‘Hold on a minute,’ protested Mum. ‘What’s the big hurry? Don’t you want a pudding?’
‘I’ll be outside,’ he announced and started walking towards the exit.
They drove home in silence. By now, nothing could surprise Tom, so the fact that they were in a brand new BMW X5, rather than the usual five-year-old Vauxhall Astra, had passed without comment. He sat in the back, staring out at the rolling green countryside, while Mum and Dad prattled aimlessly away in the front. Dad was working on a new health centre and Mum was doing a documentary series about the history of theatre, which involved some famous actors. She mentioned their names as though they were old friends of hers. It occurred to Tom that the car didn’t seem to be heading towards Withington and, sure enough, a few moments later, he saw a road sign for Wilmslow and realised that this must be yet another change in their circumstances.
Dad pulled the vehicle to the right and stamped on the accelerator as he overtook a slower vehicle. Tom almost laughed hysterically when he saw that it was a black coach being pulled by four horses. Sitting at the reins was an unshaven man wearing a frock coat and a triangular hat. His upraised arm held a leather whip, which he was cracking above the heads of the horses.
‘Bloody tractors,’ muttered Dad, as he accelerated past.
Tom didn’t bother correcting him. He realised now that he was seeing things that his parents couldn’t see and it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to mention it.
Eventually Dad steered the BMW off the road towards a set of ornate metal gates, which swung magically open to admit them. He drove down a long, gravel drive and pulled the vehicle to a halt outside a three storey, ivy-clad building which looked amazing in the last rays of afternoon sunlight. Tom got out of the car and stood there, looking up at the front of the building, realising for the first time just how successful these new versions of his parents really were.
‘How much does a place like this set you back?’ he asked.
His dad looked surprised. ‘What an odd question,’ he said. ‘Let’s just say I won’t be retiring for a few years yet.’
Mum and Dad started up a flight of stone steps and Tom followed them, watched as they unlocked the door and disabled the burglar alarm.
‘Home sweet home,’ said Tom, and Dad smiled.
‘You make it sound like we’ve been away for ages,’ he said.
Tom said nothing. He accompanied them inside and followed them through room after room, each one furnished like something out of a movie. Then Dad announced he was going to his study to finish some work. Mum said she had stuff to do in the kitchen, so Tom said he’d go to his room for a while, even though he had no idea where that might be. He went up a rather grand staircase to the first floor and had a look around. Helpfully, one door had a sign on it that informed him it was TOM’S ROOM.
He pushed it open and stepped inside, stood looking at his new surroundings in awed silence. It was all fantastic, from the top-of-the-range iMac on the black-lacquered writing desk, to the framed posters of his favourite rock bands and the state-of-the-art stereo system complete with iPod dock. It was everything he’d ever wanted and it was all wrong somehow; one perfectly assembled, gleaming lie that he knew in his heart could never be his reality.
He felt a sudden tiredness wash over him like a wave, sapping every ounce of energy from his body, so he closed the door and walked over to the bed. He sat down on the immaculate white cotton covers and stared around the room. A sudden scrabbling noise snapped his attention over to one corner, where he saw a sleek grey shape scampering along the base of the wall, and he supposed he should be shocked because the rat was spoiling this perfect vision of how his life could be but, in a weird way, he had almost expected it. The all-powerful weariness was claiming him, pulling him down onto the pillows and he allowed himself to be pulled; he stretched out on the bed and his body seemed to be weightless; it seemed to be floating inches above the mattress. His eyelids came down like shutters and he drifted in a blackness as thick as treacle.
And then he slept.
Eight
He woke suddenly, aware of a tickling sensation on his chest. He was lying in bed and a shaft of moonlight, cutting through a window above his head, was illuminating something that was sitting on him, something dark and sleek. His eyes focused and there was a close-up view of a furry, whiskered head and a twitching nose. It took an instant before he realised what he was looking at. Then he gave a yell and thrashed upright and the rat was gone, scampering madly away over the grimy bed covers and on to the bare floorboards.
There was a groan from beside him, the sound of somebody stirring from sleep. Then a voice muttered into his ear with a suddenness that made him start.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ It was Cameron’s voice. Tom realised this wasn’t his bedroom in Wilmslow. He was back at Missie Grierson’s orphanage, in the room under the eaves. The same shaft of moonlight that had shown him the rat now illuminated Cameron’s grumpy face. He looked none too pleased to have been woken in such a fashion. ‘I swear you’re worse than wee Davey!’ he complained. ‘At least with him it was just snoring!’
‘There was a rat,’ gasped Tom, his voice ragged with revulsion. ‘It was sitting on my chest, looking at me.’
‘Is that all?’ Cameron rolled his eyes.
‘What do you mean is that all? That’s disgusting!’
Cameron motioned to him to keep his voice down. ‘You’ll wake one of the neighbours,’ he hissed. ‘Like Missie Grierson says, it was probably more scared of you than you were of it.’
‘I seriously doubt that,’ Tom hissed back. He gazed dismally around the grubby room, taking in the dark beams, the cobwebs and the rough-plastered walls. He realised that he was wearing some kind of rough, textured nightshirt. ‘How long was I gone?’ he muttered.
Cameron stared at him. ‘Asleep, you mean? An hour or so, I suppose.’
‘No, I mean . . . I’ve been gone, haven’t I? You must have missed me for at least a few hours?’
Cameron was staring at him, mystified. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ he said. ‘Keep your voice down, you’ll wake somebody up and then we’ll be for it.’
‘Yeah, but . . . I need to get this straight. I was with Morag and the pigs, right? She was showing me how to feed them . . .’
‘That was days ago,’ said Cameron, scornfully. He seemed to think for a moment. ‘Five days ago at least.’
‘And . . . I’ve been here all that time?’
‘Of course you have. And a right pest you’ve been, as well.’ Cameron gave him a disparaging look. ‘You’re not ill, are ye? You seem to be . . . rambling.’
‘No, it’s just . . . I’m mixed up, that’s all. You remember I told you yesterday . . . I mean, five days ago . . . that I was really from the . . . the twenty-first century?’
‘Oh aye?’ Cameron looked as though he really didn’t want to be having this conversation.
‘Well, I went back, didn’t I? I went back to Manchester.’
‘Did ye, now? How long did that take?’
‘I don’t mean I travelled there. It was . . . like, in my head?’
‘Oh, in your head, right. That would take no time at all, would it?’
‘Anyway, I was there and everything was sort of different. But in a good way, you know? Like, my Mum and Dad were successful and Dad, he had this BMW X5 . . .’
‘A what?’
‘It’s like a . . . posh carriage with no horses . . .’
Cameron looked even more puzzled. ‘Why would he want a thing like that?’ he asked. ‘It wouldn’t go anywhere, would it? Unless it was on a hill or something.’
‘Well, see, in the future, they have these things called cars? And they drive along, using horsepower. I mean, not a real horse, but this thing called an engine.’
‘Like a steam engine? I’ve seen one of those. It didn’t go anywhere though. It was in a woollen mill. Everyone was saying it’s the future. It just made a lot of
noise, as far as I could see.’
‘Yeah, well anyway, I was back and it was mostly great but it didn’t feel real, you know . . . it looked real but it didn’t feel right . . . and there were bits of this world mixed in there too . . . like the guy with green teeth and that rat . . .’
Cameron was starting to look weary. ‘Look, Tom, this is all very good but I’m really tired so if it’s all the same to you, I think I . . .’
Tom ignored him, ‘The question is: is this really happening? Or am I asleep and dreaming it?’
‘I wish I was asleep and dreaming it,’ complained Cameron, dismally.
‘Or maybe this is happening and the trip back to Manchester was the dream?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Just a minute . . .’
‘What are you doing?’
Tom had leaned over the side of the bed and was feeling around for his clothes on the floor beside it. His hand brushed against a boot and he picked it up, pulled it close to peer at it. It was a red Converse.
‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘I did go back, I really did. But . . . if this came back with me, that means the other reality was as real as real reality. So does that mean that if I go back now, I’ll be living in Wilmslow? What do you think?’
Cameron sighed. ‘If you want to know the truth, I think you’re a bampot.’
‘A what?’
‘A bampot; an idiot. Now for heaven’s sake, let me get some sleep.’
‘No, look, I can prove it to you!’ Tom put down the boot and scrabbled around until he found his blazer. He reached into the pocket and pulled out his mobile. ‘There, look!’ he said, holding it into the moonlight. ‘I bet you’ve never seen anything like that before, have you?’
‘No,’ admitted Cameron. ‘What is it?’
‘That’s a mobile phone. With that I can talk to people all around the world. I just press these buttons, see, and their voice comes out of this bit.’
‘Go on then,’ said Cameron. ‘Show me.’
‘Well, I can’t. There’s no signal here, but if there was . . .’
Cameron let out a sigh. ‘Look, Tom, it’s late and . . .’
‘All right, here’s something else for you. Look at this!’ He pulled the five pound note from his pocket and held it out for inspection. ‘Now, what do you make of that?’ he asked.
‘Who’s that vinegar-faced old biddy?’
‘That’s the Queen of England!’
‘The Queen? I thought they had a King?’
‘Not in the future! And see, it says there, Bank of England.’ He turned the note over. ‘And look here, beside this woman . . .’
‘She’s even worse-looking than the other one!’
‘That’s . . .’ Tom peered at the signature. ‘That’s Elizabeth Fry. But never mind who she is, look underneath, look at these dates. 1780 to 1845! There now, what more proof do you need? That’s her life from when she was born to when she died.’
Cameron looked at him blankly. ‘And?’ he muttered.
‘It’s only 1645!’ cried Tom. ‘She won’t be born for another hundred and thirty five years.’
Cameron stared at him. ‘Tom, just because you’ve got some numbers on a scrap of paper, that doesn’t mean . . .’
He broke off as a light came bobbing up the creaking staircase and Tom saw a figure in a long white nightgown carrying a lantern.
‘Oh, now you’ve done it,’ said Cameron. ‘You’ve only gone and woken Morag. Now there’ll be hell to pay.’
But Morag didn’t look angry. She looked frightened.
‘You’re no’ supposed to be up here,’ Cameron told her. If Missie Grierson gets wind of it you’ll be in . . .’
‘Never mind that,’ interrupted Morag. ‘You’ve got to come with me. It’s Alison. She’s really ill!’
They followed the light of Morag’s lantern down the stairs to the second floor. Despite being summer it was chilly, so Tom put on his blazer over his nightshirt and pulled on his new red boots. Cameron donned his jacket too. Morag led them along a damp corridor to a paint-blistered wooden doorway and pushed it open. The room was bare, apart from one simple wooden bed. Alison was lying in it, gazing up at the ceiling and panting as though she’d just been running uphill. As Morag came closer with the lantern, Tom saw that the girl’s pale features shone beneath a sheen of sweat.
‘When did this start?’ he asked nervously.
‘She’s been feeling tired for a couple of days,’ said Morag. ‘And she was sick before she went to sleep, tonight. Then she woke me up with that gasping noise and she couldn’t seem to speak.’
Tom nodded. He took the lantern from Morag and stepped closer, letting the light of it shine down on to Alison’s face. The girl stared up at him, her eyes wide with fright: the pupils shrunken down to tiny pin-pricks. But it wasn’t that which drew Tom’s attention. It was the red swelling that seemed to be bulging out from under one side of her jaw.
He stepped back with a grunt. He knew exactly what it was; he’d read the descriptions when he’d done the research for the Eyam project and he’d seen the same thing on the waxwork of a child back in Mary King’s Close. A buboe: a sure sign of contagion.
She had the plague.
Nine
Tom stood there, looking down at Alison’s pale features and he felt a jolt of terror go through him. He told himself not to panic.
‘We need to get out of here,’ he said quietly. ‘She has the plague.’
‘No,’ said Morag. ‘No, she can’t have!’
‘Trust me; she’s got all the signs. We need to isolate her, make sure that nobody else . . .’
He broke off as the light of another lantern came into the room and he saw that it was Missie Grierson, dressed in a grubby ankle-length white nightgown, the unlit pipe still jutting from the corner of her mouth. ‘What’s all this commotion?’ she growled. ‘What are you boys doing down here? You know you’re not supposed . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of the frail figure in the bed. ‘Merciful heaven,’ she said. She moved closer so she could see Alison’s face more clearly. ‘The good Lord save us,’ she whispered.
‘Tom thinks it’s the plague,’ said Morag fearfully. ‘Say it isn’t so!’
‘I wish with all my heart, I could,’ said Missie Grierson. ‘But has she not the devil’s mark at her throat, for all the world to see?’
Morag began to cry and Tom instinctively put an arm around her shoulders. ‘We need to clear out of here,’ he told Missie Grierson. ‘She could infect all of us.’
‘Aye, he’s right, shift yourselves!’
They moved to the door and stepped out into the hallway. Missie Grierson followed them and closed the door behind her. ‘I’ll stay with her,’ she said. ‘Cameron, get yourself dressed and go and summon Doctor Rae.’
‘Oh no!’ cried Morag. ‘Not him!’
‘We have to,’ Missie Grierson told her. ‘It’s a crime to try to conceal the plague; you know that as well as anyone. He’ll know what to do for Alison.’
‘I know what to do,’ said Tom. ‘At least . . . I think I do.’
Missie Grierson looked at him doubtfully. ‘Ach, what would you know?’ she asked him. ‘You’re just a bairn.’
‘I’ve studied this in school,’ he told her. ‘You know, the special school, where I learned to read?’
She considered for a moment. ‘Speak then,’ she said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, first of all, you need plenty of hot water and some disinfectant . . .’
‘Disin-what?’
Tom thought for a moment. ‘Soap, then. You must have some kind of soap here, surely?’
‘We have lye soap which we launder the clothes with.’
‘I guess that’s better than nothing. Get the soap and wash Alison from head to toe with it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Change her nightie and all the sheets too, everything needs to be as clean as possible.’ He pictured the filthy room he had just stepped out of. ‘Scrub the floors around the bed, everything,’ he s
uggested.
‘The floors?’ Missie Grierson looked doubtful. ‘What good will that do? I can’t help feeling you’re talking nonsense.’
‘No, no, it’s the latest thing,’ insisted Tom. ‘Trust me on this. I’m not saying it will cure her, but . . . it might stop the infection from spreading. See, plague is caused by flea bites and the soap could help to get rid of them. We also need to think about prevention. There’s some natural products that fleas hate, we did it for the Eyam project . . .’
He wracked his brains, trying to remember. His teacher, Miss Roberts, had told the class to search the internet and put together a list of natural ingredients that the people of Eyam could have used to deter the sickness, if only they’d known. But what had been on that list? Something came to him. ‘Lavender!’ he said. ‘That was definitely on there, fleas hate it. And . . . garlic, yes, garlic! Do you have that here yet? Are there any Italian restaurants in Edinburgh?’
‘What are you babbling about?’ muttered Cameron. ‘What’s an it-al-yun . . . rest . . .?’
‘I mean, a good tavern where they cook posh food! You see, we need to use stuff like garlic because you don’t have any antibi–’
He broke off, open-mouthed, because he’d just remembered something. Something important. Something incredible. He put a hand into the pocket of his blazer and pulled out the pack of tablets he’d found five days ago.
‘Give her these,’ he told Missie Grierson. He looked at the instructions on the pack. ‘One now, then two a day: one in the morning, one in the evening, until they’re all gone.’
‘What are they?’ asked Missie Grierson, suspiciously.
He tried to think of a way to explain it that she might accept. ‘They’re . . . a miracle,’ he said. ‘It’s just good luck that I had them with me but . . . they’re . . . er, Sassenach pills,’ he said. ‘Yeah, that’s right. They’re all the rage in England, everyone’s using them.’
Missie Grierson was staring at him. ‘Sassenach pills?’ she murmured.
Crow Boy Page 6
