Arnie Jenks and the House of Strangers (4 page)

‘Emily, where are you?' Arnie searched about but there seemed no sign of her.

Adjusting to the hazy light he walked tentatively towards where she had been kneeling. There was no fire burning and the grate had been swept clean. Everything around him looked similar though slightly rearranged. A bunch of red and pink roses in full bloom stood proud out of a tall fluted vase on the mantelpiece. He wondered if they had always been there.

Bracing himself for the unexpected, he crossed over to the ornate glass French windows and gingerly peered out. Thoughts of Emily evaporated as he saw the snow had gone. A full moon was sliding effortlessly across the sky bathing the freshly cut lawn in a soft minty glow. Time had changed again.

A sudden movement caught his eye. Was it his imagination or was there really something on the run, rapidly, under cover of darkness? Did he see it turn? Was it coming for him? He lost sight of it. And then it was there. Creeping out from the shadows – watching him. Moving slowly at first and then into a sprint directly in line to where he was standing. Faster and faster, gaining ground quickly – it was almost on top of him.

He saw that the doors leading into the garden had slipped open. Gripping the double handles, he pulled them tight. They clicked securely shut.

‘Whoa!' he uttered, as he saw the fox on the grass – panting heavily, saliva dripping from its jaws. It looked at him slyly for just a moment. Then it was gone. Arnie relaxed and sighed.

A face melted into the window, staring from over his shoulder. He spun round and came face to face with a knife.

‘Don't cry out,' hushed the boy, pushing the serrated blade hard up against Arnie's throat.

‘You're hurting me!' Arnie's voice rose as his attacker moved in closer.

‘Then say nothin' and I might let you go – but shout out and I'll cut yer dead,' he said, his soft country burr mellowing the harsh words.

The intruder, pale and spindly, not much older looking than Arnie, struggled to keep his hands from being swallowed up inside his cuffs, as he stood there in a ripped and torn heavy leather coat and thin flannel trousers which overlapped workman-like boots. His short back and sides haircut revealed a vertical scar on his right temple.

‘You live ‘ere?'

‘Sort of,' said Arnie, sensing the knife press deeper into his skin. His pulse thumped defiantly against the cold steel as he struggled not to retch.

‘Don't make a sound!'

‘I won't – I promise!' Arnie choked.

‘I mean it!' said the boy. ‘One squeak and you'll regret it.'

‘I believe you!' he said, his voice trembling.

A second later, the knife relaxed and Arnie sagged and buckled backwards.

‘Come away from the window! No one must see us!'

‘What are you frightened of?' gasped Arnie, rubbing his neck feverishly.

‘Whoever be ‘bout,' the boy said. Studying Arnie carefully he moved in closer, gripping the knife tight once again and pointed it at him threateningly. ‘Who
are
you?'

‘Arnie Jenks,' he blurted.

‘Never ‘eard of yer,' the boy declared. ‘What you doin' down ‘ere?'

‘Couldn't sleep, that's allowed isn't it?'

‘S'pose' so – just ‘adn't expected anyone to still be up. Being dark like, I thought they'd all be in bed.'

‘Who?' said Arnie.

‘His Lordship and his Lady of course. Who else?'

‘What are their names?' Arnie said without thinking.

‘Are you off y're ‘ead? You're in the best position to know a thing like that – y're in their ‘ouse after all.'

‘If I knew I wouldn't ask!' said Arnie grasping a little strength. ‘I haven't been introduced to them yet,' he added truthfully.

‘Lord Edward and his Lady Prudence,' said the boy, a little taken aback.

‘Edward…' recalled Arnie, ‘Edward, Edward…'

Arnie concentrated hard trying to remember something Emily had said. He visualised her speaking at the table in the servants' hall and her words came flooding back.

“…I'm Emily Buck, the under-house parlour maid to Lord Richard and Lady Beatrice and their
son Edward…”

So, he thought, Edward, the young master of the house at the turn of the
twentieth century had grown up and married. And was now Lord of the Manor by the sound of it.

‘I…I don't actually know them…' said Arnie quietly.

‘So what you doin' ‘ere then?'

‘I'm not sure,' said Arnie vaguely.

The boy's eyes fixed onto Arnie like he was a target caught in a rifle sight's crosshairs. They shot Arnie back to reality.

‘Look, I'm just waiting for the snow to melt – then I can be off. Oh!' Arnie realised his mistake.

‘Snow? What you talkin' ‘bout? It's July!'

‘Yes, quite – I was…
dreaming
that it was snowing and that I couldn't leave the house so…I got up and dressed and came down to see if it was true.'

‘Well it isn't!'

‘Absolutely right,' agreed Arnie.

‘You're a bit odd aren't you?' the boy said, pushing out his yellow tinged tongue. ‘You talk like a toff but you don't sound like anyone I've ever seen round ‘ere.'

Arnie stared at the boy's pallid complexion beaten senseless by the weather. His breath was stale.

‘What is it?'

‘Nothing,' said Arnie.

‘Then what are you lookin' at so keen?' he said, rubbing his red ringed eyes.

‘You just seem…'

‘What?'

‘…like you haven't been taking care of yourself much.'

‘‘Ow the ‘ell could I?'

Arnie shrugged. ‘I don't know…'

The boy pulled his coat tighter around him and turned half away.

‘Have you been travelling?' Arnie enquired casually, trying not to look at the boy's filthy hands, his bitten fingernails and his twitching grimy face.

‘Don't you worry ‘bout where I've been, ain't got to do with nothin'!'

‘Oh. Sorry. You just look like you haven't had much sleep…'

The boy tried not to yawn. ‘‘Ard to rest when you've a long way to go…'

‘Guess so,' said Arnie.

‘Yeah,' he said wearily, sliding the knife inside his belt.

Arnie smiled.

‘What?'

‘Your clothes – they look like they don't belong to you.'

The boy took a pace back and shuddered.

‘What's it to you anyway? Your getup don't look made to measure much, do it?'

Arnie looked down at his oatmeal coloured coat taken from a peg outside the servants' parlour.

‘I'm just wearing this because it can get cold. I'll give it back when I go.'

‘Cold? It's swelterin' – especially at night – flippin' airless!'

Arnie gabbled his words. ‘Not here it isn't. One minute it's as warm as toast – the next, an ice palace. The temperature bobs about all the time,' he said, flapping his hands to keep cool. ‘It's got a micro climate of its own!'

The boy shrugged and looked to his ragged costume. ‘I…didn't want to take ‘em, but I needed ‘em.' He straightened his back and looked up. His eyes seemed rheumy.

‘To get me ‘ome unnoticed,' he confessed, ‘from the Front.'

He stood very still. A long moment passed.

‘I'm a soldier,' he said finally, his voice wavering.

Arnie took a pace forward and seeing that the boy didn't reject him, indicated the fireplace.

‘We could sit over here? It's…out of the way.'

The boy hesitated for a moment and then reluctantly did as he was invited.

Arnie sank back into the deep padding of a tall armchair dangling his legs over the edge. His feet didn't quite touch the floor.

‘Feel better?' Arnie tried.

The boy sat silent and tense opposite him fiddling with a button that hung by a loose thread.

‘Where were you trying to get to?'

The boy ignored him.

‘Well,' said Arnie exasperated, ‘you could at least tell me your name!'

‘Private Thomas Hodges,' he barked, jumping to his feet and saluting. His face clouded over and he dropped his arm quickly. Clearly shocked, he turned away out of the light and sitting back down whimpered, ‘You sounded just like my company officer; he would have me ‘orse whipped for breaking in ‘ere.'

Arnie softened, ‘Look I don't know what you're about but I'm not going to grass on you.'

‘Grass?' said Thomas, turning round.

‘Tell?' translated Arnie. ‘Snitch?'

Thomas nodded his understanding. ‘You ‘ad better not,' he said, his voice wobbling. ‘All I want is a bit of kip before I move on. Can you ‘elp me with that?'

‘Yeah,' Arnie assured him.

‘You won't tell no one?' Thomas said softly. ‘Our secret?'

‘Tell anyone what?'

He stared Arnie straight in the face, breathing rapidly.

‘I'm on the run,' he croaked. ‘I've deserted the army. If they catch me, I'll be court marshalled and face the firing squad.'

‘They can't do that!' Arnie exclaimed, shocked. ‘That's murder!'

Thomas looked lost. ‘That won't stop ‘em shootin' one of their own rather than lose face to cowardice in a time of war. I should ‘ave taken my chances and gone over the top as was planned. That would've been a swift way out – all over in seconds I'd think. Then a letter be sent ‘ome and I'd be carved out an ‘ero.'

‘What made you leave?' Arnie asked softly. ‘Did you…actually…kill someone? And freak?'

Thomas sniffed loudly. ‘Nothin' like that – didn't get the chance. I just kept me ‘ead down and prayed I could get through it. But it was too much.'

‘The fighting?'

‘Not that,' said Thomas, turning back to the fireplace. ‘It was the endless days of tryin' to survive being in them trenches with the noise and smell of gas – and the rats – those bloody rats eating into everythin' and everyone…the sweat and the smell of piss steamin'…I just couldn't stand it any longer.'

Thomas rocked quietly sideways as he steadied himself.

‘One time, I come down from the four in the morning watch and as I got near to our dugout I ‘eard the shout go up, and dived for cover. I lay there in the wet mud – bits of shrapnel fallin' around. I was
so
scared and
so
cold, I just wanted it to be over. Then I ‘eard ‘em laughin' – it were men from my unit.
They
‘ad raised the alarm and as I lay there, they stood above me – throwin' stones, pretendin' it were enemy shell. They taunted that I were useless, couldn't even run a skirmish or shoot a target straight. My officer believed ‘em and cancelled my leave for a month, makin' me do the worst duty times. I never slept at night.'

Thomas rubbed his face and cleared his throat.

‘Go on,' encouraged Arnie.

‘An ‘our before the sun come up I left my rifle at the lookout post and walked away back down the line. I found a quiet stretch where I could break away ‘cross country and then on up the coast.'

‘From where?'

‘The Somme it was,' said Thomas
.

‘1916,' Arnie whispered quietly under his breath, ‘The Germans! First World War.'

‘Eh? Did you say
First
World War?' said Thomas cautiously.

‘Yes.'

‘Don't know what you mean? You ‘eard there's goin' to be a second one comin' up?'

‘I don't know,' said Arnie moving on quickly, ‘did you not get stopped?'

‘Only local peasants luckily – I kept schtum – not a word – my French ain't good and I couldn't risk givin' away I be English. They'd have panicked and handed me in.'

Arnie nodded.

‘But the army – didn't they try and come after you?'

‘Probably didn't care much. Guessed I'd get picked up and brought back – they weren't gonna waste their time on a loser like me, ‘oped I'd get blown up by accident I ‘spect. Would have sorted out a lot of things…'

Arnie was smarting a little now. He gulped hard trying not to show that he was upset.

‘A few francs got me a passage on a fishin' boat ‘cross the Channel and then I ‘itched rides for as long as I dared. The rest; I walked.'

Thomas extracted a cigarette from his pocket. ‘Want one?'

Arnie shook his head.

He patted his pockets for matches before picking up a slim silver cigarette lighter from the table next to him and lit up, sending little ringlets of smoke curling towards the ceiling. Flakes of tobacco stuck in his teeth which he stripped out with a torn thumbnail. A wave of relief flooded across Thomas's face. ‘They calm my nerves real good,' he said, dragging harder on the rolled up tube.

Arnie wrinkled his nose.

‘You don't smoke?'

‘No, disgusting.'

‘Don't like the taste?'

‘Never tried them. And I'm not going to either.' Arnie paused and lifted his eyes. ‘They…kill you.'

Thomas frowned as he clamped his teeth tight like a vice and sucked hard. ‘What these?' The end flared bright orange.

Arnie nodded.

‘Peculiar – everyone I know seems to like ‘em. Though your chest gets a bit thick if you smoke too many,' Thomas wheezed. ‘I can only afford a packet a day – the rest I ‘ave to blag off the lads.'

‘I'd give up then.'

Thomas stared back into the fireplace.

‘So what made you choose this house?' said Arnie, his voice breaking a little – wiping his clammy hands on his trousers.

‘Well, I live near, see?' Thomas perked up. ‘My dad is gamekeeper to His Lordship. But comin' ‘ome was a big risk ‘cos my folks didn't know to expect me. They were out. I hung about for a while but the police come. Two uniforms they were – must ‘ave been tipped off by the regiment or someone who saw me in town – that gossipy fishmonger's wife more likely – think she caught sight of me. I should ‘ave stayed away but wanted to come ‘ome. You get that don't you Arnie?'