Crow Boy (7 page)

‘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 suggested.

‘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.

‘Yeah, they're the best; trust me.'

‘I hope you know what you're doing,' she said.

‘I do,' he assured her. ‘But just to be sure, we'll get hold of the lavender, and the garlic as well . . . if we can find it.'

Missie Grierson frowned. She was looking at the cardboard pack in her hands as though trying to puzzle something out. Then she glanced at Morag. ‘Get dressed, girl,' she said. ‘Then go and knock on the door of Mr Stuart, the apothecary.'

‘At this time of night?'

‘Aye, tell him it's an emergency. Tell him we need some lavender and some . . . garlic, if he has any. Tell him I'll settle his bill next time I see him. And mind you, don't say why you want it.'

‘He's bound to ask,' said Morag.

‘Let him ask away, but keep yer wee trap shut. News of this will get around fast enough without spilling the information to that old blabbermouth. Now, go on with you.'

‘Yes, Missie Grierson.' Morag handed her lantern to Cameron and made as if to re-enter the room but Tom stopped her.

‘You can't go in there,' he said.

‘But that's where my dress is.'

‘You can't wear it, not till it's been washed.'

She looked at him, crestfallen. ‘But . . . it's the only dress I have. I can't go out in my nightgown, can I?'

Missie Grierson sighed. ‘Go down to the laundry and find something else to wear,' she told her. ‘I don't care who it belongs to, put it on for now.' Morag nodded and hurried away. ‘Throw that nightgown into a tub with some lye soap, while you're at it.' Missie Grierson shouted after her. She fixed Tom with a look. ‘I hope to God you know what you're talking about,' she said, ‘for this is going to cost me a pretty penny.'

Cameron looked unsure of himself. ‘Am I still to go for Doctor Rae?' he asked.

She considered for a moment and then nodded her head. ‘Aye laddie, I'm afraid you'll have to. If it gets out that we've kept quiet about an outbreak, there'll be hell to pay.'

‘I don't even know where he lives.'

‘Ach, you can't miss it, a big fancy house, away at the furthest end of the High Street. And you've a tongue in your head, haven't ye? You can always ask somebody if you're not sure. Go on with you, time's a wasti
n'
.
'

‘Yes, Missie Grierson.' Cameron turned away and headed back towards the staircase, leaving Tom and Missie Grierson standing in the hallway.

She shook her head. ‘Are you sure all this scrubbing and cleaning is necessary?' she asked him.

Tom nodded.

‘Well then, you'd best go down to the kitchen and get some water on the boil,' she said. ‘You'll have to rekindle the fire, think you can manage that?'

‘Yes,' said Tom.

He was surprised to find that he knew all about reviving the fire with dry wood, filling the big black cauldron from the outside pump and swinging it over the fire to heat up, though he couldn't remember ever doing such things before. He supposed it must have been a skill he'd picked up in the five or so days that had supposedly elapsed since he'd been feeding the pigs with Morag.

‘Anything else?' he asked Missie Grierson.

She nodded grimly. ‘Aye,' she said. ‘Pray.' Then she opened the door and went back into the bedroom, taking the light of her lantern with her.

Tom was instantly plunged into near darkness and had to grope his way along the hall to the staircase. Then he went down the creaky wooden steps with care, gripping the banister rails as he went. When he finally pushed open the kitchen door, he was momentarily relieved to note that there was some light in there – but then it struck him how out of place this kind of light was in the seventeenth century – the cold, flickering glare of electrical light. He moved forward into the kitchen and felt a shock go through him as he realised where it was coming from: a rectangular box standing on a wooden cupboard over in the far corner of the room. It was a television.

He stumbled closer, shaking his head in disbelief, his incredulity growing as he saw who was currently on screen, filmed in black and white. It was Mum. She had a weird beehive hairdo and was wearing an odd kind of 60's style dress, with puff sleeves, over which she'd tied a white, frilly apron. She was standing in what looked like an American kitchen, stirring ingredients in a glass bowl, humming happily to herself. The camera cut to the door behind her. It opened and Hamish stepped into the house. He was wearing a two-piece suit and carrying a leather briefcase. He was clean-shaven and his formerly receding hair had been trimmed into an immaculate crew cut.

‘Honey, I'm home!' he announced and there was a ripple of expectant laughter from an unseen audience. Tom noted that Hamish had somehow acquired a convincing American accent. He put his briefcase down and strode into the kitchen. ‘How's my favourite girl?' he asked. She turned and gave him a welcoming hug.

‘Why, just fine, honey,' she said and she gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. ‘I'm making your favourite apple pie as a welcome home treat.' Hamish turned his head and directed a long-suffering look at the camera.

‘Oh, goody,' he said, rolling his eyes, and more laughter swelled from the audience who were clearly in on the joke that Mum was a lousy cook. ‘Now, where's Tommy? Is that boy still not back from school?'

‘He always walks home with Laura-Sue,' said Mum, fluttering her eyelids. ‘I declare, he's getting later and later.'

Just then, the camera cut back to the front door, which opened and a young boy stepped into the hall, to a fresh burst of laughter from the audience. Tom's eyes widened in disbelief. He was looking at a freshly-scrubbed version of himself, wearing a college-style jacket, blue jeans and a baseball cap, which was turned the wrong way on his head.

‘Have no fear, Tommy's here,' he announced to nobody in particular. It must have been a catchphrase, because the audience erupted into wild applause as he performed a comical, strutting walk along the hallway into the kitchen. ‘Greetings, Ma and Pa,' he said, hooking his thumbs into his leather belt. ‘So what's happening?'

‘Mom's making her famous apple pie,' said Hamish. He and Tom exchanged glances, then both looked at the camera and rolled their eyes in unison. The audience guffawed.

‘You're kind of late, Tommy,' observed Mum, completely unaware that she'd just been mocked. ‘Have you been with Laura-Sue all this time?'

‘Sure,' said Tom. He threw a knowing look at the camera and waggled his eyebrows. ‘She was showing me her autograph collection.'

Mum looked worried. ‘Maybe it's time you and your father had a little talk about the birds and the bees,' she said.

‘Sure thing,' said Tom. ‘OK, Dad.' Pause. ‘What did you want to know?'

Now the audience was roaring with laughter. Tom couldn't see that any of it was funny but, more importantly, what did it mean?

The door behind him swung open and Cameron shuffled into the room, holding his lantern. He stopped and stared at Tom.

‘What are you doing, standing around in the dark?' he muttered. He set the lantern down on the kitchen table, grabbed his overcoat from a hook on the back of the door and shrugged himself into it.

‘I'm not
in
the dark, am I?' said Tom, nodding towards the television, where his American self was now setting his ‘parents' straight about a few things, much to the delight of the studio audience. ‘Bet you've never seen anything like that before, have you?'

Cameron moved closer, buttoning his coat. ‘Of course I have,' he said.

Tom stared at him. ‘You've seen a
television
?' he cried.

‘I don't know what you call it across the border,' said Cameron. ‘Here, we call it a meat safe.' He reached out a hand, gripped the edge of the screen and pulled it forward, to reveal the interior of the box which contained a plate and on it, a dodgy-looking hunk of pork. ‘It just keeps the flies off,' he said and he swung the door shut again. The corny sitcom was still playing out on the screen under Cameron's fingertips.

‘But . . .' Tom pointed. ‘What about that?' he said. ‘Can't you see it? That's me . . . or at least, a version of me. And that's my mum and . . .' He broke off, aware that Cameron was staring at him again. ‘You . . . you can't see anything different, can you?'

‘Tom, as usual, I don't know what you're on about,' said Cameron, but even as he said it, his face was bathed in the cold blue light of the TV screen. He was looking at Tom intently. ‘Do you really think you can help Alison?'

Tom swallowed. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘I think I can.'

‘Well, we'll find out soon enough. Now, I need to get a move on; Doctor Rae's house is miles from the Close. What were you doing down here, anyway?'

‘Er . . . Missie Grierson asked me to get some water heated up.'

‘Well, hadn't you better be getting on with it?' asked Cameron. He strode to the door, threw it open and went down the corridor beyond, his boots clumping on the stone-flagged floor.