He was ready to go. He threw a guilty glance at Lucky, knowing that he’d be expecting to go out for a run straight after eating, but that wasn’t going to happen today. If Lucky had a little ‘accident’ on the rug later, it wouldn’t be his fault. The boy paused to give the dog a reassuring pat and said, ‘Wish me luck.’ Then he let himself out of the house and ran all the way back to the tram stop. On the other side of the road a couple of friends shouted to him to stop and talk to them, but he ignored them and kept going.
He was gasping for breath by the time he got to the stop and saw to his annoyance that he’d just missed one tram and had twelve minutes to wait for the next. He paced anxiously up and down, glancing repeatedly at the illuminated display and seeing in his mind’s eye the grey-haired man’s furious expression as the minutes ticked steadily away. Finally the tram came into view, moving at an annoyingly sedate pace and as soon as the doors slid open he jumped aboard, reminding himself that this time he was only going as far as Piccadilly. Again, the questions crowded in on him. Where was he supposed to go when he got there? The man had said that somebody would be watching him until he arrived. But why had they chosen a busy place like the station? Was it so that the bad men could study him from a distance to ensure that he really had come alone?
He endured another slow, stop-start journey towards the city, unable to settle on anything as a thousand random thoughts careened through his mind. What if he took too long getting back? What if the tram was delayed? Had the bad men hurt Dad? How else would they have got the safe’s combination off him?
The tram was already busy when he got on and as they moved steadily towards the city it got more and more crowded until the boy was jammed in amongst a press of people, all headed for the shops, the restaurants and the cinemas in the city centre. He felt sick, as though at any moment he might bring up his breakfast, but he knew he couldn’t allow himself to do that; that was a complication he couldn’t afford right now. He just had to get to the station and hand over the diamonds. His hand moved to the slight bulge of the whistle under his T-shirt, wanting to be sure it was still there, knowing that if he arrived without it something bad would happen to his father. The grey-haired man had told him so.
He knew, of course, that Dad was a diamond broker and that he often had to store valuable items at home, items that he’d purchased on behalf of one of his clients and from which he’d take a commission on the sale. It was the sort of work that Dad had always done, the same work his father had done before him and in all the years he’d been doing it, there’d never been a problem. The boy had occasionally asked Dad if it was safe having stuff like that at home, but Dad always told him there was absolutely nothing to worry about, he never told anybody what he did for a living, well, only his most trusted friends, and the other diamond brokers he worked with, so there was nothing to worry about on that score. But these men, these bad men had somehow found out about it. Maybe they’d overheard Dad talking to a client on the phone and afterwards had followed him home, worked out a way of getting to him. Maybe they’d been watching the house for ages, had seen the boy walking Lucky and realised that here was a really sneaky way to get to those diamonds.
Lucky had vanished a week earlier. One morning, the boy let him out onto the stretch of land in front of the house for his usual wee. He’d let him out of the door and then turned back a moment to scoop up the last bit of cereal in his breakfast bowl and when he’d come out, with the lead in his hand, there was no sign of Lucky, he’d just vanished as though he’d been spirited away. And that must have been the men, the boy told himself, waiting in the trees, watching the house and looking for an opportunity to grab Lucky and run off with him…
The tram jolted to a halt at some lights and the boy came back to the present. They were on the outskirts of Manchester now, the pavements teeming with shoppers, people going happily about their lives, not suspecting for a moment that in their midst was a boy going through the worst experience of his life. He wanted to scream and shout, but he couldn’t do that. He had to keep things together for Dad’s sake…
Finally, the tram trundled into the short stretch of tunnel that led to Piccadilly Station and emerged alongside the crowded platform. The doors slid open and the people on board moved as one, all seemingly in a hurry to alight as quickly as possible. The boy found himself wedged in the midst of a sea of humanity, one hand held protectively over the whistle under his T-shirt. Then he was on the platform and heading for the escalator. He reached the foot of it, found a spot on the right hand side and tried to angle his head to the left to see past the people standing in front of him. Just then there was a commotion from behind him as a man carrying a huge backpack shouted something about a train leaving in two minutes. The man stepped to his left and charged past the boy, beckoning to somebody just behind him and telling him to get a move on.
The boy turned to look just as a second man came charging up the escalator, he too, burdened by a huge backpack. As the man went past, his pack lurched to one side and the boy just had time to register the bulk of it swinging towards his face before something hard connected with the side of his head, with a powerful whack, almost knocking him clean off his feet. He swung to his right, fell against the rail, dazed and shocked, but managed to correct himself and got upright again, just in time to see the big man blundering on up the escalator, his unruly pack buffeting other people as he went by. Somebody shouted to him to be more careful.
And then the boy felt the strangest sensation. There was a dull pain in the side of his head and it was as though somebody had pulled a tab on the side of his face, allowing a thick fog to spurt into it, a fog that spread outwards in a grey blanket to completely obscure everything that was in his mind. He blinked, stared straight ahead, telling himself that he had to keep control of himself because he was here for something really important, he was here to… to… he was here to…
He arrived at the top of the escalator and almost fell as moving metal melted into stone tiles, but there were people behind him, pushing him and complaining at his indecision, so he kept moving forward, shaking his head to try and dispel the fog that had swamped him. But the more he did that, the thicker the fog became and now, now he really didn’t know why he was here and could only tell himself that he must have come to catch a train because this was obviously a station, right? And that’s what you did at stations.
He tried to stop walking for a moment, but somebody behind him jostled him and told him to watch what he was doing so he stumbled onwards and turned a corner. Another escalator lay ahead of him, leading up to the main station concourse, somewhere he thought he recognised and he went with the crowd, realising with a dull twinge of surprise that he didn’t know anything.
I don’t know my own name. The thought flashed across his mind and he almost giggled at the madness of it. How could he not know that? How? He struggled to locate it in the fog.
My name is… my name…
As he came to the top of the escalator he noticed a man leaning on a rail nearby, watching the people as they rode up. The man was skinny with thick wiry hair, bulging eyes and oddly, no brows. This struck the boy as important. It seemed to him that it ought to mean something to him, but it didn’t really, it just looked strange. And then he noticed that the man was staring at him with those big, bulging eyes and he nodded to the boy as if in greeting. He straightened up and walked closer to the escalator, as though intending to intercept him.
The boy didn’t check his pace. He stepped off the escalator and started walking straight ahead, aiming himself for the big illuminated display board that he could see up ahead of him in the centre of the station concourse. The man frowned. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You got something for me?’
The boy shook his head, kept walking, following a piece of advice in his head, even though he didn’t know who’d given him the advice in the first place.
If a stranger tries to talk to you, just walk aw
ay
and look for a policeman.
The boy scanned the crowds helplessly but there was no policeman in sight. He glanced back and saw that the goggle-eyed man was gesturing up towards the balcony over to his left and when the boy looked, he saw another man standing up there, frowning down at the crowds below − a grey-haired man in a suede coat with a sheepskin collar. It seemed to the boy that this man was familiar too, but he couldn’t say from where and now, he saw that the man was leaving his position up on the balcony and walking quickly towards a flight of steps that led down to platform level.
‘Hey!’ The goggle-eyed man spoke again, sounding angry now. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
The boy looked around, the pain in his head making him feel as though his skull was about to split. To his right he saw the glass doors leading to the platforms and instinctively he headed towards them, sensing that through there he might find some avenue of escape. It seemed to him that if he went through this entrance and out to the far side of the station there would be another exit, one which might get him out of here, away from the two men who were following him. He didn’t know exactly how he knew this, only that he was sure he’d used it before. The goggle-eyed man saw his intention and quickened his pace. ‘You little idiot, come back ‘ere,’ he barked. The boy turned his head, saw Goggle-Eyes breaking into a run, and a short distance behind him Grey-Hair was pushing his way through the crowd, a furious look on his face. The boy panicked and ran towards the nearest glass doorway. It slid open automatically and he went through, noticing that there were trains standing at nearly every platform ahead of him, but he ignored them and headed away to his right where a couple of men in high visibility jackets stood in front of a narrow entrance. The boy was past them before they even knew what was happening and he ignored their shouts, but turned his head briefly when he heard other voices, only to see that the men had spun around to intercept Goggle-Eyes and Grey Hair, demanding to see their tickets. The two men were waving their arms, pointing to the boy. They were trying to struggle free and now more men in yellow jackets came running to help hold them.
The boy didn’t stop to try and explain. He kept
running until he came to a travelator which led him to a smaller concourse, where neon signs told him about trains leaving from two more platforms. He noticed a young couple running frantically towards an exit,
pulling heavy suitcases behind them, as though they
were late for something and sheep-like he followed them, turned a corner and overtook them on a flight of stairs that led down to yet another level. A train was standing at the platform and as he reached ground level he heard the shrill beeping sound of electronic doors as they began to slide shut. Without thinking, he aimed himself for the narrowly closing gap and jumped aboard. The door clunked shut just behind him and he turned, saw the young couple struggling onto the platform a few moments too late, their expressions furious.
Now the train moved slowly away and the boy waited by the door, peering anxiously through the glass to see if Goggle-Eyes and Grey-Hair would reappear but they didn’t. So the boy went into the nearest carriage and found an empty seat at a table, opposite an elderly couple. The woman smiled at him in a friendly
way but he slumped into his seat and turned his head to look out of the window. His skull felt as though it was splitting in two and all of a sudden, he was tired, really tired.
At Oxford Road, a middle-aged businessman got on and took the seat beside him, but he was so exhausted by now that he barely registered the man’s presence. His eyes felt heavy and they came down like two heavy shutters, cutting off the light. The fog deepened and settled in his head and he slept as the train sped across the countryside.
Twenty
Reinforcements
‘You know the rest,’ murmured Ed.
Sherlock nodded. ‘What made you suddenly remember?’ he asked.
‘I think it was seeing my house up close.’ Ed nodded at the building across the road. ‘It all came back to me in a rush.’ He reached up and rubbed the still tender area on the side of his head. ‘I remember nearly everything now. My dad’s name is Michael. And my mother, well, she was called Theresa. But she died in a car accident when I was only little.’
Sherlock frowned. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.
‘It’s ok. It happened a long time ago.’ Ed sighed. ‘I hardly ever think of her now. There’s just one thing I still don’t know.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Sherlock.
‘My name. I don’t know my real name. I keep trying to remember it, but it won’t come to me.’
‘I’m pretty sure we’ll have that before very much longer,’ Sherlock promised him, waving the binoculars. ‘The figure sitting on the sofa is almost certainly your father.’
‘But… why do you think he’s praying like that?’
‘I don’t believe he is. I imagine his hands are tied together in front of him.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Ed felt rather stupid. It hadn’t occurred to him that this might be the case. ‘So… that’s why Lucky is sitting beside him,’ he said. ‘Trying to look after him. I guess it makes sense.’
Just then, a portal appeared in the air in front of them, making its usual high-pitched whining sound, the air rippling and swaying around it. ‘Ah,’ said Sherlock turning towards it. ‘This must be the first of our reinforcements. Let’s hope James has chosen wisely.’
Ed stared at the opening in amazement as a familiar shape materialised in the midst of it, the bronze statue of a man in uniform sitting astride a huge black horse. Sultan came through the portal in an elegant leap and thudded onto the soft ground. He stood there, tossing his head and stamping his feet, as though ready to run off at any moment. ‘Whoah, boy, settle down!’ The Colonel looked this way and that, a startled expression on his moustachioed face. Then he saw the two figures standing a short distance away.
‘Mr Holmes!’ he snapped. ‘What is the meaning of this outrage? What on earth is going on?’
Sherlock stepped forward. ‘I apologise, Colonel Alexander. I hope you know I wouldn’t have had you brought here if it wasn’t absolutely essential.’ He indicated Ed. ‘I shan’t introduce you as I know you two have already met.’
‘But what… what on earth is happening? A moment ago I was riding Sultan along the Royal Mile and now…’
‘Yes, so I see. I wasn’t really expecting you to bring your horse with you, but I’m sure he will be useful. It’s rather hard to explain how I got you here and I’m afraid I…’ The portal started whining again, suggesting that somebody else was about to come through. ‘If you’d just ride clear of the portal a moment, Colonel Alexander, I think somebody else is about to arrive.’
‘Most extraordinary,’ muttered the Colonel, but he wheeled Sultan aside and rode him to a safe distance as a second figure began to materialise in the opening.
‘Oh no,’ Ed heard Sherlock mutter and an instant later he understood what the problem was, because now the tall, stone statue of a man in armour was striding through the portal. He stood, looking around open-mouthed in astonishment. Then, with a brief ripping sound, the portal snapped shut behind him. He whipped around as though sensing an attack from the rear, but when he saw nothing he twisted back again, his expression fierce. William Wallace stared across the clearing at Sherlock. ‘You!’ he snarled. ‘I might have known you’d have something to do with this.’ He took a threatening step forward, his sword raised.
‘Great choice, James,’ muttered Sherlock, but he moved forward, his arms raised in surrender. ‘Will, this is not the time or the place,’ he protested. ‘Please, lower your weapon. I’ve had you and Colonel Alexander sent here to help me out with a very important mission.’
William hesitated and looked around in
astonishment. ‘Help you?’ he growled. ‘Now why would I do a thing like that? And… sent where?’ he bellowed. ‘W
here, in the name of Lucifer, am I?’
‘In er… in Manchester,’ said Sherlock.
‘Manchester, England?’ cried William in disbelief.
‘I’m afraid so. Look, I know it’s not ideal but…’
‘How can we possibly be in England?’ interrupted the Colonel, guiding Sultan closer. ‘Only two moments ago I was in Edinburgh. I was riding along, minding my own business…’
‘Me too,’ said William. ‘Well, I wasn’t riding, I was walking. And then all of a sudden I went all muckle-headed.’ He glared at Sherlock. ‘It’s witchcraft!’ he roared. ‘He’s set an enchantment on us.’
‘No, William, it’s science. I appreciate that for you it amounts to pretty much the same thing but trust me, I…’
‘Why would I trust you, ye heathen Sassenach?’
‘Mr Wallace, please!’ cried the Colonel. ‘Let’s have a bit of decorum, shall we? Let’s not forget we are gentlemen.’ He studied Ed for a moment. ‘Does this have something to do with the boy?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it does.’ Sherlock opened his arms in an attempt to appeal to the two newcomers. He pointed across the road. ‘In that cottage over the way, bad men are holding this boy’s father hostage…’
The Calling Page 15
