Caught in a Moment (The Alex Trueman Chronicles Book 1)

by Martin Dukes

  “Huh?” Alex felt confused and alarmed by this unexpected summons. His mouth was dry and his stomach suddenly queasy as he followed Morlock to where Ganymede awaited him in the bandstand.

  “Aah! Mr Trueman,” said Ganymede heavily, when Alex was ushered into his presence. “I have been wanting to have words with you.” There was something in the cast of his features that boded ill, some tension in the set of his shoulders that caused Alex’s spirits to droop still more.

  “The little task, I set you this week,” he continued, wagging his finger in front of his beard. “My servant tells me you have done very well. Very well indeed. So well, in fact, that we were wondering how you were able to achieve such splendid results. Perhaps you could enlighten us?” He raised a bushy eyebrow and studied Alex disapprovingly.

  Alex, who had initially experienced a surge of relief from Ganymede’s praise, now began to feel a sense of foreboding.

  “I worked hard,” he said cautiously into the expectant silence left by Ganymede. “Very hard,” he added.

  “You certainly did,” said Ganymede. “And achieved remarkable things using a bucket with a hole in it.”

  He suddenly looked hard at Alex. “A hole in it Alex…a sizeable hole…so that the water leaked out...Hmmph! By my calculation, Alex, each journey from the river to the skip could have yielded only a litre or so of water. My servant, in his time observing you, counted each journey. There appears to be approximately twice as much water in the skip as there should be.” He stabbed a sudden finger at Alex’s chest. “How do you account for that discrepancy, Mr Trueman?”

  “Morlock.. .wasn’t ,er...there all the time,” stammered Alex lamely.

  “Not good enough, boy!” Those parts of Ganymede’s face not concealed by hair or beard had turned a terrifying red now, and his voice likewise had acquired a hard edge of menace. “Tell me the truth!”

  “You told me the amount of manna, I was going to get depended on how much I filled the skip,” said Alex bitterly. “It wasn’t fair giving me a stupid bucket with a hole in it.”

  “So you cheated!” Ganymede roared at him.

  “Maybe I did,” conceded Alex. “But if you didn’t give people such stupid things to do, maybe they wouldn’t have to cheat.” He felt a surge of anger. “I mean look at poor Mrs Patterson having to shovel all that lousy sand. What was the point of that? Downright cruel that was. You’re nothing but a big old sadist!”

  The anger drained quickly away, taking with it the colour from his cheeks. He was conscious of having over-reached himself. Ganymede was staring at him, his eyes almost starting from their sockets with indignation.

  “How dare you?” he demanded. “How dare you question my authority? I will not be spoken to in that way…. You will be detained until you learn better. Morlock! Get this, this delinquent, out of my sight!” This last injunction was made at such a volume and so close to Alex’s face that he felt the heat of Ganymede’s breath on him and a few flecks of spittle. “Take him back to the House of Correction at once. I shall deal with him later.”

  Various emotions jostled within Alex’s breast as Morlock ushered him away towards the bowling green. He was terrified by the consequences of having defied Ganymede, but at the same time seething with rage at the injustice of the situation. This latter emotion gained the upper hand as they passed the aviary. Whilst Morlock was momentarily distracted by groping for the keys in his pocket, Alex made a run for it.

  “Hey!” came Morlock’s alarmed voice behind him, as Alex pushed through the bushes in front of the park buildings, emerging on a sweep of lawn next to the boundary of the park. The wall was low here and Alex vaulted it in one swift movement. He landed awkwardly on the pavement of the Birchcombe road, opposite the petrol station. A glance behind him revealed no sign of Morlock. Alex’s first instinct was to simply leg it off along the road. Instead he darted aboard a double-decker bus that was unloading passengers at the bus stop. From the top deck of this, crouched amongst the stiffs, Alex had a good view of the park wall.

  He was in time to see Morlock drop cautiously down from the wall, craning his neck slowly from side to side as he peered along the road in both directions. The creature walked a short way towards the bus, scratching his head pensively. Alex ducked behind a fat woman with a bag of shopping on her lap, peering out cautiously past her tightly permed head. Morlock stopped and gave the matter some thought. Then he turned on his heel and loped slowly back towards the park gates at the corner of the road. Alex realised he had been holding his breath. He breathed out noisily with relief now and slumped against the stony bulk of the fat woman.

  Chapter Ten

  A few minutes later and he was three streets away, running hard, his lungs aching with the effort of it. Nor did he stop until he reached his own house in Tyndale Close. Here he stood for a moment, bent over with fatigue, while he tried to bring his breathing under control. He had visited his own house on a few occasions since entering 'Sticia, when feeling sad or lonely. But even in Reality he was locked out of it, and mindful of Ganymede’s warnings he had never seriously considered trying to break in. Not until now, that is. Now Alex forced open the gate at the side of the house and made his way along the passage to the rear of the building. Here, with some difficulty, he picked up one of a pile of bricks by the side of the greenhouse. With this, heavy in his hand, he approached the kitchen window. It was here that Alex made a fateful decision. Until now his interferences with Statica had been of a relatively trivial kind. Now Alex resolved to use his unique ability freely and without restraint. There could be no going back.

  “Sorry, Mum!” he muttered under his breath as he swung the brick at the glass.

  The glass shattered with a crash that Alex feared must be heard from one end of 'Sticia to the other. After a minute or so it became clear that no one was running to investigate the noise. Mrs Dawson next door remained frozen in the act of hanging out her washing. A pigeon continued to hang in mid-air above the goal posts at the end of the garden. Alex carefully removed the jagged shards of glass left in the frame and brushed away those on the window sill inside. Then he clambered in.

  Everything inside seemed utterly normal. It was as though none of the events of the last few weeks had ever taken place. Only the clock, stopped at 2.23pm, hinted at trouble. None of the lights worked. Nothing electrical functioned but the taps, oddly enough, worked perfectly well. Rufus was standing frozen at the patio window, optimistically on the lookout for cats. Alex went and stroked the stiff fur of his back, tickling the back of his ears in the manner that usually made Rufus jump up to lick his face. It was all so strange. Alex went to his bedroom and lay on his bed. After a while the hardness of it softened to accommodate his weight, as he had expected it would. He gazed at his model aircraft, hanging from the ceiling and felt as relaxed as he had felt for a long time. When he awoke he drifted gently into consciousness on a smooth wave of familiarity. The curtains, the books on his bedside cupboard, the clothes strewn on the floor; everything was exactly as it should be. Perhaps he had dreamed it all. But then his eye alighted on the clock radio. Two twenty three pm, it read. Alex stared at it for a long time. He closed his eyes and sighed.

  It was a wrench to leave his own home, but Alex concluded that he must. Sooner or later Ganymede would think of looking for him there. And he was determined that Ganymede’s power over him should be broken for good. Alex found a rucksack in the garage and filled it with food. He also put in a big penknife, a picnic plate, a plastic mug, a tin opener and a box of matches, amongst other useful items. Then he left, first pausing to look wistfully at his parents’ wedding photo on the big welsh dresser in the lounge. The two young people smiled back at him, she looking mildly surprised by it all, he awkward and gawky, his arms held stiffly. He picked it up for a moment and then set it carefully back down, before leaving through the sliding patio door. He knew somehow he would never be coming back; not in this life at least.

  It was growing dark outside and there
was no one around except the inevitable stiffs, walking their dogs, driving their cars, riding bikes in the streets. Alex saw no 'Sticians as he hurried westwards, keeping to the backstreets as the contours of the land led gently upward towards Micklebury. As he emerged in fields next to the dual carriageway, the dark bulk of Micklebury Hill hove into view, the slender finger of the ‘needle’ beyond etched against the night sky. Soon Alex was trudging up steep slopes towards the black mass of the woods that clung to the shoulders of the hill, giving Miss DiStefano’s cottage a wide berth.

  He did not feel scared and anyway there was no vestige of the dread that gripped him when Cactus Jack stalked the streets of 'Sticia. If anything he felt excited, and a grim sense of getting his own back on Ganymede that made him flex his knuckles as he stepped cautiously into the outskirts of the wood. He was looking for Paulo, of course. Simple logic dictated that he should join the lonely outlaw in his exile. Alex had skills that would be of tremendous use to both of them. Surely they could survive indefinitely together on the wild fringes of Ganymede’s world. With only Morlock and Minion to help him and the whole of 'Sticia to run he was never going to be able to find them. Alex consoled himself with these thoughts as he picked his way carefully through the darkness of the wood. There was only a little moonlight to guide him, painting dappled patterns on the brambles and the tree trunks, but presently another light came into view, a tiny spark of orange on the far side of a little valley. Alex’s heart leapt. This had to be Paulo.

  Nevertheless, he was cautious, stepping towards the light with all the woodcraft the boy scouts had taught him, setting down his feet gently amongst the dry undergrowth, lifting them again if there was any indication that a noise would be made. It was slow work and Alex’s heart was in his mouth as he approached the orange glow. He saw now that the fire was a small one, in a clearing at the head of a little valley that held apart two low ridges on the North side of the hill. Soon, through a few last trees, he could see a seated figure silhouetted by firelight. He could smell cooking meat and hear Paulo humming to himself. Alex’s mouth watered. He had smelt no other food but manna for so long. Unless you counted chocolate, that is, and chocolate was a different issue altogether. He felt well satisfied with his woodcraft; there was no sign that Paulo had detected his approach. This was the moment of truth. Abandoning caution, Alex stepped confidently into the clearing. It was a ‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume’ moment.

  Paulo, for it was he, turned round, and showed some evidence of surprise. He was a tall young man wearing jeans, a tracksuit top of some kind and a Burberry cap. Several chains glinted at his neck and there was a stud through his eyebrow. He grinned.

  “Sprout me,” he said, standing up. “Peas! You shouldn’t go creepin’ up on people like that. Nearly gave me a potato coronary.”

  Alex was reminded that Ganymede’s disapproval of Paulo’s foul language had resulted in such words being replaced by the names of vegetables. Still, nothing could have prepared him for the experience of hearing it in action. It struck him as enormously funny. But it would not do to make this obvious to Paulo. He had to try hard to compose his features as he emerged into the circle of firelight. In one hand, Paulo held a leg of cooked meat. The other, marginally less greasy, he used to shake Alex’s hand.

  “You’d be Alex, then,” surmised Paulo. “Kell’ said she’d have a word with you. Quite a clever lad, I’ve heard.” He winked at Alex and punched him moderately hard on the shoulder, causing Alex to wince. Paulo was half a head taller than Alex and powerfully built.

  “What are you eating?” Alex asked him, regarding the blackened, spitted carcase amongst the flames of the fire. Here at last was the answer to the mystery of Sylvia DiStefano’ missing sculpture.

  “Snark,” said Paulo, gesturing with the leg. “Want some?”

  Alex felt suddenly queasy. His mind reeled with horror.

  “What?” he gasped, looking aghast at the small carcase in the fire. Everything that Ganymede had said about the snarks came flooding back into his mind. “You can’t….” He looked up at Paulo. “I mean, they’re philosophers, the finest minds…..ancient, noble creatures.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Paulo with a shrug. “’Taste like chicken.”

  However, it seemed that Paulo’s days of eating snark were over. This was welcome enough to Paulo and would presumably be a big relief to the snarks, whatever their philosophical take on death. Alex emptied out his rucksack and Paulo picked over the contents gleefully, making himself a snark sandwich using the loaf of bread Alex had brought.

  “Drop o’ brown sauce’d be good,” observed Paulo, munching happily. “Pity you didn’t think of it.” He waved the sandwich at Alex, who was eating a packet of crisps. “Turnip genius you are ! I tell you, you an’ me are going to be like that.”

  Paulo made a gesture with two of his tattooed fingers, twisting them together to show how close he thought they were going to be. Alex, whose first thoughts upon seeing Paulo had been so joyous, felt reservations stealing up on him. It occurred to him that Paulo wasn’t really his type. What surprised and depressed him was that he was apparently Kelly’s type.

  “Here’s to us,” said Paulo, opening a can of coke. “And cabbage to Ganymede! I tell you what mate…” he said with a leer. “Tomorrow we’re gonna’ party!”

  Why did this prospect not fill Alex with glee? He asked himself this question, and others, as they settled down to sleep, wrapped in blankets by the embers of the fire. Alex was beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake.

  The next morning he was sure of it. On Paulo’s insistence they took up residence in Herborne Hall. This was the imposing Georgian mansion on the other side of the dual carriage way that swept past Micklebury on its way to Birmingham. It was the moneyed aristocrats whose stately pile this was, that had once adorned Micklebury with its ‘needle’ and its follies. Their descendants lived there still, and Viscount Lord Maynard, the fourteenth holder of his title, was famous locally for holding vintage car rallies in its grounds. There was no sign of any vintage cars now, or indeed of Lord Maynard, who spent much of his time up in London. The Hall was peopled only by the stiffs of the folks who worked there; a housekeeper, a grounds man, a cleaner at work in one of the bedrooms, and a pair of workmen mending part of the roof.

  “We can live in style here, dude,” observed Paulo, looking around him approvingly as they strolled through the public rooms together, admiring the splendid plaster work, the tapestries and the fine Louis Quinze furniture.

  “Hey!” came Paulo’s gloating voice from the next room as Alex peered gloomily out of the window at a broad sweep of Capability Brown parkland. “Come and getta load o’ this.”

  Alex found Paulo beaming at a magnificent four poster bed, draped with faded gold fabrics. It was easily as big as Alex’s whole bedroom. “Cauliflower fantastic ‘aint it?” grinned Paulo. “I tell you what, mate.” He jerked a thumb at the bed. “That’s where I’m kippin’ tonight. No more roughin’ it out in the potato wilds for me.”

  He clapped a rough hand around Alex’s shoulder. “My turnip salvation, you are pal. An angel must o’ smiled on me in ‘eaven.”

  Paulo was smoking a cigarette, having found a packet on Lord Maynard’s desk during their tour of the ground floor. The way things were going, he was going to be needing another packet by nightfall. Alex wrinkled his nose, as a curl of smoke came his way. His initial suspicion of Paulo was gradually solidifying into profound and genuine dislike. Paulo was exactly the kind of youth he spent so much time trying to avoid in school. Now it was beginning to look as though he was stuck with this one indefinitely.

  Alex was feeling no more warmly towards his new companion by the time they met Kelly, later that night. They walked back along the dual carriageway towards Cardenbridge, and there she was, waiting outside the post office. Kelly was pleased to see them, giving them both an enthusiastic hug. Alex approved of this, at least so far as his own hug was concerned.

  “You re
ally set the cat amongst the pigeons,” Kelly told him. ”Leggin’ it like that. You should’ve seen Ganymede’s face when old Morlock came and gave him the news. I thought his head was going to explode. And of course then I got the third degree didn’t I? And Will. He wasn’t best pleased about that. We’re both on reduced manna now just because Ganymede thinks we know something we’re not tellin’ him. Everyone’s talking about it. Ganymede didn’t even set new work tasks. Can you believe it?”

  “Wow,” said Alex, impressed and a little scared by the impact his escape had made.

  “And guess what he’s asked everyone to do instead?” she continued, looking grave.

  “Look for you two,” she said when Paulo and Alex shook their heads. “Basketfuls of manna and no work ever again for anyone who tracks you down.”

  “Peas!” cried Paulo loudly, slapping his thigh in glee. He grabbed Kelly by the arms and swung her around in an impromptu jig. “I don’t runner bean believe it. We’re like Robin turnip Hood or something.”

  Alex found it hard to envisage Paulo stealing from the rich to give to the poor. He didn’t come across as the altruistic type. He demonstrated this soon enough in the post office, where he prevailed upon Alex to pick up a few essentials for their evening’s entertainment. This started off with chewing gum and moved on to include cans of lager, cider and a bottle of wine. Paulo had to have more cigarettes, of course, and greed got the better of him here. Alex found himself having to lug about a whole carrier bag for him.

  “Hey, Alex, I don’t suppose you could get a car going could you?” asked Paulo, looking at the beer and the cigarettes shelves. Alex shook his head vehemently, his mind recoiling at the horror of that prospect. And then there was the till, which stood conveniently open whilst the young Asian girl behind the checkout reached in for change.