The Door That Led to Where

by Sally Gardner

  ‘So you’re Aiden Jobey,’ he said, greeting AJ with a pat on the back. ‘Morton speaks highly of you. He thinks you could well make a good clerk. I knew your father, you know.’

  Had AJ heard correctly? This lawyer had known his father. Why hadn’t Mum mentioned it? Surely it was important.

  ‘And Janice, your mother,’ Mr Baldwin continued. ‘I remember her well. She was a pretty little thing.’

  AJ wondered if Mr Baldwin was muddling him up with someone else. It was hard to imagine that the red reptile was ever a pretty little thing. AJ was completely wrong-footed by this plastic cheerfulness. It was not what he had been expecting and he was quite at a loss. How had his mum come to make such a huge impression on Mr Groat and Mr Baldwin that seventeen years down the line they still remembered her? It would have helped if the red reptile had been more talkative on the subject but like so much of her past it belonged in the deep freeze of things unsaid.

  ‘A black coffee, please. Thanks, Aiden,’ said Mr Baldwin.

  AJ was dismissed.

  ‘Well?’ said Stephen who was waiting outside.

  ‘He wants me to make him coffee.’

  ‘As soon as you can Aiden,’ shouted Mr Baldwin through the office door.

  At the end of a week of making coffee for Mr Baldwin, AJ found to his amazement he still had a job. Stephen was furious, almost green round the edges.

  ‘Don’t start thinking you are going to last here,’ he hissed, ‘because you’re not.’

  What AJ had seen of Mr Baldwin he hadn’t much liked. He thought of him as two-faced. One face was all cultured charm, the other, fast fury, like a sports car in seventh gear. He didn’t trust the eminent lawyer – neither could he work out why he was so interested in his family.

  ‘Where’s your father now?’ Mr Baldwin asked one morning as AJ brought in his coffee.

  ‘Dead, sir. I never knew him.’

  ‘Oh, sorry to hear that. I recall that he didn’t have a will – I tried to convince him to write one. But I suppose he thought he had plenty of time. So do you have anything to remember him by?’

  ‘Like what, sir?’ asked AJ, feeling that he was missing something behind the question.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Mr Baldwin. ‘A memento perhaps?’

  ‘He left me nothing, sir,’ said AJ. ‘Not even a name.’

  Stephen looked as if he could willingly murder AJ for usurping his position but Mr Baldwin and his team soon became consumed by a forgery case and Stephen was once more indispensable.

  Two weeks later, on the Monday morning, Morton found a note Mr Baldwin had left for him, saying that he was taking a long weekend and would be back on Wednesday. Morton was not best pleased. Mr Baldwin’s mobile went straight to voicemail and he had left no other contact details. Even Stephen, who kept Mr Baldwin’s diary, was in the dark as to his whereabouts.

  ‘Mr Baldwin is very discreet about his private life,’ he said. ‘But he may have been going to a fancy dress ball. I found this on his desk.’

  It was a receipt for the hire of a costume from Angel’s in Shaftesbury Avenue.

  ‘I’m not asking for gossip, Stephen, I’m asking if you know where he is.’

  ‘No, Morton, I don’t.’

  ‘I just hope he has a good reason for dumping a hell of lot of work on Ms Finch’s plate,’ said Morton.

  It was that week that AJ’s life went from being ordinary to extraordinary in a way he could never have imagined and, like most unusual events, it started with no warning.

  Morton asked AJ to sort out some files in the Museum. AJ hadn’t seen any room in chambers that could be described as a museum and by now he knew the place well enough. As you came through Baldwin Groat’s door on the second floor, there was the reception desk with its huge, caring vase of flowers, comfy chairs for clients to sit on and a picture on the wall that showed a scene of eighteenth century London. Next to reception was the clerk’s room and Morton’s office. Morton usually liked to keep his door open so that he could see who was coming and who was going. The first room down the corridor belonged to the junior barristers, Mr Baldwin had the largest of the rooms by far and Mr Groat’s room was at the back, overlooking Gray’s Inn Gardens. There was a small kitchen, loos and a photocopying room but nothing else, so what was Morton talking about?

  The Museum turned out to be through a small door that AJ had thought was a broom cupboard. Here the archives were stored, file upon file of cases dating back decades. It was furnished with a solid table and a chair but it was the collection of bizarre objects on the table that caught AJ’s eye: a human skull, a compass, several bowler hats, pieces of jewellery and a box stuffed full of pocket watches and handkerchiefs. AJ could well imagine Fagin having once been a client of Baldwin Groat.

  ‘What do I do with these things?’ asked AJ.

  ‘File them in boxes and mark them to the relative cases. It will take you the best part of a week. It’s needed doing for ages.’

  One of the reasons that AJ had done so disastrously at school was simply the noise: the clatter in the classroom, the bells ringing, the stampede after lessons, the screaming children in the playground. There was enough noise at home. What he had longed for was silence. He had started skiving off school to go to the local library. There, no one was allowed to speak, noise was banned. It was three months before he realised that with a library ticket he could take books home. Solemnly he read through the alphabet of children’s literature. It was Mr Montgomery, the senior librarian, who found AJ reading Oliver Twist and with his help AJ discovered the rest of Mr Dickens’s work.

  The Museum proved to be an education in itself – a library of criminal cases. AJ studied the ancient writing – legal mumbling that he didn’t understand – but underneath were stories of real people, people like him and Leon and Slim. By the end of the day he had barely started.

  On Wednesday Mr Baldwin returned, looking pale. He came to see for himself how AJ was doing.

  ‘Come across any old skeletons?’ he said.

  ‘No, sir,’ said AJ.

  ‘If you do, bring them to me.’

  On Thursday AJ pulled a dusty file from the shelf. What was written on it made his stomach churn.

  Jobey

  1813

  Jobey. The name that didn’t belong to him but somehow did. He still hadn’t dared raise the matter with his mother and didn’t quite know why. He opened the file, hoping it might answer a few questions but it contained only a map, hand-drawn on yellowed paper. Gray’s Inn Road was clearly shown, and Mount Pleasant, just a few streets away – but what did Coldbath mean? And why was there an X just to the left of it? AJ took a photo of the map on his phone.

  It was getting dark on Friday afternoon when he lifted the lid of the last battered cardboard box. Inside was a rusty iron key about ten centimetres long, the stem turned and decorated. The end that went into the lock had a zigzag line down its centre. It belonged to a time when a key had more weight to it than it did today. This was a key you didn’t lose.

  A label was tied to the ring. Written on it in beautiful handwriting were the words:

  The property of A. Jobey, Esq.

  2nd October, 1996

  AJ blinked and looked at it again to make sure he had read the date right. It was the day he was born.

  Chapter Five

  It must be a mistake. The writing looked genuine enough: firm, slanted, in sepia ink. Maybe whoever had written the label had been in a hurry and got the date round the wrong way. He went to find the file he had come across the day before, the one marked Jobey. Perhaps he’d missed something. But it was not where he’d put it. Neither was it under the table, nor had it slipped down the back of the bookcase. The more he looked the more certain he became that something was wrong.

  He had worked hard that week and the table was cleared of all its bizarre items, each marked and filed to the relevant case. Only the key was left. It was dark outside now, the year closing down in the November night. AJ
put the key in his pocket. Come Monday he would ask Morton if he knew why his name should be on the label and if he knew who had taken the file.

  Everyone had gone home and the place was in darkness. AJ stood in the corridor, running his hand along the wall, unable to find the light switch. Each of the rooms was closed, as was the clerks’ room, and he could barely see the reception desk. It must have been much later than he’d thought, for the only light there was came from the glow of the street lamps. The building smelled of old documents, musty papers – not unpleasant but a smell AJ hadn’t noticed before, as if it was the same place but wasn’t. Fear crept up on him. The chambers are haunted, that’s it, he thought. They’re ancient enough to be jam-packed full of ghosts, all of them miserable, all of them feeling the law had wronged them. The sooner he was out of there the better.

  He made his way along the softly carpeted corridor, his outstretched hands guiding him. At Mr Baldwin’s door he realised he was not alone. He could hear voices coming from inside.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Mr Baldwin was saying, his usual rich, booming voice stuttering. ‘I’m a sick man – I need to go home.’

  Another voice hissed and spat the fat of unheard words.

  AJ found no comfort in the familiar voice of Mr Baldwin. Something was not right and instinctively AJ knew he shouldn’t be there.

  He had started to creep back to the Museum when Mr Baldwin said, ‘Are you threatening me, Ingleby? For God’s sake, why would I? The boy doesn’t even know about the door. Now let me go home.’

  AJ paused. He couldn’t make out the words of Mr Baldwin’s companion for they were as soft as shoe shine.

  Then Mr Baldwin said quite clearly, ‘Without the key, Jobey’s Door can never be locked. You know that, I know that.’

  AJ slipped into the Museum, closed the door and held his breath. He waited until he heard the door to the chambers close. It was a heavy Georgian thing that had more noise to it than a door should. He gave it a moment or two. No one was there. This, then, was his chance to escape. On the landing he looked cautiously over the stair rail then ran down the two flights of stairs and through the swing doors onto the pavement. To his surprise he found that he was in a fog unlike any he had ever encountered. It was so dense that his hand vanished when he held it before him. The fog whirled in the basements and through the railings; it gathered in pockets, and in it AJ saw ghosts from another time.

  Elsie had often talked about the ‘pea soupers’ as she called the notorious London fogs of her youth.

  ‘So blooming thick that as a kiddiewink I thought they were made of all the buried people of the city come back to stretch their bones.’

  AJ could well see what Elsie meant. Thinking of her calmed him until he felt someone near him and an irrational terror overwhelmed him. He ran along beside the railings, using them to guide him to the gates of Gray’s Inn.

  He tugged at the gates desperately and only then remembered they were locked every night.

  A voice, close by, hissed, ‘Mr Jobey – is that you?’

  ‘Let me out,’ AJ shouted. ‘Let me out.’

  Through the fog he felt a hand grab at his arm.

  ‘I’ll see you at Jobey’s Door,’ said the voice.

  ‘Get off me, you fucker,’ said AJ and it was then that the gate suddenly opened and an old gentleman carrying a walking stick and a carrier bag full of books crashed into him. The bag broke and everything went flying.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,’ said AJ. ‘I was … ’

  He bent down to pick up the walking stick and help gather the books. A white pigeon’s feather fluttered from one of them. A good sign, thought AJ. He expected the man who had clutched at his sleeve to appear at any moment but when AJ stood up he found the thick fog had disappeared, replaced by a mellow mist more suited to a London autumn, and there was not another soul to be seen, beyond the gentleman with the books.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said the old gentleman.

  He owned a head of wild, white hair and a face dominated by a nose of magnificent proportions. AJ handed him back the walking stick but without the carrier bag it was impossible for the gentleman to carry the books.

  ‘Where do you live?’ asked AJ.

  ‘4 Raymond Buildings,’ said the gentleman. ‘Top floor.’

  AJ’s heart sank. He didn’t want to go back to the building he had just left, but the gentleman had what Elsie would call a gammy leg. There was nothing for it.

  ‘My name is Edinger, Professor Edinger.’

  ‘Mine’s AJ.’

  The professor lived under the sloping roof of the top-floor flat, in what had once been a children’s nursery. Below the windows ran a faded frieze depicting bunny rabbits. AJ had never before seen such a room; not because of the rabbits but because of the huge collection of books. There were books everywhere. Books propping up tables, books supporting shelves, books piled precariously on top of one another. On an old table sat a lopsided candelabra with half-melted candles, and on one wall hung a panorama of London dated 1642. Time here had not stood still; rather it had fallen backwards. He put the books on the table, causing a cloud of dust to rise.

  ‘Sherry?’ said the professor, reaching for a decanter.

  AJ had never tried sherry.

  ‘Why not?’ he said.

  The glasses were none too clean.

  ‘They belonged to Napoleon,’ said the gentleman. The biscuits he offered looked as if they might have belonged to Napoleon too. They had a greenish tinge to them.

  ‘No thanks,’ said AJ.

  The sherry had at least stopped AJ’s heart beating bass and drum.

  ‘How is AJ spelled? Two As and a Y?’

  ‘No, just the initials. Short for Aiden Jobey. Or so I’m told.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ said the professor. ‘Very interesting.’

  AJ was mesmerised by the clutter in the room. On a small table propped up by books stood a rigged wooden galleon. It looked older than anything AJ had ever seen, as if it belonged in a museum.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s a model of one of the ships of the Armada.’

  ‘Is that for real?’ asked AJ. ‘Bloody hell, this place is like an antique shop.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘And all these books – do you read them?’

  ‘Yes. Do you read?’ asked the professor.

  ‘I love reading,’ said AJ, bending his head to have a better look at the spine of a book whose cover was so old it resembled wood. The professor passed it to him.

  AJ opened it. ‘“The Trial of Charles I”,’ he read. ‘This was published in 1648.’

  It smelled of another time.

  ‘You work for Mr Groat, don’t you?’ said the professor, helping himself and AJ to another glass. Slightly light-headed, AJ saw that the professor’s jacket was patched in places, the cardigan he wore under it was buttoned up wrong and his trousers concertinaed at the ankles.

  ‘What happened out there?’ asked the professor as if he was certain something had happened to AJ.

  AJ told him about the fog and the voice, keeping his eye on the professor all the while, looking for traces of disbelief. There were none. AJ didn’t mention the key nor the conversation he’d overheard, although he had a sickening feeling that it was about him.

  As he was leaving the professor said, ‘I look forward to seeing you again, young man.’ He opened the door. ‘Just pop up, any time.’

  Only as the door was closing did AJ catch his last words.

  ‘Best you keep that key to yourself.’

  Chapter Six

  The second AJ stepped into the stairwell at Bodman House that night, he knew there was trouble. He could hear plates smashing and his mum shouting. When he reached the second floor, Vera from the flat opposite Elsie’s was on the landing.

  ‘If she doesn’t put a sock in it I’ll do it for her.’

  AJ climbed the flights of concrete stairs dreadi
ng what would greet him.

  ‘Oh, look what the cat’s brought in,’ shouted his mum.

  She was surrounded by broken crockery. The muffled sound of sobbing came from Roxy’s room.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked AJ.

  ‘What does it look like?’ she said and pushed past him. ‘Frank!’ she screeched.

  Frank came out of the bedroom carrying an Arsenal holdall. He looked done in, his usually greyish complexion had taken on an unhealthy, reddish glow.

  ‘I’m not staying here. I’ve had enough,’ he said.

  There was more action in Frank than AJ had seen since the day he and the marshmallow three-piece suite had moved in. There was not much room in the hall and Frank took up most of it. The red reptile grabbed the handle of the Arsenal bag.

  ‘Don’t think you can run out on me without paying the rent,’ she said, trying to pull the bag off Frank.

  A tug of war ensued, which didn’t last long as the bag’s handle snapped, along with Frank’s patience.

  ‘Get off me, you old cow,’ he said and slapped Jan hard.

  She went at Frank, fists flying.

  ‘Just quit it, Mum,’ said AJ.

  Frank turned on AJ and the first blow caught his left eye. AJ ducked the rest as best as he could until Frank had him pinned flat on the marshmallow sofa in the lounge. It took AJ a moment to work out what Frank was shouting.

  ‘It’s kids that are the bleeding trouble. Never wanted them – not hers, not mine … ’

  ‘I never bleeding well wanted him – that’s for sure,’ screamed Jan.

  AJ thought about the straw that broke the camel’s back: how much straw that camel had to carry before it realised it was too much. Too long he had put up with the crazy-paving pattern of violence. Seventeen years. Too long, far too long. He freed himself and landed such a punch on Frank’s face that he fell, sprawled flat on his back, a beer-filled belch spilling from him.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ Jan shouted, leaning over Frank’s prostrate body.

  There was a moment of silence, that moment before the next record plays on the turntable.