Sleeper

by J. D. Fennell

  ‘You’re wrong. We have never met. I don’t know you…’

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘Young man, please put down that gun,’ says Snelling.

  But Horne ignores him. ‘Four years ago we were narrowed down to two candidates. We fought, you and I, with bare fists in front of them all.’

  Horne’s words are a trigger awakening a distant memory. The mists of Will’s mind part. He is in an underground room, putrid with stale sweat and cigarette smoke. Men are jeering and placing bets. Among them is a tall broad figure. Frost. Four bare-chested boys lie bloody on the ground. Two are unconscious, two are nursing their wounds. Will’s knuckles are grazed and running toward him with a fast-flying bloodied fist is a younger Horne. Will snaps out of the memory, unsteady on his feet. He feels Anna’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  Will nods.

  ‘Frost chose you. Not me! You who came from nowhere!’

  ‘Poor Horne. You really don’t know what you are dealing with. You kill children and betray your country.’

  ‘We are not betraying our country. We will be making it great again.’

  Captain Snelling interrupts. ‘I have heard enough. Put that gun away, sir. This is a house of worship not a battleground.’

  ‘Captain Snelling, he is a traitorous swine,’ says Will.

  The Captain steps toward Horne. ‘As head of the St Paul’s Watch I command you…’ but he does not finish his sentence. Horne’s cold eyes stay on Will as he points the rifle at the captain and fires. The blast echoes through the cathedral.

  Will turns to see the captain fall back onto the marble floor.

  There is silence. Horne smiles.

  Anna hurries to the captain and crouches beside him. Private Warby stands still and calm, his old eyes, watery and blue, flitting between the captain, Will and Horne.

  ‘The girl is next,’ says Horne.

  Will feels his blood boil like oil.

  ‘Warby…’ says Snelling. He sounds weak, but he is alive.

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  ‘Boer manoeuvre number seventeen, I think.’

  ‘Good choice, Captain.’

  Horne frowns and points the rifle at Warby, but the old man is surprisingly fast for his age and arthritic bones. He swings the spear down so that the head smashes the knuckles of Horne’s trigger hand. There is a crunching sound followed by a cry of pain as Horne drops the rifle. Warby swings the spear sideways against Horne’s temple with a frightening force. Horne’s eyes roll in his head as he falls to the ground. Will grabs the rifle and points it at him.

  ‘Now, that takes me back,’ says Warby, who stands over Horne with the tip of the spear nestling into the crook of his neck. ‘Shall I finish him off, sir.’

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ says Snelling. ‘Remember where you are. Is he conscious?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then tie him up, Private.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Anna helps the captain into a sitting position. His face is pale. There is a small hole in the chain mail by his left rib.

  ‘We should get a doctor,’ says Will.

  ‘It’s a graze. I’ll live. Now, are you going to tell me what this is about?’

  Will and Anna exchange glances. They both know they have to be honest, at least to some degree, one that would not make them sound like delusional fantasists.

  ‘My name is Will Starling and this is Anna Wilder. Anna is an agent of the Secret Service and I am… ’ Will stops.

  What am I. Who am I?

  ‘You see, there’s this…’

  ‘Bomb,’ says Anna, getting in quick. Explaining mystical stones with the power to destroy them all might just be too much for him to swallow.

  ‘Yes, a bomb, somewhere in London,’ says Will.

  ‘There are many bombs in London right now,’ says the Captain.

  ‘Not like this one. It’s big, enormous, with the power to wipe out the city. That’s why the Nazi’s are bombing us. They know it is here. If they strike it, then it is all over. The war is lost.’

  ‘Please, Captain Snelling. Will is telling the truth,’ says Anna.

  The Captain pauses momentarily. ‘But why are you here?’

  ‘Please, there is no time to explain. We must hurry.’

  Another pause, Will feels his heart racing.

  ‘The rifle, please,’ says the Captain.

  Will hesitates, but hands it across.

  ‘Warby?’

  ‘Sir,’ replies Warby.

  ‘Take these young people where they need to go. Access all areas.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Will.

  ‘Go. I will keep an eye on the prisoner.’

  Chapter 40

  On Top of the World

  ‘This way,’ says Private Warby, gesturing to the staircase beyond the altar, but Will and Anna waste no time and rush ahead, taking the broad circular steps two, sometimes three, at a time.

  At the second floor, the entrance to the Whispering Gallery, Will slows. It is dark and cavernous with occasional flashes of light from the warring skies above. He grips the smooth stone of the balcony wall, his eyes sweeping the gallery’s wide circular expanse. A memory awakens, a voice from the past makes him falter.

  ‘You must find your way to the top, and once you do, the Stones will find you.’

  The voice belongs to Timothy Chittlock.

  Private Warby arrives at top of the stairs. ‘Blimey, this don’t get any easier,’ says the old soldier.

  ‘Will?’ says Anna, with a hint of concern in her voice.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ says Will and crosses the gallery, exiting through to a narrow steep staircase, leading up to the Stone Gallery. They climb on quickly, reaching a doorway that leads to an iron staircase. The surrounding walls are tall and constructed from a solid white stone. They are at the base of the dome. Will pushes on climbing all the way to the top where he sees another door, the entrance to the balcony of the Golden Gallery. He pushes the door, but it is stiff. Anna joins him and together they give it one hard shove. The door flies open.

  Cold air, smoke, droning bombers and the rapid ack ack ack of anti-aircraft gunfire flood his senses. Bombers and fighter planes seem almost within reaching distance. Across the capital, pockets of fire are raging. Clouds of black smoke hang over the city, which seems on the verge of collapse.

  Will knows this is nothing compared to what could happen if a bomb struck the Stones. He looks up at the ball and cross, grandly silhouetted in the mercurial light of the full moon. Clouds are closing in, threatening to shroud its luminescence. He must move quickly – a clear night is needed for the astrolabe to show him where the Stones are.

  ‘Help me find a way to the top,’ he says.

  They circle the balcony looking for somewhere to climb up. There is nothing.

  Scaling the wall seems like the only option, but Will glances over the edge of the narrow balcony, and down past the roof of the dome. It is a long way to the bottom and he does not fancy his chances.

  Private Warby arrives, puffing and panting, and holding his spear with both hands for support.

  ‘Private Warby,’ says Will, ‘I need to get to the cross.’

  If Warby is surprised at Will’s request, he does not show it. ‘Right ya be,’ he says.

  The old soldier looks to the top of gallery and focuses in on a spot between the pillars. He lifts his spear, pokes it around in the gloom and then smiles: ‘Got it.’ Lowering the spear to one side, he pulls down a narrow wooden ladder. ‘That’s all I use the ol’ spear for these days. That and clearing off the debris from those bleedin’ Nazi buggers,’ he says, pointing to the skies. ‘Now, the ladder will take you up to the ball where you will see a hole about the size of my thumb.’ Private Warby shows Will his thumb to illustrate the point. He reaches into the side pocket of his old army jacket and takes out a large ring containing a dozen or more heavy-looking iron keys. He remo
ves one and hands it to Will. ‘Insert this key into the hole and push up. A hatch will open. Climb through and use the same key to open the second hatch on top. The cross has its own rungs on the north side.’

  ‘Thank you, Private Warby,’ says Will, taking the key and placing it in his pocket.

  ‘Pleasure. Thank you for letting me apprehend the enemy once again. I never lost it, you know,’ he says with a wink.

  Will climbs the ladder, and Anna follows. He gazes beyond the balcony at the city below and feels his head spinning. It is so far down and, without the security of the balcony wall, his stomach lurches. Through the chaos in the skies, he hears Anna’s voice.

  ‘Don’t look down, Will! Keep going.’

  He closes his eyes for a moment and takes three deep breaths. Tightening his grip on the ladder, he pulls himself up, ignoring the pain in his injured hand. At the top of the gallery, he sees a fixed, curved iron ladder that runs over the domed roof and connects with a third ladder, which is painted gold and leads up to the great ball. Simple but ingenious camouflage, he thinks.

  Buoyed by the great ball’s close proximity, he clambers across the dome, ahead of Anna, and up the golden ladder, wincing at the cold wind that numbs his face and fingers. He sees the keyhole, and the faint square outline of the hatch door, and inserts the key, relieved to feel the faint tremor of the mechanism unlocking. The hatch door is stiff and heavy; it takes all his strength to push it up. Inside, it is pitch dark with the dry, dusty smell of age. There are layers of cobwebs, which drape his face, head and shoulders like a bridal veil.

  He clambers up and brushes away the cobwebs. Something with too many legs crawls over his ear and across his face. In a moment of disgust and panic, he swipes it from his face. His grip on the ladder loosens and he slips down two rungs. He grabs the ladder, but the key slips from his grasp and falls into the gloom below.

  Chapter 41

  Oranges and Lemons

  Horrified at his carelessness, Will listens as the key clatters against the ladder and then falls and slides down the side of the wall of the ball. He sees Anna just below the hatch door.

  ‘Anna, watch out!’ he shouts, hoping the heavy key does not hurt her.

  Anna’s hold on the ladder tightens and she looks up. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I stupidly dropped the key. Do you see it?’

  ‘No. I heard it, though. It might still be inside.’

  Holding the ladder with his good hand, he pulls the torch from his pocket with the other, flicks on the light and points the fading beam below. Anna is right. The key is still inside, but teetering on the edge of the hatch.

  And then, a nearby explosion rocks the ground like an earthquake, the cathedral shakes and the ball trembles. Will gasps as the key wobbles, shifting closer to the opening, hanging half-on and half-off the edge. With his heart pounding, he inserts the torch into his mouth and scrambles down the ladder, the beam fixed securely on the key as if its light might magically stop it from falling.

  He stretches his arm and reaches for it. It is a hair’s breadth from his fingers. Leaning further in, his grip on the ladder is held by just two middle fingers to give him that extra bit of length. The key begins to tip over the edge. Wide-eyed and desperate, he lurches forward, but it tips over and falls.

  ‘No!’ he cries as the key falls, but Anna is fast and nimbly plucks it from the air. Their eyes meet for a moment.

  His fingers ache from gripping the ladder but now he throws his weight back toward it, closing his eyes, relief sweeping over him. He climbs up to the top and is joined by Anna. They are so close, it is as if they are embracing. He watches her as she inserts the key and then together, they push open the second hatch.

  A fierce gust of wind sweeps through the opening. He climbs through and helps Anna up.

  They are standing on top of the ball at the base of the golden cross, which is almost as tall as a tree. Two enormous barrage balloons, like tethered leviathans of the skies, are floating above the cathedral. Around them they can see squadrons of Nazi bombers and Messerschmitts cramming London’s skies. And putting up a valiant fight are the battling Hurricanes and Spitfires.

  It is as if they have emerged into another world: one where they are small and insignificant, one that is perpetually dark and cold and filled with droning engines, rapid gunfire, whistling bombs and crackling flames.

  He turns his focus to the cross and circles its base in search of the ladder leading to the top. He finds it on the north side, as Private Warby had said. Anna is first up, Will follows, climbing the golden rungs, and for a moment, he is reminded of a story told to him when he was young – the story of Jack climbing the beanstalk into the clouds. Someone read it to him once. Someone in another life, before all of this. Someone he can no longer remember. He swallows and pushes the distraction from his mind.

  Ignoring the chaos in the skies around him, he reaches the top of the cross, which oddly resembles a giant flower made up of large golden petals.

  Sticking close together they crawl across the top and then stand up in the centre. Will takes out the astrolabe, his pulse racing. It is not glowing as before.

  ‘Why is it not working?’ says Anna.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He glances nervously up at the full moon, which is temporarily hidden by cloud and hears the thunderous roar of an engine. He turns to see a Messerschmitt flying past. He can see the pilot looking directly at him. Will meets his gaze as the plane flies wide and out of sight.

  ‘Will, we have to hurry. I don’t like the look of him,’ says Anna.

  Will focuses back on the astrolabe, waiting for something to happen. But nothing does. He frowns. Doubt begins to creep through him and he looks back at the moon, wishing he could shout and swear at the clouds, if only that would help shift them. But he doesn’t need to. They part as if sensing his need.

  And then the astrolabe’s dull grey metal begins to glow and spark with miniature fireworks.

  ‘At last!’ says Anna.

  Will’s heart pounds as the lights grow in intensity. They spiral up and across his body and high into the sky. A cooling sensation flushes through him, causing him to forget everything and laugh.

  He hears Anna’s voice calling him. It sounds so far away, yet she is standing right in front of him, ‘Will… Will… are you alright?’

  ‘Yes!’ he cries, his eyes wide with wonder, he holds the astrolabe high above his head, like the man on the mountain. The glowing becomes a rapid and bright flashing. And then, there is a muffled boom that tremors the air and for a few moments the torrid skies are gloriously lit with streaks of blue light that stretch across the entire city.

  And then they are gone, as quickly as they came, and the sky is dark and full of danger. Will looks about, desperate for a sign or some sort of signal. But there is nothing, just darkness and flames.

  And then he hears the mournful ringing of church bells. He isn’t clear where it is coming from and scans the city, speaking out loud the old rhyme. Anna joins him.

  ‘Oranges and lemons,

  Say the bells of St Clement’s…’

  He looks in the direction of St Clement’s but sees nothing. He is not sure what he is even looking for.

  ‘…You owe me five farthings,

  Say the bells of St Martin’s…’

  ‘When will you pay me?

  Say the bells of Old Bailey.’

  ‘When I grow rich,

  Say the bells of Shoreditch.’

  ‘When will that be?

  Say the bells of Stepney…’

  Will follows the order of churches but there does not seem to be any clue. And then he sees it.

  ‘…I do not know,

  Says the great bell of Bow.’

  The great Bow bells of St Mary le Bow are ringing. He can see the church and its spire, at Cheapside just east of St Paul’s. But there is something strange about the little church. Surrounding it, like something otherworldly, a blue light is forming like blue bees r
ound a honeypot. It begins to extend upwards, shining like a beacon all the way to the sky.

  ‘That’s it!’ he cries. ‘That is where the Stones are hidden.’

  ‘Watch out, Will,’ shouts Anna, pulling him down.

  He hears the rapid fire of a machine gun. Heading straight toward them is the Messerschmitt, its guns pointing and firing at the ball and cross. The bullets miss them, this time, but the Messerschmitt turns and circles back, stalking them like a shark.

  Anna is running back to the ladder and gracefully swings over, out of harm’s way.

  A dozen bullets chip at the cross and one hits the astrolabe, shattering it into several pieces. One piece flies at Will’s left cheekbone slicing through the skin to the bone. He cries out in pain and falls back against the giant petals dropping the remains of the ancient device. Warm sticky blood rolls down his cheek.

  The Messerschmitt flies past and Will sees the pilot look at him with a grim smile. Once again the fighter plane turns sharply, its guns pointing directly at Will. This time, the pilot would not miss.

  But Will is not yet finished. He sprints over the top of the cross, bullets pranging inches from his feet, and dives at the top rung, gripping it tightly with his good hand and swinging over the edge. He grunts as his body slams hard against the side of the cross, his ribs and left knee taking the biggest impact. His feet dangle in the air, his heart pounding; he dares not look down.

  His body aches as the Messerschmitt roars furiously overhead. He scrabbles for purchase, hampered by the pain in his ribs and knee and his injured hand. He lowers himself quickly and carefully, trying his best to beat the next onslaught of bullets. They come quickly, crashing angrily over his head and hands as he reaches the top of ball. It is miracle he has not been hit.

  He climbs down into the cover of the ball and waits for the Messerschmitt to pass. It flies by and he scrambles recklessly down and across the gallery roof.

  ‘Hurry, Will!’ It is Anna’s voice. ‘He’s coming back!’

  He climbs down to the balcony where Anna wraps her arms around him and squeezes so hard he winces. ‘I thought… I thought… you were dead,’ she says, her face buried in the crook of his neck.