“This is not so diverting,” said Montfaron and started to pace around the room in the darkness.
There was silence and everyone looked at each other uneasily.
“Was all that true?” whispered Kate in Mr. Schock’s ear.
“You think I’d make something like that up?”
Kate shrugged and searched in her bag for spare batteries. After a while Montfaron broke his silence.
“Robespierre was born and brought up but a few miles from here. It was on account of him that I grew interested in lightning conductors. A fellow in St. Omer erected one which his neighbors feared would cause fires rather than prevent them….He was ordered to take it down, but the stubborn fellow resisted. A certain lawyer named Robespierre defended his right, very eloquently, I might add, to keep it. True eloquence, as they say, consists of saying all that needs to be said and nothing more—he possessed that very rare gift. That case made his name. I recall that we were both guests at a supper given by the mayor before the Revolution.”
“You met him, then?” asked Mr. Schock.
“I did. He was articulate and dressed with great care. I recall that we both enjoyed the cherry tart, but he would not permit himself a second helping. I should never have taken him for a mass murderer…. How can you expect me to believe such terrible things?”
“But even if you don’t believe me,” said Mr. Schock, “don’t the wishes of your wife and son mean anything to you?”
Montfaron glared at him. “You have already made it perfectly clear that you would have me return with you to London, sir. I believe I have already given you my answer.”
Peter put his hand on his father’s arm. “It would be best to say no more,” he whispered.
“Let there be light!” said Kate suddenly.
She switched on the flashlight and directed it at the galleried landing above. Montfaron’s eyes widened. Ropes of cobwebs were illuminated and giant shadows appeared. Motes of dust could be seen dancing in the beam of light. Montfaron walked over to Kate and held out his hand.
“Will you permit me?”
Kate handed it to him and he swept the narrow beam across the room, illuminating objects in the near, middle, and far distance. Kate took it back briefly and unscrewed the bottom, revealing the batteries.
“See these? Electricity is stored in there, I think…. They’re called batteries. Of course it’s only a cheap flashlight—you can get much better ones.”
“If only I could show this to Volta!” cried Montfaron.
Kate smiled. She was glad her little stash of twenty-first-century artifacts was coming in useful…. “And this is a mobile phone. You can use it to talk to people at the other side of the world if you want to…. Not that you can use it here, of course. But I can set it to play some music.”
Kate took back the flashlight and gave him the mobile. Strains of Megan’s favorite song echoed around the château. The Marquis was speechless. He examined the two miraculous objects and took hold of Kate’s backpack, zipping and unzipping a compartment.
“You have given me much to think about,” said Montfaron finally. “I suggest that we continue our discussion in the morning. My answer, however, will remain the same. I cannot abandon the Château de l’Humiaire. I should like nothing more than to study your device, but, you know, the greatest skill is that of understanding the true cost of things. In this case the cost is too high.”
Kate, Peter, and his father looked at each other in despair. They had come all this way only to have to return to London and be back at square one. Mr. Schock opened his mouth to argue, but Peter put his hand on his shoulder again and shook his head. His father sighed noisily.
They slept as they could, uncomfortably for the most part, using dust sheets to keep warm. Kate heard the Marquis toss and turn, doubtless trying to make some sense of what he had heard and seen that evening. Two or three times she saw the glow of flashlight under Montfaron’s sheets—he had taken it to bed with him! Kate smiled to herself. She wished she could give him one as a present.
Nor could Kate find any repose. It suddenly came back to her how Hannah had addressed Joshua as Master Peter earlier that afternoon. She said it a moment before lightning struck the tree, and so much had happened since then, it had slipped her mind. She could not very well accuse Joshua a second time in so many days, but she could try to get the truth out of Hannah.
Kate slept fitfully for a while and dreamed that she was back home. She could see the farmhouse in Derbyshire on a misty, late winter afternoon. The last of the sunshine slanted onto the glistening slate roof and onto bare-branched trees. A robin’s sweet melody rose up from the hedgerow, and she could hear the trickling of the little stream. There was another sound: the crunching of tires on the dirt drive, and then she saw her dad and Peter in a large white police van. Inspector Wheeler stepped out, followed by that sergeant who was always with him…. Then Molly pushed in front of Peter, barking joyfully, and bounded toward the house. Now Peter got out and stood for a moment on the drive, dazed and unsure what to do. There was a dark-haired woman standing at the front door whom she did not recognize. When the woman saw Peter, she let out a little cry and started to run toward him, arms outstretched. “Mum!” he cried. And they clung on to each other, sobbing and smiling and exclaiming, beside themselves with joy. But then she saw her own mother, rooted to the spot, watching the reunion. Her dad was walking toward her. “Kate?” her mother mouthed. Her dad shook his head slowly. Her mum put her hand over her mouth and her eyes filled with tears. Molly was running from one person to another barking excitedly….
Kate awoke with a start. “Don’t cry, Mum,” she found herself saying. “I’m okay. Please don’t give up hope. We’ll find a way to get back home!”
Never had she had a dream like it. It seemed more real than real life…. The images were vivid and crystal clear, the colors rich and intense. And unlike other dreams, which leave traces so fragile that the merest breath of conscious thought wafts them away, the memory of this dream stayed with her, solid and unchanging. She lay there listening to her companions’ rhythmic breathing. The fire was almost out. A few embers glowed red in the grate. But moonlight poured in through the high windows above, painting the top of the furniture mountain a silvery blue…. All at once Kate knew, with the same certainty she felt when solving a puzzle, or putting a name to a face, or matching a memory to a certain taste, she knew with every atom of her being. She had not dreamed it. Kate suddenly started to tremble and could not stop. Now she could see the future!
TWENTY-ONE
DUST AND ASHES
In which Tom shows his mettle, Anjali has cause to regret her actions, and Lord Luxon plants an idea in the Tar Man’s mind
Tom was alone in the apartment that night. He was lying in one corner of the capacious sofa watching television, knees up, white mouse scampering up and down his trouser legs. Every so often Tom would help himself to a handful of honey-roasted cashews, a recent discovery. He offered one to the mouse who immediately began to gnaw her way through it, rotating it in her delicate paws. He did not understand why people minded so much about his mouse. Anjali complained that she smelled. He picked her up by the tail and sniffed her soft belly—he couldn’t smell anything. Worse, she had got into trouble with Blueskin. He kept bundles of twenty-pound notes in a cardboard box in the sideboard, and when he was delving into it in order to pay the ex-marine who was to pilot the helicopter, he found that the notes were covered with mouse droppings and were nibbled around the edges. Not that Blueskin cared much for currency that could fly away in a gust of wind or that you could burn. Gold, which you could bite to test its purity and whose weight you could feel in the palm of your hand and which grew warm in your pocket, was better. And how was the mouse to know that she was nibbling her way through a small fortune?
Tom had eventually lost his fear of the remote control and he flicked through the TV channels, holding it well away from him, mesmerized by the moving images but too unus
ed to interpreting this medium to properly appreciate and enjoy what he saw—although the magic box did stop him from feeling lonely. When a character on the television pointed at someone off the screen, Tom found it hard not to look around to see who it was. If Anjali saw him she would crack up laughing. She was fond of what she called “sitcoms.” Sometimes Tom would stand in the doorway watching Anjali watching television. It still struck him as odd to see her sitting by herself and laughing out loud at the flat glass screen. Even more curious was the laughter apparently coming from audiences inside the television set. Tom correctly took this as a signal that he, too, should find whatever was happening on the screen very funny. But more often than not he did not understand the joke. He wondered if he ever would.
It was true that Tom found a number of things in the twenty-first century confusing and worrying and would go to great lengths to avoid them—public transport, for instance, and supermarkets, and the sort of coffee shop where people invariably jumped the queue in front of him while he gawked at the number of ways he could order his coffee. On the other hand, never in his wildest dreams did Tom imagine he would experience this level of comfort. Anjali, who currently had a room in her granddad’s maisonette that overlooked a railway junction, said that this was luxury. Tom should see where they lived—not that she would ever let him, he thought, for Anjali was proud. Blueskin was becoming so wealthy, he thought, from the sale of the pictures procured for him by Lord Luxon, perhaps he might dare suggest that he buy Anjali an apartment too. Like this one. She would like that. Perhaps one in this very building….
From time to time Tom would awake convinced that he still lived in the filthy wreck of a house, if you could dignify it with such a name, that he shared with the Carrick Gang on Drury Lane. At night only a little straw came between him and the cold, damp floor, where lice, fleas, and hunger were his constant companions. Apart from those rare occasions when the Carrick brothers would tolerate his presence in the Black Lion Tavern, he was cold from October to April. But here all was comfort and warmth and cleanliness and light. He sniffed his sleeve: He smelled of soap! He pinched his waist. There was flesh and not just skin between his fingertips! Who would have thought it? He blessed the day that he had found Blueskin. Tom laughed out loud. But immediately an awful thought made his stomach clench. How long could he stay here? And would he have to go back to his old life one day?
It was usually Anjali and occasionally Blueskin who answered the telephone, so when it rang Tom shot up from the sofa but then stood uneasily next to it, his hand hovering over the receiver, unable to bring himself to actually pick it up. It rang four, five, six times, and then stopped. Tom breathed a sigh of relief, but then the answerphone kicked in and he heard the reassuring sound of Anjali’s prerecorded voice inviting the caller to leave a message after the beep.
BE-E-EP!
“Tom! Tom! … Pick up. Please!”
The voice sounded scared and out of breath. Tom snatched up the receiver.
“Anjali!” he said.
“You gotta help me, Tom! There’s someone after me….”
She was running as she spoke and her breath came out in big bursts.
“Where are you?” cried Tom in alarm. “I shall come to you at once.”
“Sssshh! Don’t say nothing for a sec….”
For some moments Tom could only hear indistinct sounds—distant traffic, a door slamming perhaps, footsteps echoing in an empty street—but he could not be sure what he was listening to. Keeping the receiver glued to his ear, he ran over to fetch his sneakers, knocking the handset off the table in his panic. He pushed his feet into his shoes and stood awkwardly, every muscle tense, straining to hear anything. Finally he heard Anjali’s voice once more. She sounded relieved.
“It’s okay. False alarm—he’s gone. I lost him.”
“Who?”
“That lowlife who attacked me in the underground. You remember I told you how Vega Riaza dislocated one of his gang’s shoulders?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“It was him. Must have followed me.”
“Tell me where you are!” Tom realized he was shouting. “If he hurt you, I’ll—”
“Keep your hair on! I told you, I lost him. I’m a couple of minutes down the road. If you put the kettle on, I’ll be with you by the time it boils.”
“No! Let me come for you,” he started to say, but Anjali had already switched off her phone.
Tom walked to the sink like an automaton and put water in the kettle. Then he paced frantically about the kitchen for a couple of minutes. He got out her mug and put a tea bag in it. The minutes seemed to drag into hours. How did she know she’d lost him? What if he was waiting in some dark alley for Anjali to make the first move and show herself? That is what the Carrick Gang would have done…. He could no longer stand the torture of waiting. He dashed toward the stairwell but skidded to a halt outside the lift. If Anjali was in trouble, he did not have time to run down twenty-one floors. The down arrow was illuminated, the lift was already there. All he had to do was press the button for the doors to open. He had seen Blueskin and Anjali do it enough times…. Sweat pricked at him. Suddenly he started to run down the first flight of stairs, for he could not muster up the courage to incarcerate himself in that terrible metal box. But then, from far below, echoing up the emergency stairs, noises of a scuffle reached him. He stopped in his tracks and listened with all his might…. Nothing. Had he imagined it? Adrenalin pumped around his body. He no longer had any choice. He turned on his heels and bounded back up the stairs and jammed his finger on the lift button. The doors swooshed open and he stepped inside.
When the doors closed and sealed him in, his heart leaped into his mouth. He was trapped and alone. He took a deep breath and waited. Nothing happened! What did he have to do? Panic set in. Then he saw the long row of illuminated buttons, and he realized he was going to have to press one of them. Kettles, telephones, TVs, power showers—everything had a button to make it work in the future…. But which one should he press? And what would happen if he pressed the wrong one? He ran his fingers through his hair, beside himself with anxiety, imagining all the while that Anjali was in mortal danger. Then he saw the numbers next to them and it occurred to him that they might refer to the floor. One? Surely that must be it. Could “one” stand for the first floor? But then what did the “G” stand for below it? And the “B” below that? Should he get out of the lift and run down? But how, at this point, did he get out? Tom hit the button with the number one next to it and stepped back, eyes closed, fists clenched at his sides. He heard the terrifying sounds of machinery engaging and then the floor of the lift lurched…. The descent! It was beginning! Tom’s stomach felt that it had been left behind on the twenty-first floor. He stared wildly about him and put the flat of his hands on the walls, bracing himself for the impact when it hit the ground…. But after a few seconds he could no longer detect any motion. Cautiously he unpeeled his hands from the walls and watched as, ever so slowly, the doors slid open. He shot out of the lift backward before they closed again and found himself in a narrow corridor with stairs at one end.
Tom ran downstairs three steps at a time before he heard muffled sounds coming from above. He zipped around and started climbing upward instead. He turned the corner to go up the next flight of stairs just in time to see a tall, blond youth throw himself at Anjali’s legs and bring her down so that she lay sprawled out over the hard steps. For a second everything seemed to slow down: Anjali was screaming and holding on to the back of her head and the youth was pulling her up by her hair. Now he was pinning her against the wall, his left forearm pressing against her collarbone. Blood dripped from her nose. The youth drew back his right arm. Bracing herself for the inevitable blow, Anjali strained to turn her face to the wall as far as it would go. She could smell his breath.
“I told you I was gonna teach you a lesson….”
Tom flew up the half-dozen steps and sprang onto the blond youth’s back, g
rabbing hold of his right wrist before it smacked into Anjali’s face. For an instant Tom looked into Anjali’s eyes and they were dark pools of terror. Tom’s weight pulled the youth off balance and he was forced to take a step backward, allowing Anjali to slip out and escape up the stairs. She turned around at the top and watched, too shaken to help him, as the youth, a good foot taller than Tom and at least twice his weight, set about shaking him off. Tom clung on tightly like a monkey and put both hands over his opponent’s eyes so that he could not see. The youth reached up and grabbed hold of Tom’s wrists. Tom was no match for him. The youth levered open his arms, heaved him off his back and pushed him violently away. Tom fell backward, rolling over and over, his thin body juddering over every step, until his head cracked against the corner of the wall adjacent to the lift shaft. The sickening sound reverberated around the stairwell. For an instant Anjali and the blond-haired youth struck strange poses on the stairs, like statues, staring, with unblinking eyes, at Tom’s motionless body. Then Anjali hurtled down the stairs and knelt down next to him. She laid her cheek on his chest and listened, staining his sweatshirt with her blood; she felt for a pulse on his wrist and on his neck; she took his limp hand in hers and squeezed it. Finally she looked back at the youth in wild-eyed despair.
“You’ve killed him!” she shrieked.
The youth started to come slowly down the stairs, his eyes fixed on Tom’s white face. “It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t mean to do it!”
Anjali leaped up and pounded his chest with her fists.
“Murderer!!”
He shoved her roughly away.
“First time I saw you I knew you was trouble. You’re a jinx, you are….”
The youth disappeared down the stairs to the ground floor. Anjali dropped heavily to the floor and sat on her heels, looking down at Tom, holding his hands in hers. Blood and tears trickled down her white face and her lips trembled. She sat in the silence for she did not how long, her mind numb with shock. She gave a start as cables clanked and machinery suddenly whirred into action next to her. Someone had called the lift and would soon be on their way down. Anjali panicked. It was her fault, in the end, that she was kneeling next to Tom’s lifeless body, wasn’t it? She looked at her blood on his clothes. She couldn’t risk being discovered here and there was nothing more she could do for him. Anjali stood up, but as she did a small movement caught her eye. Tom’s white mouse appeared at the neckline of his sweatshirt, whiskers twitching. Anjali hesitated for an instant, bent over, and grabbed hold of the tiny creature. Then, very gently, she kissed Tom’s cool forehead.
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