‘Alright. You can stay here for a bit, but don’t you try anything. We’ll be watching.’
‘I will leave in the morning. I promise.’
Kitty nods, curtly. ‘Sam, stay with him at all times, you hear?’
‘Yes, Kitty,’ says a beaming Sam. He turns and grins. ‘You hungry, Tim?’
Will pats his stomach and remembers he hasn’t eaten in quite a while, ‘Maybe a little.’
Sam runs to the table and grabs two apples and a small block of cheese. ‘Follow me,’ he says, hurrying to the bus and through the red curtain.
Will follows him. The downstairs of the bus has no passenger seats. In their place are sofas, cushions and rugs, plundered presumably from other people’s houses. There is a musty odour, a lingering smell of unwashed boys.
‘Up ’ere,’ calls Sam.
Will makes his way up the stairs and is unsurprised to see the top deck kitted out with bunks, mostly unmade. Sam is sitting at the front eating the apple and cheese.
‘Come and eat, Tim.’
Will sits beside him. ‘Where are your parents, Sam?’
‘Dead. All our parents are dead. Some of us are the forgotten kids who didn’t get evacuated. Others, like Kitty, refused to leave London. This is ’er dad’s place. He was a mechanic before ’e was killed in the war. ’Er mother died when their house was bombed. Kitty was out looking for food. She found us and took us all in.’
‘But why steal food from people?’
‘We don’t steal everything. We just take some of it and sometimes we give some away, if it’s some old dear who’s ’ard up. It’s what we do. We’re like Robin Hood’s Merry Men.’
Will smiles and bites into the apple, which is juicy and delicious.
‘Eat some cheese at the same time? It is so good!’
Will takes a bite from the cheese and eats it alongside the apple. Sam is right. It is delicious. He smiles at Sam and garbles his approval, spitting apple as he does.
Sam finds this hugely funny and can’t stop laughing. Will laughs too and for a second forgets the horrible nightmare he has woken up to.
‘What next?’ says Sam. ‘Are you going to find that man?’
‘No. I need to get home and find my parents. They live in Baker Street, I think. Then I can go to the police.’
Sam nods, ‘I’ll ’elp you.’
‘No!’ Will replies too sharply. Sam looks hurt. ‘I’m sorry, Sam. It’s dangerous out there. I don’t know if Bob Batten is dead. My guess is, he is. And he’s not the first. Someone else was killed today. Someone who saved my life and wanted to help me.’
‘Who?’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just too dangerous. First thing tomorrow, I will go home. You stay here. It’ll be safer.’
Sam says nothing for a moment and then smiles. ‘You’re right, Tim. It’s safer here.’
Chapter 10
64 Baker Street
Monday, 5th May 1941
The air raid is over and dawn is breaking. Will spent the night lying with Sam on his bunk, but has barely slept. The events of the past twenty-four hours have played on his mind and he is impatient to get to Baker Street. He rises slowly, trying his best not to wake his new young friend. The others are quietly snoring and don’t stir as he slips nimbly across the deck and down the stairs, carrying his shoes.
Outside, the skies are clear of bombers but thick with dust and the stench of smoke and cordite.
He is unsure where he is and heads back toward Fenchurch Street. He knows he must head west. Hurrying on, he sees people, wrapped in coats and blankets, trickling from the shelter of Underground stations. Their faces are grey and grim and he suspects they are clinging on to the hope that their homes have survived the attack.
He has the sensation he is being watched and followed. He does not look behind him but carries on, quickly but trying to seem casual, fearing that the Pastor has caught up with him. Turning a corner, he lurks in the dark recess of a doorway, his stomach clenched, his fists curled in preparation for a fight.
Moments pass before a small boy with blond hair and a dirty face appears.
‘Sam!’
Sam almost jumps out of skin and clutches his chest, ‘Stone the crows, Tim. You didn’t ’alf give me a fright.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘You need help and I am ’ere to help you.’
‘Go home, Sam.’
‘Can’t do that, Tim. Kitty says I have to keep an eye on you.’
‘Baker Street is not your patch.’
‘All o’ London is our patch, Tim. All of it.’
Will glances up and down the street. There does not seem to be anyone suspicious watching them. No sign of the Pastor, or those other men in the Austin 8. If anyone was watching, they would have clocked Sam by now and it would already be too late. Perhaps they had already seen him when they were running from Bob Batten’s house last night. Maybe Sam will be safer if he keeps him close, for now. Will frowns at Sam and pulls him back into the doorway. ‘You stick close to me and don’t do anything unless I tell you.’
Sam salutes and smiles, ‘Yes, sir! Lead on.’
Will tries to figure the quickest route.
As if reading his thoughts Sam says, ‘I know the way.’
Will squeezes Sam’s shoulder, ‘Lead on,’ he says with a smile.
Sam beams back but Will feels a sudden sense of dread – two men have died already. Will does not want Sam becoming another victim. If he has to, he will kill to prevent that happening. But for now he needs Sam. Once they get to Baker Street he will do whatever it takes to get him safely home.
They arrive at Baker Street around ninety minutes later. Number 64 is a vast stone-fronted office block and not a home, as he was expecting. Perhaps his father works here.
The entrance has double doors with a lock that is too big for his pick. The front windows are strong, thick and impenetrable. The place is like a fortress. There is no way in from the front.
‘What is this place?’ asks Sam.
‘I don’t know.’
Will wonders about other access points and walks further along Baker Street. At the next left, he finds a narrow lane leading to the rear of the building. There is a tradesman’s entrance with a lock that is small and easy to pick. Not such a fortress after all.
The door opens into a kitchen area with rows of teapots, stacks of plates, pots and pans. With Sam in tow, he makes his way down a hallway and follows it through to the front double doors. He notices a room list on the wall. Room 7 is on the lower ground floor. They make their way down and find room 7 at the end of the corridor. They stop outside and Will places his ear to the door. Sam does the same. Satisfied there is no one inside, Will turns the doorknob and pushes the door open.
The room smells of lavender wood polish. The curtains are drawn. Will fumbles for the light switch, turns it on and sees a desk with a telephone. Behind it is a bank of filing cabinets and, pinned to the walls, are maps of the United Kingdom, Ireland, France, Germany, Russia and Poland.
‘It’s an office of some sort,’ says Sam, stating the obvious. ‘Looking at those maps, I’d reckon there is a connection to the war.’
Will had thought the same. What he knows about the war is what Skipper told him on the way to London. It was all so unbelievable. He feels strangely inadequate and is suddenly glad he has Sam to help fill in the blanks. He thinks he might tell Sam everything about his memory loss later.
He glances at the filing cabinets, which are labelled alphabetically. He opens one of them. There are rows of files listed by surnames, none of which he recognises.
Under C, he finds a file labelled Chittlock, Timothy. He takes it out and opens it. Inside is a photograph of a bespectacled man dressed in a tweed suit, standing in front of a blackboard. His face seems familiar. Will’s mind begins to swim and he hears a voice as if it is speaking through a faulty transistor radio. The man talks in reassuring tones, but there is something else. He strains to listen:
/> ‘You understand what I am asking you to do?’
His stomach twists. The words don’t mean anything to him. But somehow, he knows they must.
‘You alright, Tim? You look pale.’
Will shakes his head. ‘I… I’m fine, thanks.’
He turns the photograph over. There is writing on the back:
Tim Chittlock, Beaulieu House, Brockenhurst, Hampshire.
‘Who is he?’ says Sam.
‘I thought he was my father, but now I don’t think he is.’
‘What do you mean, you thought he was your father?’
Will sits at the desk and places his head in his hands. ‘Something happened to me, Sam. I lost my memory and all I know is there are men trying to kill me. They have killed two innocent men already and I don’t know why.’
‘Blimey. You are in a fix.’
‘My name is not Tim, either.’
‘Ooh. What is it then?’
‘I don’t know,’ Will says and then his attention is drawn to the desktop where a manila folder labelled CLASSIFIED rests. The folder is entitled ‘Agents of VIPER’. He feels an odd twinge of familiarity and pulls the folder towards him.
He opens it. There is a photograph on top, a mug shot of a broad-faced man with a stern expression and a thick black moustache. His shoulders stiffen and his fists curl. He is one of the men from the Austin 8 at the riverside yesterday. But there is something else. He is sure he knows this man, knows him so well that he can almost smell his stale body odour. He turns the picture over. Scrawled on the back is a name:
Colonel Victor Frost
Leader, Agents of VIPER.
The man’s name rolls through the mists of his mind. He knows it. He knows him. He knows VIPER. But what is VIPER? He scrolls through the other pictures and stops at one, his heart in his mouth.
‘Blimey!’ says Sam, ‘Is that you?’
Will’s mouth dries. It is him, a younger version of him. He is perhaps twelve years old, his hair is shorn and he is wearing military fatigues. He turns the photograph over.
Will Starling
Agent of VIPER
That’s his name. He’s sure of it. Part of him is relieved to know it, but another part of him is horrified to find out he might be in league with these men. It can’t be true. They are trying to kill him!
What have I done to make these men want to kill me?
‘Will. Your name is Will. Are you some sort of secret agent?’ asks Sam, excitedly.
Will does not respond. His heart begins to beat faster.
What does any of this mean? How can I be an agent of this VIPER? And what about my parents?
Somehow, although he cannot remember his family, he can still feel their warmth and love like it is imprinted on his soul.
And why does he have this notebook that so many people want? Why is he wearing a blazer with tools secreted in the lining? The desire to know the truth burns hard inside him. He has another journey to make to track down this Timothy Chittlock. He must go to Beaulieu and find him.
He removes his picture from the file and stuffs it into his pocket. He will burn it later, removing any trace of himself from the VIPER file.
A sudden noise from the corridor makes them both jump. Will places the folder back where it was and switches off the light. Then he hurries toward the windows and opens one. Sam leaps out first followed by Will, who gently closes the window before sprinting away after Sam.
Chapter 11
Wanted
Will looks behind him as he hits the ground and sees the window latch move. He jumps out of view, behind a row of dustbins, pulling Sam with him. They both crouch out of sight. Moments later, heavy footsteps sprint past. Will shudders and wonders which of his enemies it was. Had one of them caught up with him?
He waits five minutes before risking a look beyond the dustbins and up and down the back street. There is no one there.
‘Who was that?’ says Sam.
‘I don’t know and I don’t think I want to know. Let’s go.’
He hurries them away from Baker Street until they reach Park Lane, which is busy with morning traffic and workers beginning their day. He stops and faces Sam.
‘Listen up, Sam…’
Sam is beaming, ‘This is so exciting!’
Will feels a surge of irritation, ‘No, it’s not. Two innocent men have been murdered and someone is trying to kill me. It is not exciting, it is terrifying!’
‘I’m sorry, I meant…’
Will sighs and places his hand on the boy’s shoulder, ‘I know what you meant, Sam, and I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Least of all you. Please, just go back home, stay with Kitty and the others and keep out of sight. You are already in too deep.’
‘But I can help you.’
Will feels so desperately isolated, a lump builds in his throat. More than anything, he wants to say yes. He so needs a friend right now, someone he can trust who can see him through this mess. But he cannot risk Sam’s life. There is no question of that.
‘No, Sam.’
Sam looks to the ground, deflated and hurt.
‘When this is over, I will come back and find you. I promise. We can be mates.’
Sam smiles, his face lighting up despite its grubby streaks. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Me too. Goodbye Sam.’
Sam thrusts his hands in his pockets, and turns to leave. ‘Bye, Will.’
With a heavy heart, Will watches him leave, but he knows it is the right decision. When he is satisfied Sam has gone, he gets his bearings for Victoria Station. He spots a figure dip quickly out of view at a nearby shop entrance. For a second he thinks it might have been a shadow. But he cannot take that risk. He swallows and retreats, turning on his heels and running as fast as he can.
He arrives at Victoria where the crowds are flocking to and from the station. He glances across the concourse at the station clock. It is almost 8.20 am. A man is loading the morning papers onto the stand. The headlines are mostly about last night’s air raid but one catches his attention.
Two murders during last night’s air raid.
His mouth dries. He reads beneath the headline.
Hastings fisherman, Skipper Jones and local man Robert Batten were murdered in cold blood last night. A policeman spokesman said that the murders are believed to be connected and, after an anonymous tip-off, they are searching for a young man believed to be around sixteen years old, name unknown. He is a stocky lad, around 5ft 10 inches, with dark hair and is considered very dangerous. Please contact Scotland Yard with any information.
Will’s heart pounds. There is a picture next to the article. It is a rough sketch of him, except he looks angry and dangerous. The Pastor must have lied to the police and given them his description. He edges slowly away from the newsstand. He looks to the platforms. He must get out of London fast.
With his collar up and head down he hurries across to the rail map and traces the line to Hampshire and Beaulieu. Brockenhurst is his destination. He checks the timetable and station clock. The train is leaving in three minutes. He has no money for a ticket and has to think of something fast.
The train is boarding. He searches for a gap in the crowd and edges his way through the melee, allowing himself to be carried along in the mass of people.
The guard blows the whistle and Will hurries through the first open door he sees. He slams it shut and a moment later the train is moving. He threads his way through the busy carriages and finds a compartment taken up by a woman and her three young children: one a small boy who is sucking his thumb and two identical babies who sit crying on her lap. She seems flustered and distracted. Her cases are blocking the aisle.
‘Shall I put these away?’ says Will politely, hoping she has not seen the morning papers.
The woman looks at him, her gaze lingering suspiciously over the bullet hole in his blazer.
‘Just an accident. Mum’s going to kill me when she finds out,’ h
e says, smiling sweetly.
The woman sighs, ‘Yes, please.’
He lifts the cases onto the rack and out of the corner of his eye sees a figure, inches away, watching him from the corridor. He turns to see a tall, broad man with a neatly trimmed greying beard and short brown hair combed in a side parting. He has green eyes and a serious expression, ‘Any seat in here, son?’ he says. He has an accent, Irish, perhaps Ulster.
Will realises he is blocking his access into the compartment. The man looks at Will for longer than is comfortable. Will notices he is carrying the newspaper with his picture under his arm. ‘No,’ he says, sharply.
The man narrows his eyes, then turns away and continues along the corridor in search of another compartment.
Will watches him walk away and is relieved he does not look back. But still, there was something about him that has put him on edge.
He closes the door to the compartment, turns to the woman and gestures at the empty seats. ‘May I?’
She nods agreement and he sits down.
‘Have you been in a fight?’ says the small boy.
‘Jimmy Jones!’ says his mother, ‘don’t be rude.’
Will smiles nervously, ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Your jacket is ripped and dirty.’
‘That’s enough, Jimmy,’ says his mother.
Will looks down at his blazer. The boy is right. There is dust all over him and a rip on his sleeve. What did he expect having been shot, falling into the sea, fighting, and then crawling through windows and hiding behind dustbins. He glances at the woman who is tending her babies. She seems not to have noticed.
‘I fought a monster,’ says Will, covering the hole in his chest.
The boy stares at him wide-eyed. ‘What happened?’
‘Jimmy!’ cries the woman.
Young Jimmy folds his arms and screws up his face and Will smiles.
The rhythm of the train is soothing and he wants to sleep, but his mind is too busy. He takes the notebook from his pocket and begins leafing through the pages. He finds a sketch of what seems to be a disc with the planets and constellations inside it. Around its perimeter are more of the strange symbols: eyes, pyramids, scythes, swastikas, daggers and upturned crosses.
Sleeper Page 5
