Soul Stealer

by Martin Booth

  “Look,” Tim said at length, “don’t try and work out how these words came about. Just accept that they have.”

  “Finally,” said Pip, “there’s the word ‘wicked.’ “

  “Of that,” Sebastian declared, “I think I am more than acquainted with the meaning.”

  “It means super, superlative,” Pip said.

  “Like,” Tim explained, “someone has a state of the art, brand new, multi-gear mountain bike…”

  “… and you say,” Pip stated, “‘That bike’s wicked.’”

  Sebastian stared at them.

  “I fail totally to comprehend…” he began.

  “Don’t try,” Tim said. “Just accept it.”

  “And,” Pip advised, “when we go to school, if you’re having problems just keep your mouth shut, listen and learn. Be polite to the teachers, but let the rest of us do the talking. You’ll soon catch on.”

  “Catch on?” Sebastian repeated.

  Tim looked to the ceiling and said, “Yes, get the drift, pick it up, go with the flow. Whatever you do, don’t say ‘I wonder if we will experience inclement weather today’ when what you mean is it looks like rain. People will wonder what planet you’ve fallen off.”

  “One cannot fall off a planet,” Sebastian answered. “The gravitational forces…”

  “Enough!” Tim exclaimed, holding up his hand.

  “Getting the lingo right’s one thing,” said Pip, “but… Well, look at the way you stand.”

  “I see nothing wrong with my stance,” Sebastian defended himself.

  “You look as if you’re on parade,” Tim said. “Nobody stands up straight these days. We all slouch.”

  “Yes,” said Sebastian with more than a hint of disparagement, “I’ve noticed.”

  “And we don’t dress neatly either. We look reasonable in our school uniforms,” Pip said, “but it’s a uniform, it’s not exactly what we’d wear if we wanted to. So, you know, sometimes you let your shirt hang out a bit or let your tie loose. You probably have to tuck them in or tighten them up when the teachers come, but the rest of the time you don’t. You just…”

  “Hang it all loose?” suggested Sebastian.

  Tim laughed. “Not exactly. Hanging loose is what we do. What your clothes do is just stick out over your belt.”

  “Life in this century,” said Sebastian, “is indeed more relaxed than in that of my father’s time, but you must remember that then I lived in royal circles where people dressed smartly and manners and courtly behavior were important. Yet I would add that not all of England was like that. The peasantry wore very crude and rough clothing, did not adhere to a life of manners and were far more like the people of today”

  “Are you implying,” Tim said, feigning anger, “that we are all peasants?”

  Sebastian looked at Tim, replying indirectly, “You are as you would choose to regard yourself.”

  While they had been talking, Pip had been studying Sebastian.

  “There’s something else as well,” she decided and, stepping across to Sebastian, stood by his side. “You’ll have to excuse me, but…” Reaching up, she ran her fingers through his hair, tousling it. No sooner had her fingers left it, however, than it fell back into its former shape.

  Sebastian’s hairstyle was certainly not that of a modern boy. It was too long, and it curled under slightly. It reminded Pip of pageboys in history books.

  “We’ve got to do something about this,” Pip announced. “There’s only one thing to do.”

  She fumbled in a drawer of her dressing table and took out a pair of long-bladed scissors. Four minutes later, Sebastian had a new haircut, short behind his ears but a little bit longer at the back. In places, odd strands stuck out.

  “I might be able to sort that out with a bit of gel,” said Pip and she held up a mirror for Sebastian. “There you are — welcome to the twenty-first century.”

  Sebastian studied himself in the mirror.

  “What do you think?” asked Tim.

  “Well, to be quite truthful,” Sebastian answered, “I am not unduly impressed.”

  “I think,” Tim said to his sister, “that means he doesn’t like it.”

  At breakfast the following day, Tim was very pensive. Usually chatty with his parents, he seemed deep in thought. Pip knew what he was thinking, for she too had the same concerns. It was one thing to cut Sebastian’s hair and teach him to either keep his mouth closed or speak slightly more modern English, but quite another to get him a uniform and enter his details onto the school server.

  For most of the morning, Tim pondered the problem. The only computers he saw were those in the school secretary’s office or the IT classroom. At the mid-morning break, he sauntered into a joining-up meeting for the computer club, solely in the hope that it might give him access to the IT computers. It did: but they were not connected to the school intranet.

  “We’re out of luck,” he told Pip as the bell rang, but, in the period after break, he saw his chance.

  A library prefect came around the school to take all new pupils for a library orientation session.

  Just inside the main library door was a large wooden desk behind which sat the librarian. As the pupils entered, they lined up at the desk and were issued library cards, the information entered into the computer. Tim watched as the librarian logged on, typing in her user name and password. It was simplicity itself— her name, according to a badge she wore pinned to her sweater, was Mrs. Anne Patterson. Her user name was pata. Her password, Tim saw as she typed it, was books.

  Waiting until everyone had been issued with their library cards, Tim murmured to Pip, “Distract her. Get her away from the desk.”

  Pip nodded.

  A few minutes later, she went across to the desk and said, “Excuse me, miss. Could you please explain the classification system to me? We didn’t have anything like this in our junior school.”

  “Well, certainly,” said the librarian, evidently surprised that here was a child actually asking to be shown around the library rather than taking it for granted and later mixing up all the books on the shelves. “Come with me and I’ll show you how it works.”

  The librarian stepped out from behind her desk. Tim waited until she and Pip were out of sight around the end of the first row of shelves then, checking that he was unobserved, he slid behind the desk and quickly punched in the woman’s access details. Immediately, he was into the school server.

  As quickly as he could, he made a new entry in the registration file. For Sebastian’s Christian name he entered Sebastian, thinking the less complicated he made things the better; for his surname he put down Gillette, the name of the razor his father used. Where the software requested a previous junior school address, Tim invented one off the top of his head and located it in Manchester, as far away and in the biggest city he could think of on the spur of the moment. As for Sebastian’s home address, he typed in The Cottage, Rawne Barton, grinning as he did so. After all, he thought, Sebastian did have an entry to his underground laboratory there and the building, the old coach house which was going to be converted into an office for his father, was a genuine postal address. He typed in Sebastian’s parents as being Mr. David and Mrs. Anna Gillette.

  No sooner had he pressed return and logged off than the librarian and Pip reappeared. Pip gave Tim a quick look to make sure he was finished. He gave her a sly nod and walked out.

  Sitting together eating their sandwiches in the dining hall at lunchtime, Tim said in an undertone, “He’s Gillette, Sebastian, and he’s in our homeroom.”

  At the end of the day, as they were about to leave the school, Pip said, “Only one obstacle to go now. Gillette, S. needs a school uniform.”

  “No problemo!” Tim remarked. “Just stand outside that door and keep your bag open.”

  Pip did as she was told. Tim opened the swing door and disappeared through into the boys’ locker room. Beyond, in the gymnasium, two soccer teams were warming up. Tim quickly work
ed his way along the row of hooks, looking for a jacket and a pair of pants that might fit Sebastian. It was not a difficult task, for Sebastian was more or less his size and Tim did not have to search for long. In under thirty seconds, he had them bundled under his arm. Walking as nonchalantly as he could towards the door, he stepped outside, checked that the corridor was empty and dumped them in Pip’s bag. She rapidly zipped it up.

  “I feel really guilty,” Pip admitted.

  Tim smirked and said, “All for a good cause.”

  It was only as they set off down the corridor that Tim realized he had forgotten something.

  “Hold on,” he said. “Got to go back.” He disappeared into the locker room again, to reappear with a school tie scrunched up in his hand.

  “Cinch!” he exclaimed to Pip, and they left the building.

  That evening, in Tim’s bedroom, Sebastian put on his school uniform with a pair of Tim’s sneakers and one of his shirts. As he dressed, Tim collected together some ballpoint pens, pencils, an eraser and a ruler as well as an old calculator, put them in a tattered pencil case he had used in primary school and placed that in an airline bag he had picked up on vacation two years before.

  “Very sharp,” Pip said sarcastically when Sebastian was dressed. “You look like one of us.”

  “Really?” Tim replied.

  “Well, almost,” Pip said.

  “He is what he is,” Tim retorted. “A fifteenth-century imitation of a twenty-first-century kid.”

  “Certainly with the haircut,” Sebastian ruefully agreed. “Yet I shall do my best to conform to your standards.”

  Tim shrugged.

  “There is one thing,” said Pip. “We’d better cut out the name tag of the boy whose jacket and pants we stole.”

  She took the clothes and removed the owner’s name tags with a pair of nail scissors, replacing them with some of Tim’s.

  “That won’t just fool the school,” Pip said, “but Mum as well. It means we can put Master Gillette’s laundry in with ours.”

  “I have been considering another quandary,” Sebastian remarked. “How do I get to the school? It is some distance.”

  “Can’t you sort of use magic to make your way there?” Tim suggested. “Turn up as a bird and change into human mode in a stall in the boys’ room or behind the bike sheds.”

  “Yes,” Sebastian agreed, “that is possible but not wise. When I arrive, it must seem as if I am doing so in the fashion of my peers. Yoland and Scrotton will be watching. A boy appearing suddenly around the end of a building he had not already stepped behind might arouse suspicion.”

  “We’ll have to give him a lift,” said Pip.

  “Mum’ll pull up at the side of the road if she sees him,” Tim stated. “She thinks the sun shines out of his earhole. What I suggest you do, Sebastian, is stand on the first corner of the road after the Rawne Barton turn-off. Our mother will have to slow down there to take the bend. Just put yourself where she can see you and keep walking slowly as if you’re on your way to school.”

  “Very well,” said Sebastian, “but what do you mean by your remark concerning the sun?”

  “Let it go,” Tim replied, grinning. “It’s just an expression. Take it as a compliment.”

  Sebastian shrugged, shook his head and said, “I will bid you goodnight and shall see you on the morrow at the aforementioned location.”

  “Try that again,” Tim requested.

  Sebastian thought for a moment and then replied, “Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning at the place upon which we have agreed.”

  “Better,” Tim said. “Not perfect, but definitely better.”

  With that, Sebastian stepped through the panel in the wall and disappeared.

  “Think we can pull this off?” Pip asked as the faint sounds of Sebastian’s descent down the hidden passage receded.

  “Do you?” Tim replied.

  “It’s going to be a long haul,” she answered. “Getting him on the school register and making him look like Joe Bloggs in Year Seven was a cinch compared to what’s coming.”

  “Tell me about it,” Tim replied. “If we get a ‘quandary’ or two and a couple of ‘See you on the morrows’ on the morrow, we’ll be in for it.”

  The following morning, as arranged, they came upon Sebastian walking along the side of the road as Mrs. Ledger slowed for the corner.

  “Is that Sebastian?” she remarked.

  “Yes, it is!” Tim replied, feigning surprise. “Do you think we can give him a lift?”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Ledger. “If we don’t he’ll be very late.” She paused. “How does he usually get to school?”

  “He walks, I think,” said Tim.

  “Walks!” exclaimed Mrs. Ledger. “It’s over six miles!”

  “Well, maybe he walks to the crossroads and catches the bus,” Tim added.

  “Maybe he’s got a bicycle,” suggested Pip.

  “Well, he hasn’t got it now,” their mother answered. She pulled in to the side of the road and leaned across to open the front passenger door.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Ledger,” Sebastian said politely.

  “Good morning, Sebastian,” she greeted him. “Would you like a lift?”

  “Yes, thank you very much,” he replied.

  Sebastian got in the front seat.

  “Seat belt,” Mrs. Ledger said as she put the car in gear.

  Sebastian looked a little confused and glanced at Pip. Sitting in the back, she tugged at her seat belt and pretended to pull it across herself to the buckle. Sebastian got the message and buckled up.

  “The first of many faux pas…” Tim muttered to his sister.

  Mrs. Ledger concentrated on her driving. None of them spoke very much during the journey to the school and, on arrival at the gates, they joined the throng of other pupils arriving by parent’s car, bicycle, school bus, or on foot. Half a dozen teachers stood around in the playground watching the arrivals, prefects guiding those new pupils with bicycles towards the cycle racks. Pip and Tim headed for their classroom, followed by Sebastian. They noticed how Sebastian looked around all the time, not so much out of curiosity, but fleetingly scrutinizing the faces of the other pupils and teachers.

  Reaching the corridor near the chemistry laboratory, Tim opened his locker, telling Sebastian the combination to the padlock. This done, the three of them entered the laboratory.

  Yoland was standing behind the demonstration bench, engrossed in setting up equipment for a senior-school experiment. He only looked up briefly to acknowledge their entrance. Sebastian walked right around the outer walls of the room, glancing from cupboard to cupboard, studying the bottles of reagents and acids, the jars and tins of chemicals behind the glass doors. He then came and sat next to Pip and Tim at the end of one of the benches.

  “Do you see anything?” whispered Tim.

  “I see many things,” said Sebastian enigmatically.

  “I think what Tim meant was,” murmured Pip, “do you see anything interesting?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sebastian went on obtusely, his voice disguised by the sound of pupils talking and laughing in the corridor. “I see much of interest every day when I am abroad in your era.”

  Gradually, the room filled. The pupils sat on the stools at the benches, arranging their books for the morning’s lessons, taking out their pens, a few of them switching off their mobile phones. The last person to enter the room was Scrotton.

  “Good morning,” Yoland said loudly, his voice silencing the pupils’ hubbub. “I’ve mentioned to you already a few basic rules to be observed in here. I will now elaborate upon these. Pay particular attention. Do not put your food on the benches. Do not lick your pencils or your pens. Many of the substances in here are poisonous and are sometimes spilled on the benches. Keep your hands washed. Move around the room slowly and with caution. Just a swing of your coat pocket or a nudge of your elbow can be dangerous. Whenever I come in the room, you fall silent. This is not just out of m
anners and due deference to me as your teacher but, more importantly, so that you hear instructions.”

  As Yoland spoke, Sebastian continued to study the contents of the cabinets, taking in all the equipment and considering how it might be used. There was much with which he was not familiar.

  Suddenly, Yoland stopped talking and, pointing at Sebastian, said, “You!”

  Sebastian looked up. “Yes, sir?”

  “What do you think you’re doing, boy? Pay attention.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Sebastian.

  Yoland looked at him closely for a moment. Tim’s heart missed a beat. Pip felt the skin of her brow tighten with fear. They were both thinking the same thing: had Yoland recognized Sebastian?

  “You haven’t been here before,” the teacher remarked.

  “No, sir,” said Sebastian, “I arrived late.”

  “Did you indeed,” said Yoland. “I do not like late pupils any more than I do inattentive ones.” He opened the class register. “Name?”

  “Sebastian Gillette, sir.”

  The teacher turned to Scrotton. “Go to the office and ask the secretary for Gillette’s entry slip.”

  Scrotton disappeared to return a few minutes later with a computer printout. Yoland studied it and entered the details in the register, commenting as he did so, “I had no idea there was a cottage at Rawne Barton.”

  “It was the coach house, sir,” said Tim, jumping in to help Sebastian out of difficulty. “It’s being converted, sir, into an office for my father and a vacation home. We’ve rented it to the Gillettes for the winter, sir. They’re renting it while they look for a house to buy.”

  “Are they now?” Yoland responded with a feigned lack of interest.

  He took the register and the bell rang for first period.

  As they made their way towards the math department, Tim sighed with relief and said, “Good guys one, Yoland nil.”