by Tim Bradley
Then a scream lanced the air.
The searchers regrouped and started to shuffle agitatedly in the direction of the sound.
Arnie reached the bottom of the tree in seconds. ‘Run to the house, you must get away,’ screamed the logical side of mind, but his conscience wouldn’t listen. ‘You have got to help him! You’re the only one who can,’ it pleaded. ‘He hasn’t another friend in the world.’ Arnie didn’t know what to do.
Then a series of sharp piercing cries followed, each more painful and desperate, begging for help. Arnie stopped dithering and instinctively raced towards them.
Thomas was grabbing at the man trap trying to pull the jaws open to free his twisted leg as Arnie flew into view. His face was ghostly white and his hands awash with blackening blood running thick and heavy along his calf. Shattered bone protruded through pink gaping flesh.
‘What can I do, what can I do?’ Arnie trembled, as Thomas lay stricken on the dewy grass. His left leg was so badly mauled it was barely recognisable.
Arnie grabbed both sides of the trap and tried to spring them free, but they bit tight into Thomas.
‘Agggggggggh!’ he screamed, and Arnie let go. Thomas tried to drag himself up, but a whiplash of pain ripped through him and he fell back onto the ground.
‘Why did you betray me? I thought you were my friend,’ Thomas hissed.
‘I didn’t tell them anything,’ Arnie mumbled desperately.
Thomas was fighting his screams. ‘Who else could it be? Unless the girl…’
‘Emily?’
‘I ‘eard you talkin’ to ‘er ‘bout me before you both left the room. Did you tell ‘er to do it?’
‘Emily? No! She sent the men at the door away and told them there was nothing for them to find. She…’
Arnie realised that he didn’t know what Emily had actually done. Could he trust her? ‘Impossible!’ he muttered to himself, wrestling free of this thought and moved closer to Thomas.
‘Here, I must help you, your leg…’
‘Get off me! Leave me alone!’
‘I didn’t tell – I swear!’ said Arnie. ‘I tried to stop you walking into them – you nearly made it! I’ll get an ambulance.’
‘They won’t come to ‘elp me – more as not let me die ‘ere. Rough justice maybe but at least it’ll be quick.’
‘Thomas…’
‘But you’ll be fine. Get rewarded no doubt, for catchin’ me,’ he moaned.
‘I didn’t betray you!’ pleaded Arnie, as he made another attempt to unlock Thomas’s leg – but the teeth were buried deep.
‘Liar!’
‘Look…’ Arnie struggled, ‘if I were in your place and felt the same, I’d want to have the courage to do what you did and walk away.’
‘Then I pray for you Arnie Jenks you never get asked!’
As they stared into each other’s faces, they were suddenly shrouded in the dappled light from the handheld lamps swarming in all around them.
‘There’s nothin’ you can do for me now that you ‘aven’t already done!’ Thomas shrieked with anguish.
‘This is all wrong!’ Arnie shouted out, but Thomas was in too much pain to hear.
The men formed a circle around the two boys. There was a pause before one of their number stepped forward. He wore a dark tunic with a belt and silver buttons and clearly stood apart as the leader of the group. The others, who looked to Arnie like farmers – from the pitchforks and shovels they held threateningly in their hands – stood in readiness.
‘Which of you is Private Thomas Hodges?’ the officer demanded.
Arnie looked to himself; a roughly dressed boy in a baggy coat hiding his school blazer and tie, his face smeared with grime, his hands scarred with earth. Could he fake it as a soldier absent without leave for long enough to save Thomas?
Without delay, Arnie committed himself. ‘I am,’ he said instinctively.
The policeman removed his helmet and laying it down walked up close to Arnie. He studied him for a moment before he looked to Thomas.
‘Who are you then?’
Thomas was almost unconscious but he managed to lift his head up slightly.
‘I didn’t see…see the trap…till it were too late…’
‘He came to warn me that you were searching the area…’ said Arnie softly.
The policeman waved across two gruff looking bearded men who moved in and knelt by Thomas.
‘You are fortunate to have a friend like him,’ he said, staring at Arnie coldly, ‘however misplaced his loyalty was in helping you. See what happens?’
Thomas clenched his teeth and tensed up as the men began unscrewing one side of the trap.
‘No good comes to those who aid criminals…’
‘He needs help! Get him a doctor!’ cried Arnie.
‘That’s very touching son. On top of all the misery and hurt you have heaped on your family by your actions, it’s nice to hear a bit of concern – though it’s far too late!’
Arnie cowered under the long shadow of the man.
‘I’ve no choice but to hand you over to the military now. And you know what they’ll do with you?’ said the man in uniform, cracking his fingers.
Arnie felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
‘Not really…’ he struggled to say.
‘If you are lucky, really lucky, then you might get ten years in a hard labour camp. But these are not lucky times are they? You had better get used to the idea that your future is very definitely going to be a short one.’
Arnie tried to protest. ‘I didn’t know what to do…’
‘Get the cage,’ the policeman shouted.
A thick set man stabbed his pitchfork into the ground and did as he was ordered.
The officer then knelt in close to Arnie’s face and whispered, ‘If it were down to me, I would let you go. If you were older, you’d understand what you have done is wrong. But the law won’t make allowances for you Private Hodges.’ He then offered Arnie his hand. ‘Stand up son and come with me. Don’t think of making a dash for it. I would hate to use this,’ the officer threatened, indicating a flintlock pistol hanging from his belt as he slipped a pair of handcuffs around Arnie’s shaking wrists.
‘I think I’m going to die,’ Arnie shuddered as his hands were fastened tight.
‘Boy,’ he said addressing Thomas, ‘you’ll be taken to the lodge gate where treatment will be sought. And let this be a tough lesson to you – not to come to the aid of lawbreakers and runaways. It never ends well.’
A large grilled metal cage, the kind used to transport wild animals, rolled into view and parked up in front of the boys. The horse pulling it was shaking its mane and braying apocalyptically.
‘Put that one in and lock him up!’ the officer said, pointing to Arnie.
Arnie was dragged to his feet and frog marched along to the open end before being pushed up a ramp and thrown hard onto the floor. Arnie looked around wildly, the truth dawning on him. He was Thomas Hodges, about to be condemned in a time before he had even been born.
A burly man, who Arnie had not seen before, rounded the cage and stood staring at him through the bars for a moment before approaching menacingly. He stood over Arnie and laughed, his diseased gums sweating as though they had been boiled.
‘My two lads died for their country,’ he said, quietly seething. ‘They didn’t run home to mummy the minute things got tough. What makes it all right for you? How the hell are we to deal with the Bosche with examples like you around? I want to kill you for what you have done – you’re no better than what we’re fighting against!’
Arnie recoiled from the man’s spit.
‘But that would leave my youngest child without a father. So I won’t do it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Arnie heard himself say.
‘But I’ll give you one hell of a taste of what my boys would do to you if they were here!’
Arnie saw the man’s arm pull back, ready to strike.
In
slow motion, the fist powered towards him. The impact touched Arnie for a split second sending him reeling. He blacked out before he hit the ground.
CHAPTER TEN
Mr Silverthorne
Arnie lay perfectly still. His hair was matted with sweat and slivers of ice, his body encased in snow.
He slowly came round and aching, he heaved himself up and looked about. It was darker than before. The cage, the horse and the men had all gone. Thomas too. Wearily, he started trudging back towards the house when he struck something with his foot. He fell to his knees and dug deep until he reached the freezing soil and tugged hard at what he feared was buried there.
As each hint of corroded metal was exposed, he scraped, picked and pulled, until he wrestled the implement out of the ground. It was unmistakable; the same man trap that had done for Thomas, it was lying here still, as a reminder of those events from 1916.
Arnie let go in horror. ‘No no!’ he stuttered, as Thomas’s screams returned to haunt him. Desperate to get away, he pushed on – head down, harder and harder, sinking a little with each stride, until he made it to the corner of the house and along the damp brickwork to the French windows. He forced his way inside.
Arnie stood on the carpet too cold to cry: ‘I nearly died out there…I nearly died…I nearly died!’ He was shaking so much, that he didn’t see Mr Silverthorne enter.
‘What on earth have you been doing?’ he accused, staring at the quaking boy in front of him. ‘Have you quite lost your senses?’
Arnie stood there his eyes fixed, almost dilated. Mr Silverthorne moved a step closer and his tone lightened.
‘You are frozen…you’ll need some dry clothes. I will get Towersee to look some out for you straight away and then you should go to bed. I won’t ask for an explanation now – you look as though you are in no state to give one.’
‘Bath…’ Arnie muttered, his teeth chattering.
Mr Silverthorne focused his attention. ‘Yes quite, you need to get warmed up…you look like you have taken quite a mauling out there.’
Arnie stared into the distance as the old man considered him.
‘Perhaps you like hot chocolate? I think I should make some.’
*
A short time later, Arnie stood in his bedroom staring into a cracked and lopsided mirror. The air felt damp and there was a sense of decay all around. Blotches of mould splattered the paintwork.
A knock at the door and Towersee hobbled in bearing a heavy bowl of steaming water under which was draped a pair of moth-eaten towels. Without saying a word, he slowly staggered across the room and placed these on a side table. He delved into the misty water to retrieve a block of soap and let it slip messily into Arnie’s hand.
With a weary smile Arnie began cleaning his face. Slowly, the threads of ingrained dirt and the smell of body odour came away.
Towersee busied himself by sorting and laying out a range of clothes on the bed. He then left, just as he had arrived, with no comment or opinion, shutting the door behind him.
‘Thanks,’ said Arnie to the sound of shuffling footsteps. He finished washing and then turned to view the assorted garments. He chose:
A pair of scarlet corduroy trousers,
A T-shirt – with MAD GUITAR 1968 in black and white “revolutionary” style block capitals stretched across the front,
A stringy cotton jumper,
Two tough leather black shoes – almost matching (but of the same size) – with tie-up laces.
He changed quickly and left the room dumping his wet overcoat and uniform in the corner by his school bag.
As he walked along the landing towards the stairs he thought of what he was going to say to Mr Silverthorne.
The door to the first floor room was open, and through the crack Arnie could see a hand stirring something on a portable stove. He stuck his head inside and was motioned to where he should sit.
‘Yes, I think that’s about done.’ Mr Silverthorne hunched over the pan to inspect his efforts. ‘Now,’ he continued, turning down the heat, ‘I add the plain chocolate – sorry that’s all I have – until it has dissolved into the liquid. See?’
Arnie couldn’t really but nodded anyway.
‘If I don’t do it exactly like that it will go lumpy.’
Arnie sat down. Sparsely furnished, the room seemed to double for a study and an occasional bedroom. A small bureau leant against one wall and next to it, a bookcase crammed full of box files standing neatly to attention. Precisely written dates in curly letters suggested years of diligent record keeping.
‘Now, I whisk until it is all frothy on top before adding a little sugar. Do you like nutmeg?’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever tried it,’ said Arnie without enthusiasm.
Mr Silverthorne edged his glasses up his nose.
‘Well – I’ll leave that out then,’ he decided, as he fetched two cups and began to pour. ‘You’ve changed I notice. My, I haven’t seen those for a long while.’
Arnie looked down at his clothes.
‘Oh, haven’t you?’ he said, suddenly concerned about how he might look.
‘Such joyful expressions of youth,’ the old man mused, ‘though who they belonged to escapes me for the moment.’
Arnie pulled a face.
‘There’s your drink,’ Mr Silverthorne said, settling into his high backed chair.
‘Thanks,’ said Arnie, taking his hot chocolate and blowing gently across its surface.
Mr Silverthorne sipped carefully from his cup and then rested it on a coaster.
‘I think you may have something on your mind, Master Jenks. Would you like to share it with me?’ he said, looking towards the window.
Arnie didn’t wait to be asked twice.
‘Is this house haunted?’ he asked directly.
‘Well, I have never seen any ghosts here – though all houses as old as this one are supposed to have them. Why do you ask?’ Mr Silverthorne enquired casually.
‘Because tonight I have met people from other times who show me and tell me things which are so incredible and unbelievable…but they are as real as we are sitting here now…a deserting soldier and then being chased by the police and talking to my long dead great-great-grandmother and well Mr Silverthorne I almost got taken away out there and it happened because the man trap is still under the snow…but it wasn’t snowing…because it was summer back then…though how could it be?’ Arnie gasped, almost hyperventilating.
Mr Silverthorne thought for a moment before answering. ‘Dreams can be like reality, Master Jenks, and when they are over the memory can feel just as true as the moment you wake from them.’ He threw Arnie a look. ‘How is your hot chocolate? Calming?’
‘But this is different!’ Arnie fought back. ‘ They are real people from this house telling me their stories. It is like I’m there, in the past and whatever I do or say becomes part of the adventure,’ he exclaimed. ‘And I’m not sure I like it!’
‘How do these “adventures” start and end?’ Mr Silverthorne said airily, as a doctor might to a patient.
‘Well – with the first one – I had been asleep in the hall waiting to go home and I saw someone – who I thought was you – however it wasn’t but I couldn’t see that until I followed him and ended up in the kitchen and there I met all these other people including Emily who, by the way is still about somewhere now, though you can’t see her and I can’t see her all of the time either, unless she opts to do something to help me which she isn’t at the moment – obviously.’ His endless stream of words stopped dead like an old-fashioned typewriter whose ribbon had suddenly got jammed in the keys.
‘This Emily is here somewhere?’ queried Mr Silverthorne.
‘Oh yes!’ Arnie started up again relentlessly, ‘She got left behind. I met her as I just said with a whole bunch of other servants in 1900 and we had supper – or rather they did – I didn’t get any…Oh – I wonder – if I had eaten something back then would I be hungry now? Anyhow – I don’t know
about that…but what did happen is that when they all disappeared – she didn’t.’
‘Right.’ Mr Silverthorne paused, adjusting his spectacles again. ‘And then?’
‘Well you turned up and we talked but you didn’t see Emily though she was there all the time! And after you had gone to get the biscuits – thanks, filled a hole – we went to the Blue Room and Emily couldn’t believe that she was here today – now! She even noticed that parts of the house had changed – that sort of weirdness – and then she was trying to light a fire but vanished just before the boy arrived.’
‘A boy?’
‘Yes. That’s right. As I told you – Thomas Hodges, the soldier – he was fighting a battle.’
‘Really? Did he win?’
‘This is serious Mr Silverthorne! He was at the Somme being shot at by the Germans!’
‘All right, all right,’ he said, waving his hands to placate Arnie before placing them together contemplating his next question. ‘And where were you when you met him?’
‘I told you, in the Blue Room.’
‘Where exactly?’ said Mr Silverthorne, thoughtfully.
‘I was…sitting on the sofa and then I got up to look out of the window and then he was there – right behind me!’
‘I see. Interesting.’
‘What’s “interesting” got to do with anything? It’s mad!’
Mr Silverthorne took a leisurely slurp from his cup and looked over the rim to Arnie.
‘You are not drinking your chocolate. It will get cold you know.’
Arnie blew on the wrinkled skin releasing a little steam.
‘Too hot still,’ he said distractedly.
‘Ah – would you like a drop of cold milk in it?’
‘No it’s fine; look I don’t mean to be rude – but what about these ghosts?’ insisted Arnie.
‘Well,’ said Mr Silverthorne tapping his spoon, ‘what you’ve described, suggests to me – quite clearly – is that both these incidents occurred during periods that you were asleep. You thought you woke up but in fact your dreams were continuing, though they may have felt incredibly real…’