by Jodi Taylor
‘Or died,’ I said.
‘Or died there before we could catch up with them. To cut a long story short, it was decided we would take a chance, stop following them, and jump directly to those coordinates. Even though it meant…’
Even though it meant that Matthew would no longer be a baby when they found him.
‘We landed in the East End. Once we were there, it took us three days to track him through the worst slums imaginable. We questioned, we bribed, we threatened. Sometimes we … I … got physical, but we found him in the end.
There’s an alleyway – Grit Lane. With a courtyard at the end. Tall narrow houses, one of which was occupied by Jeremiah Scrope and his wife, the very unlovely Ma Scrope. They lived in the downstairs rooms. I’ve no idea who was above them.’
He stopped talking. I offered him another beer. He took it but set it down unopened.
‘You didn’t find Ronan then. Wasn’t he still there?’
‘We don’t know. And there was no time to look for him. You saw the state Matthew was in. We had to bring him straight back. Max…’ He stopped, unable to go on.
I said, ‘I understand, Leon. You did exactly the right thing,’ and rubbed his arm.
‘As soon as they’ve had a breather, Ellis and his team, and probably Guthrie and Grey are going back to find Ronan.’
I nodded, still rubbing his arm.
‘Max, I’m sorry. Please believe we did everything we could to catch him as soon as possible. We’d chased them day and night. I’d done what I could to keep the pods aligned. I worked non-stop, and every day they were even more jumps ahead of us.
‘Leon, I understand.’
‘It was a calculated gamble. To jump ahead to a place where we knew he’d definitely be. And then, when we got there, he was eight years old.’
My heart sank. ‘Eight? He’s eight years old? I thought he was about five or six. Why is he so small?’
He shook his head. ‘Well, malnutrition, of course. I don’t think he’s had a decent meal in his entire life. And let’s face it, his parents aren’t that tall. The doctor thinks he’s about seven or eight years old.’
I couldn’t believe it, saying stupidly, ‘Matthew is eight?’
‘Probably. There’s another thing, Max…’
‘What?’
He took my hands. ‘That’s not his name any longer.’
I was bewildered. ‘What isn’t his name?’
‘Matthew. He was just a baby when he was taken. If he ever knew that name, he’s long since forgotten it. He’s never known his name was Matthew.’
It was all too much to take in. Just one hammer blow after another.
I said, ‘What’s his name now?’ and my voice wasn’t steady. That bastard Ronan had not only stolen him, but he’d stolen his identity too.
‘He doesn’t have one. As far as I can see, Ronan has been jumping around with him, selling him, returning a year later to steal him back, and then selling him on again. Some of his owners didn’t bother to give him a name. Scrope called him Joseph. He doesn’t respond to it. He doesn’t respond to anything very much.’
I remembered his silent watchfulness. With closed throat I said, ‘Can he talk?’
‘A little. I think he understands more than he shows, but over the years he’s learned it’s safer to keep quiet.’
He fell silent again.
‘Leon, what is it?’
‘There’s something else you should know.’
‘There’s more? What else could there possibly be? Isn’t all this enough?’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s get something to eat. I want to hear what’s been happening here.
I pulled him back down again. ‘Tell me.’
He didn’t look at me. ‘The thing is, Max. He hasn’t been well-treated.’
‘Yes, I can see that. I’m assuming he’s been a climbing boy.’
‘Yes, Ronan sold him to Scrope. For about seven shillings from what I could gather. His wife demanded two guineas to give him back to us however, because he’d been properly indentured and strictly speaking, we were breaking the law by taking him away, but Guthrie presented her with a couple of bottles of gin and a hard look, so she was induced to let him go. Eventually.’
I was silent. Most children from poor families worked from the age of seven onwards. In the factories, in the mills, on the land. None of it was pleasant and climbing boys had the worst of bad conditions. Their masters were paid to teach them the trade so that one day they could be master sweeps themselves, but most never made it that far.
Scrambling naked up the inside of a chimney that was sometimes no more than fourteen inches by nine and caked in creosote and soot, those that survived being trapped, suffocated or burned to death frequently fell victim to chimney sweeps’ cancer.
The boys – and sometimes girls – would sweep four to five chimneys a day, their elbows and knees scrubbed with brine to harden them. The sweep would light fires to make them climb faster until that dreadful moment when the climbing boy, weak with hunger and exhaustion, choking in the smoke and soot, allowed his centre of gravity to drop. And once his bottom dropped below the level of his knees, he was – as the official trade name defined it – ‘stuck’.
Whatever it was called, positional asphyxia would kill him. Alone. In the dark. Unable to move up or down. Knowing that if he survived this, his master would beat him severely for losing him his fee, because sometimes the only way to retrieve the child was to demolish the chimney. Only by then it was usually too late.
This had been my little boy’s life for…?
‘How long?’ I said to Leon.
‘About eighteen months.’
‘That long?’
‘Yes. He was one of three owned by old Scrope, who was a nasty piece of work, especially when he’d had a drink or two, but the real cruelty came from his wife. I never learned her name. She was just Ma Scrope and they feared her. Everyone feared her – including her husband.’
He stopped again. ‘He’s learned to be afraid of women, Max. You’re going to find that he’s not as … affectionate as you might wish. He’s all right with me. And with Guthrie, a little. And Ellis. But he doesn’t like women. I’m sorry, love.’
I said quietly, ‘He won’t remember me at all, will he?’
‘No.’
‘Or his life here?’
‘No.’
‘Does he think Clive Ronan was his father?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure he’s familiar with the concept of parents. Just owners. He’s been a climbing boy for as long as he can remember, which isn’t very long. I think he’s naturally small and skinny so he’s ideal and, of course, they’d want to keep him that way for as long as possible, so they fed him just enough to keep him on his feet. He was a business asset so they stopped short of punishing him enough to stop him working. Although his arm’s been broken at one time.’
He stopped and we both struggled for a moment.
I drew a breath and said firmly, ‘It’s probably best if we don’t think too much about that at the moment. We’ll need to divide this into manageable lumps – like a big assignment. We’ll get him fit first. We’ll feed and clothe him and hope that somewhere along the way he learns to trust us enough to … to…’
I had no idea what would come next. We were the parents of an eight-year-old child who had no memory of his life in this time. Who had only ever known brutality and hardship. Everything would be strange and new and frightening. And that was just for us. Heaven knew what it would be like for Matthew.
Absolutely nothing went according to plan.
We saw Dr Stone early the next morning.
‘He’s still asleep, which is a good thing. He’ll need breakfast when he wakes. I’ve only been here two days but as far as I can see, the St Mary’s idea of a balanced meal is not to put all their food on one side of the plate. I’ve seen no evidence of any kind that anyone in this unit is familiar with the concept of he
althy eating in any way, so we in Sick Bay will set his menu. Let’s start with you all eating together as a family.’
Chance would have been a fine thing.
I’ve heard the expression ‘feeding frenzy’. I’ve even witnessed it a couple of times – St Mary’s falling on a platter of sausages on their return from a long assignment springs to mind – but we’re amateurs.
It took him less than four and a half seconds to clear his plate.
‘Well,’ said Leon, bending down to pick up an unused spoon as I wiped a splodge of scrambled egg off the wall. ‘A bit of work needed there, I think.’
It wasn’t just his eating habits we had to contend with. He had no concept of bathrooms and certainly not the individual components therein.
‘Your son has just peed in the washbasin again,’ complained Leon.
I put down my book. ‘Why does he keep doing that?’
‘Well, I’ve shown him the toilet and how it works, but I think it’s because he always leaves things until the last moment. He races in, does a quick appraisal of the equipment provided, chooses the wrong one, and lets rip.’
I picked up my book again because this was one problem I felt I could safely leave to Leon to sort out. I’d been lumbered with the other end, so to speak. Because, not content with peeing in the wrong receptacle, he would, unless restrained, drink water from the toilet. He didn’t understand taps and from his point of view it was perfectly simple. There was water available in the bottom of the toilet bowl, so why not?
We had a long road to travel said Leon, as we sank, exhausted, into bed that night.
We buried Helen the next afternoon.
It was a horrible day. The sky was dark. Rain fell persistently, drumming on the ground and people’s umbrellas.
Kal had driven down from Thirsk. She stood beside me throughout. I knew she’d had a few words with Peterson before the service. They had been partners once and I know he always listened to her. I wondered what she’d said to him. With Kal, it could have been anything.
Leon, Markham, Guthrie, Atherton, Bashford and Dieter carried her coffin. Not Tim. I don’t think he could have. Dr Bairstow stood beside him at the graveside. There was no sound but that of trickling water.
I looked at Tim’s white face. Would he leave St Mary’s? He shouldn’t go. Not now, anyway. Maybe give it a month or two and then decide. I hoped that had been Kal’s advice. And what of him and me? The two of us. What was our relationship these days? He hadn’t spoken to me since he’d come to the lake.
Cold, we huddled together as the words were read. I could still hear her voice. Somewhere in my memories she was thumping Leon for operating on the wrong bloody arm. Telling Markham his ringworm would eat his eyeballs from the inside out. Holding Tim’s hands just before the Battle of St Mary’s. She and Tim should have had a long and happy life together. Neither of them deserved this.
The words ended.
They lowered her coffin into the ground.
Resting on the top was a single red rose, a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. I knew Peterson had kept her lighter.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to go out on assignment.
‘You should go,’ said Leon.
‘But…’
‘You should go,’ he said again, and stopped.
I knew why. He was a good man. He didn’t want to say that Matthew didn’t like me. That he distrusted and feared women and I was a woman. He didn’t want to tell me that, initially at least, they’d probably make more progress if I wasn’t around.
I tried not to feel unwanted, because I wasn’t, but it was hard. I took a deep breath and lifted my chin. Going out on assignment would be good. It would clear my head. I’d only be gone for one day. Two at the most.
‘We’ll have a little party when you get back,’ said Leon. ‘So he learns to look forward to seeing you.’
I swallowed a big lump and nodded. ‘Good idea.’
We assembled outside our respective pods. I was in Number Eight, with Bashford, Sykes and Markham. North, Clerk, Evans and Keller were in Number Five.
‘All set?’ said Dieter, scanning the console one last time.
‘Of course.’
I peered at the screen. Leon stood on the gantry. He’d taken a few minutes to come down and see us off. Matthew was still in Sick Bay. Dr Bairstow had made it very, very clear that Matthew was never to be allowed in Hawking. Whether he thought he’d stow away or break something, I had no idea, but it was fine with me. An additional safeguard for someone who was, at the moment, possibly the most guarded kid in the world. With all the additional security there was no way Ronan could ever get back inside St Mary’s, but no one was inclined to take any chances.
I’d waved at Leon, who’d smiled for me alone, stowed my gear, counted heads and now we were ready to go.
‘Good luck,’ said Dieter. ‘Try not to incur any damage.’
‘Observe and document only,’ I said, reassuringly. ‘We can’t possibly get into any trouble.’
‘I was talking about the pods.’
‘The rectangular thing behind you is called a door. Would you like Miss Sykes to show you how it works?’
‘Just saying,’ he said, grinning.
‘Go away and wind the motor, or whatever it is the Technical Section does do to make these things work.’
‘Ignorance – thy name is Maxwell.’
He closed the door behind him.
I checked everything over one last time, watched Number Five blink out of existence, and said, ‘Computer. Initiate jump.’
‘Jump initiated.’
The world went white.
*
We landed on the outskirts of a small wood. Judging by the number of broken branches lying around, there had been a recent storm. The one that shipwrecked Harold, presumably. Certainly the wind was still strong enough to stream my flimsy veil across my face. I had to keep pulling it out of my mouth. I could tell it was going to get on my nerves.
I opened my com. ‘Miss North, report.’
‘Here and safe. We’re a hundred yards to your left. I can see you.’
I turned and there she was, picking her way delicately through the trees. Her veil streamed gracefully behind her and did not, in any way, wrap itself around her face and try to strangle her, or become entangled in passing trees. It probably wouldn’t dare. Sykes had tamed her veil by tying it in a knot under her chin.
You watch these movies and holos about medieval times and the heroine is always wafting her way around the landscape with what looks like a traffic cone on her head, flowy sleeves and a dragging train and she is never, ever, up to her knees in piss, shit, ordure, offal, dead rats, whatever. If I ever make a movie – and stranger things have happened, to me, usually – my heroine will be cursing buckets as she struggles to move with twelve and a half yards of wet wool wrapped around her legs and stinking like a fish factory on a hot day.
At least when we left the wood, the wind was blowing into our faces, so, for the time being, at least, I could see.
We stood on a slight rise. The river Canche twisted away from us, a glittering ribbon of light as the sun played hide and seek in the scudding clouds. Below, a small town nestled along its banks, the wind shredding the smoke that curled from a hundred and more roofs. We could smell the tang from all the way up here.
‘Must have been a hell of a storm,’ said Clerk. ‘And it hasn’t blown itself out yet.’
‘OK, everyone,’ I said. ‘We all know what to do. Head to the gates and split into the two teams. Team Harold goes through and heads towards the castle. Team William hangs around looking innocent and non-threatening until William turns up. If he hasn’t arrived by sundown, it’s everyone back to the pods and try again tomorrow. But I think it will be today. He won’t want Guy getting any ideas about indulging in a little private enterprise himself.’
Beaurain was a bustling little place, clustered around the usual gloomy Norman donjon. There were
many people on the streets. Whether this was normal or the result of recent events, we had no way of knowing.
We picked our way carefully through streets cluttered with debris from the storm. In some places, there was more waterlogged thatch in the streets than on the roofs. Shattered tiles lay strewn across the cobbles.
We stuck tightly together and headed for the castle. The gatehouse was guarded, but people were passing in and out quite freely. We were dressed as richly as we dared. The colours were dark but the material was good. Usually I carry a basket or pack of some kind, but today I had servants to do that. Bashford walked beside me, and I rested my hand lightly on his arm. Sykes followed behind, with Markham bringing up the rear.
The secret is to walk slowly and not to gawp around. I bent my head attentively as Bashford spoke quietly to me. Actually, he was reciting ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ in Latin, but if the guards wanted to assume he was imparting words of wisdom they weren’t important enough to understand, then that was fine by me. Above all, we exuded confidence. As if we had every right to be here.
Markham opened his com to inform Keller we were approaching the castle now.
‘Communal link,’ I said and he nodded. It makes me nervous when we split up. I like my people herded together so I can keep an eye on them. If I can’t have that then we’re all on the communal link so I know exactly what’s going on at all times. Control freak? Moi?
We tucked ourselves behind what looked like a party of local merchants, all in their best clothes and talking loudly so people could see how important they were. They were obviously known to the guards who waved them through. For one moment, I thought we might be that lucky too, but we’re St Mary’s. Luck only happens to other people.
We halted, apparently in surprise that we should be challenged in this way. Bashford broke off what he was saying to frown. I gave them my best haughty Norman matron stare. Which is, actually, exactly the same as my haughty medieval matron stare. And my haughty Elizabethan matron stare. And my haughty Roman matron stare. Behind me, I could sense Markham moving to my shoulder. Just in case.
