Sleeper

by J. D. Fennell

  The old man continues, ‘Tell me, lad. Did they have an accent, a German one perhaps?’

  The pain in his head intensifies, like a hammer on his brain. In his mind he can hear voices, like whispers in the wind. But they mean nothing to him.

  ‘Why is that important?’

  Skipper’s eyes widen and his brow wrinkles.

  ‘You took quite a knock on the head, it’d seem. You do know there’s a war on?’

  Will stiffens. ‘A war?’

  ‘The Germans are bombin’ us and we are bombin’ them. Nasty business.’

  Will closes his eyes in an effort to get to grips with this strange piece of news, but the pain in his head distracts him. He gently places his hand over his temple to ease it, but it does not feel better.

  The old man glances at the table and picks up a parcel, the size of a book. ‘I’d say this saved your life.’

  Will stares hard at it. It seems familiar but he does not know why. There is a hole in the centre with something lodged inside. He feels suddenly cold. It’s a bullet.

  Skipper pulls a box of matches from his pocket, lights one and places the small fire in the pipe. ‘It was the queerest thing. Never saw anything like it. I saw them chase you. I saw them fall to the ground and then I saw one of them shoot you.’

  Will pales and rubs the stiff muscles of his chest.

  ‘Why were they trying to kill you?’

  Swallowing, he shakes his head and pulls the blanket over his shoulders. He has no idea what the old man is talking about.

  The old man is watching him carefully, assessing him.

  ‘I don’t know what business any group of men has shooting someone like that. Don’t make no sense. How old are you, lad?’

  Will furrows his brow as he tries to remember. He isn’t entirely sure. The man is calling him ‘lad’. He knows he is young. Is he eighteen? Twenty? He could be twenty-five or older for all he knows. ‘I… I’m not sure.’

  ‘Do you remember your name?’

  ‘I… I really don’t know. I only know I was in the water.’

  ‘Do you remember anything at all?’

  He tries hard to recall but the whispering voices have gone and there is nothing for him to latch on to. He shakes his head.

  ‘A friend o’ mine took a knock to the head once. Couldn’t remember who he was. Didn’t recognise his wife nor kids nor pals for that matter. He couldn’t do his job neither. He knew his town and where he lived alright. He remembered places, but not people. It were like a whole layer of his memory had gone forever. It were funny at first, but eventually it drove him mad. He had to be “put away” in the end.’

  ‘Did he get his memory back?’

  Skipper shakes his head. ‘He died alone, as a stranger, even to himself. Sad really.’

  Shivering, Will pulls the blanket over his shoulders.

  Skipper regards him thoughtfully, ‘Whoever those men were, they might well be lookin’ for you at Hastings. I reckon it’s not safe to go back there. Tonight, I will do a spot o’ fishin’. Not supposed to, mind, in these times n’ all, but people got to eat and I has to make ends meet. I’ll be takin’ my haul to London town tomorrow morning. You can talk to the police and maybe see a doctor about that head of yours.’

  Will manages a half smile and rests his head back. His eyes feel heavy, and despite his predicament and poor physical state, he soon falls asleep.

  Chapter 5

  The Parcel is Opened

  Sunday, 4th May 1941

  Will sleeps fitfully and wakes the following morning to the sound of the boat’s chugging engine.

  Bright morning light from the porthole dazzles him. His head throbs as his eyes adjust and take in the cabin. It looks different in daylight: even shabbier than his first impression yet it has an order and calmness that gives him a measure of comfort. He sees the table in the corner where Skipper sat last night; on top is a washbowl, a small mirror and a small, neatly folded towel. They weren’t there last night. His rescuer must have left them for him. Behind the table, built into the wall, are shelves containing a neat row of books and general bits – fishing tools, a telescope, a conch and a collection of pipes. The only things that seem out of place are his clothes, hanging to dry, and the strange parcel, resting on top of the stove. The parcel with the bullet lodged inside – the bullet meant for him. He swallows hard.

  What happened last night?

  He has no idea. Strangely he is not frightened, instead he feels a peculiar emptiness as if he is detached from the world and not inhabiting his own body but looking down from above.

  He gets up and shivers. The air is crisp and cold, the fire in the small oven having long gone out.

  His mind is full of questions. Who is he? Who would want to kill him and why? But he does not have the answers. It seems his memories, and his hope of understanding who he is and why someone tried to kill him, are lost at sea. Wrapped in the blanket, he shuffles to where the clothes hang. Mercifully they are dry. He puts them on, ties up his brogues, ignoring the pain in his head and chest. The clothes are snug and seem expensive, like they belong to a private school.

  Are my parents wealthy?

  He checks the blazer for an emblem but there is nothing inside or out. Like him, it has no identity. There is a hole where the bullet penetrated. He’s surprised at how little it troubles him. There is something hard in the bottom of his right sleeve. Peering inside, he sees what looks like a row of tools neatly secreted into the lining above the wrist. One by one, he takes them out and examines them. One is a narrow pipe, another a small pair of scissors that look like they are made for cutting something stronger than paper or hair – wire cutters! Why would he have these? There is also a pencil-sized piece of steel with a slight curve at one end. At first he thinks it some sort of surgeon’s utensil, but that doesn’t seem right. He realises it is a lock pick. How he knows this, he cannot say. He does not know what to make of these items and clumsily bundles them back into their hiding places before Skipper appears.

  Confused, he distracts himself by washing his face in the bowl of water. Peering through the mirror, he scrubs the dried blood from his hair and assesses his reflection in the mottled glass. His face looks young. His wet hair is inky black, his eyes dark, with a hint of sadness and a look of cold determination. He does not recognise the person looking back at him. It is like gazing at a stranger.

  ‘Who are you? What happened to you?’ he says, frowning. He is overcome with a desire to know. Perhaps there is a clue in the parcel – a phone number or an address that will explain his identity and why he was nearly killed last night.

  It is wrapped in damp green oilskin with some sort of Greek cross woven into the fabric. In the centre of the cross, the bullet is lodged. He runs his fingers over the small cold projectile that should, by all accounts, be lodged in his dead heart. Trembling, he rubs his chest and feels anger at whoever it was tried to kill him, rather than fear.

  What about my mum and dad? They must be worried sick.

  He tries to unwrap the parcel, but it is stitched together and sealed with some sort of wax. He uses the wire cutters to break the wax seal and open the threads.

  There is a tatty black leather bound notebook inside. He takes it out and leafs carefully through the pages, which are dry and delicate. The notebook is old. There is a lot of handwritten text in a language he does not recognise. There are strange symbols including stars, half-moons, scythes, swastikas and upturned crosses. There are etchings and fine drawings of people from long ago including a sketch of a woman from ancient times, possibly Roman or Greek. She is standing over a stone table containing what looks like a cluster of glowing rocks. There is a second sketch of a jewelled crucifix with very short arms. There is much more but none of it makes any sense. Something falls from the pages onto the table. It is a small card inscribed:

  Timothy Chittlock

  Room 7

  64 Baker Street

  London

  Timothy Ch
ittlock?

  Is that my name? Or if not mine, could it be my father? Do I live on Baker Street?

  He tries to remember, but nothing seems familiar. But this is surely a good sign. A clue to who he is? He leaves the cabin to get some air and tell Skipper what he has found. Perhaps the old man can offer him some wisdom.

  Outside, on the deck, the morning air is fresh, crisp and salty. There are a dozen modest crates of iced fish at the rear of the small boat. The sea is calmer than it was the night before and in the distance, he can see land. Skipper is smoking his pipe in the steering room at the front of the boat.

  ‘Morning, Skipper.’

  ‘Morning, lad. You seem a lot jollier.’ He smiles. ‘Glad to see you in such good spirits.’

  ‘I opened the parcel. It contains a notebook, and this card, with the name Timothy Chittlock of 64 Baker Street, London. That could be me, or perhaps my father.’

  ‘That’s a fine clue, I’d reckon,’ laughs Skipper. ‘Don’t mean much to me, but I’m sure your neighbour, a certain Mr Sherlock Holmes, could work it out in a blink of an eye.’

  Will smiles. ‘You do know Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character?’

  Skipper laughs so hard he coughs, doubling over to spit into a spittoon. He pats Will on the back and then looks through his binoculars across the water. His brow furrows.

  ‘What is it, Skipper?’ But then he hears it. The chugging sound of another boat.

  ‘Get inside, and stay out of sight.’

  Will hurries into the steering room and crouches down. Instinctively he scans the interior searching for something hard: a crowbar, an ice pick, anything to defend himself. A coldness sweeps over him. But that isn’t all: he does not feel frightened, he is excited and confident. His breathing increases rapidly.

  Who am I?

  Outside, he can hear the other boat approaching. Minutes later, the chugging of The Outcast and the other boat stops.

  ‘Mornin’, Skip,’ says a voice from the other boat.

  ‘Ned,’ says Skipper, in a gruff response.

  ‘Quite a haul you got there.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Takin’ to market, are ya?’

  ‘Where else would I take it?’

  ‘No need to be like that, Skip. Especially, as I have some news concernin’ you and that rust bucket.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ replies an unconvinced Skipper. ‘And just what would that be?’

  ‘There are some men waitin’ at the docks. They say they are police, but they don’t look like police to me. Asking around about a boat called The Outcast, they are. A boat what was seen leaving Hastings last night. Appears they are looking for some cargo it might be carrying. “But he only carries fish,” I tells them.’

  In the steering room Will stiffens and holds his breath. He peeks out at Skipper who appears calm, but his fists are clenched, his knuckles white.

  ‘Did I see someone onboard with you, Skip?’

  ‘I’d say you were mistaken, Ned. Just me and my fish. That’s all.’

  ‘Is that right?’ says Ned, ‘And how about you give me those fish and we’ll say nothing more of it.’

  Skipper’s expression is fixed, he is giving away no secrets.

  ‘I’ll give them as a goodwill gesture for you and your family,’ says Skipper.

  ‘I knew you’d see reason.’

  In the steering room, Will feels guilty and angry at this man for forcing Skipper to give up his fish, just to protect him. He hears Skipper passing the crates across to the other boat.

  ‘That’s the lot,’ says Skipper.

  ‘You don’t ‘alf get yourself into some scrapes, old man.’

  ‘You’ve got what you wanted. Now be off with you.’

  The other boat’s engine starts up and Will feels an overwhelming sense of relief.

  ‘Watch your back, old man!’ calls Ned, like some final grim warning.

  Skipper returns to the steering room, his fixed expression transformed into a wide-eyed determined look like a wrinkled boy wanting adventure.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Will.

  Skipper starts up the engine and looks at him thoughtfully, ‘He’s a treacherous swine, that Ned. Don’t be sorry, lad. Besides, I don’t like the sound of these men, whoever they may be. We’re going to change routes. I’ll get you to London safely. I promise.’

  ‘Thank you for helping me.’

  ‘There is a reason I called this boat The Outcast. A damn fine reason. And that’s why idiots like that Ned don’t care much for me.’

  Skipper lights his pipe and steers a new course. At last there is a sense of hope.

  Chapter 6

  Into the Hornet’s Nest

  It is late afternoon as Skipper steers the boat through the Thames estuary, watching for signs of any suspicious activity or unfamiliar boats. He sees nothing, but nevertheless he proceeds with caution. The closer they get to the docks, the more dangerous it will be for both him and the frightened, disoriented young man he pulled from the sea. For reasons he cannot explain, Skipper feels an affinity with him. Despite his amnesia he can see a strength and determination that might just see him through whatever trouble he is in. He fancies he is like him: an outsider, an outcast. The lad survived the guns of half a dozen men, including a direct hit aimed at his heart. He also survived a drowning. The lad is special and – different. There is a reason he must live. Skipper has no idea what that reason might be, but he feels it and is prepared to risk everything to ensure it. What did it matter anyway? The life of an outcast is a life of risk. He smiles to himself and puffs on his pipe.

  Leaving the estuary behind them, they pass Tilbury, then Dagenham. The river narrows as they approach the London docklands. Skipper draws the curtains on the steering cabin’s side windows so that the only view in and out is through the front window.

  ‘We’re approaching the hornet’s nest,’ says Skipper. ‘Stand behind me, lad, in the shadows, and keep an eye on the bank on either side. Maybe you’ll see a face that will jog your memory.’ He hands the boy the binoculars. ‘Seems there was an air raid last night.’

  Will peers through the binoculars and carefully watches the approach. He feels his heart quickening, not from fear, but from excitement, as if he is returning home after a long arduous trip away. There is a familiarity to the skyline that warms his heart and almost confirms that Baker Street must be his home after all. Yet there is something wrong with this version of the city. Skipper had told him more about the war and the nightly bombings the city endured. It was hard to absorb. On either side of the river, commercial offices and warehouses dealing in imports and exports would once have lined these waters. But today they are rubble and ruins decimated by Nazi bombers. Across the city, plumes of smoke rise up into a slate grey sky where giant fishlike barrage balloons are tethered to the ground below. It is like he has stepped into a ravaged and torn city, like something from an H.G. Wells novel. It is so hard to take in. The London he thinks he remembers is not the London he sees before him. He fears for the city and its people. He fears for his family and wonders where they could be.

  Has Baker Street survived the bombs?

  He trembles inside.

  ‘Just up there, to my left, are two men. They’re watching us and they don’t look like dockers,’ says Skipper.

  Through the binoculars, Will sees two men dressed in smart suits and trilbies, watching The Outcast approach. Their expressions and body language suggests they are doing more than enjoying a leisurely day out.

  There is a car pulling up behind them; it is an Austin 8.

  The door opens and another man gets out. He looms over the other two and looks towards The Outcast. He is thickset, with dark cropped hair and a bushy black moustache that partially obscures a grim expression.

  Knots form in Will’s stomach, his breathing quickens.

  ‘Skipper, I know that man. I don’t know how, but I know him.’

  ‘He’s a dangerous-looking sort, alright.’

&n
bsp; The three men get into the car and begin driving alongside the river.

  ‘There’s another to the right,’ says Skipper.

  Will turns to the other side of the dock and sees a man dressed in a black suit, black shirt and gloves. Will thinks he might be some sort of priest. He is watching the Austin 8, and occasionally glances at The Outcast, as he strolls along. His cheeks are sunken, his eyes are like hollows, his hair is long and white and stretched across the top of his head. For a second Will thinks he sees the glint of blue steel in his hand. But it is gone, perhaps a trick of the light. Nevertheless, his skin crawls for reasons he cannot explain.

  ‘Can we go faster?’ he asks.

  Skipper smiles, conspiratorially. ‘I think we ought to,’ he says, and pushes The Outcast forward.

  Chapter 7

  Trouble at Tower Bridge

  Ahead Will can see Tower Bridge in all its hulking magnificence. He is relieved to see it is undamaged and still functional. Red double-decker buses, cars and people pass across it and for a second it seems life in London is normal and there is no war.

  Skipper interrupts his thoughts. ‘Those men can’t drive along this side of the dock. Reckon they will take a fast road to the next stop and cut us off. We’ll stop at St Katherine’s Dock. It’s not used any longer. The bombs have decimated it, but it will be a good springboard for us to get to Baker Street.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘I’ll see you through to the end, lad. I made a promise to myself, I did. There are dangerous men following you and I won’t let them have another pop at you with their guns.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No buts, lad. You ain’t gettin’ a choice.’ Skipper smiles warmly.

  Will is grateful to the older man, and secretly relieved that he will not be alone for the journey to Baker Street.

  ‘We’ll be there shortly, so get ready to hurry.’

  Will nods, and feels an odd sense of calm and purpose. He is ready, he is always ready. He steadies his breathing, all the while his eyes scan the riverbanks for unwelcome faces. His palm touches the side pocket of his blazer, where the notebook is safely tucked.