‘Excellent.’ The colonel turned to George and Henry. ‘If I have no luck there…’
‘Then return here and we’ll help you where we can. Always look after our own.’ Henry gave a fraternal smile. Alistair had been a long time gone, but once a Bledoe boy, always a Bledoe boy. ‘Good, glad to hear it.’ With a shake of hands, Lethbridge-Stewart and Bishop left the pub. Once the door was closed George turned to Henry.
‘Seems to be a night for missing people. Owain’s not been home for hours.’
Henry couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Maybe Ray’s right? Perhaps this so-called Hollow Man of Ray’s does have him?’
George wasn’t amused, but laughed it off anyway, remembering his wife at home, worrying needlessly. ‘He’ll return when he does. Now, how about another pint? No rush to be home tonight.’
Some distance away from The Rose & Crown two young men were walking down Fore Street, the main road that passed through Bledoe. Lewis was getting worried now. He and Charles had checked everywhere in the village, their torches out. They’d even looked in the graveyard of Bledoe Parish Church, which had been empty but for an old woman. That was an unusual sight in itself; people rarely visited the graveyard at night, but it wasn’t of any concern to either Lewis or Charles. Let the old dear do as she pleased; Lewis was more concerned about his brother.
They had moved on from there to the sports field, but still no Owain. It was hard to know where to look, since Owain was an indoors person. They were now walking back from the sports field, looking across at the farms that reached out on either side of the road. They passed by a couple of houses, most of which had all lights out.
‘Still think we should try the Manor, man,’ Charles said.
Lewis was beginning to agree. But there had to be somewhere else to look. Of course, as the night continued so the darkness got denser and the less likelihood there was of finding Owain in the village itself.
He sighed and stopped. ‘Might be right.’ Lewis shook his head. ‘This isn’t good, is it?’
Charles shrugged. ‘So your brother is up at the Manor? What of it? Maybe he’s not such a stick in the mud after all. Come on, Lew.’ He punched Lewis lightly on the arm. ‘It’ll be fun either way, exploring the Manor in the dark. Maybe this time we’ll find the Whisperer on our own.’
‘If he hasn’t already found Owain.’
Charles grinned at this. He put the light under his chin and opened his eyes wide, his face distorted by the sharp shadows cast by the torch. ‘Spooky!’
Lewis forced a laugh. ‘Okay then. To the Manor we go.’
Gordon had left him again, but this time Owain didn’t feel the same emptiness as before, mostly because he could now see him. The boy, still little more than a spectral form, was stood in the middle of the main hall of the Manor, directing the Yeti.
Owain continued to sit on the bottom step of the staircase and watch them. With every movement it seemed the Yeti were changing shape. They still looked much the same as when he’d first seen them by the truck, but now their legs were longer, their bodies more lithe, giving them much more dexterity. Which, he supposed, came in useful for the task they were performing.
There were putting together a pyramid made of metal. It was hollow, wires hanging down from the tip, to which they attached what seemed to be a small silver bowl.
‘What is this for?’ he asked, bored of just watching.
Gordon looked over at him. ‘To complete the natural energy of the living entity.’
‘Which means?’
Gordon was confused for a moment, then he nodded slowly. ‘I am part of the ultimate sphere of reality, the unborn sphere of all phenomena. But all parts are needed and this device will bring them together.’
Owain wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew from joining with Gordon that other parts of them were returning. Them? Yes, Owain realised, he too was part of this ultimate sphere of reality; after all, he knew from their joining that Gordon was a past life of his.
He looked at the Yeti. ‘And what about these?’
‘Servants, soldiers, whatever I need.’ Gordon laughed. ‘They are not real, just robots controlled by an intelligence greater than any you have ever witnessed. But soon you shall. Soon you will experience the pure consciousness, that which is the original, natural energy of the living entity.’
‘What living entity?’
Gordon spread his small arms wide. ‘Everything around you. Every particle, every atom, everything that makes this universe.’
This sounded familiar to Owain. Something he had read somewhere, or maybe heard about on the wireless. ‘But you’re a ghost, a ghost of a little boy. What would you know of this entity?’
Gordon looked down at himself. ‘Yes, I became part of the pure consciousness.’
‘You mean you died?’
For a moment Gordon looked sad. ‘Yes. Many times over. Died, reborn, died again. We are forever.’
Owain accepted this with ease. ‘But what about the Yeti? How come they’ve changed?’
‘Matter is malleable, subject to the ultimate sphere of reality. If you know how, you can change it.’ Gordon turned back to the Yeti, all of whom were now standing by the pyramid, awaiting orders. ‘It is complete, and I am too weak to join with you again.’ He waved Owain over to the pyramid. ‘You must sit inside the pyramid.’
Owain stood up. He had many more questions, things he wanted to understand, but one thing he did not question was Gordon. Trust was absolute or it was not trust. So he sat inside the pyramid, crossing his legs uncomfortably. A Yeti reached down and placed the metal bowl on his head.
‘Close your eyes, and let your mind become one with the pure consciousness.’
Owain took a deep breath and did as he was told. A sound filled his head, a strange chanting. The vibration felt peaceful, relaxing. For the first time ever he felt nothing but contentment, a certainty that everything was as it was meant to be.
Penhale Meadow was only a ten-minute drive from The Rose & Crown, a road at the top of the village. They passed many homes along the way, and much more countryside to boot. There was something relaxing about driving through the village at night, Lethbridge-Stewart decided, and as they neared Redrose Cottage he felt a real sense of coming home.
It was a strange feeling to have when he considered he barely knew Bledoe. Yes, he had been born there, yes he had spent sixteen years of his life there, but that was the past now, and it was such a distant and disjointed past. He knew he should remember more – that as they drove from one end of the village to the other he should recognise the landmarks. But the church, which they drove around, could have been any old church to him, one of hundreds he’d seen in his forty years. He knew it should stir some kind of memory. His parents had always been God-fearing people, especially his mother, and they certainly would have brought him to Bledoe Parish Church almost every Sunday for his first sixteen years of life. But there was nothing.
The sense that he was missing something – not just any something, but great chunks of his past – was only magnified when Bishop pulled the army Land Rover alongside Redrose Cottage. The place was alien to him; nothing sparked a memory of any kind.
He looked at the thatched cottage and shook his head.
‘Are you okay, sir?’
He glanced at Bishop. ‘Not especially, Private. Have you ever visited a place you feel sure you should know, but can’t recall a single thing about it?’
Bishop gave it some thought as the two men stepped out of the vehicle. ‘Well, there was this park near my home when I was growing up; apparently I fell from the hut at the top of the slide when I was about six, but I don’t remember that at all. Been back a few times, but nothing.’
‘A feeling I can understand.’ He stopped before the cottage. ‘I was born here, yet it’s like I’ve never been here before.’
Bishop nodded slowly. ‘Traumatic childhood, sir?’
‘Not that I recall. Come on, let’s see if Raymond has had any
visitors.’
Bishop followed him. ‘Raymond, sir?’
Lethbridge-Stewart glanced back. ‘How easy we fall into old habits. Mr Phillips used to be my best friend, by all accounts. At least I vaguely remember that much.’
There were no lights on, as far as Lethbridge-Stewart could see. ‘Did you escort him inside?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Bishop said and reached for the door. He turned the doorknob and pushed. ‘Not particularly security conscious in these parts.’
‘I don’t suppose they need to be.’
The two men entered the house, and Lethbridge-Stewart called out to Raymond. There was no answer. He flicked the light switch. They were standing in the living room, and there was Raymond, conked out on the sofa. Lethbridge-Stewart smiled, for the moment studying the man, trying to match him to the boy he vaguely recalled. Both had a head of thick black hair, a beaky nose, although the boy in Lethbridge-Stewart’s memory was as thin as a rake, unlike the man sleeping before them. Not that Raymond was fat, far from it, but equally he would never be called slim.
Bishop moved around Lethbridge-Stewart and approached the small table on which sat an old Marconiphone Record Player. He hadn’t seen one like that in a while; it looked almost like a suitcase, the lid open to reveal the turntable inside. A 33 was still spinning, the needle scratching in silence while it waited for someone to lift it back to its cradle. This Bishop did.
‘You left music on for him?’ Lethbridge-Stewart asked.
‘No, sir. He was still awake when I left. Maybe the music made him sleep.’ Bishop picked up the record sleeve. ‘Gioachino Rossini? Would put me to sleep.’
Lethbridge-Stewart had to agree with that. ‘Okay, you look around down here, see if you can find my mother. Take a look in the back garden, too. I shall look upstairs. And, Private?’
‘Sir?’
‘If you find her, don’t alarm her. She’s probably very confused.’
Bishop saluted casually. ‘Yes, sir, no rude jokes. Understood.’
Lethbridge-Stewart watched Bishop turn away, a slight smile on his lips. He would have to keep an eye on Private Bishop – he was just the kind of soldier Lethbridge-Stewart might one day need on his team. Once this was all over, he’d speak to Hamilton, see about getting the young man transferred.
He left the living room and found the staircase immediately. Without actually remembering, he just knew the layout of the cottage. Curious as to what he might find, he climbed the stairs. There was very little of interest to see. A bathroom and airing cupboard and three bedrooms. The double bedroom was clearly where Raymond slept – not used much beyond that. It was too clean, too sparse. He moved on to the smaller room next to it and paused there. For the briefest of moments he remembered a glimpse of how it used to be. Toys everywhere, model planes, and a small boy sitting on a hard mattress of an old slim bed. The boy looked up from the plane he was holding, looked Lethbridge-Stewart right in the eyes.
They both smiled the same smile. It was him. It was his childhood bedroom. He pulled away and closed the door gently, disturbed by the memory. Not by the content, since he felt a strange happiness about the place. There was another sense that came with it. He looked down at his hands, certain they were soaked. They looked normal. He rubbed them together. Bone dry.
He turned from the single bedroom and walked a bit further down the landing to a slightly larger room. Inside was a study, books squeezed together on shelves to the point where the shelves looked ready to collapse under the weight. A desk sat at the end of the room before the window, a typewriter sitting on top of it. He walked further into the room.
Something was wrong. He walked over to the desk and without rational reason pulled it away from the wall. There, scratched into the wooden sill were two letters. ‘G’ and a… He wasn’t sure, the letter was faded, but it looked like an ‘I’. Suddenly overcome by a wave of dizziness, he sat back on the desk.
He had lived here during the war, when evacuees from London had been billeted in the countryside. The ‘G’ had to be his dad, Gordon, but the ‘I’…? An evacuee? It was the only explanation he could think of.
He returned downstairs, troubled by unfamiliar feelings. His life had always been so certain, his mind always directed towards his future. He did not look back, never considered where he had come from. All his life experiences added up to the man he was today, everything from studying to be a math’s teacher, to his National Service, to his abrupt career change afterwards – everything together had made him a colonel in the Scots Guards, had equipped him to defeat the Great Intelligence in London. But that’s all the past was – had been, at least, until today: a path to the present, to the future, and a one-way path at that. The sooner he left Bledoe the better.
‘What’s the time, Bishop?’ he asked, just for something to distract him.
‘Nearly half past ten, sir.’
‘Very well. Let’s take one more drive around the village, and if no luck then we’ll return here. I don’t think Mr Phillips will mind too much. After all, unless I’m mistaken my mother still technically owns this cottage.’
Bishop walked towards the front door. He opened it and waited. When Lethbridge-Stewart did not move, he asked, ‘And then, sir?’
‘We begin a search at first light. Mr Barns said that they look after their own, so I’m sure we count on the help of the entire village.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bishop left the cottage. For a moment longer Lethbridge-Stewart remained where he stood, his hand hovering over the light switch. Except for the television set and the record player, he had a feeling the living room hadn’t changed in twenty-four years. Every bit of furniture had once belonged to his parents. He placed a hand on the sideboard beneath the light switch and closed his eyes. This was his home.
It took them longer to reach the Manor than usual. Lewis had never been there at night before, and by the dim light of their torches the path seemed to swerve and dip in ways he didn’t remember from their trips in daytime. So focused were they on navigating, that they were only a few yards from the Manor when Lewis noticed that there seemed to be lights on; a first from what he knew.
Somebody was definitely home.
‘Ergh!’
Lewis glanced back at Charles, who was shining his torch on his hand. ‘What?’
‘What is this?’ Charles showed him the filament-like strands that had somehow attached itself to his hand. ‘Some sort of cobweb?’
Lewis shrugged. ‘Probably.’
‘But it’s so thick. Yuck!’ Charles rubbed his hand against his Lee jeans. Once suitably free of the web, he joined Lewis and looked out at the Manor. ‘Hang on, what’s that over there?’
Lewis looked. There appeared to be someone standing by the gate. No, not someone, he realised, once the shape moved. Some kind of creature. Bigger than the average man, covered in hair. Lewis strained his eyes. ‘Claws?’
‘Looks like.’ Charles made to move ahead. Lewis grabbed him back by the shoulders.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he hissed.
‘Going to investigate, what do you think? Last night in Cornwall and finally something interesting is happening.’
Lewis could hardly believe him. ‘Interesting? What do you think that thing is?’
Charles shrugged. He really didn’t care. ‘A bear? The Whisperer?’
‘You’re mad. Come on, we should go and…’ Lewis stopped. Twigs snapped behind them, crunched underfoot. He swallowed and looked back.
What he saw scared him more than any bear.
Two more of the beasts approached. Whatever they were, it was obvious they were quite capable of tearing Lewis and Charles apart limb by limb. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Between them was a very familiar figure. His eyes glowed with the same red fire as those of the two beasts, and on his head he wore a silver skullcap.
It was his brother, Owain.
— CHAPTER SEVEN —
Out in the Woods
THEI
R BRIEF TOUR OF BLEDOE by moonlight had proven fruitless; the village would have benefited from the odd streetlamp, Lethbridge-Stewart thought. They had even searched the graveyard, but little joy was to be had there. It seemed to be empty, but there were so many nooks and crannies hidden in the darkness that such a search was almost self-defeating. It was fast approaching midnight by the time they returned to Redrose Cottage, and it was agreed that they should rest there for the night. It was unfair to return to the pub and turn Mr Barns’ life upside down – he did, after all, have his own family to look after.
Bishop took one of the comfortable-looking chairs in the living room, although Lethbridge-Stewart doubted the young soldier would sleep much, while he went upstairs to sleep in the room that had once belonged to him – so many years ago.
Sleep was elusive; he was far too distracted by the huge gap in his memory. He remembered leaving Bledoe in ‘45; he remembered how he and his mother had gone to live with her sister and brother-in-law. They had remained there for a couple of years, before finally settling in Coleshill, although Lethbridge-Stewart had never spent a lot of time there, too busy studying in college. But before ‘45 what did he recall? The death of his father early in the year, the letter his mother had received informing her that Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart was missing in action, believed dead. Neither he nor his mother had believed it, but as the months passed the reality settled in; it had led his mother to the decision to leave Bledoe, in an attempt to escape all the pain and loss she associated with the village.
But what of before? He had lived in this cottage for sixteen years, which meant he had gone to school in nearby Liskeard. He had a life in Bledoe, sixteen years of memories, of experiences, of friendships… And yet he could recall almost nothing of them. Mr Barns mentioned something about tagging along, that Lethbridge-Stewart had not been part of the gang that included Barns, Raymond and some boy called James. So he must have had his own friends, surely?
Lethbridge-Stewart sat up. No, sleep was not going to be had. He checked his wristwatch. Half past midnight. He really should call HQ, check in and find out the latest about Arnold. He reached for his uniform jacket, reminding himself to go and pick up some fatigues from the nearest army base tomorrow – he had the distinct impression he would be out in the field for a while, and his colonel’s uniform did not suit such field work. Besides which, despite the rough material, he always felt more comfortable in fatigues.
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