The 1,000 year old Boy

by Ross Welford

  As we turned to leave, Inigo mouthed a swear word at Alfie and waved A Tale of Two Cities triumphantly under his nose. Alfie gritted his teeth and said nothing.

  Alfie and I were heading back to class, when Sangeeta, the social worker, said, ‘Alfie?’

  We both turned. ‘It’s just Alfie I need to speak to,’ she said. I carried on, but stopped round the corner so that I could listen.

  ‘Do you have any personal belongings: in a desk, or locker or anything?’ she asked Alfie.

  He must have shaken his head, because I then heard her say, ‘All right, then, come with me. You’re not going back to your class.’

  I saw him again only a few hours later and everything changed after that.

  ‘Do you want to go for a drive, Alfie?’ Sangeeta asked outside Mr Landreth’s office.

  I had grown to quite like Sangeeta. She would talk straightforwardly about Mam, and encourage me to do the same. She no longer hushed her voice, or put her head on one side in a ‘poor little boy’ sort of way; that always made me feel worse.

  We drove in her car, making small talk: how was my arm? (Almost better, thank you.) How was Earl Grey House? (OK, but I did not like the food much.)

  The roads were more or less empty. It had rained a little at dawn: a quick, violent shower that had come and gone in half an hour and the thirsty earth had sucked up the water like a dry sponge until only a few puddles remained in the shade. The sun would dry them out soon.

  We drove to Tynemouth. Sangeeta had promised to buy fish and chips. I knew something was up, something bigger than the controversy about the book. Obviously. You do not get taken out of school for lunch normally.

  We ate our fish and chips from the packet, sitting side by side on the large stone plinth at the base of the monument to Lord Collingwood. The tide was out, exposing flat brown rocks, small pools and seaweed in the small bay below us.

  Sangeeta looked up at the cloudless sky and tutted. ‘We need rain,’ she murmured. I knew a tricky question was to follow. I had noticed this in Sangeeta: she preceded difficult discussions with a remark on the weather, like she was warming up.

  Sure enough: ‘Alfie?’

  ‘Mmm?’ I said, through a mouthful of cod.

  ‘You know that I’ve tried to be straight with you, ever since I met you, don’t you?’

  I did not like the sound of where this was going.

  She continued: ‘Only, I don’t think you’re telling me everything you know.’

  I looked at her, furrowing my brow to express puzzlement, or interest, while secretly thinking, Sangeeta, if I did tell you everything I know, you would not believe me, anyway.

  ‘The thing is, Alfie, we’ve been asking around. We believe you do have family. I mean – I understand you and your mam led pretty private lives, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. But there are people who talk of boys just like you living in your house, with your mam, before you were even born.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘Come on, Alfie. Nobody lives their lives completely cut off from other members of society. The vicar of St Mary’s on Ilfracombe Gardens, for a start. He was at your mam’s funeral? He says that, when he moved here twenty years ago, he visited your mam, and there was a young lad of about your age living there. Is this a cousin, or something? Or an older brother?’

  I said nothing, and ate some more chips.

  ‘Come on, Alfie. Don’t go all silent on me.’

  I stayed silent.

  ‘We’ve looked at local records, Alfie. We can do that, you know. Council tax, the census, the electoral roll. There’ve been members of your family living there for years and years. You’re even in the phone book. Monk, H. Oak House, Whitley Bay. That was back in the 1950s. Who was that – your grandmother? Great-grandmother? Where is the rest of this family, Alfie? Why all the secrecy? You have to help us here.’

  She took out her mobile telephone and tapped it a few times until a photograph appeared. I had to struggle not to gasp. It was the one Aidan had told me about from the Shields Gazette. Mam and I stood in front of Oak Cottage, me clutching Biffa, and grinning.

  As I stared, Sangeeta said gently: ‘Who are these people, Alfie? He looks so like you, doesn’t he? Look – the dark glasses, the erm … gappy smile. He even had a cat! Didn’t you say you lost your cat?’

  ‘I am sorry, Sangeeta. I do not know.’

  Sangeeta clicked the telephone off and put it away.

  ‘And I’m sorry too, Alfie. I don’t believe you.’ Her voice had acquired a harder edge. We were both quiet for a moment. Below us, on the wet sand, a collie chased a stick into the sea, and a seagull screeched.

  ‘Alfie. Talk to me!’

  I said nothing.

  ‘I have another theory, Alfie. I wonder if, in fact, you’re much older than you say.’

  I stared out to sea, and swallowed hard.

  Our fish and chips were finished, but we stayed at the base of the monument, looking out towards the sea.

  ‘I looked it up, Alfie,’ said Sangeeta. ‘At first, I thought you might have damaged your thyroid at birth. It’s a medical condition that can prevent you growing properly. There used to be a comedian on the radio …’

  I don’t know why I blurted it out but I did. ‘Jimmy Clitheroe.’

  Oh no. Why did I say that?

  ‘Why yes, Alfie. But …’ She shifted in her seat to look at me more closely. ‘How on earth does an eleven-year-old boy know about a comedian from sixty years ago?’

  I shrugged again. ‘Mam liked him. Said she liked him, when she was younger.’

  ‘When she was younger? Alfie, your mam was born in 1980-something. Jimmy Clitheroe was big in the 1950s. Also – how did you know I was going to say Jimmy Clitheroe?’

  ‘I was just guessing. He had a growth condition, that is all.’

  (It was true. Mam and I had loved Jimmy Clitheroe. He was a man-boy who never grew up, because something had gone wrong when he was born. We thought he was hilarious. He would say, ‘Oooh, flippin’ ’eck!’ when something went wrong, only it was funny when he said it. He was on the wireless, and on the television when television was in black and white.)

  Sangeeta narrowed her eyes. ‘Anyway,’ she continued slowly, ‘turns out there’s nothing wrong with your thyroid. But might it be something else?’

  ‘Like I said, I do not know, Sangeeta.’

  ‘Only if it turns out that you are not eleven, and are a lot older, that would change things considerably.’

  Now I was really nervous.

  All I want is to grow up normally. Have friends my age. Go to school. This suspicion could ruin everything.

  And then I saw him. He did not see that I saw him but he was there, sitting on a bench further along the headland. Had he been watching all this time?

  Jasper.

  Did he follow me?

  ‘Can we go now, please, Sangeeta?’ I said.

  He must have followed me.

  ‘You can’t dodge these questions indefinitely, Alfie.’

  Why is he following me?

  ‘Do you hear me, Alfie?’

  I cannot tell anyone. It could expose everything.

  ‘Alfie? Earth to Alfie!’

  But what if he means to harm me?

  ‘Over there, Sangeeta. There’s a man who …’ But he had gone. ‘Sorry, Sangeeta. I am not thinking straight.’

  We were back in the car and I strapped myself in when Sangeeta turned her whole body to me and looked at me solemnly.

  ‘Alfie. I need to tell you this. I have submitted a request to the head of Child Services that we perform a DNA age test, which should clear up any doubts.’

  ‘A DNA test? Why?’

  ‘An analysis of your DNA can reveal your age to within a few years, maybe a few months. It’s pretty new, and they’ll need fresh cell samples. You know what DNA is, Alfie?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s the name given to the molecule within the nucleus of a cell that carries all the genetic i
nformation in every living organism.’ I caught myself sounding knowledgeable and ancient, even though we had just learnt this in school, so I added, ‘I think.’

  Sangeeta shook her head and smiled. ‘You think, eh, Alfie? You know what the dentist told me? He reckoned you have the teeth of someone much older than eleven. I think I can tell that just by listening to you.’

  ‘And what if I do not want to have this cell test?’

  She had started the car, but turned the engine off again to emphasise her point.

  ‘Well, here’s the curious thing. If you’re over eighteen, you can refuse, and we would have to go to court if we wanted to pursue it, which is a right old hassle, frankly, and probably not worth it if you’ve already admitted to being an adult. But, seeing as you say you’re a minor – that is, someone under eighteen – we, for the time being, are your legal guardians.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you’re booked in for cell sampling next week. Meanwhile you’ve been withdrawn from school pending a confirmation of your true age.’

  My heart dropped. It was as if I could see everything that I had aimed at reversing over the horizon. ‘But, Sangeeta …’

  ‘No buts, Alfie. Imagine the trouble I would be in if it was discovered I was sending a grown man into a class full of children.’

  Unfortunately for me, I can imagine the trouble Sangeeta would be in and it meant that I was silent all the way back to Earl Grey House, my ancient mind dancing, fighting, arguing with the task ahead of me.

  I would need help, that was for sure.

  I would need to act fast, of that I was equally sure.

  I had thought I could wait a week or two – maybe a month – to plan everything and beat the archaeologists to the site on Coquet Island.

  Now things were different.

  I knew that the second application of the life-pearl would start the ageing process again. From the moment I took it, I would start to grow up again. That was assuming it still worked after centuries underground.

  What I did NOT know was whether it would ‘reset’ my age. If I took it, would the DNA test of my cells, which Sangeeta was insisting upon, still reveal my true age? Or would it show me to be eleven?

  I also knew that if I did not act before I had the test, then everything would be lost.

  The only hope I had was to act soon.

  And, by soon, I mean tomorrow.

  Staring out of the car window, I looked in the side mirror. The car behind was a black BMW. I could not see inside because of the sunshine reflecting off the windscreen, but I knew it was him.

  Then I saw his car indicator light flashing; he turned up Beach Road to the left as we continued on towards Culvercot. He was just checking that we were going back.

  I think.

  I needed help and I needed friends – and I needed them both fast.

  By four thirty, I was in Roxy’s garage, the pink sign still flickering - - -AGE outside.

  Roxy had this shy grin as she opened her laptop and beckoned me over to look. I was expecting more of the genealogy sites that she was so keen on, but this was different.

  www.pet-locator.com

  Have YOU lost a pet? We’ll find it – guaranteed!

  ‘For Biffa. Your cat,’ said Aidan. ‘We thought, you know …’ but I was ahead of him.

  ‘Yes. It is brilliant, and thank you. Only …’

  I wanted to say, ‘Only we cannot do this now. I love Biffa but there is something even more important.’ But I was so touched by their friendly concern, and they were so enthusiastic. I said, ‘How much does it cost?’

  ‘It isn’t cheap,’ said Roxy quietly. ‘For the full service: posters, house-to-house, web support, everything, it’s, erm …’ She hesitated and coughed. ‘Two thousand pounds.’

  I felt my shoulders slump. ‘And where will I get two thousand pounds from?’

  Roxy and Aidan said nothing, but their eyes both drifted to the burst sofa and the trunk underneath it containing my (almost) complete set of Charles Dickens books.

  Ah.

  There was, of course, no question that the books would be worth two thousand pounds. Much more, probably. But how would I sell them? How soon could I do it? Biffa meant more to me than any amount of books, but it was a long time since the fire. Would she even be alive? How would she eat? We had to mash up her food because her teeth were so bad. Would she even be able to hunt?

  It was another hot evening but the air was damp. It hadn’t rained now for weeks, not properly, and the ground was dry and cracked. Even the birds in the woods had gone quiet, as if their usual chirruping was too much effort.

  ‘Rain is on its way,’ I declared, by way of breaking the silence, and Roxy took out her mobile telephone and jabbed at it.

  ‘Not according to this it’s not,’ she said, and she showed me a chart on the screen with a weather forecast on it. But it was wrong, and I told her so, perhaps a little abruptly.

  ‘Wow, Alfie. You’re jumpy. What’s up?’ asked Aidan.

  And so I told them about Sangeeta’s suspicions about my age, and the cell test I was to undergo next week.

  Roxy and Aidan fell silent. Eventually Aidan said, ‘I’m really sorry, Alfie. That’ll mean …’

  ‘It will mean the end of everything. I will not be able to go to school. I just want to grow up normally. You have to help me.’

  Roxy got up from the torn sofa, leaving two patches of sweat on the vinyl where her legs had been. ‘Thing is, Alfie, what can we do? Realistically?’ She opened the door of the little fridge and a waft of cool air came out but soon disappeared.

  And then we sat, or stood, or walked about, discussing and dismissing how I could get to Coquet Island.

  Tomorrow.

  Even if we could get to Amble on the mainland, up the coast – how would we get to the island about a mile out to sea? It is a nature reserve now, and tourist boats are not allowed to land because of all the rare birds whose eggs, hundreds of years ago, Mam and I would collect to eat.

  It was the thought of Mam that set me off. That and Biffa starving to death somewhere. My head sank into my arms in despair. I felt the sobs rising in my chest when Roxy came over and patted my back.

  ‘Why don’t you just wait, Alfie? You know, in a few years’ time, who knows what scientists might discover, especially if they’re able to test you? And anyway you could make your own way to Coquet Island one day to find the pearl thing? No?’

  The sobs stopped in my throat and I lifted my head.

  ‘You do not understand, do you? I CANNOT WAIT! Once the archaeologists start their digging, it is only a matter of time before the life-pearl is either destroyed, or found and stuck in a museum, or opened and sent for analysis and then what hope do I have? I will be stuck this age forever!’

  I was shouting, but I could not stop, especially when Aidan said, ‘But we’ll be here for you, Alfie …’

  ‘NO, YOU WILL NOT! You will grow up, you will leave me behind: the “strange kid, who talked funny, who had a tattoo, who reckoned he was a thousand years old”. You will be the same as everyone else, the same as Jack, and I will be left like this.’ I looked down at myself, an ancient man in the body of a boy.

  I got to my feet and walked off without a further word.

  I arrived back at Earl Grey House forty minutes later than I should have, because I simply could not summon the energy to walk fast. Every step felt like my feet were sticking to the ground. I was expecting Aunty Reet to be furious, and I had already decided that I did not care.

  Instead she said, ‘There’s someone to see you, Alfie.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Apparently they know you from years ago.’

  I nearly threw up on the spot. It had to be Jasper.

  My hand was shaking and I steadied it on the doorknob before opening the lounge door.

  He faced the window, a dark silhouette, hands clasped behind his broad back. ‘Hello, Alfie,’ he said before turning round. When he did, it took a f
ew seconds and then I gasped aloud.

  I had not seen John McGonagal in nearly sixty years. Not, in fact, since I fought him in the lane all those years ago. There was no mistaking him, although his hair was now mostly white, and his eyes had a sadness and emptiness that was almost heartbreaking. He nodded slowly. I had not said anything.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ he said in the same Geordie accent that he had threatened me and Mam with, and I was instantly on edge, the memories flooding back.

  ‘You’re mental, you are! Weirdo! A bloody psycho!’

  And then Rafel’s words: ‘In the real world, Alfie, you gotta kill ’em. Otherwise they come back for more.’

  Had he come back for me? What was he saying? The silhouetted figure was talking and the words were swimming in my head …

  ‘It couldn’t be anyone else,’ John was saying, and my thoughts came back into focus, back into the twenty-first century. ‘When my great-nephew – Inigo, you know him – told me about the book incident at his school, I knew it had to be you.’

  I stood there, blinking in amazement.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said John, shaking his head. ‘I know exactly what Inigo’s like. There’s a good lad in there somewhere, mind, but it’s hidden underneath layers of lazy, stupid, swaggering …’ He stopped himself. ‘Well, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m here.’

  I spoke for the first time. ‘I can see that. But … why?’

  He turned back to the window and stared out, taking his time to answer.

  ‘The doctors gave me six months to live – about six months ago. Don’t worry,’ he said, giving a short laugh. ‘I feel fine. Tip-top, in fact. Mostly. But there were some loose ends to tie up – before I go, you know?’

  I nodded, even though he was not looking at me. I had sat down on the hard sofa, but I did not take my eyes off him. He turned back and looked at me with his sad old man’s eyes.

  ‘I deserved that beating you gave me, Alfie. Deserved it one hundred per cent. Took me a while to realise it, though. Years. And, by the time I did, I wanted to – I don’t know, apologise, I suppose. But you and your mam had moved, hadn’t you? All because of me, I expect.