The Forgotten Son

by Andy Frankham-Allen

  ‘Sir, another incident reported just near Liskeard.’ He handed Lethbridge-Stewart a sheet of paper. ‘A pile up on the A38 bypass. I double-checked the time, and it occurred approximately the same time as the Penzance train paused there.’

  ‘Thank you, Cadet…?’

  The cadet looked down at the floor and mumbled in embarrassment. ‘Constable, sir.’

  ‘Cadet Constable, I see.’ Lethbridge-Stewart cleared his throat. ‘Unfortunate. Very well, Cadet, dismissed.’ He waited until the cadet had left the room, then glanced at Sally. ‘Perhaps we should make it a new rank?’ he said, unable to resist the smirk.

  Sally rolled her eyes at this. ‘It’s not his fault. Brave of him to join the army, considering.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, considering.’ He looked at the report from Liskeard. It told him little more than the cadet had reported, save that emergency services were already attending. ‘I believe there’s a Green Jacket Battalion stationed near Plymouth. Contact them and have them deploy a unit to the A38 Liskeard bypass. I shall take command as soon as I can get there. I’ll get on to RAF Northolt, see if they can airlift me there. I don’t really have another four hours to waste on travelling by car.’

  Sally stood, official mode engaged. ‘Yes, sir. And the Penzance train?’

  ‘I want a platoon there at the ready. Arnold needs to be stopped before anybody else is hurt.’

  It felt strange to be walking along Golitha Falls without Jack by his side. He rarely reflected why he continued to visit this area; he reasoned that Jack liked freedom to run, but as the previous weekend proved there were plenty of other open areas around Bledoe. Indeed, Bodmin Moor wasn’t that far away in the car. But now, as Ray trekked the path that led towards the Manor, now overgrown through lack of use, he began to realise the truth.

  He had been unconsciously watching over Remington Manor, like a caretaker making sure no one got too close. He hadn’t done a brilliant job of it. Granted, there had not been many instances in the last fifteen years or so, other than the usual youngster breaking their way in, and nothing that involved the Hollow Man. Until now. He couldn’t be absolutely sure, but his gut told him that somehow the Hollow Man had been woken by the Vine twins’ trespassing last weekend. Now it was up to him to stop it.

  Ray was the only one left.

  He paused for breath, feeling a tightness in his chest. He wasn’t unfit by any means, but this walk was taking it out of him.

  He carried on, but as the Manor became clearer through the branches he found himself stalling. He felt cold, sweaty… He stopped again. Darkness was falling around him, and with it came shadows and strange sounds in the woods. Something was out there watching him.

  The Hollow Man.

  Ray glanced around, his eyes playing tricks on him, no doubt, for he could have sworn he saw a large shape moving through the trees, a creature of fur. He closed his eyes and shook his head. No, he had to go on, he had to end this once and for all.

  But he couldn’t. His breath became laboured, the sweat now showing on the back of his hands. The anxiety was too much.

  He couldn’t do this.

  He opened his eyes. There was nothing there but the trees.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, knowing full well that no one could hear him.

  Raymond Phillips turned and walked away. Inside his head he was that child again, that scared child who could do nothing but stand by helpless.

  It just wasn’t possible. The walk to Liskeard would have taken him almost two hours, and it wasn’t like Owain hadn’t tried. Gordon, the boy, could have asked him to do anything and he would have. As he sat in the Manor, arms wrapped around his knees, he could not believe that earlier in his bedroom he had been stupid enough to deny Gordon, to resist returning to the Manor where Gordon lived. This is where he belonged. He knew that now. But it just wasn’t possible.

  Everything had all made sense as soon as he stepped back inside the dusty old house. The door had closed behind him, he’d looked down at Gordon and saw a set of brown eyes looking back up at him. Eyes that felt so safe and warm. Telling Owain that he was needed, that only he could help. Then, like a mist of ash, Gordon had fallen apart. At first Owain had felt a rise of panic, but that soon subsided when he realised where Gordon had gone.

  Owain hadn’t been left alone. He could feel Gordon in every nerve, every muscle, every pulse. Gordon and he had become one. Everything became clear to him. Who Gordon was, what he needed, and why only Owain could help him.

  And he had tried to help. Together, Gordon was sure, they could get to Liskeard, but it hadn’t worked. They had barely passed Bledoe when Owain felt Gordon’s presence fade. It was a feeling he could barely describe, like a hole had appeared in his centre, growing bigger with every step. Never in seventeen years had he felt so alone. And he couldn’t be alone, Owain knew that now. So he turned and walked back to the Manor, feeling Gordon’s strength surging through his body once again, the black hole shrinking into nothing.

  So now he sat in the Manor, just him and Gordon. They had to wait. Parts of them were still missing, but they were drawing closer. All they needed was one more part and then they’d be strong enough to find the final piece.

  The woman – Mary.

  All emergency services were present by the time Lethbridge-Stewart’s helicopter arrived at the site of the bypass pile-up. The police milled around without any purpose now that the Green Jackets had arrived to take over. A few soldiers helped the firemen where they could, finding ways to safely remove passengers from the more seriously mangled vehicles, while ambulance men took care of the minor injuries and ambulances carted off the more seriously injured to the closest hospital. Lethbridge-Stewart ducked and rushed towards the grass verge, holding on to his cap, while the helicopter took off behind him. He stopped at the edge of the road, and looked around.

  Both sides of the A-road were blocked off, with soldiers and police directing traffic back the way it had come. A soldier walked over to Lethbridge-Stewart and saluted, no doubt spotting him a mile off, what with the tartan band around his cap.

  ‘Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart? Staff Sergeant Bevan, sir.’

  ‘What’s the situation, Staff?’

  The man was older than Lethbridge-Stewart, as was often the case with staff sergeants, but he didn’t miss a beat in relinquishing command. Superiority had very little to do with age in the army. ‘Hard to say, sir. Seems to be some confusion from the statements we’ve been able to secure. No one can recall what happened, some kind of group blackout it seems.’

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  They walked into the melee. The civilians didn’t appear to be too responsive to the administrations of the ambulance men, most looking around in a daze. But Lethbridge-Stewart had seen much worse damage in his lifetime, and although many had life-threatening injuries, luckily no one had actually died. He supposed they should be grateful it was a Monday and not a weekend, since the vehicles had been occupied by adults and no children. No families travelling this time of the evening.

  A train rumbled by over the bridge ahead.

  ‘Any news from Liskeard?’

  ‘No, sir. We have some men there now, questioning passengers from the train, more witnesses, although so far there’s nothing important to add. The train stopped at a signal, and moments later every car down here went barmy.’

  ‘Just after the train stopped?’ It was as they had surmised. Whenever Arnold stopped for a given amount of time, people nearby were affected. ‘And no disturbances in Liskeard?’ There wasn’t, which meant that either Arnold didn’t stop there for any length of time, or he had gone on to Penzance. He would have to contact Corporal Wright to find out if anything had occurred further down the line, but first he wanted to speak to the injured here. At least one of them had to remember something. ‘How many casualties, Staff?’

  ‘One second, sir.’ Bevan called out to a constable, who came over with his pad open. ‘Casualty l
ist,’ Bevan said, and the police constable handed the pad to Lethbridge-Stewart.

  He glanced down at the list. No numbers, just names. He blinked, and looked closer. It couldn’t be! Of course it could have been another Mary Gore, but… He pointed at the name. ‘Where is this woman?’

  The constable checked his list. ‘Miss Gore? Taken to the hospital in Liskeard,’ he said. ‘Red dot means they’ve already been moved.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable.’ Lethbridge-Stewart returned the pad, then turned to Bevan. ‘Do you have a jeep I can borrow? I want to talk to some of the casualties taken to Liskeard..’

  Bevan saluted. ‘Sir! If you’d like to come this way, I’ll assign Private Bishop to you.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart followed the staff sergeant through the crash site, his mind elsewhere. Coincidences were something he did not believe in.

  En route to Liskeard Hospital Lethbridge-Stewart received a report from Corporal Wright via RT. The platoon at Penzance had found no sign of Arnold on the train, which meant he had to have disembarked in Liskeard. Lethbridge-Stewart asked Corporal Wright to liaise with the local authorities and find out if there had been any further disturbances, in the hope that Arnold continued to leave his breadcrumb trail behind him.

  He was greeted by Nurse Bidwell, a woman of Caribbean origin, one of the thousands that staffed British Hospitals, a result of the cheap labour solution of the last two decades which was needed to help out the NHS. He asked to be taken directly to question Mary Gore. The nurse nodded, looking harassed. ‘Poor dear was delirious, mumbling incoherently,’ Bidwell said, her Caribbean accent softened by many years living in England. ‘Her wounds weren’t as severe as they looked, no bones broken, just cuts and abrasions. Could have been a lot worse.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lethbridge-Stewart agreed, having seen some of more critically wounded on the bypass. ‘How long will she be kept here?’

  ‘That’s up to your lot,’ Nurse Bidwell said, cutting her eyes at the soldiers who guarded the ward. ‘Is all this necessary? It’s not the first crash we’ve dealt with.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart didn’t respond, his face as grim as his thoughts. He was relieved to hear that the woman in question wasn’t among the more critical, but he still felt a jump in his heart at the knowledge that she was somehow caught up in all this. ‘You said she was mumbling? About what?’

  ‘Was difficult to hear, but at one point at least she mentioned how she had to find someone called Gordon.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart stopped.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  He blinked and looked at Nurse Bidwell, who was now standing by one of the curtained-off beds, her hand ready to pull back the curtain.

  ‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘Quite alright. If you would…?’

  Nurse Bidwell eyed him for a moment, clearly not convinced. She shrugged and pulled aside the curtain to reveal… an empty bed. She immediately called out to the ward sister, who didn’t have any idea of where the patient had gone. They went to check the toilets, leaving Lethbridge-Stewart to stand over the empty bed, his mind rushing through what he’d been told.

  When he had seen the name on that list he hadn’t wanted to believe it. His private life and work life did not, through necessity and design, interact. With the exception of his little tryst while at Sandhurst, it was the way it had always been, but recently… First Sally, and now this.

  He had tried to reason that there could have been another Mary Gore, but to hear she had been mumbling about finding someone called Gordon… He remembered her talking about using her maiden name, but he didn’t know she had actually started doing so. Mary Gore, or as he had always known her, Mary Rosina Lethbridge-Stewart.

  His mother.

  ‘I believe she was brought in with a man?’ he asked, once Nurse Bidwell had returned.

  Bidwell checked the clipboard in her hands. ‘The driver? Yes.’

  ‘Take me to him.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s going to be able to answer any…’

  Lethbridge-Stewart wasn’t interested in her opinion. He brushed past the nurse. A few moments later the sound of her shoes clicking on the polished floor told him that she was following.

  Gordon was asleep. At first Owain thought the boy had gone again, but he didn’t feel any sense of loss or emptiness, but rather a calming presence. Soothing almost. The kind of peace he often saw on Lewis’ face when his brother slept.

  While Gordon had been awake, he and Owain had continued to talk, sharing stories of their lives and experiences. It seemed Gordon had lived a long life, one that belied the youth of his voice and his child-like appearance. But now Owain found himself at something of a loose end. At first he had taken to exploring the house, but had soon tired of that. There was only so much to be seen in empty rooms full of dust and cobwebs. He had thought to look for clues as to why the house had become vacant so suddenly in ‘39, but it seemed easier to simply ask Gordon later, since obviously he was at the heart of that story.

  So instead he stepped outside into the dark grounds of the Manor.

  Owain remembered the army truck he had spotted before. The truck hadn’t moved, it was still parked left of the house, now mostly in the shadows, but still on easy view to anyone entering by the gates. He crept up to the truck, and noticed that the tarpaulin covering the back wasn’t strapped down. He was about to pull the flap up, to see what was contained within, when he heard a sound. It sounded like a scuffle, as if someone was shuffling in the gravel, and it was coming from the front of the truck. Curious, he walked to the front cabin and put his foot on the step beneath the door. Using the open window for leverage, he lifted himself up and peered inside.

  There was a man, a man in army uniform. He was leaning to one side, his head seeming to rest on the window of the other door.

  ‘Hey, mate, you okay?’ Owain asked.

  There was no answer, so Owain climbed down again with every intention of walking around the cab and checking on the soldier. But there was the noise again, behind him now. He paused, the hair on the back of his neck rising. It sounded like a deep growl, a noise unlike any Owain had heard before today. He turned slowly, carefully, so as not to alarm whatever had made the sound. Not that he imagined he would be any kind of threat to something that sounded like that.

  He was right.

  The creature that stood before him, towering over him, its eyes seeming to glow, was a shaggy beast with long arms and powerful looking claws. Owain swallowed, unable to take his eyes off the beast. It reminded him of something he’d seen in picture books when he’d been a kid. Only that book had been about mythical creatures. The thing before him was no mythical creature. It was real, very large, very fierce and probably very hungry.

  It was an abominable snowman!

  — CHAPTER FIVE —

  Homecoming

  LETHBRIDGE-STEWART LOOKED AT THE unconscious figure in the bed before him. He had hoped he would recognise the man – that whoever had brought his mother to Liskeard was someone known to him. It was true that Lethbridge-Stewart didn’t visit Coleshill very often, and there were almost certainly many people in his mother’s life that he did not know, but he couldn’t quite understand why she would be in the car with someone so young. Well, young compared to his mother. Despite the injuries, and the long hair and trendy moustache, Lethbridge-Stewart could tell that the man wasn’t much younger than him.

  ‘Do we have any idea who this man is?’

  Nurse Bidwell consulted the clipboard hanging at the end of the bed. ‘No form of ID on him. Perhaps you can find out from the officers at the pile-up?’

  Lethbridge-Stewart decided to add that to his list of things to do. He shook his head. ‘And he arrived in this state?’

  ‘He was awake when he arrived. Was disturbed about something, but we couldn’t understand him. Speaking some foreign language.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘No idea. None that any of us has heard before.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart turned and w
alked out of the ward, glancing at the two Green Jackets on guard. The nurse followed him, and they walked a short distance down the corridor. For a moment they looked at each other, her steely gaze drilling into him. He chose to ignore it. He’d withstood worse looks in his time, and from bigger men than Nurse Bidwell.

  ‘Have you travelled far?’

  If Bidwell was surprised by the question she didn’t show it. ‘Well, if you consider moving from Barbados to England fifteen years ago as far, then yes.’

  ‘And you don’t know any foreign languages?’

  ‘Just your English,’ Bidwell said, smiling honestly for the first time since she’d introduced herself.

  ‘Of course. You were a Bajan speaker?’

  ‘Way I raised,’ she replied, putting her Barbadian accent on thick.

  Lethbridge-Stewart nodded. He spoke a few languages himself, but unless the man in the bed woke up, such linguistic skills were of little use. ‘If you had to guess, what language did it sound most like?’

  Bidwell shrugged. ‘Perhaps Latin?’ She laughed. ‘Don’t be so surprised. De longer yuh live, de moreyuh does hear.’

  ‘Yes, quite.’ Lethbridge-Stewart had spent some time in the Caribbean, and although he still had a little trouble understanding Bajan English, he found if he listened carefully the meaning usually became clear enough.

  A scream dragged them from their conversation.

  It came from the same ward they had just left.

  Lethbridge-Stewart got there before Bidwell, but not soon enough to stop the attack. Another nurse was on the floor, looking around dazed. The bed was empty; the man who had accompanied his mother was gone.

  Lethbridge-Stewart looked at the Green Jackets who had entered the ward ahead of him. ‘You remain here,’ he told the one who was helping the nurse to her feet. ‘And you—’

  Lethbridge-Stewart didn’t get to finish. The clatter of something hitting the floor alerted him. He pushed past Bidwell and dashed through the side door, which led into the adjacent ward. People were looking around confused, nurses and doctors trying to calm the patients lying in their beds. At the end of the ward a man was scrambling to his feet, a trolley knocked over next to him, the petri dishes and other instruments now scattered on the floor.