Charlie Bone and the Hidden King (Children of the Red King)

by Jenny Nimmo

  Emma followed Charlie into the shop while Paton and Miss Ingledew said a private farewell. When Paton emerged his face was pink and there was lipstick on his cheek. Emma raised her eyebrows and grinned at Charlie, who decided not to mention the lipstick.

  ‘We decided the diaries will be safer here,’ said Uncle Paton, putting on his dark coat, ‘rather than at number nine.’

  Charlie agreed. As soon as his coat was on, he and his uncle set off. They were almost home when Uncle Paton gave Charlie some incredible news. He had found a photo of Charlie’s father.

  ‘I didn’t mention it before because I didn’t want to raise your hopes,’ Paton explained. ‘It’s not a good likeness, you see. I remembered it when you told me about Bartholomew. There were several photos taken on that climbing holiday. I knew I had one. I’ve got an old leather case under my bed that I always keep locked. The photo was right at the bottom.’

  Charlie couldn’t walk another step. ‘Have you got it with you, Uncle P?’

  ‘Well, no. I gave it to your mother. Told her not to say a word to Grandma Bone, knowing that she’d destroyed every other photo of Lyell that existed.’

  Charlie began to run.

  ‘Not so fast,’ called Paton, striding after Charlie. ‘It won’t disappear.’

  ‘I can’t wait, Uncle P. I just can’t,’ cried Charlie, leaping ahead.

  Amy Bone was alone in the kitchen when they walked in. Charlie ran straight up to her. ‘Can I see the photo, Mum, now? Uncle Paton said he’d found one. A photo of my dad.’

  ‘Goodness, Charlie, you are in a hurry.’ His mother unwound a silk scarf from her neck. ‘I’ve only just got in.’

  ‘Where is it?’ Charlie begged.

  His mother picked up her handbag from the table. ‘In here, somewhere.’ She rummaged around in the bag and took out a small square photograph. ‘Here.’ She held it out.

  Charlie took the photo. A man dressed for climbing smiled out at him. The man was Bartholomew Bloor. There was someone else, standing in the corner, but he had his back to the camera. Only his head and shoulders could be seen.

  ‘Mum, this isn’t . . . it can’t be.’ Charlie voice was thick with disappointment.

  Uncle Paton came up behind him and took the photo. ‘Amy, what’s happened?’ he demanded. ‘This isn’t what I gave you.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Amy. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘This isn’t your husband.’ He pointed at Bartholomew.

  Amy peered at the photograph. ‘Isn’t it? Oh dear. D’you know, I’ve completely forgotten Lyell’s face. I just can’t . . .’ she frowned, ‘just can’t seem to picture it.’

  ‘Mum!’ said Charlie in a stricken voice. ‘You must remember. You MUST!’

  ‘But why, Charlie? I’m sure it’ll be better for everyone if your father is forgotten.’ His mother smiled at him.

  ‘NO!’ cried Charlie. ‘We can’t. Don’t you understand? If we let go of his memory, he won’t be able to come back. EVER!’

  The shadow attacks

  ‘It has begun,’ said Uncle Paton.

  ‘Begun?’ asked Charlie.

  They were sitting at the kitchen table. A single candle burned in the centre and beside it lay the photograph: the image of a man who had been moved by sorcery, so that no one should see his face.

  ‘Count Harken has the mirror.’ Paton stared moodily at the candle flame. ‘Who knows what evil he has in mind for us.’

  To Charlie it seemed that the count had already done his worst. ‘Uncle Paton, do you think that if a person is forgotten they . . . they die a little?’

  ‘Charlie!’ His uncle looked shocked, almost angry. ‘Your father is not forgotten, and never will be. He was a good friend to so many.’

  ‘But Mum . . .’ said Charlie. ‘If she forgets . . .’

  ‘She hasn’t, Charlie. She hasn’t.’ Uncle Paton began to pace round the kitchen. ‘She’s been bewitched, I grant you that, but it’s temporary. Somehow we must find a way to undo what’s been done, though, at the moment, I confess I am a little out of ideas.’

  ‘I must get the Mirror of Amoret,’ Charlie stated.

  His uncle stopped pacing and looked at him. ‘A near impossible task, Charlie, but yes, it would be a start.’

  ‘Then I’ll go and think about it. Goodnight, Uncle.’ Charlie picked up the photo.

  ‘’Night, Charlie. And don’t let your thoughts keep you awake. It’s school tomorrow.’ Uncle Paton blew out the candle and followed Charlie upstairs.

  As soon as he was in his room, Charlie opened his curtains and sat on the bed. Foggy clouds swirled over the moon, but it was still bright enough to send a beam of light across the wall. Charlie didn’t have to wait long for Naren’s message. She must have been thinking of him.

  The thin, spidery forms came tumbling over the sill as though they were running from something. They piled on to Charlie’s bed and raced up the wall, wriggling and churning in a kind of frenzy. Already the message had begun to form.

  ‘Charlie, when Meng came into the city, she thinks she was being watched. If she was seen at the bookshop the owner . . . may . . . be . . . in danger. The diaries tell the truth. The . . . shadow . . . will . . . not like this.’

  ‘I’ll try and warn her,’ Charlie whispered. But he had more important things on his mind just then. ‘Naren, my mum is beginning to forget my dad. She wants to forget him. What shall I do?’

  ‘Find him,’ said the small, twisting words.

  ‘The shadow has gone into a photo and turned him around,’ Charlie told the wall of letters. ‘I can’t see his face.’

  ‘Find . . .’ the words seemed to be having trouble in reaching their places. They began to swirl in a great kaleidoscope, a single word popping out of the circle every now and then. ‘ . . . the king . . . I must . . . go . . . Father . . . says danger . . . message . . . caught . . .’

  For a while, no more words came. Charlie whispered to the fading letters, begging them to form a word, anything to let him know that Naren could hear him. But only one word made itself clear before the moon was swamped by a black cloud.

  ‘Go . . .’ said the letters.

  Charlie lay back on his bed, defeated and afraid. Could the shadow see Naren’s message? Could he feel it speeding through the air, like radio waves? Was he everywhere, then, even inside people’s heads?

  Charlie put the photo on his bedside table and got into bed. Before he closed his eyes he saw the white moth sitting on the photo; its silvery wings shed a gentle light on the man with no face, as though it were trying to keep him alive.

  As he drifted off to sleep, Charlie had a vague feeling that there was something he should have done. Something important. Whatever it was, he was too tired to remember it now.

  Julia Ingledew had been working late. There were books to unpack before Monday morning. There were accounts to be done and labels to be marked. At ten o’clock she finished her work and went up to bed. The stairs creaked and the windows rattled more than usual, but she thought nothing of it. The house was very old, and time had warped the ancient beams and window frames.

  When Julia got into bed, the rattling grew louder, until it became a heavy, insistant banging. She realised that someone was shaking the shop door.

  Flinging on her dressing gown, Julia ran down into the shop. By the light of the street lamp, she could make out two dark forms standing motionless outside her window. Grasping the edge of the counter, Julia froze.

  And then the voice came. ‘Give me the books.’ It was hardly more than a whisper, but the words reached into her very soul. Deep and dark and terrible.

  She mouthed the words ‘What books?’ but, of course, she knew the books he wanted. Bartholomew’s diaries were lying on the counter; she had meant to take them upstairs with her, but had been too busy to remember. Gathering them up, she backed away from the light.

  ‘The books of lies.’ This time the words were roared at her. ‘Give me those lies.’

&n
bsp; Clasping the diaries even tighter, Julia ran through her sitting room and began to climb the stairs. The awful voice followed her. ‘Give them to me. Give them, give them. Lies, lies, lies, all lies.’

  ‘They tell the truth,’ she muttered. ‘And you shan’t have them.’

  There was a deafening crack, as though the door was being torn off its hinges.

  ‘Auntie, what’s happening?’ A terrified Emma stood outside her door.

  ‘They want the diaries.’ Miss Ingledew bundled Emma back into her room. ‘Stay there, darling. I’m going to get my mobile.’ She put the diaries into Emma’s arms and ran to fetch her phone; on her way back to Emma, she dialled 999 but the voice at the other end wasn’t reassuring.

  The police had been called to every part of the city. There had never been a night like it. A power failure had caused five traffic accidents, there had been nine robberies and eleven fights in public places. Footsteps had been heard in empty rooms. Basements had been flooded and a fire had broken out in the council offices. ‘So I don’t know when we’ll be able to get to you,’ the police receptionist told Miss Ingledew. ‘I suggest you –’

  Julia was already re-dialling. She sat beside Emma on her bed, as a familiar voice said, ‘Hello, Julia.’

  ‘Paton, we’re being broken into. It’s – well, I think it’s –’

  ‘Grief!’ came Paton’s voice. She could hear him running down the stairs with his mobile still pressed to his ear. The door of number nine slammed shut. Footsteps pounded up the street. ‘Hold on, my dear. Hold on! I’m coming!’

  ‘Oh, Paton,’ cried Julia. ‘Hurry, please. They’re . . . oh, Paton, I can smell burning.’

  Paton Yewbeam’s legs were probably the longest in the city, but that night they must have stretched another six inches. Everyone who saw him storming through the streets swore that he was seven feet tall. And did he care about exploding lamps? Not a bit of it. One by one, they broke into a thousand pieces as he raced beneath them.

  A police car, responding to yet another robbery, drove past Paton as his tenth light shattered.

  ‘Did you see that?’ asked PC Singh, the driver. ‘Bloke just knocked a lamp out.’

  ‘I saw it,’ PC Wood confirmed. ‘Better make a left, soon as you can. That maniac’s going to do some damage.’

  When Paton burst into the cathedral square he saw flames leaping round the door of Ingledew’s. In front of the shop a violent fight was taking place. An unfair fight by the look of it. Paton ran up to the group and recognised Manfred Bloor. The street lamp exploded just as Manfred lifted his head. He gave a shriek of pain and retreated into the square, holding his face.

  The other character wasn’t such an easy target. He was kneeling over his victim with his hands round the man’s throat. His long, hooded cloak covered both himself and the man on the ground. With the street lamp gone, all that could be seen in the gloom was a mop of silver hair.

  Bending over the hooded man, Paton seized him by the shoulders. The bones he grasped felt like iron, and try as he might, he couldn’t loosen the man’s grip. The silver-haired victim gave a stifled groan as the iron fingers continued to choke the life out of him.

  Paton swung round frantically. ‘Sorry, Julia,’ he muttered, staring at the soft lights that hung above the books in Ingledew’s window. With an explosive crack, the shatterproof glass broke into pieces and fell on the pavement. ‘I bet you couldn’t do that, Enchanter,’ said Paton as he reached in and lifted out the heaviest book Julia had ever displayed.

  Lifting the book as high as he could, Paton brought it down with all his strength on to the head of the hooded man.

  There was a muffled growl of fury as the man loosened his grip and fell sideways. He began to roll over the cobbles of the square, wrapping himself in his cloak until only a pair of shining eyes could be seen, glaring out from the dark hump of his body.

  Paton was deciding whether to pursue his quarry when he heard an approaching police siren. The next minute, a police car roared into the square and when Paton looked for the hooded figure, it had vanished.

  Two policemen jumped out of the vehicle and raced towards Paton, yelling, ‘Don’t move! You’re under arrest.’

  Flinging open her smouldering door, Julia Ingledew cried, ‘That man saved our lives. The villains are getting away.’

  ‘Who’s this, then?’ PC Singh pointed to the man on the ground.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Paton.

  ‘By the look of it, you’ve killed him.’ PC Wood grabbed Paton’s arm.

  ‘He didn’t,’ cried Julia. ‘He saved his life.’

  ‘Seems to me you’ve got it all wrong, madam,’ PC Singh sighed irritably. ‘We witnessed this man,’ he pointed at Paton, ‘breaking a street lamp. And who broke the window, I’d like to know?’

  ‘Ah. I did that,’ Paton confessed.

  ‘You did?’ PC Singh frowned. ‘Wait a minute. This glass is supposed to be shatterproof, bulletproof, unbreakable. It’s in a hundred pieces.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ Paton said nonchalantly. ‘But I broke it.’

  ‘And saved our lives,’ said Julia. ‘I saw it all. Oh, Paton!’ She flung her arms round his neck.

  Paton, smiling shyly, said, ‘Ah well.’

  ‘So where are these other villains?’ asked PC Singh suspiciously.

  ‘I told you, they ran off,’ said Julia. ‘You won’t catch them now. But could you help to stop my door burning down?’

  ‘It’s all right, Auntie!’ Emma emerged with a bucket of water, which she flung at the door.

  ‘Well done, Emma. You’ve saved the day,’ said Paton.

  PC Singh had just opened his mouth when a voice from the ground said, ‘Good Lord, Paton Yewbeam.’

  Paton peered down at the man on the ground. ‘Bartholomew?’ he said in disbelief.

  ‘It’s not like you to stick your neck out,’ Bartholomew grunted, as Paton helped him to his feet.

  ‘I’ve changed,’ said Paton gruffly.

  The two constables began to make notes. They took phone numbers and wrote down addresses, but Bartholomew Bloor refused to give them any information. The constables decided that the incident was not as serious as many others in the city that night, and drove away. PC Singh even gave the group a friendly wave.

  The four survivors retreated into the shop. To Julia’s relief, the thick oak door had survived the fire. It was scarred and scorched and its creak was worse, but the bolts and hinges still worked perfectly.

  ‘I’ll make some tea,’ Emma suggested. Her long blonde hair and red dressing gown were soaked from a giant splash, but she was flushed with excitement.

  Bartholomew refused to stay another moment. ‘I never meant to come into the city, but I was anxious,’ he explained. ‘My wife was watched; the shadow’s spies are everywhere. I knew he’d want the diaries and I realised that I’d put you in danger, Miss Ingledew.’

  ‘Just stay a moment . . .’ Julia began.

  ‘I must be gone,’ Bartholomew insisted. ‘Where are my diaries?’

  ‘I’ll get them.’ Miss Ingledew ran upstairs and Emma went to put the kettle on.

  When the two men were alone, Bartholomew asked, ‘What made you change, Paton? You were always such a ninny.’

  Paton winced. ‘The boy,’ he said simply. ‘I had to help him.’

  ‘Ah, Charlie.’ Bartholomew smiled at last. ‘His father was the best and bravest man I ever knew. You were a poor friend to him, Paton.’

  ‘Here they are.’ Miss Ingledew returned with the diaries. ‘I’ll put them in a book bag.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Paton, you must give them to Charlie. Tell him to take them into the past.’

  ‘What?’ Paton took the bag from Julia and stared at Bartholomew in perplexity.

  ‘He’s the only one who can put them out of harm’s way.’ Bartholomew’s tone was cold and commanding. ‘Don’t you understand? He has the gift. Tell him to take them where the shadow can never reac
h them.’

  ‘But where . . .?’

  ‘How do I know?’ Barthlomew said roughly. ‘He must decide. Charlie’s a clever lad. He knows that my diaries hold a secret that will help to rescue his father. I’ll bid you all goodnight.’ He turned to the door.

  ‘Wait,’ Paton begged. ‘Can’t we talk? It’s been so long. Once you saved my life.’

  ‘And you have just saved mine. It changes nothing. Goodnight, Miss Ingledew.’ Bartholomew gave a curt nod and swept out.

  ‘What a strange man,’ Miss Ingledew remarked. ‘So unfriendly. Come into the back room, Paton, and have some tea before you go.’

  Paton shook his head. ‘No, I must leave. It’s all my fault, Julia. On Saturday night, after you’d gone, I left the diaries on the kitchen table. My sister must have seen them when she came home from the ball. What a fool I am.’

  ‘That’s not true. You weren’t to know.’

  Paton opened the heavy door. ‘Good night, my dear. Take care.’

  Across the square, the great cathedral clock began to strike midnight. Paton closed the shop door and stood for a moment, staring into the moonlit square – the place where his greatest friend had been lost.

  ‘Yes, Lyell, I was a poor friend,’ Paton murmured. He strode down the cobbled alleys, heedless of the danger that would surely follow the diaries he carried. He was not even aware of the great cold that threatened to turn the tears in his eyes to crystal.

  Charlie woke up to see the moth sitting on his pillow. He sensed that it wanted something. Yawning sleepily, Charlie got out of bed and crept on to the landing. The house was in darkness but he could see a thin trickle of light coming from under the kitchen door. It could only have been Uncle Paton. Anyone else would have put the hall light on.

  It was freezing cold. Charlie wrapped his dressing gown tightly round him before he went downstairs. He found his uncle sitting at the table with the diaries lying before him. The single candle had almost burnt out, but Charlie could see Paton’s face. He wore an expression that Charlie had never seen before. It troubled him.

  ‘Uncle Paton?’

  His uncle looked up. ‘Ah, Charlie, I’ve just come from the bookshop. It’s been an extraordinary night.’