by C. R. Berry
“What?” said Jennifer.
Adam’s silence broke to, “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
He frowned. “Seriously, though.”
“Yes!”
Adam sighed and sipped his Guinness. “Next you’ll be thinking the Royal Family’s a bunch of alien lizards.”
Jennifer cocked her left eyebrow, smirking, “They are.”
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She took it out.
A message from who? Fabienne? And that wasn’t her wallpaper. It was a picture of Tom, her sister’s boyfriend.
“Fuck balls, I picked up Jamie’s phone,” Jennifer said. She remembered now. It was on the kitchen table. Jamie was in there in cooking pasta. In a rush, Jennifer just grabbed it, but now she suspected that hers was still in her work trousers, strewn across her bed. They both had the same phone and same-colour case – she’d told Jamie not to get the same case as her.
Jennifer sighed. “Sorry, mate,” she said to Adam. “I’m gonna have to run back home.”
“Oh, what? You need your phone that bad?”
“I don’t, no. But Jamie will whinge and whine at me for a week, particularly if, heaven forbid, Tom tries to call her while I’ve got her phone.”
“Fine.” Adam hated sitting in pubs on his own. Always said he got funny looks from everyone, but Jennifer was convinced that was him being paranoid.
“Really sorry. Be back as quick as I can.”
“I’ll look after your pint.”
“Thanks.”
Jennifer launched out of the pub garden’s outdoor gate and sprinted down the road.
After a few minutes, she crossed to head down Witney Lane, the residential road that led to The Birches and her house.
Tyres screamed. An engine roared.
What?
She’d thought the road was clear.
She spun towards the roaring engine, but didn’t see a car. Only headlights.
Thwack.
The car’s front bumper took out her legs and tossed her in the air like a doll. She slammed against the bonnet, hard and cold, the crack of her own body ripping through her.
It was the most pain she’d ever felt – and then there was no pain at all.
The thumping of Jennifer Larson’s body as she tumbled over the bonnet and windscreen of his Lexus reminded Skinner of when he killed that deer a few years back. He rammed his feet against the brakes, skidding for several yards.
There was very little time and he needed to avoid being seen. He dived out of the car and rushed over to where Larson’s body was sprawled face-down in the road. He checked her neck for a pulse – nothing. Then he shoved his hands into the pockets of her bloodied jeans and yanked out her phone. In order to ensure that no one would hear the voicemail Ferro had left for her, he shot the phone with a narrow beam from his disruptor and kicked the scorched, broken pieces into a nearby drain.
Then he hurried back to his car and drove away.
13
July 7th 1483
Standing tall and proud on the north bank of the River Thames was England’s great bastion of royal authority: the Tower of London. Despite its name it was not one building but many, circled by two fortified curtain walls and a deep moat. At its heart was the huge, square White Tower, the original Norman keep built by William the Conqueror, with ninety-foot walls of whitewashed Kentish rag-stone defended on the corners by three square towers and one round one.
Majestic and intimidating to all who saw it, the Tower of London doubled as a royal residence and a prison. For Richard III’s nephews, twelve-year-old Edward and nine-year-old Richard, it was supposed to be the former, but each day felt more and more like the latter.
The boys had recently been moved from their royal lodgings in the White Tower to the Garden Tower, one of the mural towers along the inner curtain wall, close to the river. It overlooked the Constable’s Garden where they played together, but now they weren’t allowed out, and sentries kept watch at the entrance to the Garden Tower to make sure. For some time Edward had sensed that something was wrong. Although their uncle never visited, Edward had been assured by all the visitors they did have that he would be crowned on June 25th. Almost two weeks later, all of their visitors, including Edward’s physician, Dr Argentine, had stopped coming – and still he had no crown.
On the morning of July 7th, Edward woke abruptly, rocking the bed he shared with his brother and striking the little table at his bedside with his arm. His cup fell off the table, landing with a clank, spilling water over the floor and startling Richard awake.
“Brother!” Richard cried. “Are you all right?”
Edward lay back down, chest heaving, throat dry and sore. His pillow was sodden with sweat and cold against his head. “Just a nightmare,” he replied. He couldn’t even remember what it was about.
“You keep having them, don’t you?” said Richard.
“Sometimes.” An understatement. He’d been having recurring nightmares about horrible things happening to the two of them in the Tower, the kind that caused him to wake up in a panic. Most mornings he did remember them, though he always pretended he didn’t for Richard’s sake. This morning he appreciated the memory loss.
Edward tumbled out of bed, the stone floor like ice against his bare feet. He approached the mullioned window. Yellow sunlight poured through, painting hot gold bars on the opposite wall. In a few hours when the sun had moved, the room would be dark and chilly again. Edward looked out over a deathly quiet Water Lane, the thoroughfare in the outer ward that ran parallel with the Thames, and St Thomas’s Tower – the castle’s river entrance – directly opposite. The river wrinkled by beyond it, but the tower and the outer curtain wall blocked it from sight.
From the corner of his eye, Edward caught his brother’s rapt stare in his direction. “Richard, what is it?” he asked.
“When do you think they are going to let us out of here?”
Edward faced his brother and shook his head, “I do not think they are.”
“What? Why?”
“Come on, Richard. I know you are two years younger than me, but surely you cannot be blind to what is going on here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. I am the king, or at least I am supposed to be. And yet I am confined to this room as though I have done something wrong. The people who bring us food are our only visitors, and they always come when we are asleep. It is as if Uncle Richard is pretending I do not exist. When he sent you here, brother, he said it was so you could keep me company. That is not the true reason. I think it was because, after me, you are next in line for the throne. And I think our power-hungry uncle wants the throne for himself.”
“You mean, he put us here to get rid of us?”
“Yes. And I suspect he is not done yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, he can’t leave us in here forever, can he? If he wants the throne, he is going to have to kill us.”
“What? No! He can’t!” Richard threw off his covers, leapt out of bed and hastened to the door. He shook the handle, pulled it, but the door was locked from the outside. Desperate, he pulled it again, harder, with more urgency, but the door barely moved, the lock banging defiantly. Richard shrank back, his whole body wilting in defeat.
“Richard, do not be disheartened,” Edward said softly. “These past few days, I have been thinking. I have been thinking about something Father gave me. While I was at Ludlow Castle, Father sent me a package, shortly before he died, and there was a letter from him accompanying it.”
“A package? You never told me. What was in it? What did the letter say?”
Edward walked over to the Gothic elm chest that housed their clothes. He opened the chest and dug past their garments to retrieve a leather satchel wrapped in a tunic at the bottom. He opened the satchel and pulled out two items – a little white pot with writing on it and a ragged-looking oak box with riveted iron bands that were scabbed with rust – and
placed them on the table where they ate.
“What are those?” Richard asked.
Edward returned his hand inside the satchel, pulling out a large, folded sheet of parchment which he unfolded to read.
“Is that Father’s letter?” said Richard.
“Yes. Let me read it to you. It will help you make sense of what I am about to show you.”
Richard nodded and Edward started reading.
Edward, my dearest son and heir, if you are reading this now, the Lord God has answered my prayers and this package has reached you safely at Ludlow.
My son, please do not fear, but I am not long for this world and soon you will be made king. Your kingship is a gift I had not intended to bestow on you this early but if it is our Lord’s will, so be it.
With kingship come fine rewards and weighty burdens. There is a burden I have been carrying that I must now pass to you. In the package you will find four objects. The first is a box, the second a key to opening it. The third you will find inside the box: a book, like none you have ever seen. For one it tells the future. Its pages predict a serious threat to the Crown and the Realm that will occur centuries from now. For another it yields a strange, unworldly power that has led prior custodians to name it the ‘Impossible Book’. I call it the ‘Book That Listens’.
In 1348, the book was given to my great-great-grandfather, Edward III, by Catherine Godfrey, the wife of a cordwainer. Catherine explained that it was given to her ancestor, Thomas Godfrey, by the chief minister to the Norman king William II, and that her family had been instructed by King William to keep it safe, hidden and secret. At the time London was ravaged by plague and Catherine decided that her family could no longer discharge the burden that King William had put upon them.
It is not clear where or when the Book That Listens originates, nor how it came to be in King William’s possession. What is known is that King William had the box that houses it specially made to guard against its power.
Edward glanced at his brother. A deepening frown was on his brow. Edward could not blame him. He carried on.
Edward III kept the box with the Royal Treasure in the Tower of London and the key on his person. The kings that followed him were told of it and did the same. We all pledged to keep it safe.
The final object you will find in the package is a pot of unusual-looking red pills –
“Pills?” said Richard.
“Yes,” said Edward, retrieving the pot from the table, lifting its lid and handing it to Richard.
Richard pinched a pill from the pot to look at it. “W-what are they?”
Edward held up their father’s letter and resumed reading.
This is something that came into my possession last year. A man forced his way into my bedchamber and threatened to kill me if I did not surrender the book. I was able to overpower him and thrust my longsword into his back. As he lay dying he removed this pot of pills from inside his cloak. He opened it, took a pill and went to place it in his mouth. Before the pill touched his tongue, he was dead.
It is plain that the architects of the Book That Listens have powers beyond imagination. That is why I am certain that these strange little pills are enchanted. I have wondered if they possess the power to transport he who swallows them to another place and if the intruder meant to use them to escape.
After my encounter with him, I moved the book and the pills to a new hiding place here at Westminster. Unfortunately whatever is killing me is doing so with haste and, with you still at Ludlow, the book and the pills will soon be unguarded. Henceforth I have sent them to you there so that you can continue to keep them safe.
There is little time and much to do, so let me finish by saying that I love you. I know that you have been working hard at Ludlow and I am sorry that we have not been able to see each other more. I am making your uncle, Duke Richard, Lord Protector of the Realm until you come of age, and with you and your uncle together, I know that I leave England in good hands.
Farewell, my son. Look after your brother, your mother and your sisters.
Your adoring father and king.
Tears dangled on his brother’s eyelashes. A couple fell. “I miss him,” Richard said, sniffing.
“I know,” whispered Edward, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “I do too.”
“Father trusted Uncle Richard. That much is clear.”
“Yes. He clearly did not know what Uncle Richard would do the moment his blood was cold.”
Richard placed the pot of red pills on the table and picked up the box. “Can I see it?”
Edward tucked his hand into the collar of his nightshirt and unhooked a silver chain with a key from around his neck.
“You sleep with the key?” said Richard.
“Yes. Ever since I received the package.”
He handed the key to his brother. Richard turned but Edward put his hand on his shoulder to stop him and warned, “Be careful, brother.”
“Why?”
“Because walls do not have ears. But books do.”
Edward released his shoulder. Face contorted in a deep, confused scowl, Richard sat down in his chair, the box in his lap, eased the key into the small, rickety lock and turned it, making a series of small clinking sounds. He opened it and lifted out the Book That Listens.
“The History of Computer-Aided Timetabling for Railway Systems by Jeremy Jennings. What in the world does that mean?”
“No one has been able to determine that yet.”
Richard examined the cover, stroking his fingers over the dark green cloth binding. “What do you mean… ears? And why did Father call it the Book That Listens?”
Edward took the book, opened it to the last page of text, and handed it back to him.
Richard shot to his feet, the box tumbling off his lap onto the floor with a thud. “What?” He looked up at Edward, shaking his head with disbelief. “But… it can’t be. How? How can it – ?”
Richard returned his eyes to the book and gasped. He threw it down on the bed in horror.
“No! I don’t believe it. It’s… impossible!”
“Yes, brother. Hence – the impossible book.”
Richard sat down on his side of the bed, gripping the edge of the feather mattress with both hands, trying to get a handle on what he had just seen. A moment later, “Wait. Father also said it told the future. How? What future?”
Edward walked over to the bed and picked up the book. He opened it to the beginning and showed Richard. He saw the pallor in his brother’s face thicken to that of a corpse as he read about them.
“I… I do not understand what this means.”
“It means they are coming, brother. And we must play our part in stopping them.”
“But they’re not coming for centuries! What are we supposed to do?”
“Just as our predecessors have done. Protect the book, now the pills too. But Richard, there is another reason why I have chosen this morning to show you these things.”
“What is it?”
“You heard what Father said in his letter about the pills. He thought they were enchanted and might present a means of escape. So what if we could use them to leave the Tower?”
Richard stood and gestured wildly with his arms, crying, “Father was speculating! He had no idea what the pills are capable of.” Edward could tell by his brother’s increasingly high pitch and animated delivery that he was becoming agitated.
Edward replied, calmly as he could, “You’re right. We cannot presume to know what might happen if we swallowed one of these pills. But if our uncle means to do away with us, they could be our only chance.”
Richard rasped, “Uncle Richard may yet let us go free.”
“You keep believing that.”
He folded his arms and sat back down. “Perhaps I will. You’re not always right about everything, you know.” He pulled a sullen, pouty face, the one he made when he took exception to his elder brother telling him what to do, and Edward half-expected his customary r
etort, ‘You’re not king yet, brother,’ but Richard just sulked silently.
Edward decided not to push him. He hoped he’d instilled enough fear and uncertainty in Richard that he would come to the realisation on his own. He changed the subject, tried to talk to Richard about other things, but got little response.
Hours passed. Edward tried to read. Richard stared out of the window, his face drawn with worry. Every now and again, a tear rolled down his cheek. Eventually he lay down on the bed and slept, or tried to. He was so alone and Edward didn’t know how to comfort him.
If only their mother were here. Richard really needed her, as did he.
Edward went to the window. The blue sky was darkening to a lavender-grey. Another night was drawing in. Another night stuck in this room. It had started to occur to Edward that the room was a little bit smaller each day, that the walls were closing in, an inch at a time.
Or perhaps he was losing his mind.
His belly made a noise. He was hungry. The paltry amount of bread and fruit left inside their doorway each day was never enough.
For a moment, he contemplated an alternative getaway. In the small hours someone would come before either of them were awake, open their door and leave the food and a jug of water before closing and locking it again. If Edward resolved to stay awake, he could make a move when the food-bringer arrived. Spring for the open door, push the food-bringer down the stairs, breaking his or her neck, and then he and Richard could make a run for it.
But what if he failed? What if the food-bringer was a sentry, a huge tree of a man who could snap him and his brother like twigs?
As time wore on he couldn’t shake the feeling that the next person to visit would not be a food-bringer anyway. He would be their killer.
It was while these thoughts lingered that the sound of a door scraping open at the bottom of the tower startled both of them.
“Who’s that?” Richard shrieked, leaping off the bed.
The night was young and neither of them were asleep. Couldn’t have been their food-bringer.
