The Forgotten Son

by Andy Frankham-Allen

  Lethbridge-Stewart called out to the man. He looked back, crazed eyes looking out from a deeply scarred face, wounds re-opened by his collision with the trolley.

  The man managed to get to his feet and ran. Lethbridge-Stewart reached down for his revolver, and remembered too late that he was in his regular uniform and was thus unarmed. He shook his head in irritation. He turned back at the Green Jacket who’d followed him into the ward. He could take the soldier’s rifle, he supposed. But no, the man may well need it. Lethbridge-Stewart would manage without.

  ‘Go that way!’ he ordered the soldier, and pointed to the side exit. The Green Jacket saluted and set off. Lethbridge-Stewart continued through the ward to the door by which the man had left.

  He had to know why that man had been driving his mother towards Bledoe.

  She wouldn’t miss Bledoe, of that Mary was certain. It had been her home for many years now, where Gordon and she had settled after their wedding in ‘25. Twenty years and now she had to leave. But it was too difficult to live there anymore. Too much pain, too many bad memories. And then there were the shadows.

  She simply could not take any more. Her sister had been such a help, and had sent her husband all the way from Lancashire to take her and Alistair away. Even now Thomas was packing the boot of his car, with the assistance of Alistair and Raymond.

  She was going to leave so much behind. Isobel had insisted that Mary keep the house on, rent it out perhaps, since it would be such a shame to simply lose so much. Mary still wasn’t sure about that, but she had agreed – after a fashion. She did not wish to rent out her house, after all she was never going to return, so she instead gave it to Eileen Phillips and her family. Eileen, alongside Maureen Barns, had been her best friend for many years, and her own house had suffered after a Spitfire had crashed into the village after a mechanical fault while it was returning to St Eval, twenty-seven miles away down the coast. No lives had been lost, even the Spitfire pilot had managed to parachute to safety, but Harold Phillips had been badly wounded after rushing into the ruins to save Patrick, the evacuee from London who had been billeted with them. Mary’s house was too big for just her and Alistair, especially after their own evacuees had vacated the spare room and returned to London, so with nowhere to go, the Phillips’ had moved into Mary’s home. It seemed only right that they should have the house. England was recovering from the war, the economy ruined. There was no way the Phillips’ would be able to fix their own home, and otherwise they would almost certainly be forced out of the village eventually. This way they could remain in the only home they had known.

  She peered out of the kitchen window. Many people were outside her house, gathering to say goodbye. Alistair and Raymond were leaning against Thomas’ black Humber Sixteen Saloon, the boot tied with rope to prevent the suitcases from falling out. The poor car had seen better days, but who had the money to buy a new one? Mary was simply happy that Thomas was here and pleased that Alistair had seemed to be excited that he would be sitting in the front seat with his Uncle Tommy for the journey. This was something Gordon would never have allowed. Mary didn’t mind. She would be quite content to sit in the backseat on her own, wrapped up in her memories and thoughts of the new life she was heading towards.

  Alistair and Raymond both seemed happy enough, but Mary knew better. Alistair was sixteen now, almost a man, and he deserved better than to be uprooted from his home. He was older than his years, forced to grow up by recent events, not least of which was the death of his father earlier that year. The boys had been friends their whole lives, and she was separating them. She had promised Raymond that they could see each other during the holidays, and both he and Alistair had taken that on the chin. Alistair was off on an adventure, and they’d have much to tell each other when they next met. Perhaps at Christmas. If Eileen allowed Raymond to visit them in Lancashire, of course. Mary was never returning to Bledoe, and neither would she be bringing her son back. He, too, needed to be free from the painful memories.

  She turned from the window to face Eileen and Maureen, who were still talking. Mary had lost track of the conversation again. She did that a lot, her mind distracted by the presence she always felt around her. She glanced sideways, certain there was someone standing next to her. A child, trying to talk to her. But as usual there was nothing there but a shadow.

  Almost twenty-five years later Mary slept as the taxi carried on into Bledoe. She was still sore from the crash and had fallen asleep almost as soon as the taxi had left Liskeard Hospital. This time, though, her dreams were not haunted by the ghost of her dead husband; instead she was reliving the darkest period of her life. It was as if her mind was trying to tell her something, to remind her of why she had left Bledoe, and why it was not a good idea to return.

  She may not have noticed as the taxi’s headlights cast their beams on the police box that sat on the grass verge, blocking the signpost that indicated Bledoe was less than a mile away, but the taxi driver did. And he was a little confused. He had driven into Bledoe several times, occasionally taking Tremar Lane rather than going the long way, and not once had he noticed a police box before. He knew that the police were slowly moving from the need for the telephones inside the blue boxes, so he reasoned that perhaps London were passing the old boxes onto other places in England, those that might benefit from a better communication system for the local constabularies. Bledoe certainly fit, since it was served by the police station at Liskeard and didn’t have its own constabulary to speak of.

  He dismissed it moments later, and chuckled to himself. Not at his clearly aging memory, but at the drunken man he’d seen sleeping in the grass next to the police box. An old soldier, by the look of it, having imbibed a little too much brandy, no doubt.

  It seemed to be bigger on the inside. As he continued to chase the man through the hospital, Lethbridge-Stewart couldn’t help but be surprised by how much was contained within the externally misleading building. He had passed through several departments already, causing chaos in the X-ray Department where a poor woman was having her chest X-rayed. As soon as the pursuant burst into the X-ray room, failing to notice the red light above the door, the woman had reacted in shock, sitting up abruptly. Lethbridge-Stewart had to avert his eyes to spare the woman any embarrassment, but didn’t have time to apologise before he continued to give chase.

  Lethbridge-Stewart really wished he had his revolver to hand. One well-placed shot and the man would soon stop running.

  Lethbridge-Stewart hadn’t thought to count the floors as he approached the hospital in the Land Rover with Bishop, but he felt sure he must have been nearing the top by now. He was on the fourth floor and the sound of children crying could be heard at the end of the corridor. He glanced around, trying to locate his prey, and his eyes alighted on the signs that indicated the two departments that took up the fourth floor. Maternity and the Neonatal Unit. Expectant mothers and newly born babies. Not the place for a confrontation.

  At the far end of the corridor, just beside the double doors that led to Maternity, a side door crashed closed. The sign above the door, swinging in the breeze that wafted through the corridor, told Lethbridge-Stewart that the door led to the roof.

  ‘Perfect.’

  He dashed down the corridor, grabbing a fire extinguisher off the wall as he passed, and bolted up the metal stairs leading to the roof. The cold air hit him as soon as he stepped outside. Liskeard was not a particularly crowded town and thus not very well illuminated; what light there was on the roof was mostly provided by the moon above. Fortunately it was still relatively early in the night, and so the darkness was not as absolute as it could have been.

  He looked around, expecting the man to be hidden somewhere. Perhaps behind the shed-like structure that housed the workings of the hospital lift. But instead the man just stood there, out in the open, his back to Lethbridge-Stewart and his head tilted to one side, much like a dog listening out for something just below man’s ability to hear.

  F
eeling a little foolish, Lethbridge-Stewart lifted the extinguisher and pointed the nozzle at the man. He doubted he’d do much damage with just CO2, but it would be enough to startle the man, and allow Lethbridge-Stewart close enough to put him down with his hands.

  ‘Turn around slowly,’ Lethbridge-Stewart said.

  The man gave no indication of hearing. Lethbridge-Stewart stepped closer, his hand squeezing the trigger mechanism.

  ‘I said…’

  The man turned slowly. For a moment they stood looking at each other. There was something familiar about the look on the man’s face; an expression Lethbridge-Stewart had seen before, except he couldn’t place it. But he felt it was something he’d seen recently. In the Underground.

  The man spoke, but the words were gibberish to Lethbridge-Stewart’s ears. They certainly weren’t Latin, nor were they any language he’d heard before. The man stopped and waited, an expectant look on his face.

  ‘Sorry, Johnny, I can’t understand you.’

  The man spoke again, now clearly agitated. He moved forward. Lethbridge-Stewart wasn’t taking any risks. He released the CO2. The man threw his hands up to cover his face and Lethbridge-Stewart struck him in the gut with the heavy cylinder. The man staggered back.

  ‘What did you want with my mother? Where were you taking her?’

  The man lowered his hands. Red rings encircled his eyes, burned slightly by such close exposure to the CO2. He stepped backwards.

  ‘Who are you working for?’

  Lethbridge-Stewart could feel the anger rising in him. In his time he had been angry, and had used that on the battle field, but this was something different… It was personal. This involved his mother, and he was intent on getting answers.

  ‘Why is she looking for my father?’

  The man tilted his head once again. But still he spoke in words that meant nothing to Lethbridge-Stewart.

  ‘Damn you!’

  Lethbridge-Stewart struck with the extinguisher, straight at the man’s face. With a sickening crack, the man’s nose exploded. For a second he stood there, and then he was gone.

  Lethbridge-Stewart looked down. He hadn’t realised they were so close to the edge of the roof. Four storeys below the man lay dead, his body splayed out on the concrete forecourt of the hospital. Women screamed, men looked around confused, some embracing the women and hiding their faces from the horrific sight. A couple of Green Jackets, including Private Bishop, looked up.

  Still Lethbridge-Stewart could feel his anger pulsing. Why was his mother being taken to Bledoe? How could she possibly believe his father was alive? It made no sense.

  He needed answers. And the only place he knew that might hold them was Bledoe. The place he had been born.

  It had all come around so quickly. Charles’ family had received news that they were able to return to London the next day. When they’d been discussing the idea of it down the The Rose & Crown, Lewis had been all up for going to London with them, for finding a flat with Charles and some of his friends. But now it was just around the corner.

  Lewis knew he needed to talk to Owain about it. He wasn’t having second thoughts exactly, but the dream was about to become a reality, and he found it more than a little daunting. He returned home with Charles to find his parents sitting in the living room watching one of their favourite television programmes, Hugh and I Spy.

  ‘You’re starting to spend more time here than home,’ Lewis’ dad said, looking up as the front door closed.

  There was no creeping into his house. The front door led directly into the living room. You had to walk through the room to reach the staircase that led to the bedrooms. Even the corridor from the backdoor led into the living room before it reached the staircase. The only way in without being detected by his waiting parents was to use the post office entrance, but he didn’t have keys to that area.

  ‘My home is London, Mr Vine,’ Charles said pointedly, but politely.

  Mr Vine let out a harrumph at that, and turned back to the television, which sat next to the bay windows that looked out over the large garden.

  ‘Actually he’s received notification that his family can return home tomorrow,’ Lewis said, and immediately regretted as a look of alarm crossed his mother’s face. He knew he shouldn’t care, that he deserved his own independence now and, as Charles often reminded him, his parents couldn’t do anything about it. But Lewis did care. As much as he wanted out of the village, Bledoe was still his home, and his family… Was he really ready to leave it? To leave them? ‘Anyway, we’re just going to tell Owain,’ he said, and they continued towards the staircase.

  ‘He’s not here,’ Mr Vine said, his eyes not leaving the television screen.

  Lewis stopped. ‘What? Since when did he leave the house in the evening?’

  His mother got up from her comfortable chair. ‘He’s been gone for hours,’ she said, and walked into small dining area just off the living room. She stood by the window, and looked out towards the dark road and the fields beyond. ‘He could be anywhere.’

  His mother was worried, and Lewis knew she was right to be. Owain never left the house after dark, unless he had to go into Liskeard with their dad to pick up some last minute supplies for the shop. He would spend the nights in his room listening to his tranny or reading the latest football magazines. He never visited any of his friends, not that Owain had many in Bledoe – the few he did have lived in Liskeard near their old school.

  A horrible feeling came over him. In the past week Owain had talked a lot about the Manor. Nothing concrete, just the odd comment here and there, so vague that Lewis hadn’t really paid much attention to them. But now… He shook his head. No, Owain would never go up there on his own.

  ‘He’ll be back when he’s back,’ Mr Vine said, finally getting up from the sofa. He passed a look of annoyance at Lewis and Charles. ‘Look what you’ve done, worrying your mother over nothing.’

  ‘What did I do?’ Lewis asked before he could stop himself.

  ‘You didn’t go with your brother, for one thing!’ his dad snapped. He glared at Charles. ‘Isn’t it about time you went to your gran’s house? Before your mother starts worrying about you.’

  ‘They don’t worry about me,’ Charles pointed out, his tone aggressive. ‘They never do, ‘cause I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Can you now?’

  Lewis had seen that look in his dad’s eyes before. He was spoiling for a fight, casting his anger at the wrong place as usual. Lewis stepped between his dad and Charles, looking over at his mother. ‘Why don’t you make mum a cuppa or something? Charles and I will go and find Owain.’

  His dad turned on him. ‘Who the hell are you to tell me what to do in my own house? You’re leaving tomorrow, remember? You don’t get to order anyone around.’

  ‘I wasn’t…’ Lewis shook his head.

  ‘George, just stop,’ his mother said, moving from the window. She looked defeated by her worry. ‘I’ll make us all some tea.’

  ‘To think we fought for twerps like you,’ Mr Vine said. ‘No respect, none of you. Thought you would know better.’

  ‘Fought for us? You were a private, Dad, that’s all, and that’s only because you had no choice. Hardly a hero of the war!’ Even as he spoke Lewis knew he had gone too far, as proven a second later when his dad’s fist struck him in the jaw. Lewis staggered back, dazed a little.

  A split second later Charles was there, pushing Mr Vine away, while Mrs Vine turned and screamed at Mr Vine for hitting their son. Lewis stood there, rubbing his jaw as the three of them shouted, none listening but all with things to say. Lewis had much to say, too, but he knew there was little point. Nobody was in the mood to listen.

  He grabbed Charles by the arm and pulled him towards the front door. ‘Come on, we’ll find Owain ourselves.’

  Charles was still shouting the odds when the front door closed behind them, while inside the house the raised voices continued unabated. Lewis had to half-drag his friend up the
short driveway and onto Caradon View. With each step he realised even more fully just how much he couldn’t wait to leave Bledoe the next day.

  Henry Barns had heard it all now. His family had owned the pub for over forty years – he had grown up in it. And he had heard every story under the sun, not least about the old Manor up near Draynes Wood. He had even warned his own children away from the place, not that he believed half the stories told, but he knew there was something about the Manor that troubled him. But this was a whole new slant on things, and that it was coming from Ray Phillips… Henry didn’t know what to make of it.

  ‘And there’s something in the woods.’ Ray was slurring.

  Henry should probably cut the man off, but who was being harmed? In a place like Bledoe everybody knew everybody, and everybody knew Ray. Some had even read all of his books, although most only the first one, and so they all recognised the tale he was drunkenly telling. Except now it was taking a new spin. Perhaps it was from one of the later books? Henry didn’t know, he was one of those who only read the first book to support Ray. And he hadn’t liked what he’d read.

  ‘I saw it today. A big hairy thing, like a grizzly bear, only bigger.’

  Along the bar Fred laughed. ‘Grizzly bears in Cornwall! You need to write that one down.’

  The rest of the pub joined in the laughter, which only served to encourage Ray. Even Doctor Jason Starling and Mark Cawley, the local vet, who were the furthest away from the bar, looked up from their conversation. It was not like Ray to be the centre of attention; he was the one who just liked to enjoy a quiet pint on his own, sharing the odd joke with whoever happened to sit next to him at the bar. But this was different. This was a side of Ray that Henry had not seen since they were both kids, before that terrible accident. Back then Ray had been a bright kid – funny, outgoing, just one of the boys who liked to hang out in the woods, building rope swings over the gorge. But after the accident he had changed, became withdrawn. He only had a one real friend after that, despite the best efforts of Henry and the others.