Crow Boy (10 page)

Thirteen

Tom lay in an improvised bed on the kitchen floor, unable to sleep. Beside him, Cameron was snoring gently, his back turned. Tom had tried apologising to him earlier and had even offered to shake the boy's hand, but Cameron would have none of it and he hadn't spoken a word to Tom since the fight.

Because of the quarantine situation, the boys couldn't go up to their usual room under the eaves of the building and this was the only solution that Missie Grierson had been able to come up with: a jumble of bedding laid out on the hard slabs of the kitchen floor, a Spartan arrangement that made the meagre bed in the roof-space seem like paradise by comparison. Whichever way Tom tried to stretch himself out, he could feel the chill touch of the stone slabs pressing through the woollen blankets beneath him and he was left to lie there, thinking about what had happened earlier.

He'd told Missie Grierson everything, leaving nothing out. To be fair to her, she'd listened patiently to what he had to say, but the look on her face suggested that she was beginning to think Cameron's opinion of Tom was spot on. A bampot. Tom couldn't blame her. He wouldn't have believed it if somebody else had fed him a similar story. It was absolutely mental. There was no other way of describing it.

The problem was, he had no proof now of where he'd come from. The phone had packed up completely and when he'd shown her the five pound note, she'd just looked baffled. When Tom finally asked her if she believed him she could only shrug her massive shoulders and say that she'd have to think about it, long and hard, before she could offer him an answer.

Now what else was there for him to do but try to get on with the crazy, scrambled life that had been handed to him and hope that, one day, he'd somehow get back to where he'd come from?

A scrabbling sound made him look up and, in the rays of moonlight filtering in through the room's one window, he saw a rat creeping along the wall, the same rat he had seen before, of that he was pretty sure, though he couldn't for the life of him think why. Didn't all rats look pretty much the same? This one was moving forward in a straight line, as though it knew exactly where it was going but, when it was about halfway across the room it unexpectedly stopped and turned to look at Tom. Tom felt a chill go through him. It was almost as though the rat knew him and had stopped to say hello. It raised itself up on its hind legs and stayed where it was for the moment, peering at him, its nose twitching agitatedly.

‘Shoo!' hissed Tom, not wanting to wake up Cameron, who was in a bad enough mood already. ‘Go away!'

The rat tilted its head to one side, as though trying to puzzle out what Tom had said. Then it dropped back onto all fours and began to approach the bed. A sense of total dread settled over Tom. He lay there, his skin crawling, his heart thudding in his chest, hardly daring to breathe as the rat came steadily closer. It reached the foot of the bedding and hesitated, sniffing at the blankets, as though trying to figure something out. Then it came on again. It crept up onto the grimy covers and moved closer, closer, staring at Tom intently all the while. He lay there mesmerised, aware of beads of sweat popping on his brow and running down his face. He wanted to scream out loud but somehow couldn't make a sound.

And then, almost before he knew it, the rat was on his chest; it was staring at him as though it knew something and wanted Tom to know about it too. And then, most incredible of all, it reared onto its back legs again and spoke in a tiny, whispering voice.

‘He's not what he seems,' said the rat and, with that, it whipped around, scampered back along Tom's prostrate form and onto the floor. It went straight back to the wall and resumed its former course, as though it had dismissed Tom completely. He saw the dark shape of it scuttling along until it passed out of sight behind some wooden barrels.

Only then did he remember to breathe.

‘No way,' he murmured. Now he knew he really had lost it. Never mind going back in time to 1645, never mind the unplanned visits to various family units that could never be; now he'd been spoken to by a rat! And what had it said to him?
He's not what he seems
. What was that supposed to mean?

Beside him, Cameron murmured something in his sleep and then gave a really creepy-sounding laugh.

‘Great,' muttered Tom. He snuggled deeper into the so-called bed and pulled the grotty covers up over his head. He tried to put his mind in the drawer labelled ‘sleep' but he had a hard time of it and it was only in the early hours of the morning that he finally located a small gap at the back of the drawer and dropped through it like a coin, into a deep, dreamless darkness.

He woke alone, with the early morning sunlight streaming onto his face and the sound of a fist banging repeatedly on the front door. He lay for a moment, staring blearily around. There was no sign of Cameron. Why hadn't he woken Tom when he got up? Still in a bad mood, most probably, wanting to make him look like a layabout.

Now Tom could hear the sound of voices out in the hall, Cameron's voice, he thought, followed by a hoarse, muffled rasp that could only have belonged to one person. The talking seemed to go on for quite a while before it was replaced by the thudding of heavy boots going up the stairs.

The sound galvanised Tom into movement. He clambered out of bed and hurriedly dressed himself, longing, not for the first time, for his real home, where he would have showered himself fully awake with soap and hot water. He went out into the hallway to find the front door left ajar, and now he could hear voices coming from up on the first floor. He hurried up the stairs and found Missie Grierson, Morag and Cameron standing outside Alison's room.

‘What's happening?' he asked them. ‘Why didn't somebody wake me?'

‘I thought you could use the sleep,' Missie Grierson told him. ‘Doctor Rae's in with Alison now.'

Tom realised that he was probably supposed to wait out here too, but somehow couldn't bring himself to do it. He walked past the others and, pushing open the door of the room, went inside. Alison was sitting up in bed, looking perfectly relaxed, while The Doctor bent over her like a huge, black bat, checking her neck for signs of infection. By the window, the man had the hot brazier ready and he also had the metal implements slung across his shoulders, but there was no sign of Joshua this morning. The Doctor turned his masked head and stared at Tom as he entered the room.

‘Ah, the magician returns,' said his muffled voice. He picked up the packet of pills from the bedside table and strolled towards Tom, tapping the cardboard box rhythmically against his leg. ‘There's quite a transformation here. The girl appears completely cured. No sign of that buboe she had yesterday. No sign whatsoever.'

Tom smiled proudly. ‘That's great,' he said. ‘I told you those pills would do the trick.'

The masked head nodded. ‘So you did, boy, so you did. But I find myself wondering how was this miracle cure effected?'

‘Er . . . I told you. The pills.'

‘And what, pray, are the ingredients?'

Tom shrugged. ‘How would I know?' he muttered. ‘They're just pills that you get from the doctor. Medicine. I don't know what's
in
them.'

‘But you must have been there when your Doctor . . . forgive me, I forget his name. Something Latin, wasn't it?'

‘Doctor Wikepedia.'

‘Yes . . . he must have shown you the ingredients when he made them.'

‘Ah, no, it's not like that, not where I come from. You just hand in your prescription and, ten minutes later, somebody comes out with the pills. And they don't make them there, obviously; they'll be made in a factory or something. I mean they must make millions of them . . .'

‘Millions? You can get millions of these pills?'

‘Er . . . I didn't say I could
get
them, I'm just saying they make a lot.'

The Doctor gestured at Alison, still sitting up in bed and smiling at Tom.

‘How do you feel, my dear?' he asked her.

‘Much better,' said Alison. ‘A little weak, maybe, but nothing more.'

‘Hmm.' The Doctor turned back to look at Tom. ‘Of course, there are some who would say that what you have done here borders on witchcraft,' he hissed.

Tom shook his head. ‘Oh no, it's nothing like that, it's, er . . . science.'

‘Well, as a scientific man myself, I am delighted to hear that. Only . . .'

‘Only what?' asked Tom.

‘I spoke to your young friend Cameron on the way in this morning. He told me a few interesting things about you.'

‘Did he?' asked Tom, doubtfully. ‘Oh, well, I think he's just in a bad mood with me, because . . .'

‘He told me that you're given to strange hallucinations.'

‘Really? Umm . . .'

‘He says that you arrived here with some ridiculous notion about being from another time. That you fell through it.'

‘Hah. As if!'

‘He says that you claim to have an imp in a bottle which allows you to speak to people all over the world . . .'

‘Oh. When you put it like that, it does sound kind of dodgy,' admitted Tom. ‘But there's a perfectly logical . . .'

‘So here's what I suggest. I'll take the rest of these Sassenach pills . . . and you'll come along with me.'

‘With you? What do you . . .?'

‘Actually, it's a very propitious time. My right-hand man, Joshua, has taken a bad dose of the contagion himself and I find myself in urgent need of an assistant. I have decided to confer that honour upon you.'

Tom stood there, hoping that The Doctor didn't mean what Tom thought he meant.

‘You're saying . . . you want me to do Joshua's job? Heating up the pokers and all that? I . . . I can't do that. I've got . . . stuff to do here.'

The Doctor placed a gloved hand on Tom's shoulder with a grip so tight it made him wince.

‘Oh, but I insist,' he said. ‘I think, with the right training, you'll make an excellent stickman.' He spun Tom around and grabbed him by his collar, then started marching him towards the door. ‘We'll be on our way, shall we?' he growled. He beckoned with his cane for the brazier man to follow him.

‘No! No, wait!' Tom was propelled out of the room onto the landing, where he saw his three companions waiting for him. Missie Grierson and Morag had looks of horror on their faces, whereas Cameron could barely conceal his glee. ‘Please! No! I . . . I can't help you. Missie Grierson,
tell
him!' he pleaded.

‘Doctor Rae!' Missie Grierson took a step forward to bar The Doctor's path. ‘I must protest! Young Tom is my ward. I'm the one who has been charged with his upkeep. I'll no' stand for you taking him away.'

The Doctor paused to look at her, his eyes glittering spitefully behind the mask. ‘You'll no' stand for it?' he echoed mockingly. ‘My dear woman, you will do exactly as you're told. You'll need my permission to remove the white cloth from your window and, unless the boy comes with me, I'll see to it that it stays there until hell freezes over.' Missie Grierson took a step back as though she had been slapped in the face.

‘You . . . you can't do that!' she protested.

‘Try me,' suggested The Doctor. ‘I think you'll find, Madam, that in the current crisis, I have more powers than you might think. And another thing . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘There's the little matter of ten shillings that you forgot to give me yesterday.'

‘But you didn't treat Alison, so I thought . . .'

‘It's ten shillings per visit,' The Doctor assured her. ‘So that's nearly two merks you owe me – a sum I'm prepared to overlook if the boy comes with me.'

Missie Grierson stared at him defiantly for a moment, but then lowered her head in defeat.

‘No!' cried Morag. ‘No, Missie Grierson, you can't let them take him!'

‘I have to, child,' muttered Missie Grierson. ‘If we can't do laundry, we can't survive. None of us. And twenty shillings is more than I have in the world.' She looked at Tom. ‘I'm sorry, lad,' she said.

Then Tom was being propelled onwards towards the staircase. The Doctor's assistant followed, thrusting the glowing hot brazier towards Missie Grierson to make her step back.

‘Goodbye, bampot!' snickered Cameron and Tom felt an overwhelming desire to run back and punch him, but he was helpless in The Doctor's powerful grip. He was pushed and prodded down the staircase and out of the open front door, into the crowded street. ‘Meet me later,' The Doctor told the brazier man, ‘at the Four Talons.'

‘Aye, sir!' said the man and he disappeared into the jostling crowd.

‘This way, boy,' said The Doctor and he pushed Tom along in front of him, parting the crowds ahead with an imperious sweep of his cane. Tom struggled to break free but the hand that held him had fingers that felt like steel cables and he could do nothing but stumble forward. After a few moments, he heard a voice calling his name. He looked back and saw that Morag was running after him.

‘Tom!' she cried. ‘Tom! Don't go, please!'

‘Get away, you little fool!' The Doctor lashed out with the cane and she fell back a couple of steps, shielding her face with her arms.

‘Morag, go back!' Tom shouted to her. ‘It's no use! I have to go with him.'

‘I won't forget you,' she called after him. ‘Not as long as I live, I promise.'

He managed to wave to her before The Doctor thrust him onwards.

They emerged from the Close onto the broader sweep of the High Street where a horse and carriage was waiting. The Doctor signalled to the driver and the man threw open the door. The Doctor lifted Tom clear of the cobbles and all but flung him head-first into the carriage, then climbed in behind him. ‘Coachman, ride on!' he bellowed.

There was the sound of a whip cracking on the air and the coach began to rattle forward. Tom struggled around onto his knees and scrambled towards the open window. He leaned out and saw Morag standing at the top of the Close, a forlorn look on her face. She lifted a hand and waved to him. He waved back and then the horses plunged onwards and she was lost to sight.