The Forgotten Son

by Andy Frankham-Allen

  They walked behind him, Lewis once again taking to humming another of his favourite tunes.

  Charles started mumbling the words of the song, encouraging Lewis to hum louder. ‘Shirt them a-tear up, trousers are gone.’

  ‘Don’t want to end up like Bonnie and Clyde,’ Lewis joined in. ‘Poooooor me, the Israelite!’

  Owain was all set to complain when he heard it again. Was it a voice? He shook his head. No, that was stupid.

  Lewis stopped, his body tense. ‘Creepy. I definitely heard that.’

  ‘Yeah, man, me too.’ Charles looked up and down the landing. ‘Creepy,’ he added with a large grin.

  Owain preferred it when Lewis didn’t agree with him. Then it was just him being stupid, but if Lewis and Charles agreed then… there was something in the walls.

  ‘Maybe we should just leave?’ Owain suggested.

  That was probably, looking back, not the wisest thing to say, as was immediately obvious by the cold look that swept across Charles’ face. ‘What are you, a Nancy-boy? There’s nothing else to do, what with us not being allowed back to London. And we don’t have ten-bob between us, so no chance of doing anything else.’

  Lewis laughed softly. ‘Come on, O’, you’re the cynic, remember? You don’t believe in ghosts or any of that rubbish.’

  ‘And you do now? Not exactly fitting for a bovver boy.’

  ‘I knew it! You read about London, too.’ Lewis nudged Charles. ‘See, told you it wasn’t just me. Anyway,’ he continued with a smug grin that matched Charles. ‘We’re not bovver boys. We’re not looking for aggro, just letting people know we’re not going to be one of the destitute struggling to make a living when the government is…’

  Owain held his hand up. ‘Yeah yeah, we’re all working class heroes.’ He shook his head and looked around the corridor again. ‘Reckon we’re all going a bit mad anyway. No voices here, except ours.’ It wasn’t true, of course; he knew he had heard a voice, but he wasn’t intending to let either of them bully him into staying any longer. If he was lucky he could make it home in time for the late news and watch the action replays of the match.

  It has been years. How many it does not know. Trapped in the walls, hardly able to do anything but whisper, a bodiless voice, intangible. But now it can feel it, the soul it’s been waiting for. Young, but strong. Strong enough to give it strength. This time, though, it will be different. It will plan, prepare, and do things properly. It will not be beaten again.

  Lewis waited a moment, straining his ears. ‘Yeah, bit boring after all.’ He threw his arm over Charles’ shoulders. ‘Come on, let’s see if old man Barns will serve us. Could do with a pint.’

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ Charles agreed, and they both set off ahead of him.

  Owain knew it would never happen. Mr Barns would sooner tell their parents, but Owain would rather try their luck than continue in the Manor any longer. Besides, he was looking forward to seeing his brother taken down a peg in front of Charles. Serve them both right.

  Owain glanced down the landing, at the door at the far end. He should never have come here in the first place. Lewis could look after himself, after all he was a skinhead now (apparently), and they both hated the cliché of twins who did everything together. As sad as he’d be to see Lewis leave, at least once he was gone they could both rid themselves of that cliché once and for all.

  As they reached the top of the grand staircase, he looked back one last time. He wouldn’t tell Lewis or Charles, of course, but he had heard something. Still could, in fact, a voice whispering to him. Telling him to return, telling him that he had to come back so they could be family once more.

  Sally had to admit she rather enjoyed having her boys around her. She had wrangled an extended assignment in London to assist both Alistair and Dougie. Mostly it consisted of couriering messages back and forth, answering phones, and generally working with Caroline Bell in the ante-office, but she didn’t mind. It was not dissimilar to the job she had at Strategic Command under Hamilton, and as a bonus she found she rather enjoyed Caroline’s company.

  The intercom buzzed.

  ‘Corporal Wright, could you bring me in a fresh brew?’

  Sally looked over at Caroline, and the other woman smiled. Sally wasn’t sure if Caroline knew about her relationship with Alistair, but if she did then she didn’t comment on it. For a moment, as Sally prepared the tea she felt a pang of guilt. She really should have remained at Fugglestone; her presence was compromising Alistair’s position as Officer in Command.

  She turned to the door of Alistair’s office, and berated herself for being silly. They were both professionals. If Alistair had a problem with her being there he would have got on the phone and asked Hamilton to end her assignment in London.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Caroline said.

  Sally checked herself. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘Not to the rest of them.’ Caroline smiled. ‘Since when do men see what is obvious?’

  Sally had never considered joining the Women’s Institute, it seemed such a waste of time. Women didn’t need some official body to show their sorority. As Caroline was now proving.

  Sally smiled. ‘Thanks,’ she said, grateful for the reassurance.

  It was a week later and Lethbridge-Stewart was back at Army Strategic Command near Fugglestone, meeting with Major General Hamilton. Ostensibly Hamilton wished to personally congratulate Lethbridge-Stewart on a successful command, but Lethbridge-Stewart had bigger things on his mind than congratulations.

  ‘General, I think it would be foolish of us to consider recent events an isolated incident,’ he said.

  Hamilton consulted the papers on his desk. ‘Yes, I am aware of Professor Travers’ encounter with this Great Intelligence in Tibet, but as that essentially formed part of the London Event we’re chalking it up to one attack.’

  The London Event; even the name spoke to the assumption that the matter was self-contained, over and done with, case closed. ‘One attack separated by over thirty years?’

  ‘Quite so, Colonel.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart allowed a silence to sit between him and Hamilton, before he played his trump card. ‘What about the next time, sir?’

  ‘Next time? Good lord, Stewart, do you not think you’re being a little bit of an alarmist? As I understand it this Great Intelligence was defeated.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but that is not to say it won’t try again.’

  Hamilton looked down at his papers. ‘I see no such indication, Colonel.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart conceded the point. ‘No indication on paper, no, sir. But I was told by the Doc—’

  ‘Yes, I read the report. I understand the extreme nature of your experiences in London. A lot of good soldiers lost their lives defending London, and naturally that would leave you wondering what more could be out there. But hearsay? Colonel—’

  ‘It was not hearsay. Professor Travers can vouch for—’

  ‘Colonel, if there was any proof then I’d be the first one to take this to High Command. As it stands what we have is one isolated incident, an attempted incursion by robotic Yeti and their alien master. Which has been taken care of.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart wasn’t to be beaten. ‘Then there is no harm in going to the United Nations and…’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart had not expected such a quick response. Nonetheless he had gone too far to step back now. ‘Sir, I am aware that the United Nations began creating protocols last year to…’

  Hamilton held up a hand to silence him, and rose from his chair and walked the length of his office to the nearest filing cabinet, on which sat a decanter and two glasses. He poured himself a small whisky. ‘We are still suffering from the White Paper of ‘57, cut-backs continue, regiments are being amalgamated into new regiments. The way things are progressing many of the junior battalions will be disbanded in a few years.’ He offered another glass to Lethbridge-Stewart, who accepted it carefully. ‘NATO continu
es to sap our resources, and the United Nations are not going to offer us any help.’

  It was as Lethbridge-Stewart expected, but he had another idea. ‘Then perhaps a taskforce, something a little more… homespun? More domestic and less international.’

  Hamilton shook his head, a grim smile on his face. ‘What you are suggesting… It will require a great deal of manpower and money. Neither of which the British Armed Forces has a great supply of right now.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I am not seeing much of an option. The whole of London was evacuated simply because of one alien intelligence, what is to say that…’

  ‘Enough, Colonel, you have said enough.’ Hamilton gathered the reports together. ‘I’m afraid you will have to leave this with me, all of it.’

  ‘Sir, we cannot…’

  ‘Leave it with me, Colonel. You have made a good case, and it is something High Command has talked about on several occasions in the last decade. Something does indeed need to be done. I will look into this and get back to you.’

  Despite himself Lethbridge-Stewart knew he had no choice. He had pushed his point far enough and could do no more.

  ‘Your actions in London have impressed many,’ Hamilton said. ‘You have been noticed, Colonel, and that will count for something. I cannot promise anything, but I will do what I can. In the meantime, you should return to London and continue the incredible job you have been doing. Martial law was a very good call.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart knew he would get no further that day. And he did still have much to occupy him in London. Only two million had been returned to the city so far, and already some less than savoury elements had made themselves known. Looters, opportunists… Oh yes, he had plenty of work to do there yet.

  — CHAPTER TWO —

  Guided by Voices

  AT FIRST SHE THOUGHT IT was the sound of the wireless cutting into her dreams, but as her senses levelled out and she escaped the grogginess left over from sleep, Mary Gore realised that it couldn’t be. She never left the wireless turned on when she went to bed.

  She sat there for a moment, straining her old ears to pick up the voice again. It was no use, the voice was gone. Her memory wasn’t what it used to be, but now as she sat up in her bed, her legs growing cold due to the cooling of the hot-water bottle, she recalled that she had heard it before.

  A child’s voice. But what it said she had no idea.

  For the rest of the morning she found her mind constantly returning to the voice, trying to recall what it had been saying. Her regular trip to the local shop was interrupted by a moment where she almost had a name to put to it, but the inspiration didn’t last. Mabel, her nearest neighbour in the village of Coleshill in Buckinghamshire, had given her an odd look, worried about her friend. It was no mystery that Mary had been ill the last few months, old age and loneliness catching up with her. She soldiered through it, telling everybody that her son was due a visit soon, and that was bound to lift her spirits, but none of the ladies were to be fooled. They all knew that Mary hadn’t seen her son in quite some time.

  Still mithering, Mabel escorted her home, telling her own stories of her grandchildren, who she had seen over the weekend. Mary was feeling better by the time they arrived, and as she prepared the tea she found herself mooning over her own lack of grandchildren.

  ‘It would have been so different if he had not gone into the military, you know,’ she said, returning to the living room with a tray of biscuits and the teapot.

  ‘It’s not too late. He’s still young.’

  Mary nodded and fingered the crucifix around her neck. ‘But he’s never married, never even courted a woman since he was called up for National Service. Been far too busy.’

  Mabel nodded. She’d heard the stories of Mary’s son so many times. ‘Your Gordon would be proud of him, God rest his soul.’

  Mary sniffed back a tear. Talk of her late husband always made her want to weep. Over twenty years and still she missed him. She had never re-married, never even thought of it. Of course there had been the odd gentleman over the years who attempted to court her eye, but she had never done more than go on an occasional date. Mr Cooper up near the commons would surely love to make an honest woman of her, and he was a decent man, a deeply religious man who had spent his whole life waiting for his perfect woman. He went to great lengths during their regular visits to The Harte & Magpies to explain how she was that woman. Perhaps she was – it made her heart happy to believe so, at the very least. But she had to think of her son. How would he feel should another man take his mother’s hand? It was something she wanted to ask, but unfortunately neither of them had ever been particularly comfortable talking about their feelings.

  She and Mabel continued to talk over tea, covering a variety of subjects, from the latest developments in The Archers to sharing reminiscences about their late husbands. They had similar stories, both being widows of military men, but the conversation soon returned to grandchildren and the lack thereof in Mary’s life. Mabel suggested that Mary join them the next time her family took a break in Devon. Mary couldn’t express how much such an offer meant to her, and Mabel cheekily added that they could also invite Mr Cooper. That had the two old women laughing.

  It was a much happier Mary who said goodbye to Mabel later that morning, one determined to put all maudlin thoughts out of her mind. She would finish the scarf she had been knitting and then pay a visit to Mr Cooper, ask him over for dinner later in the week. It was not in her nature to be so forward, her parents had not raised her that way, but it seemed to be happening more and more with younger women these days. She wasn’t sure she approved – men and women had their own places in society and she didn’t think such things ought to be messed with. But the idea of asking Mr Cooper to dinner did give her a certain thrill that she found pleasant.

  She did up her cardigan and checked her curls in the mirror before leaving the house. It wouldn’t do to look anything but her best when she saw Mr Cooper. She reached for her coat, not caring for the sound of the wind brewing up outside, when it came again. The voice.

  Find me.

  For the first time the words were clear. A child calling for help. But who’s child? And why was she hearing it? She had never been a superstitious woman, never one to believe in ghost stories, but this voice… It came from nowhere. There was no one else in the house with her; just her and her memories.

  ‘How?’ she whispered, certain she should feel foolish for speaking to an empty house, but she needed to know. It seemed like the voice had been haunting her for a long time, and with it came a memory of… She shook her head. She hadn’t thought about that in a very long time. It had been a dark time for her, shortly after the death of her Gordon, and the reason she and her son had come to live in Coleshill. Why was she reminded of it now? What did it have to do with the voice?

  A knock at the front door made her jump. She laughed at herself. ‘Silly old biddy,’ she said, as she walked to the door. Through the glass she could make out the shape of a man with a flat cap on his head. It had to be Mr Cooper – he always wore a flat cap. What a wonderful coincidence.

  She opened the door with a smile, but the smile froze on her face the moment she saw the man standing there. She didn’t recognise him – it wasn’t Mr Cooper, that much was certain. This man was a lot younger for one thing, probably in his mid-thirties, wearing his hair down to his shoulders, the fringe peering out from the cap, almost meeting his eyebrows, and a moustache that looked like a sad smile.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  His answer came in a dull monotone, his expression not altering in the slightest. ‘Gordon is waiting for you.’

  He travelled across London, confused. He couldn’t remember anything but a need to be… somewhere. He didn’t even know where, but he knew he was heading in the right direction. London seemed oddly deserted, only a few people here and there, the streets and roads mostly devoid of traffic. He felt certain that this was wrong somehow, but he did not k
now how, or why he felt such certainty over it. He could remember nothing else, but there was a sense of wrongness about the empty streets. A sense of… danger.

  Along the way he had periodically stopped, stepping inside red phone boxes to make calls. He had spoken to people he knew, used words and names that were at once familiar and yet totally unknown to him. It was as if he were speaking with a different man’s voice, using knowledge that he simply could not retain. He had made arrangements to have the ‘cargo’ moved, although now he could no longer recall what the cargo was, or to where he had ordered it moved.

  He eventually reached what he thought was his destination, but as soon as he read the words Paddington Railway Station above the entrance of the building, he just knew he was not there yet. He had a long way to go, and for that he needed a train.

  He entered the building, keeping his head low so as not to be stared at by the multitude of people who crowded the station. Once again he got a feeling of wrongness, as if the train station was over-packed. So many people stepping off the trains and shuffling their way outside to waiting taxies and buses. Voices called out over the tannoy, directing people here and there. Barely seconds passed before another voice took over from a previous one.

  He looked around.

  Many people were dressed like him, in green uniforms, directing people to the various exits, keeping order. They were assisted by men in dark blue uniforms with tall hats. He knew them. There were words that went with the uniforms. Army and police. He felt sure he should know why this was happening, like he had something to do with it.

  Perhaps he should ask? Or perhaps not. It was at that moment that he caught sight of his reflection once again. Still his skin was black and scarred, although it was looking better than it had when he had first left the mortuary. He was healing. He was doubly lucky – one, that he was healing quickly, and two, that the train station was so busy that no one had time to notice such a damaged man amongst them.

  He looked up at the travel board. There was one name he was looking for, his next destination. Liskeard. He found it, and without further hesitation set off towards the designated platform. The call was getting weaker, and he had to get there before it was too late.