Sleeper

by J. D. Fennell

  It is now evening. After tying the boat to what remains of the dock, they hurry along St Katherine’s Way and up to Tower Bridge Approach, where they dodge people enjoying the weekend break.

  From somewhere below the bridge the pounding drums and the melodic trumpet of a brass band fills the air. It sounds like the Salvation Army. A woman starts to sing heartily at the top of her voice.

  Down at the cross where my saviour died,

  Down where the cleansing of sin I cried,

  There to my heart was the blood applied;

  Glory to his name

  Traffic is slow. The wartime lights-out rule hinders progress. With Skipper behind him, he pushes his way through the crowd. He hears three thumps and halts. The crowd gasps. The bridge trembles and the dark waters of the Thames shiver. The thunder of distant explosions reverberates across the city and in the east the evening sky fills with flashes of bright white light. It is then, better late than never, that a siren wails its warning. Panic ripples through the crowd and they begin running, desperate to get across the bridge and into shelter. Will is herded by the crowd and separated from the old fisherman.

  ‘Skipper!’ he shouts, but there is no response.

  He forces his way through the crowd on the side of the bridge, clinging on to the steel girders. He swears he hears a gunshot. And then above the din he hears someone shout.

  ‘My lad, wait!’

  The crowd thins and Will turns to see Skipper limping toward him. He falls forward, and Will just manages to catch him. He is surprisingly light and feels more a like a sack of bones than a grown man. His chest is wheezing and he is sweating as if he had just run a marathon. He groans, but his voice is rasping, his breath short.

  He steadies the old man, who seems a shadow of who he was.

  ‘Skipper, what’s happened?’ he says, confused and mindful of the approaching bombers. ‘We must get off the bridge.’

  ‘Too late for me. You must go. You are in danger, lad … grave danger.’

  There’s a loud bang and Will feels the old man jerk and stiffen. His face contorts with pain, his eyes flutter and he slumps forward. Confused, Will catches him, supporting his back and feels something warm and sticky on Skipper’s jumper. He lowers him to the ground and looks at his hand. There is blood on his fingers.

  ‘Help, someone help,’ he calls, but the bridge is empty.

  They are alone. The only sound is the approaching drone of bombers and the hymn of the Salvation Army songstress who, it seems, has been abandoned by her band.

  The old man’s eyes flicker and close.

  ‘Skipper, Skipper!’ Will shakes the old seaman in an effort to revive him, but there is no response. And then, from somewhere nearby, a man’s voice starts to sing along with the hymn.

  Down at the cross where my saviour died,

  Down where the cleansing of sin I cried,

  There to my heart was the blood applied;

  Glory to his name

  On the opposite side of the bridge, a man is approaching. He is dressed in a black suit and has long white hair. It is the priest-man he saw on the riverbank.

  ‘Please, help us! This man is hurt.’

  The man walks slowly toward them. As he draws closer, the feeling of unease that Will felt at the dock returns. His stomach tingles. Something is not quite right.

  The man crouches down beside them, cocks his head to the side and gazes over Skipper. His eyes are like dark hollows and seem devoid of emotion.

  Will’s instincts tell him to run, but he cannot leave Skipper. Not after he saved his life.

  And then the man falls onto his knees, looming over the old fisherman like a cobra. He removes his gloves, ‘Pray with me, boy.’

  ‘Please, help me get him off the bridge and to a doctor.’

  ‘Don’t you recognise me, boy?’ he says, his hands clasping together.

  ‘No. Who are you?’

  The priest-man dips his head and mutters something under his breath. Will notices his hands are scarred with dozens of crucifixes carved into his flesh. Some of the scars are bloody and recent. Will jolts as a memory flashes in his mind – an image of this man, his face contorted, his arm raised and, in his hand, a blade. He knows this man – but how? On the tip of his tongue is a name. Will frowns…

  The holy man… no… the Pastor. He is known as the Pastor.

  But this man of God doesn’t make Will feel safe – quite the opposite.

  The Pastor finishes the prayer and begins rummaging in Skipper’s pockets.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Will feels a swelling anger that this stranger should dare to search Skipper’s pockets. He grabs the man’s forearm. ‘Leave him alone.’

  The Pastor smiles, his teeth are small, like a child’s.

  The hairs on Will’s neck bristle, ‘Maybe we should get the police.’

  ‘There is no need for the law,’ the Pastor says, glancing at the bullet hole on Will’s blazer. ‘You look like you have been in a spot of bother yourself.’

  Will swallows and does not reply.

  The Pastor gets to his feet. His jacket falls open. There is something dark and metal tucked into his belt. A pistol! What kind of holy-man carries a pistol?

  ‘Do you have it?’ he asks.

  The crump, crump, crump of falling bombs is getting closer.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  Something slips from the Pastor’s sleeve and into his hand. It is a long and shiny razor.

  ‘Do not lie to me, young man.’

  And then, Skipper springs to life and grabs the man’s hand. He bites into his flesh and the blade falls to the ground.

  ‘Run, lad, run!’ he shouts.

  Pulse racing, Will edges back, torn between running and staying to help his friend. But the Pastor is nimble. He pulls out the gun with his free hand and shoots the old man.

  Will stumbles backward, watching Skipper jerk twice as two more bullets are pumped into his frail body.

  The Pastor looks up, his previously emotionless eyes betraying a simmering rage.

  With his heart rattling in his chest, Will backs quickly away, picks up his pace and runs, hiding wherever he can behind the cover of abandoned buses and cars.

  Chapter 8

  The Pastor strikes

  Wailing sirens, droning bombers and falling whistlers fade to background noise as Will sprints through the dark, empty streets, panting. His brow is clammy, his heart is pounding, but it is also heavy. He tries to make sense of what has just happened. He is to blame. If it weren’t for him, Skipper would be alive and well and steering his boat happily up the Thames. Every muscle in Will’s body seems to twist as he thinks of Skipper’s cold-blooded murder. He ducks into an alleyway and retreats into the shadows to catch his breath and think. His head throbs, a dull pulsing ache that does not want to go away.

  Despite all the noise, he can just make out the clip of footsteps approaching and snatches of that same hymn. He feels his skin crawling and hurries out of the alleyway and on into a street of Victorian terraces. He looks around for somewhere to hide, an empty house perhaps. A sudden flash in the sky lights up the street and he feels horribly exposed and alone. There is no one else around, no one to call to for help. Everyone will be taking shelter in their cellars or the Underground. He hurries along the street and crosses into another darkened alleyway.

  He stops at a rusty gate, the entrance to a rear garden, and looks back up the alleyway. The Pastor is there, stopped at the far end, peering in his direction. Will backs into the shadows, holding his breath and praying for him to move on. To his relief, he does.

  He peers beyond the gate. The garden is overgrown and full of rag-and-bone booty probably looted from bomb-damaged homes. There is a three-wheeled pram, stacks of wooden crates and various forgotten toys, including dolls with missing eyes and limbs. He wonders if the house has been abandoned. It has the look of neglect about it. Pushing the gate open, he hurries toward the rear door, but
it is locked. He remembers the lock pick in his sleeve and goes to work, wondering where and how he has learned to pick locks.

  Am I some sort of criminal, or thief?

  Footsteps crunch in the alleyway and he leans toward the lock. With a surgeon’s lightness of touch, he feels for the pressure points, pushes them, and hears the clicking sound of the lock opening.

  Slipping quietly inside, he closes the door behind him. In the darkness, he stumbles forward and knocks over a kitchen chair. He swears under his breath at the noise. He leaves the kitchen and slides up the hallway. He freezes, thinking he hears someone at the front door. And then the back door opens. Framed inside, like an image from a nightmare, is the Pastor.

  He springs forward, rushing at Will, with one hand reaching for his throat.

  Will does not retreat. Something in him, an instinct, makes him stand still, his eyes taking in the Pastor’s every move. At the right moment, he grabs the man’s wrist and kicks him savagely between the legs. The Pastor grunts, but clings to him like a parasite. They fall backwards through a door and into the living room.

  The Pastor is fast and reacts quickly, pinning Will up against the wall by his neck. Their faces are inches apart, the air between them sour with what smells like rotten meat. The man’s grip is tight, Will gasps for air and tries to push him away, but the older man is too strong.

  The house shakes as a bomb explodes nearby. Dust falls from the ceiling, coating Will’s shoulders and clammy face.

  The Pastor’s small eyes flash, ‘And there fell upon men a great hail out of heaven, and men blasphemed God because of the plague of the hail; for the plague thereof was exceeding great…’

  He slams his fist into Will’s stomach and releases his grip.

  Whatever air was left in Will’s lungs shoots out and he crumples to the floor in pain, clutching his stomach. More bombs fall, shaking the foundations. The dusty wooden floorboards vibrate against his cheek.

  ‘…And men were scorched with great heat, and blasphemed the name of God…’

  The Pastor crouches beside him, searches his pockets and takes out the notebook.

  ‘Well, well,’ he says, leafing through it tentatively. His eyes widen, his neck turns red, ‘It pains me to think you would hide this from me.’

  Pushing himself up, Will does not know what to say. What is so important about this notebook?

  Will is hauled to his feet by his hair, ‘Who are you, boy?’

  ‘No one…’ but then he hears a whine coming from the kitchen. It is followed by a snarl and a growl and then a gravelly voice says, ‘What the hell?’

  The Pastor places a razor against Will’s throat, ‘Do not say a word, boy.’

  The dog barks and claws scrape on wood.

  The gravel-voiced man shouts, ‘Spitfire, NO!’

  But the dog skids into the room. It is a squat white bull terrier with a scarred face, its eyes locked firmly on Will. It springs forward, teeth bared in a vicious smile. The Pastor is distracted for a split second. Will grabs his forearm and holds it. The dog’s jaws lock onto the arm and clamp shut. The Pastor cries out and tries to shake the dog off, but Spitfire bites harder. The Pastor falls back, dropping the razor and notebook on the floor.

  This is Will’s moment to act. He should run; but not without the notebook. It is his and he wants answers. He leaps forward and grabs it.

  The Pastor swipes out at him and misses by an inch.

  Will can see his free hand searching the floor for the blade. He turns to run but a broad man is standing in the doorway with a strip of lead pipe in his hand.

  ‘Mister, we have to get out of here.’

  There is a horrific yelp followed by a feeble whimper. He turns to see the Pastor pushing Spitfire’s limp body onto the floor. In his hand is the razor, wet with blood.

  ‘Spitfire! Spitfire, my boy.’ The animal’s breathing is shallow. Will is no expert but he could guess he was a goner.

  The Pastor leaps to his feet, his expression demonic. The large man looks from his dog to the Pastor, his face burning with rage. He lifts the strip of lead and lunges at the holy man.

  With the notebook tucked into his blazer, Will runs up the hall and out the front door, his head reeling.

  Outside, he bumps into a small boy who is hurrying past, carrying a crate of food. The small boy glances at the house Will has just emerged from then back at Will. He jumps as two gunshots are fired inside.

  ‘Follow me,’ says the boy.

  Will sees some other boys and a girl, exiting various houses on the same street. They are all carrying similar small crates of food. Will knows he must run, but he does not know where. His memory is shattered, he does not know who he is or what he is. He needs time to think. Perhaps the boy can give him shelter until he gathers his thoughts. Glancing back, he sees the Pastor emerge from the house, limping badly. He is in no position to follow them. Will almost wants to cheer, but he follows the boy and disappears into the shadows of the street.

  Chapter 9

  Sam

  Will follows the boy along Fenchurch Street and up a back street. The others are running in single file behind the girl, who seems to be in charge. There are seven in total, eight including the girl. They stop by a pair of tall wooden doors, which look like the entrance to some sort of yard. The girl glances up and down the street before entering through a small hatch in one of the doors. The others follow her through. Will holds back, closes his eyes and rubs his throbbing head. He thinks about his fight and wonders how he learned to defend himself so well. And then there is the tailored blazer with its secreted tools. Just who is he?

  A voice disturbs his thoughts. ‘Are you alright? You don’t look well.’

  It is the small boy; he is smiling. He looks around twelve years old and has short cropped blond hair, a dirty face and a snub nose. ‘I’m Sam.’ he says.

  He has no name to give in return. There is nothing in the folds of his memory, a first name, a surname or even a letter, as a clue to his identity. There is just the name from the notebook.

  ‘Tim… My name is Tim.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Tim. Come inside. You’ll be safer.’

  Tim is not his name. He does not know how he knows this. He just does. He looks back to check he hasn’t been followed. The street is clear, so he lets Sam lead him through the hatch.

  The yard looks like an unused tradesman’s work area. Dominating the space is a red double-decker bus with union flags hanging from its upstairs windows and an elaborately framed portrait of the royal family fixed to the side panel. The rear platform is draped in a plush red velvet curtain of the sort you might find in an theatre. The whole set up looks like some sort of patriotic, mobile den.

  To the left of the bus is a makeshift table made from several heavy planks of wood resting on stacked-up bus tyres. The other children have put their crates on top and are standing around it. They are looking at him suspiciously and seem oblivious to the world beyond the yard where the skies flash and the bombs are still falling.

  ‘Who the ‘ell are you?’ asks the girl, her brow furrowed. She seems to be the oldest, fourteen Will reckons, a wiry strong frame with mousey brown hair cut just below the ears. She marches forward and stands inches from him, her arms folded, her eyes wary.

  ‘He’s with me, Kitty,’ says Sam, sheepishly.

  Kitty looks at Sam with an accusing expression. ‘Sam Rudge, what have I told you about bringing strangers home. We ain’t got the food. Besides, he looks old enough to look after himself!’

  Kitty has an air of authority, a maternal protective edge to her that Will can’t help but admire.

  ‘But he was in trouble, Kitty. You’re always saying we gotta ‘elp people. Not just ourselves. So I just ’elped him.’

  The other boys circle around warily watching Will who is bigger and older than them. Suddenly they don’t seem like children anymore. One is holding an old tennis racquet, someone else brandishes a cracked cricket bat, another holds a lengt
h of chain and one particularly angry-looking boy with puffy eyes and large freckles sidles up with a grubby machete and pokes Will in the chest with it.

  Despite his chest muscles being tender, Will surprises himself by not flinching. He scans the approaching boys and calculates the order in which he will disarm each one. The machete boy will be first. He has no discernible skill with the weapon he is holding. Will will grab his wrist, break it in one hit, and relieve him of the machete. He feels his heart beat faster. But he holds back, frightened at what he is capable of.

  Who am I?

  ‘What sort of trouble are you in?’ says Kitty, interrupting his thoughts.

  ‘He was robbin’ Bob Batten’s house,’ says Sam.

  There is a collective gasp from everyone in the yard.

  ‘You’ve got some nerve, robbin’ Bob Batten’s gaff,’ says Kitty. ‘He’ll flay you alive if he finds you.’

  Sam continues, ‘I heard gunshots coming from his house. Not one but two!’

  The others start murmuring amongst themselves.

  Kitty’s eyes widen, she leans forward. ‘Is Bob Batten dead? Did you kill him?’

  ‘No. Nor did I rob him.’

  Kitty squares up to him, her nose almost touching his chin. ‘Then what are you doing in our patch?’

  He hesitates before answering. He does not see the value in lying. Besides, he could use some friends and perhaps if he tells the truth they might help him.

  ‘I was hiding in that house. A man is trying to kill me.’

  ‘He’s lying!’ says the machete boy.

  ‘No ’e’s not. I ’eard the gunshots, remember?’ says Sam.

  ‘Who’s trying to kill you?’ demands Kitty.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why’s he want you dead, then?’

  ‘I don’t know and I intend to find out.’

  Kitty eyes him suspiciously, but he keeps his expression fixed and calm. After a moment she seems to relax.