you can talk to?’

  ‘There was just us. And Biffa.’ His blank expression returned. It was as if the expedition to the burnt house, and the rescue of the trunk of books had distracted him from his misery for a while, but now it had returned. He went to the doorway and made a kissing sound with his mouth again and called, ‘Hey, Biffa! Hey, Biffa!’ He saw us looking. ‘She is a cat.’

  ‘You will have to speak to the police, you know,’ I said. ‘You can’t hide here forever.’

  He fixed me with his ice-blue eyes. ‘No. Not yet. There is something I must do.’

  ‘What?’

  He shook his head as if to dismiss the question like an annoying fly. ‘I need to stay here. You promised me you would help me.’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’

  ‘Did you not mean what you said?’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’

  ‘Then I stay here, and you say nothing to anybody.’

  I looked across at Roxy, who shrugged.

  ‘But your mum, Alfie …’ I began.

  His nostrils flared with anger. ‘My mother. Is. Dead. You cannot change that. What difference does it make to you? You just thought she was some weird woman living in the woods. That weird woman was my mother, dead because of me!’

  ‘Because of you? How …?’

  ‘I CAUSED THE FIRE!’ he shouted. ‘I shall be lucky not to go to jail!’

  ‘Alfie, eleven-year-olds don’t go to jail,’ I said, trying to calm him down, but it had no effect.

  ‘Who says I am eleven?’

  ‘I’m just guessing you’re about my age, Alfie. Look …’

  ‘NO! You look. And you,’ he added, turning to Roxy, who flinched. ‘I need to stay here for a while. You need to help me. And, once I have done what I need to do, it will all be fine, I promise. Promise. Please, I am beseeching you, tell no one about me.’

  There was a long silence – I mean a long one. All three of us just looked at one another, shifting our gazes to each other’s eyes. I was going to break it, but Roxy spoke first. I could tell she was suspicious, on some level. Because of the witch stuff, I suppose.

  ‘OK. But you don’t involve us. We could get into trouble. If anyone asks, you found this place on your own.’

  ‘All right. But I do need some food.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And water.’

  ‘OK.’

  I said, ‘So that is involving us. Quite a lot.’

  Alfie gave a small shrug. ‘You said you would help me. And blankets. And a fresh dressing for my arm. And some paracetamol. And a tin of crab meat.’ He paused, realising that it had become a long list of demands. ‘If that is all right?’

  ‘Crab meat?’

  ‘It is my cat’s favourite. She might smell it and come back. Possibly.’

  I sighed, already beginning to regret that empty offer of help.

  I caused the fire. I did. Not deliberately but it was my fault.

  Now I have to face the consequences.

  People in the twenty-first century say some strange things: ‘I shall have to learn to live with myself,’ or, ‘I shall have to forgive myself.’

  It is all tommyrot, which, come to think of it, is something I think you do not say any more.

  I have no choice but to live with myself. And I cannot forgive myself. I am not even sure it is possible.

  How did the fire start?

  It will have been the new wood. New, unseasoned wood – which throws off sparks. I had watched Roxy Minto walk up the lane, with her bandaged head; I had tried to wave goodbye to her, hoping she would come back.

  I had been too lazy to go down to the woodshed and fetch the proper aged logs and I used the new ones that had just been cut.

  So.

  My fault.

  It was late when I got back. Mum and Aunty Alice were in bed, Dad was furious. He’s always angrier after he and Mum have rowed.

  ‘Worried sick … irresponsible … selfish … how do you think your mother feels …?’

  It was all the usual stuff. And then he stopped and looked me up and down.

  ‘You’re filthy,’ he said. ‘Again! What on earth is wrong with you? Where have you been?’

  I lied, and said I’d been playing football with Spatch. Dad wasn’t going to check. But the whole episode made it even less likely that I was going to tell him about Alfie. I put on my very best sorrowful look.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I lost track of time. I won’t do it again.’

  Just then, Jasper came in from the living room. ‘Ah! The wanderer returns!’ he said. ‘Told you he’d be shipshape, didn’t I, Ben? Been having fun, have you?’ His top lip drew back to the gum line and he grinned. When Jasper smiles, he always looks as though he had to read the instructions on how to do it. It’s chilling.

  By trying to be jovial, Jasper had completely undermined Dad’s telling-off. I should have been pleased but I wasn’t. I glanced at Dad and felt almost sorry for him. He was glaring pure fury at Jasper, who just did not notice.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ Jasper was saying as he rubbed his bony hands together. ‘Early start for us jolly jack tars tomorrow!’

  Oh crikey! I’d forgotten that. Jasper was taki
ng Dad and me out on the Jolly Roger tomorrow. I caught Dad’s eye. He was dreading it as much as I was.

  ‘Can’t wait, Jasper,’ I said, then I yawned theatrically. The sooner I got to bed, the sooner they might, and the sooner I could get back to Alfie with the stuff I’d promised him.

  Upstairs I turned on my bedside radio.

  ‘… on Radio North and here is the news. Northumbria Police say they are looking for a boy in connection with last night’s house fire in woodland near Whitley Bay that claimed the life of one woman, named earlier as Mrs Hilda Monk.

  She is believed to have lived with her eleven-year-old son, Alfred, who is missing from the house. Detective Inspector Maxine Ford issued this appeal last night.

  “Alfred, we want you to come forward and let us know you’re safe. You are not under any suspicion or in any trouble. Wherever you are, just go into any police station, or approach a police officer in the street and tell them who you are. And that goes for anyone who may know his whereabouts. We are very concerned for this boy’s safety.”

  There are fears that the boy may be injured, or suffering psychologically from the fire, which totally destroyed his home, and at one point threatened to get out of control.

  Police are conducting house-to-house enquiries to find out if a neighbour is sheltering him.

  In other news, the Prime Minister has said …’

  I turned off the radio and stared at the ceiling, feeling sick with worry.

  OK, stop a second and put yourself in my shoes just for a moment, because if you don’t you’ll end up thinking I’m either crazy, or stupid, or both.

  – There’s a kid of about my age living in an old workmen’s shed over my back fence, and the only other person that knows this is Roxy Minto, a girl I have more or less just met.

  – The kid has just seen his house burn to ashes and lost his mother in the fire and is – according to Roxy who sounds like she knows what she’s talking about – suffering from PT-something-or-other, which is a fragile mental state.

  – He has a badly burnt arm that should probably have hospital treatment, which he absolutely refuses.