The 58th Keeper

by R. G. Bullet

  “Full Ham?” Bundo repeated. “What area? We should be in the south of this hovel.”

  The thin accomplice flicked through the index of the map. “Full Ham…Full Ham.”

  For the last few days they’d lurked outside of schools in the desperate hope of finding Archy. It was better than doing nothing at all. They reported in to their Kurul leader by phone at night and waited impatiently to get information—anything more detailed than what they already had. But no firm clues as to the whereabouts of the Shroud or the boy, Archy, were offered. They slept in the van or in cheap bed-and-breakfasts along their haphazard journey across the city.

  The few English phrases the two of them had bothered to learn were wearing thin. There were only so many words they could attach to the end of “give me” and “where” and simple tasks like hiring the van had taken hours.

  Bundo drove on, regardless of the thin accomplice’s incompetence in navigation. And that’s where they got their first real break, while buying food in a fish and chip shop in an area called Shepherd’s Bush.

  A harried-looking shop owner stood behind the counter calculating how many portions of chips he could sell to Bundo—six, possibly seven or even eight if he included the skinny guy. “Say that again will you? I didn’t catch your order,” the owner asked.

  “I’m wanting of the feesh,” Bundo snarled, “the feesh.”

  “Oh, right! The FISH! Well, we have four types of fish: cod, haddock, sole and of course skate. Which one would you like?”

  Bundo frowned at the man. “I am waaanting the feesh.”

  “I thought you might. Salt and vinegar?”

  Bundo turned to the thin accomplice and spoke rapidly in Turkish. “Curse this rotting country, I must find the Shroud and leave here quickly. What did this idiot just say?”

  The thin accomplice didn’t look up. He didn’t want to eat and stood flipping through the pages of a clothing catalog. “He said something about your mother, Bundo,” he said casually.

  The owner tapped on the glass shelf. “Here ya go.” He handed over the food wrapped in steaming newspaper and Bundo took the package suspiciously, his nostrils flaring.

  “Give me feesh.”

  “Yup—I just did. That’ll be four pounds seventy-five, then. Please.”

  Bundo checked the till then flicked a crumpled five-pound note over the counter and strode out into the street. The rain splattering onto the shop’s awning sounded like peas falling on a snare drum and he opened the newspaper wrapping and recoiled from the smell.

  “Domuz g1da! What do these fools eat? This reeks of toilet cleaner.”

  After another whiff he hurled the fish at a passing double-decker bus. It landed with a splat against the window and precisely at that moment a peculiar, recognizable feeling surged through his fleshy head.

  “I—wait—WAIT! The Shroud! I sense it.” He blindly reached behind him and took hold of the thin accomplice’s collar, dragging him across the pavement. “IT’S NEAR!”

  ***

  The sound of skidding tires jarred Archy awake. He waited for the crunch of metal. Nothing. Coming to his senses his eyes opened wide and flashed a gaze across an unfamiliar room—the rickety furniture, the orange light coming from the outside—Alturus’s flat.

  Shouting and blaring car horns came from the street below. A strange and charged sensation stirred from the middle of his stomach and seemed to push him to get up.

  He peered through the tattered curtains and looked down at the scene. The rain had stopped at long last, and he could see an old man poking his head out of his car window, yelling at two men in a white van.

  The hairs on Archy’s neck and arms bristled, poking into his shirt. One of the men that got out of the van was Bundo. Unmistakable! A huge body squeezed into a tight suit, dark sideburns showing like black paint against puffy, white skin. Then he heard him shout out at the other driver.

  “Come! I crack your head!”

  Before Archy could shrink back into the dark of the room he saw the other man from the van look up at the window and stare straight at him.

  “He’s here! He’s here!” the thin accomplice shouted wildly down below.

  Archy turned sharply and lunged for the rug. A chair flew off to the side, crashing to the floor. He threw the backpack on top, and kicked his shoes and sweater into the middle. It still felt damp. Frantically he started to fold the corners. He could hear the front door being kicked in below, then heavy thumps coming up the stairs.

  With the fourth corner folded, the rug flickered and Archy came in and out of view, lifted with a jolt, and sputtered over to the window.

  It was nailed shut.

  A loud crunch came from Alturus’s door, then another and another. Archy rose as high as he could and edged out into the cramped hallway, his head brushing the dust off the ceiling. A loud crack and the door broke open, splinters of wood showering the floor beneath him. The two Kurul squashed through, one shoving the other.

  “Onu bulun!” Bundo shouted and darted to the left. The thin accomplice split to the right.

  Archy ducked under the doorframe and shot out of the shattered entrance. He flew down the stairs as fast and as carefully as he could. But the rug was moving sluggishly. Archy’s mouth was dry from fear. His heart hammered in his chest. If he crashed here, he knew he’d never make it out alive.

  “Onu bulun!” Bundo shouted from above as the Kurul ransacked Alturus’s place. Archy heard their footsteps as they thundered back and forth.

  As Archy swerved down the winding staircase he knocked a picture off the wall and it fell with a crash and a tinkling of glass. After a moment of silence from the flat above, Archy could hear Bundo thunder down from the top landing, his size eighteen boots ripping up the dusty carpet on the way, the thin accomplice right behind.

  They raced toward the broken picture, and bounced in all directions, their arms flailing above their heads like angry chimps trying to grasp at the unseen. Archy couldn’t speed up. The stairwell was far too tight. So he raised the rug once again just as the Kurul shot beneath him. The two of them raced down the entrance hall, still leaping high into the air all the way and back out into the street.

  Archy trailed behind them. He rose above the squabbling pair and hovered like a bird as they angrily pushed and shoved each other below. The traffic had backed up the street behind their abandoned van and frustrated drivers were on their cell phones. Archy took another close look at the two creepy men and sped off into the chilly morning.

  Chapter 17

  Private Tour

  The Kurul had now become a direct threat. After the brush with them at Alturus’s flat Archy studied the Keeper’s log with every ounce of concentration he could muster. The clues still only added up to very little information: International organization with a base in every country—exceptionally tricky.

  He learned from the Keeper’s log of the Kurul’s growing awareness of the rug’s whereabouts. Their tenacity to claim it as theirs was ruthless. But he could find little of their origins. They were as elusive as SOTS. Alturus had been useless. Archy imagined that if and when Alturus had returned to his flat and found the place ransacked, he probably hadn’t connected the damage with the Kurul at all. Archy had never met such a scatterbrain before, adult or child.

  The unanswered questions made Archy tense, and he welcomed any distractions. He found comfort in Rushburys’s monotony.

  The next day in the lunch queue he told Vincent about what happened in Alturus’s flat, the Kurul nearly catching him, and the escape.

  “That’s seriously hairy, Archy. You’d better store the rug for a while,” said Vincent. “Why don’t you put it somewhere safe and dry? Give it to my dad. He’ll put it in his office. No one goes in there without passing loads of security.”

  Archy thought about it for a second, but the idea of handing the rug over to anyone was not an option. “There’s more to it, Vincent. I can’t tell you ‘cause I don’t know everything but there’
s something about this rug—I felt it at Alturus’s place. It needs protection.”

  “No, you need protection. Georgia and I were chatting about you earlier.”

  “You didn’t mention the rug to her, did you?”

  “Nah, relax. I told her you’ve changed since I first met you.”

  “First met me I was what? Say it,” Archy pressed.

  “Well, you were wimpy and stuff at first and now you’ve gone over the top. You flew into London on your own! That’s too much!”

  Archy took his concerns as a compliment and laughed.

  They continued talking and watching the school’s chef, Edmond McCormick, dish out small mountains of something off-white with a metal ladle. Vincent told Archy that last night’s detention was the worst ever. He scrubbed behind the stoves and under the counters. “You wouldn’t believe it. I found a family of rats in the pantry.” Vincent dropped his voice to a whisper. “They weren’t normal rats, ‘cause they were wrapped up all cozy in an old potato sack. Chef McCormack told me to leave them there. Archy, he’d even given ‘em names!”

  “Well, lads,” Chef McCormack said, looking at them as they edged up to position. “I tell ya. I’ve seen bulldogs look happier. What foul deeds have you been up to now?” His wiry orange beard and bushy red eyebrows looked like they were on fire, which matched his personality.

  “None that didn’t deserve your lunch, Mr. McCormick,” said Vincent with a cheeky smile.

  “Aye lad. I’ll expect you in the kitchen again tonight. Here, I got a wee pie for you two.” He reached under the counter and came back up, holding out two small steak and kidney pies—his specialty. They weren’t ever on the Rushburys menu, but Chef McCormick had always been kind to the boys on late night kitchen duty. “Not a word,” he said with a wink.

  Mr. Elms spotted the boy’s smiling faces, and wandered over, standing within earshot.

  Chef McCormick noticed him approach and carried on slopping a substance that resembled porridge, or it could have been yesterday’s mashed potatoes. No one could tell even up close.

  “No, thank you,” said Vincent in a posh voice. He had also seen Mr. Elms lurking nearby. “I have had quite sufficient.”

  Chef McCormick changed to a flat, sarcastic tone. “Ya dunna want the mash, lad?” he fired back. From anyone else it would have been a simple question but coming from Chef McCormick, it sounded like a direct threat. “Come ya big pansy—it’ll put hairs on ya wee concave chest.” He stretched out across the counter and dumped an excessive amount onto Vincent’s plate.

  “Oh! Thanks very much, I need all the hairs I can get,” said Vincent, his tray tipping forward with the weight.

  “Aye! You do too. I’ve seen more hairs on a month-old haggis. Now, move along.” Chef McCormick grunted and dug deep into the mound for the next boy, who tried unsuccessfully to slip by.

  Satisfied that nothing untoward was happening, Mr. Elms moved off down the line. Archy usually dodged him at every chance, but today he wasn’t threatened by him at all.

  Archy found himself still grinning as they sat down at the end of their table.

  Vincent poked the mound of food with his spoon. “If I eat all this I’ll have more chest hair than a gorilla and I’m only twelve.”

  Archy laughed out loud and glimpsed Wagstaff at the other end of the table. Wagstaff was stuffing his face with several half-eaten dishes stacked up on both sides. He still looked considerably thinner since the incident in the tuck room.

  At that moment a prefect came up to the table and handed Archy an envelope.

  “It came in from a courier.” the prefect said. The envelope was still cold to the touch, written in elaborate, black handwriting and sealed with hard, red wax.

  “What’s that then? Looks official,” said Vincent, leaning over and crunching crackers in Archy’s ear.

  Archy studied the motif closely; there were twelve feathers in a circle on top of a portcullis in the background. He snapped the seal open and read:

  SOTS

  Dear Mr. Bass,

  Our organization has met with Alturus Burk. It is of the utmost importance that we meet you here tonight.

  Enclosed is an invitation to our HQ in London. We look forward to seeing you here.

  Sincerely,

  Lord Fleury

  Enc.

  P.S. Please dispose of this letter immediately. It is water-soluble.

  Archy read the formal invitation that came with the letter.

  SOTS

  Request the audience of Mr. Archibald Bass

  Wednesday the 14th (5 p.m.)

  House of Lords,

  London,

  SW1A 0PW

  Archy’s hands trembled. There they were: “SOTS,” the very letters he had seen so many times in the Keeper’s log. And now he had received the request Alturus had told him to expect. He didn’t know if he was ready.

  “Is Chef’s food getting to you, Archy?”

  “Yeah—I mean no. I don’t know,” said Archy, handing the letter to him.

  Vincent examined the invite. “This is serious, Archy. Are you going to go?”

  ***

  The moment the day’s lessons ended, Archy tore down to the tuck room to get the rug. From an empty music room, he took a long look out of the window at the clear sky and then folded the rug’s corners, snuck through the window and headed due east.

  Navigating London was a lot easier in the daylight. Following the Thames once again he could see the telecom tower in the distance and other major landmarks: Buckingham Palace, Marble Arch, and the green expanse of Hyde Park, with the Serpentine shimmering like foil in its middle. The London Eye and the Houses of Parliament were so prominent from the air they would have been difficult to miss.

  Archy flew under Westminster Bridge, around the entire buildings of Parliament and floated in front of Big Ben.

  He landed in a covered parking garage, dismounted and found a concrete stairwell where he stood on the handrails and left the rug floating very close to the ceiling. Everyone seemed to use the elevators anyway, so once he made sure it was safe, he continued down the stairs, crossed the street and asked a policewoman for directions.

  “Excuse me, where can I find SOTS?” he said.

  “Don’t know that one,” she said, shaking her head. “Your best bet is to go through the Norman Porch in the front.” She pointed up the long side of parliament. “Ask there.”

  As Archy approached he saw a line of people zigzagging away from the information window. He knew that jumping the line was almost equivalent to theft in England, and so he walked tentatively to the front.

  The clerk at the counter looked up. “Not a chance, love!” she said. “You’ll have to join the back of the line.”

  Archy held the official invitation to the glass partition and she peered closer.

  “Officer Andrews!” she yelled. “We’ve got a special one here.”

  A policeman stepped out from a side door and Archy handed him the invitation while he made a call on his walkie-talkie.

  “Bass, Archibald, for SOTS; that’s Bass: Bravo, Alpha, Sierra, Sierra.”

  There was a sudden hush. Archy could see in the reflection of the glass partition that everybody in the line was staring at him.

  “Would you mind coming with me, sir?” said the policeman.

  Archy followed him to a small waiting room and he gestured for him to sit. There were three other people in there: a man sitting cross-legged reading The Financial Times, who didn’t look up, and an elderly couple sitting farther down the bench. Archy returned a brief smile to them both and sat.

  “Someone will be with you shortly, sir.”

  It was the first time Archy had ever been addressed as “sir.” He sat with his hands under his thighs reading the big print on the notices. Please keep your bags with you at all times. Report any suspicious packages.

  Sure enough, just minutes later a lean gentleman stuck his head around the door. He had dark hair and a big, whi
te smile rather like a game show host. A security ID swung over his pristine navy-blue suit and the small picture matched his smiling face.

  “Good evening, Mr. Bass. My name’s Forbes.” He gripped Archy’s hand and shook it vigorously.

  “Hello.”

  “I was sent by Lord Fleury. He sends his sincere apologies for not coming personally to greet you, but there have been developments and SOTS may be a little later than expected. I hope you don’t mind.” He flashed a wide smile.

  “Oh, sorry—it’s not a problem, I can wait here,” said Archy.

  “No, that’d be a terrible waste. If you wish, I can show you around, give you a private tour, if you like. It’d be my pleasure.”

  “Really!” Archy replied, jumping to his feet.

  Forbes took Archy on a brief and fascinating tour of the Houses of Parliament. They went from one extraordinary room to the next. Archy saw libraries, observatories, study rooms, and offices. Forbes seemed to take delight in pointing out interesting facts along the way.

  “There are more than a thousand rooms here, a hundred different staircases, and two miles of corridors and passageways. It’s more of a labyrinth than a ministerial building. Only a few people I’ve worked with during my tenure have claimed to have visited all the rooms.”

  Forbes led the way through an illustrious-looking but empty restaurant and back out into another corridor. “Every Lord and Member of Parliament in England is permitted to enter but we seldom see them all at the same time.”

  Archy pointed to a set of large, carved wooden doors at the end of a hall. “What’s behind that door?” he asked.

  “That’s the Queen’s robing room,” Forbes explained. “I’m sorry, I don’t have access. No one is permitted to enter, except for the Queen, that is.” Forbes let out a strange laugh, which sounded exactly like one of Winnie’s dogs sniffing under his bedroom door.