The Door That Led to Where

by Sally Gardner

  ‘Mr Jobey,’ said Ingleby coming down the stairs, his boots leaving footprints in the dust. ‘Back again. And who might this young man be?’

  ‘A friend of mine.’

  ‘A friend of yours. Are you intending to bring all your friends here?’

  ‘No, Mr Ingleby. Only the ones in trouble.’

  ‘Many, are they?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘And are you going to introduce me?’

  ‘This is Slim. Slim, this is Mr Ingleby.’

  Slim looked quite bewildered. He’d never seen anyone dressed like the man standing before him, except on TV.

  Ingleby went to the cupboard where AJ had left his clothes and unlocked a small door and pulled out a basket.

  ‘I will take the modern day accoutrements from you.’

  ‘The what?’ said Slim.

  Ingleby held out the basket and shook it.

  ‘I don’t have any money, if that’s what you want,’ said Slim.

  ‘Give him your mobile and anything synthetic, including your trainers,’ hissed AJ.

  ‘Why would I want to do that? My mobile is my lifeline, my trainers are priceless.’

  ‘Not here, they’re not,’ said AJ, putting his own phone and the brogues that were two sizes too big in the basket.

  Reluctantly Slim handed over his and finally let go of his crutch.

  ‘What’s all this in aid of?’ he asked. ‘That crutch belongs to the NHS.’

  Ingleby said not a word as he locked them all away. Then as if he had touched something dirty, he dusted his hands.

  ‘Come, Mr Slim,’ he said. ‘We’ll find you clothes more suitable for today’s climate.’

  In his socks, Slim hobbled upstairs after Ingleby. AJ put on the clothes that he’d left there. When Slim reappeared AJ was surprised by how good he looked. Being lanky, he had always appeared a little scrawny, but these clothes padded him out and gave him an air of elegance. Even with two black eyes you could tell he was a man about town.

  He whispered to AJ, ‘Moses would never touch a toff such as I, would he?’ Then, seeing that Ingleby intended to take them out the front door, said, ‘You know the Old Bill are out there with dogs? And they are waiting for us.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Ingleby.

  The door opened onto a different world and, as far as Slim was concerned, a different planet.

  ‘Where the fuck are we?’

  ‘The great and terrible metropolis of London, a world unto itself,’ said Ingelby, hailing a hackney cab. ‘Fetter Lane,’ he said, opening the door.

  Outside, the fog had gathered its forces and was now so thick that only a globe of lamplight gave any indication as to where the road ended and the pavement began. Horses, carts and people appeared out of the fog to disappear almost at once.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Slim. ‘This must be costing a fortune – the fog, the sets, the scenery. I wonder what they’re filming.’

  ‘They’re not filming anything,’ said AJ.

  ‘What’s going on then?’

  Ingleby answered.

  ‘Mr Slim, you and your friend Mr Jobey are time travellers.’

  ‘You’re not serious? I mean, that’s a joke, right?’ said Slim.

  ‘No,’ said Ingleby. ‘And the first rule of time travel is that you never – and I mean never – whisper a word to anyone about the future.’

  The hackney cab pulled up outside a boarding house. Ingleby had explained on the journey that it was run by a Mrs Furby who was a widow and sadly had never found herself another husband. AJ had imagined Mrs Furby to be old and, by the surprise on his face when they were greeted in the hall by an attractive woman in her early twenties, so had Slim.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ she said, taking them all into the parlour.

  ‘These are two travellers who have just arrived in London,’ explained Ingleby. ‘They have good money and are trustworthy gents.’

  ‘Honoured, I am sure. I like to think that I keep a regular and clean house, with honest and God-fearing boarders.’

  Slim looked completely done in. His face was white, his bruises multiple shades of blue and purple. Mrs Furby turned up the oil lamp and put her hands to her mouth at the sight of him. An expression of horror came over her face.

  ‘The world is a pretty kettle of fish,’ she said, ‘when a foreigner is accosted on his way to this great city.’ She paused for a moment and then said, ‘Highwaymen?’ but before Ingleby could answer she had already concluded that Slim must have fought them off and that the rogues were no doubt lying in a ditch. Slim was quite lost for words and his silence convinced her that she was right. ‘And you travelled all the way from Italy?’

  AJ interrupted before Slim could say, no, Stoke Newington.

  ‘No, he’s of Turkish origin.’

  ‘Turkish?’ she said. She showed them to the top of the house and opened a door to a set of rooms: two bedrooms and a small parlour, sparsely furnished but as clean as a whistle. ‘I hope this is to your satisfaction.’

  ‘Where’s the … ’

  AJ kicked Slim, who was on the verge of asking where the bog was.

  ‘Yes,’ said AJ. ‘It’s perfect, thank you.’

  Ingleby left, saying he would return tomorrow.

  There were three other boarders in the house: a widow and her daughter, a plain girl who had little to say, and a man who announced himself as Mr Flint who did not appear to be a bright spark. The food, though, was excellent and the conversation was led by Mrs Furby, who made up for the quietness of her guests.

  ‘My father went to Constantinople, Mr Slim,’ said Mrs Furby, handing him a plate of steak and kidney pudding. ‘He died at Waterloo.’

  Slim opened his mouth to comment but AJ kicked him again and he said nothing.

  ‘It isn’t called Constantinople any more,’ said Slim when they were alone in their rooms. ‘She should have said Istanbul. And how did her father come to die at Waterloo? Do you think he was pushed onto the rails? Or maybe committed suicide?’

  ‘She wasn’t talking about the station, she was talking about the Battle of Waterloo. You know, the Duke of Wellington and Napoleon, and all that.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Slim. ‘I wish I’d paid more attention to geography and history. Especially history.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said AJ, taking off his jacket, ‘I need to see someone.’

  ‘Who?’ said Slim.

  AJ chose not to answer the question. He planned to pay another visit to Miss Esme. He felt that now he and Miss Esme knew each other a little better he could bring up the subject of the papers on his next visit. He wasn’t sure quite how to go about it without a phone. He couldn’t just turn up on her door step again. It wasn’t, he knew, the correct thing to do.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Slim asked.

  ‘Writing a message.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘No one you know. Now, listen, I need you to find out how much this money is worth, what it’ll buy.’

  He gave Slim the notes the professor had sent him. ‘Don’t let anyone cheat you out of it.’

  ‘Cheat me?’ said Slim indignantly. ‘I haven’t spent two years working in Dalston Market without learning something.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  AJ had the next day planned and the note was in his pocket ready to be delivered.

  ‘Are you going to be OK?’ AJ said to Slim.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me,’ said Slim. ‘I’m raring to go.’

  ‘That is exactly what I’m worried about,’ said AJ, laughing.

  Downstairs AJ found Ingleby waiting for him in the parlour.

  ‘There is someone I want you to meet,’ said Ingleby.

  AJ was about to protest but the look on Ingleby’s face was adamant. He knew it would be hopeless. Mrs Furby said she would see that the note was delivered.

  Ingleby firmly took AJ’s arm and strode off in the direction of Holborn.

  ‘Not Mr Stone?’ said AJ, slowing down
. ‘Are you going to tell me all over again that I should lock the door and piss off? Or what? I’ll end up garrotted in a ditch?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. And this is nothing at all to do with Mr Stone,’ said Ingleby. ‘The man you are to meet has spent many years abroad. Now, I need to concentrate.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On making sure, sir, that no one has taken the liberty of following us. I need to keep my wits about me and not be bamboozled by questions.’

  Near the River Fleet at Farringdon, the houses were wooden, grown tall not by design but by necessity. It was a place that AJ, streetwise as he was, would not have cared to visit at night. They crossed a small bridge where the river stagnated under ice. Even in the bitter cold its shit-filled perfume hung heavy in the air. In a narrow street that backed on to the water, Ingleby once more looked quickly about him and stopped at an inn that no architect would have claimed having had a hand in. If anyone from the local council clapped eyes on the place, thought AJ, they would have the whole kaboodle pulled down on the grounds of health and safety. Four raggamuffins rushed up to AJ with their hands out.

  ‘Bugger off, all of you,’ said Ingleby.

  AJ felt that at any moment the Artful Dodger would come swaggering along and Fagin’s face might appear from an attic window. Instead the door was opened by a rodent of a man who peered round it, nose twitching, dark eyes glittering this way and that. AJ was reminded of Dr Jinx.

  ‘Any clingers? Anyone hiding in the shadows of your footsteps?’

  ‘No. Now let us in,’ snapped Ingleby.

  They were shown into a rat-hole and up three flights of stairs, along more passages and into a chamber with a bow window that leaned over the river. It was colder in the room than it was outside and the only light seemed to come from the whiteness of a linen tablecloth. On it had been placed a piping hot pie, a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and plates and cutlery for three.

  The rat stood still as a door stopper.

  ‘Silence is expensive,’ he said.

  Ingleby turned on him and put both his hands round the neck of the astonished rat.

  ‘If one foul breath of yours whispers even a word of this to anyone then you will be thrown by me into the Fleet and may the vermin feast off you.’

  The rat shook himself free.

  ‘I meant no offence,’ said the rat, pulling at his neck scarf. ‘My tongue is a lead weight when it comes to the matter of words better not said.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Ingleby and pressed some coins into his hand. ‘If only for your sake.’

  The rat scurried away.

  AJ couldn’t think why Ingleby would want to visit such a grim place and waited for an explanation, but Ingleby stood as if expecting something to happen, eyeing the pie with longing. It was, after all, the warmest thing the room had to offer.

  ‘A pity to let a pie of such noble proportions go cold,’ said Ingleby at last.

  ‘Too right, mate.’

  AJ jumped. The voice came from under the floorboards. Ingleby quickly rolled back the threadbare rug and lifted a trap door, whereupon a man’s head appeared and with a swift movement the man heaved himself up. He stood before them with a smile neither sincere nor insincere, its purpose more a mask to hide his grief. He studied AJ, hummed to himself as if confirming all he thought, then sat down and helped himself to a slice of pie.

  Without a single hesitation Ingleby joined him and tucked in with real appetite, helping them both to wine and tearing off chunks of bread.

  AJ thought he could be looking at a picture in a museum portraying two villains eating a dainty pie.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked AJ.

  The man, his mouth full of hot pie, splattered, ‘I’ve got no name.’ He paused. ‘You can call me Nonsuch, if you like.’

  ‘Why won’t you tell me your name?’ asked AJ. ‘What’s in it that makes it so bad?’

  The man who called himself Nonsuch said, ‘You’re the dead spit of your father.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Knew him? He was my best mate. He’s the reason I’m here.’

  ‘How did you know him?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you when the time’s right. What you don’t know won’t kill you. Relax, have some pie.’ AJ sat down at the table. ‘I want you to do something for me. Something I can’t do and neither can Ingleby.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Nonsuch had a knack of ignoring questions he didn’t want to answer.

  ‘Let’s put it like this. I’ve been out of the country doing time and now I’m back, there are certain persons who I would prefer not to have my address, if you get my drift.’ He wiped his mouth on the tablecloth. ‘Shall we just concentrate on the present?’

  ‘A word with too many definitions for my liking,’ said AJ.

  ‘It’s simple,’ said Nonsuch. ‘What I want you to do is bring Esme to me.’

  ‘Esme Dalton?’ said AJ. ‘You must be joking. Look, you seem a good sort of geezer. I don’t know what you’ve done or how you knew my father. All I do know is none of what you are saying makes any sense.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Ingleby will tell you where and when. Just don’t leave it too long. I don’t have time or the law on my side and I want to see Esme … I want to see my daughter once before it’s too late.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Slim had a fire blazing in their rooms and was sitting in an armchair that hadn’t been there that morning.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ asked AJ, genuinely shocked.

  ‘Bought a few things, bro, to make us comfortable. Mrs Furby told me where to go, who to do business with and who to leave well alone.’ He paused. ‘Do you like it? It feels more homely.’ AJ was gobsmacked. ‘I’ve never had a room of my own,’ said Slim. ‘I’ve always had to share. This is a first. Oh – this came for you.’

  Written on a gold-edged card was an invitation to call for afternoon tea at the Dalton house at four o’clock the following afternoon. AJ smiled.

  There was a knock on the door. Slim leapt up as two panting men carried in another armchair.

  ‘Just there,’ said Slim with authority. The men stood by the door, waiting, and he gave them a coin for their trouble.

  ‘We don’t need all this,’ said AJ. ‘We’re not going to stay here – it’s just until things have cooled down back home. Anyway, what are we going to do once that money’s gone?’

  ‘That money, bro, is enough for two gents to live off like lords for a year and I’ve got a plan to make it go even further.’ He took from his pocket two snuffboxes. ‘They cost nothing and look at them – I’m telling you I could flog these for a small fortune back home.’

  AJ sat down, comfortably defeated.

  ‘Slim,’ he said. ‘When I go back I’ll see what the situation is with Moses, and if everything’s calmed down I’ll come for you next weekend.

  ‘Hold on – not so fast,’ said Slim. ‘I’ve had the best day of my life here. I mean, I miss having a bog that you can flush but that aside, this is a pretty cool place to be. I just have to make sure no one diddles us with fake notes because when you look at them they are pretty easy to forge and apparently it’s done quite a lot. So Mrs Furby tells me. I walked through the city and thought, what a bloody mess we made of London. Why did we knock down so many beautiful buildings?’ He stopped, poked the fire and poured a glass of beer from a jug. ‘Want some?’ AJ nodded and Slim poured another. ‘The plan is this. You take these snuffboxes back, flog them and change the money into gold.’

  ‘Great,’ said AJ. ‘And get arrested on suspicion of dealing in stolen property – or fake goods.’

  AJ couldn’t remember when he’d last seen Slim this happy.

  ‘I’ve thought that one through,’ said Slim. ‘My Uncle Nazif, the one who mends cars near Hackney Downs, knows this geezer who deals in antiques, all kosher and above board, no questions asked. Here, I’ve written down the address.’

  ‘Aren
’t you itching to go back to the time you know?’

  ‘Why in hell would I? No smug, preening tossers who think anything lower than an A* grade means your life is over. No mobile, no Facebook, no way for Sicknote to torment me. I’m fine here – no one will miss me, and Moses can’t kill me.’

  ‘I thought Sicknote was the love of your life.’

  ‘She’s history,’ said Slim. ‘She hasn’t any culture. Not like Mrs Furby.’

  AJ burst out laughing.

  ‘Plenty more fish in the sea, then?’

  ‘You could say that. I’ve been thinking,’ said Slim. ‘You should bring Leon here. He could do with his life being reset too.’

  ‘Maybe – if I can find him,’ said AJ. ‘And if he would want to come.’

  ‘He will,’ said Slim. ‘I know it.’

  Slim’s enthusiasm was infectious. Yes, thought AJ. He could see all three of them together here.

  That night they again ate supper with Mrs Furby, who had taken a shine to Slim. AJ let the conversation run over him while he thought about Miss Esme. He couldn’t wait to see her again. He’d never been like this about a girl before and certainly not about Alice, his first girlfriend.

  ‘Will you be coming with us to visit St Paul’s tomorrow, Mr Jobey?’ asked Mrs Furby.

  ‘Of course he will,’ said Slim, who as far as AJ knew had never in his whole life been inside a church, let alone a cathedral. Or a mosque, for that matter.

  ‘I can’t tomorrow,’ said AJ. ‘I’ve been invited to call on Miss Esme Dalton.’

  ‘Oh, what fine friends you have, Mr Jobey,’ said Mrs Furby.

  ‘I’m not quite up on the etiquette of polite society,’ said AJ, ‘and I was wondering … ’

  Mrs Furby clapped her hands together with delight.

  ‘Why, I have just bought two books on the subject. They are becoming most popular. You must borrow them, Mr Jobey, and anything else that might help. I hope you will be back to dine with us tomorrow night. I like my house to be full of lively people.’

  AJ looked at Mr Flint, who hadn’t said a word, and the widow and daughter who were equally quiet, and knew exactly why Mrs Furby enjoyed Slim’s company.