Thirty minutes pass and he is none the wiser. He glances up and sees the Irishman standing in the corridor and looking into the compartment. Will furtively slips the notebook into his pocket.
‘I need to pee,’ says Jimmy. His mother ignores him as she wrestles with feeding both babies at the same time. ‘Mummy, I need to pee!’
‘Just wait, Jimmy!’
Will hears the door of the next compartment slide open. ‘Tickets please,’ says the guard.
‘I can’t wait!’ says Jimmy.
‘I can take him,’ Will says.
‘Oh, you are a dear, thank you.’
‘Come on, Jimmy.’ Will extends his hand. ‘Let’s go and find the lav.’
The boy beams and Will leads him out into the corridor. He ignores the Irishman whose gaze makes him uneasy. He hopes it is his imagination.
‘Tickets please,’ says the guard, emerging from the next compartment and turning his attention towards Will.
Will gestures at Jimmy’s mum, ‘Our mum has the tickets, sir. I’m just taking little Jimmy to the toilet.’
The guard nods, ‘It’s two carriages away.’
A short time later Will stands waiting. He hears the toilet flushing and Jimmy appears from behind the door, ‘Did you kill him?’ says the boy.
Will frowns, ‘Who?’
‘The monster.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he was very strong…’
‘I bet you were stronger.’
Will smiles, ‘Let’s get you back to your mum.’
When they get back Will stops outside the door to their compartment and peers inside. Thankfully the guard was not there, nor was the Irishman.
‘Will you see the monster again?’ asks Jimmy.
A chill sweeps over Will at the thought of meeting the scripture-quoting killer again, ‘I hope not, Jimmy. I really hope not.’
Chapter 12
Beaulieu
The train pulls into Brockenhurst at lunchtime in a flurry of steam. Will says goodbye to Jimmy and his mum and stands up to leave. He notices the Irishman stepping on to the platform, so holds back for a moment and watches him walk toward the exit. A whistle blows and steam billows down the platform obscuring the view. Will jumps down and makes his way through the people still intent upon catching the departing train. He feels someone bump into him and turns to see the Irishman push past him. Will thinks he has been robbed. He pats his blazer pocket and breathes easy when he feels the notebook is still there.
Outside the station, it is pleasant and green, the day sunny and bright. There is no more sign of the Irishman, much to Will’s relief.
He spots a battered Post Office van parked by the roadside with an old man, wearing a dirty flat cap, leaning against it and smoking a cigarette. He tips his cap with nicotine-stained fingers and bids good day to two well-dressed ladies who hurry past without acknowledging him.
Will glances up and down the road but can’t see any signs for Beaulieu. He approaches the old man, ‘Excuse me?’
‘Afternoon, young sir.’
‘Could you direct me to Beaulieu House, please?’
The man looks Will up and down, drops his cigarette to the ground and extinguishes it with his boot. ‘Not many people ask to go to that place.’
Will is not sure what to say to that.
‘But it just so happens I am driving in that direction.’
Will hesitates, still unsure who he can trust, ‘Thank you, but I am happy to walk.’
‘Well, you got a choice between a long walk, or a short drive.’ The old man smiles warmly and Will thinks he has a honest face.
A fierce rumbling engine distracts him as a gleaming silver Bentley rolls slowly by. It is an Embiricos; a model that is rare and beautiful. Will realises that driving and cars are somehow familiar to him. The driver is none other than the Irishman and he is looking his way. Will’s stomach clenches. He turns to the old man. ‘Yes, please take me to Beaulieu, thank you.’
‘Eli Pike,’ says the old man, grinning. His smile is made up of a few crooked teeth and even those have seen better days.
Will hears the Embiricos’ engine revving and watches with relief as it speeds away and out of sight.
‘Jimmy Jones,’ lies Will and extends his hand.
Eli Pike places a long bony hand in Will’s. It is rough and callused. ‘And this is Babs,’ he says, patting the van with his other hand. ‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’
‘Er… yes,’ says Will politely. ‘Are you a postman?’
‘Postman, hunter, safe cracker, Jack of all trades and master of none,’ he says with a cackle and a cough. ‘Right, let’s get you inside.’
They drive along country roads, narrow lanes and through a small village. Eli talks casually about the war and life in the country. Will is thankful not to be pressed with personal questions.
Twenty minutes later they pull up alongside a towering wall.
Eli looks at Will, ‘Are you sure you want to go there, Jimmy? We can drive on and I can drop you somewheres else.’
Eli is warning me not go to Beaulieu. Why?
Will hesitates, unsure what to say, but two men have died because of him and this notebook. Not only that, he is wanted for their murders.
It is too late for second thoughts. Besides, I have to talk to Timothy Chittlock. Only he can help me.
He must see this through, clear his name and find his parents. Beaulieu and Chittlock are his only clues to finding out what he needs. ‘No thank you, Eli. Beaulieu is where I need to go.’
Eli nods once and seems disappointed with Will’s answer. He points further along the road. ‘See that gate just along there.’
‘That’s the entrance to Beaulieu House. It’s locked. There is a guard standing just inside and I can tell you now, you won’t get in. But, if you’re interested, I have an idea.’
A few moments later Will is standing by the wall watching the van speed off. The horn blares, the brakes screech and the van swerves to a halt just outside the gate. An elderly man, a soldier from the Home Guard, emerges and shuffles toward Eli who gets out of the van and staggers around as if he is ill. The guard tries to help him. Will seizes his chance, runs to the gate and through. He glances back at Eli who winks at him.
Inside the gate, the grounds of Beaulieu are well-tended. There are gardens and scattered copses. Eli told him to follow the gravel drive, so Will does.
Beaulieu House is imposing: grey and dark with stained glass windows and a turret at each side. One turret is tall, higher than the roof, the other is shorter and looks as if it has sunk into the ground. Will approaches the front door tentatively. It is tall and wide and made from heavy dark wood. He pushes it, but it is locked. He considers knocking but decides it is best to look around and see what he is up against.
He skirts around the house, hiding behind bushes and peering through windows. He sees a dozen or so people around his age and older. Some are chatting and drinking tea, others are reading books. From behind a different bush he peers through another window. There are more young people sitting at desks watching a master who is talking to them while pointing a stick at a blueprint pinned to the wall. Will focuses. It is a diagram of a pistol. He thinks it strange that young people should be learning about pistols, but his life over the past day or so has been nothing but strange. Still, he feels uneasy.
He makes his way to the rear of the house, where he can hear people shouting in unison from somewhere on an upper floor. There is a balcony on the first floor. Its French doors are open. Inside he can make out groups of people around his age, some younger, others older, dressed in odd loose-fitting clothing like black karategi. They begin standing in pairs opposite each other. He hears someone call out an instruction and they start fighting. It is some sort of martial art, which seems strangely familiar. Their moves are mostly graceful, with the exception of a couple of students who are clunky and heavy on their feet.
Closest to the
balcony is a girl with light brown hair, cut to her shoulders. Will stands transfixed. She moves with the elegance of a ballet dancer and effortlessly floors a boy twice her size. She fixes her hair behind her ears, turns and looks outside, as if bored. She sees Will and stares at him curiously. Will feels his stomach flutter.
He has lost concentration. Annoyed with himself, he turns to walk away but before he can someone grabs hold of his shoulder.
‘Well, what do we have here?’
A taller boy with bright red hair is peering down at him with a look of recognition, which quickly turns to confusion then to anger.
Has he seen the sketch of me in the newspaper?
The boy is not alone. He is flanked by a large red-cheeked boy and a pinched-face girl with lank black hair hauled back and tied with a green scarf. Skulking behind them is a shorter, rounder boy with spectacles.
‘Hoping to steal something, are we?’ says the tall boy.
Will takes stock of him. He is slightly older than the others, around eighteen. His hair has been oiled and styled to make him seem older and his skin is pale with mountainous white-headed spots. He is wearing a smart school uniform; his navy blazer has an unusual golden crest embossed with two crisscrossed pistols and a dagger running through them.
Will edges back, his fists curling in preparation.
‘We have a trespasser, Horne,’ says the pinched-faced girl.
The large red-cheeked boy grabs Will from behind. Will tries to shake him off but his assailant is strong.
‘Get off!’
‘It speaks!’ says the girl, in a mocking high-pitched voice.
Will is pulled to the ground. Horne and the pinched-face girl jump on him and pin him down.
‘Check his pockets,’ says Horne.
Will wrestles, kicks and spits but it is no good. There are too many of them.
Horne grabs Will’s hair and raises his fist. ‘Kick once more boy and I will blacken your eye.’
‘I found this,’ says the girl, holding up the notebook.
‘Give it to me, Felicia,’ says Horne.
‘That’s mine! Give it here!’ says Will, reaching for it, but Horne just laughs and tosses the book away. The round boy with the spectacles picks it up and starts looking through it.
‘Get him inside,’ says Horne.
They carry Will through a side entrance. He shouts and swears, kicking out and causing one of them to cry out. They drag him into a large room and release him. Furious, Will leaps to his feet and raises his fists. His eyes dart left to right, quickly assessing his surroundings. He is standing in a great hall. Dominating the space is a stone fireplace with snout-nosed gargoyles glaring down. On the walls are heavy tapestries depicting ancient wars. Behind his captors is a wide stone staircase, which begins filling with more young people, eager to see what the commotion is. Soon Will is surrounded, trapped, his pulse racing.
The boy called Horne addresses the crowd, ‘We found this trespasser spying in the grounds.’
The crowd laugh and Will feels his anger rising, his face burns.
‘I say, Horne,’ says the girl called Felicia, ‘He looks positively feral. I shouldn’t get too close.’
Horne laughs and jabs Will’s still tender chest with his finger. With a mocking sneer he says, ‘Apologise to the people of this school for your unwanted intrusion.’
The crowd cheer and Horne nods his appreciation, but Will pulls back his fist and launches it fast at Horne’s nose. There is a sickening but satisfying crunch and Horne stumbles backward and falls onto his rump. The crowd cheers again and Will looks up to see the girl with the light brown hair on the staircase, watching him. For the briefest second he thinks he sees the trace of a smile, but she looks away with a bored expression.
The sound of a woman’s voice parts the crowd, ‘What the devil is going on here?’
Will turns to see a frowning woman dressed in a tweed suit.
But she is not alone.
Will’s heart sinks.
Standing on one side of her is Eli Pike and, on the other side, is the Irishman from the train.
Chapter 13
The Recruit
Will’s eyes dart around, searching for an escape route. Through his peripheral vision he spots Horne lunging toward him. Will is ready to strike, but Horne is pulled back by the Irishman, ‘Just hold yer horses there, sonny boy. Get you and your slippery nose down to the nurse, now!’
Horne breaks free from the Irishman’s grip, glares at Will and points his finger, ‘We are not finished,’ he says, and pushes his way through the crowd.
‘Everyone back to class!’ barks the Irishman.
The crowd shuffles away, murmuring and whispering. Will senses their discontentment at being robbed of the chance to see the intruder get the beating he deserves.
The round boy speaks, ‘He was carrying this,’ he says, handing the notebook to the squat woman in the tweed suit.
Will looks closely at the book. It looks wrong.
‘A History of Bird Watching,’ says the woman. She looks at him through hooded eyes, ‘Did you wander in here to do a spot of bird watching?’
Realising he has been duped, Will ignores her. The Irishman must have taken the notebook and replaced it with a bird-watching book when he bumped into him at the station. Will gives him a furious stare, but the Irishman shakes his head and raises his finger to his lips. Will wants to shout at him and demand the notebook back but his instincts urge him to wait it out and say nothing.
‘My name is Miss Clews, but round these parts I am known as the Major. I am the head of school. And you are?’
‘Jimmy Jones,’ says Will.
‘Well, Mr Jones,’ she says, nodding at the Irishman. ‘My colleague, Eoin, tells me you’ve had quite the adventure breaking into our Baker Street office and making your way down to Beaulieu.’
Will frowns at the Irishman, but is secretly quite impressed. He had clearly followed him from Baker Street to Victoria. He stares back at Will, coldly.
‘Come with me, please,’ says the Major. She turns to Eli Pike, ‘Eli, thank you.’
The old man doffs his cap and then looks at Will, ‘Sorry, son.’
Will glowers at him and follows the Major, mindful that Eoin is close behind.
They walk on stone flags through hallways lit with sconces and decorated with pictures of aircraft bombers, rifles, pistols. But these are not artistic paintings or photographs, they are technical drawings whose purpose, it seems, is to educate. He wonders if this is some sort of military school. But it couldn’t be, the pupils are too young to be soldiers.
The Major leads them to her office, which is a large room with maps pinned to the walls. There is a mahogany leather-topped desk and two threadbare sofas on either side of a small fireplace. On the walls are photographs of the Major. In one she is driving a racing car. In another she is standing next to a bi-plane dressed in a flying outfit complete with helmet and goggles. In another, he is surprised to see her with the Prime Minister and the royal family at a garden party. In the centre of the wall, in what seems like pride of place, she is sitting closely, hand in hand, with a tall handsome woman. They are both smiling. Will wonders if they are related but he cannot see any physical similarity.
‘Please sit down,’ says the Major.
Will makes his way towards one of the sofas, his eyes never leaving Eoin’s.
Where is the notebook and why is he hiding it?
‘Would you like some tea?’ asks the Major.
Will shakes his head and watches the Irishman walk over to the fire and pick up a poker.
His muscles tense, but the Irishman just stokes the fire.
The Major speaks, ‘So, Jimmy. What is your real name?’
Will glances suspiciously from the Major to Eoin. Eoin had been carrying a newspaper on the train. He must have seen Will’s face and must know he is lying. He is done for now.
‘Starling. Will Starling… but I didn’t kill those men!’
‘I didn’t do anything. It was that Pastor, not me.’
Will notices the Major and Eoin exchanging glances.
‘Describe him?’ says the Major.
‘I don’t know who he is. I thought he was some sort of priest at first. He kept quoting the scriptures, but then he killed Skipper and Mr Batten.’
They look at Will, curiously, as if sizing him up, but say nothing.
‘Why would this pastor kill those men?’ says Eoin.
‘I don’t know. He wants something. A notebook.’
‘Ah… interesting. Do you have this notebook?’ says the Major.
Will glances at Eoin, whose expression is stony, ‘No. Not any more.’
‘Where is it?’
‘He has it.’
The Irishman’s eyes flash.
‘Who?’ says the Major.
Will hesitates. ‘The Pastor.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. He killed those men and took it.’
The Major studies him for a moment, as if thinking over what Will has just told her. Will is not sure if she believes him.
‘And what brings you to Beaulieu,’ she asks.
‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘Who?’ says the Major.
‘Timothy Chittlock.’
The Major and Eoin exchange glances once again.
‘Why do you wish to see him?’
Will rubs the back of his neck, unsure what to say, or how much to reveal, but what choice does he have? He needs answers. He needs to remember.
‘He can help me.’
‘Help you… How?’
Will swallows, rubs his thighs and looks from the Major to the Irishman. He has nothing to lose and, despite being unsure about the Irishman, he thinks the Major seems like a decent sort. It is time to come clean. He tells them everything, from the moment he woke up in the sea.
When he is finished the Major and Eoin stare at him, as if appraising him for any signs of lies.
‘That’s quite a story,’ says Eoin at last.
‘It’s all true.’
Sleeper Page 6