One for Sorrow

by Philip Caveney

  ‘I, I didn’t,’ he assured her. ‘Really.’

  ‘I hope not. Well, get yourself sorted anyway. Hamish is already raring to go! He wants to head into town early, so we can soak up the atmosphere.’

  ‘Hamish?’ Tom looked at her, remembering that the last time he saw his stepfather, he’d been in the act of mutating into some kind of monster. ‘Is he . . . is he okay? I mean, has he . . . changed at all?’

  ‘I’ll say he has! He’s like a big kid. He hasn’t been to a pop concert in years. Me neither, come to think of it.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s still going ahead? The concert, I mean. What with the snow and everything, maybe . . .’

  Now she really did look puzzled. ‘Snow? What snow?’

  ‘Oh, I thought . . .’

  But she marched across the room and pulled open the curtains to reveal a sky that was surprisingly clear and bright. ‘It’s like a spring day,’ she assured him. ‘That’s not something you get to say very often in Edinburgh. Even when it actually is spring!’ She turned back and shook her head. ‘Snow,’ she said. ‘Tom, sometimes I wonder what’s going on in your head. Now, you’d better hit the shower. Your breakfast will be on the table in ten minutes. Be there or I’m giving it to the cat.’ She went out again, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Haven’t even got a cat,’ muttered Tom, but then reminded himself that in this version of his life there was every possibility that the family did have a cat, maybe even several of them. Possibly even a lion or a tiger. He started to get to his feet, but grunted when he felt a stab of pain in his right heel. He stared down for a moment then stripped off his socks to reveal feet that were filthy with a mixture of dried mud and blood. When he investigated the painful heel, he found a scab where the skin had recently been gashed. The socks were past all redemption, so he bundled them up and dropped them into the litterbin.

  He limped out to the bathroom where he stripped off his clothes and got into the shower. The stream of hot water brought him fully awake and he spent quite some time soaping the cuts and scratches on his feet until they were clean. He dried himself, found a plaster in the medicine cabinet and taped it carefully over the injured heel. Back in his room he pulled clean clothes out of the wardrobe and a new pair of socks. When he examined the shoes he’d worn to climb Arthur’s Seat, he decided that they too were ruined, so he slipped them into the bottom of his wardrobe and put on another pair of Converse that he’d brought with him. He was about to let himself out of the room when his gaze fell on the laptop on his desk and a sudden thought occurred to him. It had been stirred by something that Cat had asked him. ‘What of that, Tom? In that museum of yours, I suppose it must have registered the year of my death?’

  It occurred to him that right there on his laptop was a copy of Cat’s novel, The Path of Truth which he had downloaded from Project Gutenberg. And he seemed to remember that there was also a little biography of Cat at the beginning of that book.

  He couldn’t help himself. A few moments later he’d booted up the laptop and was checking out the introduction. And there it was, right at the beginning of the novel. Catriona McCallum 1813-1882.

  It hit him like a punch to the chest. He sat there staring open-mouthed at the screen as the horrible truth sank in. Back in Cat’s time it was New Year’s Eve, 1881. Which meant that in a matter of hours, she would be entering her final year on the planet. But what to do about it? Should he tell her? Warn her about it, so she could get her things in order, ready for departure? Or would it be kinder to say nothing, to let her blissfully carry on with the short time she had left? Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t looked. It was a knowledge he really didn’t want to have.

  ‘Tom, come on, your food’s getting cold!’

  Mum’s voice startled him. He got obediently to his feet, went out of the room and started down the staircase.

  Halfway down, something weird happened. There was a sudden fluttering sound in Tom’s head and the world around him seemed to grey out again. As he stood there, swaying uncertainly, the staircase began to change beneath him from the modest, carpeted steps of Hamish’s place to the broad curve of the mahogany staircase in Cat’s more spacious town house. Tom threw out a hand to the banister rail to steady himself and actually felt it remoulding itself beneath his grip. He stared around in astonishment. This was a new one!

  Everything shimmered then settled and he was able to continue cautiously on his way, but now he was descending to the tiled floor of Cat’s hallway. He made his way towards the drawing room where he knew he could generally find her. As he approached he heard voices talking within and when he opened the door and went inside, he found Cat sitting in an easy chair chatting to Lou who was sitting on the sofa opposite her, a silver tray of tea things on the table between them. They both looked up at Tom and smiled.

  ‘Ah, Tom,’ said Cat. ‘I was just debating whether or not to give you a call. Mr Stevenson has dropped by with an invitation for us both.’

  ‘An invitation?’ Tom was trying to make sense of it all, but even to him, this sudden switching around in time and place was unusual, to say the least. He felt numbed, disorientated and as he looked at Cat, all he could think of was that she was going to die soon and there wasn’t a thing he could do to prevent it.

  ‘Yes.’ Lou smiled at Tom. ‘There’s to be a musical recital in Princes Street Gardens, this afternoon,’ he explained. ‘In the Ross Bandstand. We’re planning to go as a family and we thought that you and Mrs McCallum might care to accompany us. We’d be delighted if you’d accept.’

  Tom struggled to get his head around this latest development. Wasn’t the Deceiver’s concert supposed to be happening in exactly the same place?

  ‘Er, well, I suppose . . .’

  ‘It’s going to be splendid,’ Lou assured him. ‘A shame they couldn’t have the event later on, to actually see in the New Year, but the city councillors thought that would be lacking in decorum.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘So old-fashioned! But, they’ve had workmen clearing the snow all morning to make sure the event can go ahead. You will join us, won’t you?’

  ‘I haven’t been to a music recital in years,’ said Cat and as she said it, her face seemed to momentarily shimmer and change. For an instant, it looked decidedly like Mum’s face.

  ‘All the more reason to come with us,’ said Lou and his face was shifting too, to look for a second or two like Hamish, before melting back again. Tom tried not to stare at him. ‘You will come with us, won’t you, Tom? Lloyd says it won’t be the same without you.’ He turned back to look at Cat. ‘He’s been telling us he has some big secret to unveil tonight, but he isn’t going to say a word until we’re all gathered in the park.’ He laughed. ‘Young boys, eh? Who can fathom what’s going on in their heads?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Cat, gravely and she looked at Tom. ‘What do you say, Tom, do you feel up to going along?’ She glanced at Lou. ‘Tom’s been feeling a little… under the weather,’ she explained.

  ‘Oh, well, all the more reason to get out in the fresh air. I’m sure if we all wrap up warm, it will be

  most invigorating.’ Lou smiled at Tom. ‘After your little performance on Christmas Eve, it’s clear that you like music . . .’

  ‘Well, yes,’ admitted Tom. ‘But . . .’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Cat urged him. ‘You’re looking rather pale.’

  ‘I’m feeling a bit odd,’ Tom told them. But he came obediently around to the sofa and went to sit down beside Lou. As he lowered himself, the world shimmered and rippled and as his backside made contact with the sofa he registered that it felt curiously hard beneath him. Not like a sofa at all. More like a wooden chair . . .

  ‘Toast?’ asked Hamish.

  Tom jolted in his seat and looked wildly around. He was sitting at the kitchen table in Fairmilehead and Mum and Hamish were looking at him oddly. Hamish was proffering a plate of buttered toast. Tom looked down at the table and saw a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.


  ‘What is this?’ he asked the world in general.

  ‘It’s bacon and eggs,’ said Mum, sounded crestfallen. ‘I’m sorry, would you have preferred cereal? I thought a cooked breakfast would set us up for the day.’

  ‘Er, no, no, that’s fine. I didn’t mean . . .’

  Hamish coughed politely and Tom realised he was still holding out the plate of toast. Tom took a slice, even though the last thing he felt like doing now was eating. He dropped it onto his side plate and looked around the kitchen. Everything appeared to be perfectly ordinary. The clock on the wall registered the time as 10.48 and the second hand was moving in the right direction, which he supposed was something to be grateful for.

  ‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ said Mum. ‘Having breakfast this late in the day. It’s more like brunch, really!’ She forked a chunk of bacon into her mouth. ‘Don’t tell your father I let you lie in so late!’

  ‘Catherine, the boy’s on holiday,’ said Hamish. ‘When I was his age, I could sleep until the cows came home. I often did.’ He winked at Tom. ‘I’m guessing it’s RLS keeping you up so late, eh?’

  Tom stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’ he muttered.

  ‘Treasure Island,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s a fabulous book, isn’t it? Where are you up to?’

  ‘I’m, you know, I’m really not sure,’ said Tom and was vaguely surprised to realise that this was absolutely true.

  Hamish gave him a puzzled look. ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘Well, er, I think, er . . . it’s the bit where they’re all in the stockade,’ elaborated Tom, citing the last part that he actually remembered reading. ‘And they’re waiting for the pirates to attack.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ve just finished rewriting that scene.’

  Tom stared at him. ‘You’ve . . . what?’ he whispered.

  Hamish’s face was dissolving again, reshaping itself into Lou’s leaner, more handsome features. At the same time the wooden chair under Tom’s buttocks softened and he felt himself sinking down into the sofa. Tom tried not to panic. He wasn’t sure what was going on but he didn’t like it one little bit.

  ‘I’ve been working like a demon,’ said Lou. ‘I think it’s very nearly ready. And all thanks to you, Tom.’ He reached out a hand and squeezed Tom’s shoulder. ‘In fact, there’s something I wanted to show you.’

  ‘Is everything all right, Tom?’ interrupted Cat. ‘You look a little confused.’

  ‘No kidding?’ muttered Tom. He shook his head, trying to dispel the dizziness that lingered there. ‘I’m, I’m fine, really.’

  Lou was reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a sheet of writing paper and handed it to Tom. ‘I thought I’d make my thanks a little more concrete,’ he said. ‘I hope you approve.’

  Tom unfolded the sheet of paper and read the contents with a sinking heart. He had, of course, already seen this on his Kindle.

  To Tom Afflick, an English gentleman, in accordance with whose classic taste the following narrative has been designed, it is now, in return for numerous delightful hours, and with the kindest wishes, dedicated by his affectionate friend, the author.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Lou, brightly.

  ‘I, I think . . . it really can’t happen,’ said Tom, quietly.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Lou.

  ‘This . . .’ Tom waved the sheet of paper. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s dead nice of you and everything, it really is, but, you’ve got to change it.’

  Lou looked exasperated. ‘Change it? I thought you’d be pleased!’

  ‘I am. Really, I am, but . . .’ Tom was desperately trying to reason it out and then he seized on what he thought just might be his salvation. ‘But, what about Lloyd?’ he reasoned. ‘What’s he going to think?’

  ‘Lloyd?’ Lou reacted as though he was unfamiliar with the name. ‘I really don’t see what it has to do with him.’

  ‘It’s got everything to do with him. I mean, he’d go mental, wouldn’t he? He’d go ballistic.’

  Lou looked across to Cat as though seeking her help with the matter. Cat got up from her chair and came across to study the page in Tom’s hand.

  Lou was still trying to figure it out. ‘You’re saying that my stepson . . . would become mentally ill?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Not exactly. But he wouldn’t be very pleased, would he? And who could blame him? After all, he was the one who started the whole thing. If he hadn’t asked you to tell him a story about that map, there wouldn’t be a Treasure Island, would there?’ He looked up at Cat, seeking her support and thankfully, she took the hint.

  ‘Tom’s right, Mr Stevenson. Lloyd would surely feel cheated if this were allowed to stand. After all, he does think of himself as the story’s inspiration.’

  Lou frowned. ‘I confess, I hadn’t thought of it that way,’ he admitted. He seemed to consider for a moment. ‘Well, what if perhaps if I were to make it a joint dedication for the two of you?’

  ‘No,’ said Tom and even as he said it, he realised he was throwing away a real honour. The famous author of one of the world’s best-loved books was offering to dedicate that book to him and he was throwing it back in the man’s face! Part of him wanted to change his mind and accept, deal with the consequences later, but he knew he couldn’t. ‘No, it’s a really cool idea, Lou, and thanks for the offer, but I reckon he’d still feel like I was pushing him out. It needs to be all about him.’ He tried and failed to keep a note of irritation out of his voice. ‘He’d love that.’ He glanced at the paper again. ‘The words you’ve got here, though, they’re perfect. Just put his name there instead. And change “English gentleman” to “American gentleman”. That’ll be spot on.’

  He handed the sheet of paper back to Lou, who looked somewhat deflated. ‘Well, I must say, that’s really not the reaction I was expecting, but now you have pointed it out to me, I can see the wisdom in your words. Lloyd is . . . a sensitive young soul.’

  That’s one name for him, thought Tom.

  ‘And it’s true, I suppose, that had it not been for him, we wouldn’t be sitting here discussing the future publication of a book. So, I will reluctantly change the dedication. But Tom, I really would like to reward you for being such an inspiration to me. If there’s anything I can do to show my appreciation, you only have to ask.’

  ‘There is something,’ said Tom.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like you to look after Cat. When I’m gone.’

  ‘You’re going somewhere?’

  ‘Er, yeah, soon, I think. I’m not really sure when, but I get the feeling it won’t be long now. But, when I go, I’d like you to keep an eye on my er . . . godmother. Make sure she doesn’t come to any harm. Would you do that for me?’

  ‘It would be my absolute pleasure,’ said Lou. ‘But I don’t understand. You say you’re going somewhere, but you’re not entirely sure when?’

  ‘It’ll be when my mum and stepdad get back. From er, the South of France. I think they were talking about moving back to . . . to Manchester.’

  ‘I see.’ Lou frowned. ‘Well, I’ll be sorry to lose your company, Tom. Profoundly sorry.’ He folded the piece of paper and slipped it back into his inside pocket. ‘I have one or two things to attend to before the concert,’ he announced. ‘If you will both excuse me?’ He got to his feet and headed towards the door. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said. ‘And I’ll send a hansom for you at, shall we say one o’clock? We’ll meet you by the main entrance to the park.’

  ‘We shall look forward to it,’ Cat assured him.

  Lou bowed politely and went out, closing the door behind him. There was a brief silence while they waited for him to move out of earshot then Cat came and sat beside Tom on the sofa and took his hands in hers.

  ‘What is going on?’ she asked him. ‘I’ve never seen you so unsettled.’

  ‘I’ve been having these weird turns,’ he told her. ‘Slipping backwards and forwards in time. I can’t seem
to stop myself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Mum’s voice.

  Cat’s face was shimmering, dissolving. The seat beneath Tom hardened. Now it was Mum holding his hands and looking concerned. Tom glanced wildly around. There was no sign of Hamish.

  ‘I mean, I mean, I . . .’

  ‘What weird turns? Do you need to see a doctor?’

  ‘No. No, of course not. I just . . . where’s Hamish?’

  Mum gave him an odd look. ‘Didn’t you hear him? He said he had a few jobs to do before we headed into town. Tom, you look awfully pale. Are you sure you’re alright?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum.’ Tom pulled his hands from hers. ‘Stop fussing!’

  ‘You didn’t eat any breakfast,’ observed Mum reproachfully, pointing at his virtually untouched plate. ‘Would you like me to make you something else?’

  He shook his head. ‘I think . . . I think I might have a bit of a lie-down before we go out. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I did stay up too late last night. Would that be okay?’

  ‘Of course. You go on up,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll give you a call when we’re getting ready to leave.’ She watched as he got unsteadily to his feet and went towards the door. ‘I hope you’re not coming down with something,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine after I’ve had a rest,’ Tom assured her. ‘Really, you don’t need to worry about me.’

  He opened the door and stepped through it, only to find that there was no floor on the other side. Then he was falling into blackness once again, with the sound of wings beating all around him.

  Eighteen

  He came down hard, in a sitting position, with an impact that jarred the entire length of his spine. He shouted in pain and his arms slammed against two wooden surfaces. Almost instantly his wrists were encircled by cold metal cuffs that clamped themselves shut with an audible click. Likewise, his ankles were gripped and held in position. He tried to struggle and realised with a dull sense of shock that he was immobile, unable to move his body so much as an inch in any direction. Only his head was free.