The Forgotten Son Read online

  Owain sat within the pyramid. His eyes were closed, his legs crossed with his hands resting on his knees, his thumbs and forefingers touching together gently. A meditative asana known as the lotus. Gordon watched him. Owain was almost ready. Gordon could no longer leave the Manor; to do so was to risk dissolution, and he could not risk that, not when he was so close. So close to being restored, to becoming that which he had once been.

  He could no longer feel the trace within Albert, although he knew it was there, and neither could he feel Mary. Both were close though; he had felt that much before they had vanished from his mind.

  It was fitting that it had been Owain who had awoken him once more, who had finally given him the strength needed to bring himself together. This time he would not make the same mistakes that he had made with Gordon. He had thought much about the mistakes…

  Thought! What else could he do? He could whisper, urge people on, but that was all. He could no longer affect matter. He checked himself. That was true once. Not now Owain had come to the Manor.

  Now Owain was ready. No more need to risk joining and damaging the entity; now he could control Owain from afar, as he had done with so many others over the centuries.

  ‘Owain,’ he said, still using the voice and form of Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart. ‘Return to Bledoe, be my eyes and ears. Find Albert and Mary, bring them to me. Make us whole once more.’

  Owain removed himself from the pyramid and smiled at Gordon. ‘Of course I will,’ he said, and turned to leave.

  — CHAPTER EIGHT —

  Looking Back

  ON THE SURFACE IT LOOKED like a normal day in Bledoe. The rain had died down shortly after sunrise, leaving dew over the village, a light refreshing fog in the chilly spring air. Parents rose early, getting themselves ready for a day of work before rousing the children and preparing them for school and another day in Liskeard. The village post office opened as usual, although it was Mrs Vine who greeted the customers and not Mr Vine, an inconsistency that Mrs Vine chose not to discuss.

  All across Bledoe, the villagers continued about their business, most unaware of the meeting taking place in The Rose & Crown.

  Lethbridge-Stewart had expected more people to turn up, until Mr Barns – Henry, he reminded himself; after all they were friends, or at least had been many years ago – explained that Bledoe was not so large that they needed to disturb the entire village at this point. Before she left, Henry’s wife, Jemima, had prepared them all tea and bacon sandwiches. She’d be back later to ‘feed the troops’, after she had dropped their teenage children to Liskeard Grammar School. The ‘troops’ in this case were Private Bishop, George Vine and his son Owain, and Raymond, who sat at a nearby table nursing a hangover and drinking black coffee. The rest of them were gathered around another table, a map of Bledoe laid out before them. Lethbridge-Stewart was happily letting Henry organise the first phase of the search, since he knew the village better.

  ‘We can easily break up the search into three main areas. If the colonel and Ray take the area around Penhale Meadow and Well Lane, George and Owain can take Trethevy Close across to Diggory’s Field. Private Bishop and I will cover west of Tremar Lane all the way down to Humphrey’s Lane. That leaves the sport’s field, but I can’t see any reason Mrs Lethbridge-Stewart would head there. Can you, Alistair?’

  Lethbridge-Stewart had removed his uniform jacket and was now in his slacks and shirt; even his tie had been removed and rolled up inside his cap. Upon entering the pub an hour earlier he’d realised that he wasn’t in Bledoe in an official capacity, despite what he had told Sally last night, and had removed as much of his uniform as he could, just to show the men gathered that he was one of them. As such he accepted the informality in Henry’s address.

  ‘No reason that comes to mind, no. She’s an old woman, and is probably very confused, but I can’t imagine any reason she would have for visiting a sport’s field.’ Lethbridge-Stewart smiled sardonically. ‘Mind you, I can’t see why she’d be anywhere else in Bledoe, either.’

  ‘No, and I’ve been thinking about the places our parents used to frequent back in the day. Ray,’ Henry called, ‘what about you? Your mother and Alistair’s were best friends – do you remember what they liked to do together?’

  Ray looked up from his coffee. He looked terrible. According to Henry, Ray was not a man known for getting drunk and had, last night, drank way more than his usual limit. It showed. Lethbridge-Stewart felt sympathy for the man – it must have been a shock to wake up feeling worse than usual and then be confronted with a man he had not seen in twenty-four years. Ray had certainly taken a while to adjust to the presence of the two men in his house. Watching the man behave in such an awkward fashion only served to remind Lethbridge-Stewart how much of an outsider he really was – and he could barely marry that with the fact that they had once been friends. He could not wait to get out of the cottage and back to the pub, a place that he always felt at home, no matter where the pub was. It was probably a good thing that Henry had put him and Ray together, since it would give the two men a chance to talk properly.

  ‘Nothing comes to mind,’ Ray said, in answer to Henry’s question. ‘There wasn’t much to do in the village back then, not for two young mothers especially. They’d take us over to Draynes Wood or down to Venslooe Hill, used to like visiting Higher Tremarcoombe…’ He shook his head. ‘Other than that, what else could they do? They had children to raise, husbands to keep.’

  A memory flashed to the forefront of Lethbridge-Stewart’s mind. Three boys this time: Ray, James and, he assumed, Henry. He was with them, three years younger and tagging along as always. They were out on the fields, playing around a stone structure that looked like a poor man’s Stonehenge. ‘Redgate Smithy?’ he asked looking at Higher Tremarcoombe on the map.

  Ray smiled at that. ‘Yes, up at Trethevy Quoit.’ He got up to join them at the table.

  ‘It rings a vague bell,’ Lethbridge-Stewart admitted. ‘I have a distinct memory of you and I up there, Ray,’ he continued. ‘Early ‘40s, I think.’ He shook his head. ‘But before that…? I don’t know.’

  ‘Simpler times, Alistair,’ Ray said.

  ‘Always enjoyed it up there,’ Henry said, joining in with a wistful smile. ‘Used to take my kids up there, too.’

  For a moment the men fell into small talk, discussing the good times they had at Redgate Smithy and further afield at the Pengriffen Fogou, back when they didn’t need television to distract them, back when children knew how to enjoy themselves outside. It was a skill the parents continued to try to teach their kids in Bledoe, but Henry admitted that it was a losing battle. Television was becoming too popular, especially now that it had become colour, as was the fast life of London. A dark look passed between George and his son.

  Ever since they had arrived at the pub Lethbridge-Stewart found himself unable to shake the feeling that he knew Owain. Of course that was not possible. The boy was no more than eighteen, had lived his entire life in Bledoe… Yet there was something very familiar about him, and every time Lethbridge-Stewart caught Owain’s eyes there seemed to be a flicker of recognition in them. Like when Owain had first walked in to the pub; for the briefest moment the young man had faltered, looking like he was about to say something. Lethbridge-Stewart hadn’t a chance to question this, and even now tried his best to dismiss it. They clearly did not know each other.

  He looked around the men in the pub with him. For the first time Lethbridge-Stewart felt like he was talking with old friends, which indeed he was. Perhaps the feeling of intruding would pass too? He hoped so. These men seemed to be good people, and he’d like to call them friends again. It would make a nice change to have civilian friends, and certainly Sally would approve. She was always complaining that the only real friend he had was Dougie, and everybody else he called friends were barely acquaintances, colleagues if anything, met during his military career. He never told her that he agreed – that would be giving just too much ground.
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br />   ‘Okay then,’ Henry said, once the reminiscences had died down. ‘We’ll look on foot. Won’t take us more than a few hours, I expect, and if we have no luck, then we’ll expand our search to include areas beyond Bledoe.’ He looked at Lethbridge-Stewart, and offered a smile. ‘May even get to revisit Redgate.’

  ‘Under the circumstances, let’s hope I don’t,’ Lethbridge-Stewart replied. The further they expanded their search the less likely it was that they’d find his mother.

  Gordon was busy adjusting his plan. He kept only a slight control on Owain, since he needed a certain amount of autonomy for him to interact with the people of Bledoe and not rouse suspicion, but all the while Gordon kept a small part of the pure consciousness focused on what Owain was experiencing.

  As soon as Owain had entered the pub Gordon had spotted Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart. Gordon had never expected him to return.

  He must have followed Mary there.

  Gordon cursed the pure consciousness. There was a time when it would have expected such a thing, that it would have considered such an eventuality as part of its plans, but it was nowhere near what it had once been. Nowhere near the strength it had when it had last been defeated by Lethbridge-Stewart. A very long time ago.

  The colonel could not be allowed near the Manor. Gordon wasn’t ready. He still needed Albert and Mary – he still needed Owain to find them. The colonel could not stand in the way of that.

  Gordon turned his mind to his robotic servants.

  Owain was puzzled. He knew things were changing – they had been since he first awoke Gordon over a week ago – but he hadn’t expected to be confronted with a search for an old woman when he returned from the Manor.

  ‘Why are we doing this?’ he asked, once they had all spread out to search the agreed sections.

  ‘Because Mrs Lethbridge-Stewart used to live here, which makes her one of us,’ his dad replied. They glanced up and down the road, and crossed. ‘And never mind that. Where were you last night? You had your mother beside herself.’

  Owain hadn’t really spoken to his mother since he’d come back. The house had been quiet, his parents still asleep, which was good as he didn’t wish to be questioned. He hadn’t realised how tired he was until he stripped off his soaking clothes and stood in his bedroom, cold, hungry and tired. He didn’t make it back downstairs to grab a snack; instead he’d fallen onto his bed and was out cold within minutes. He was still in the same position, lying on top of his bed covers in only his underpants, when his father had looked in around 7am.

  Since then both his mother and father had asked him his whereabouts, but he hadn’t responded, simply put his pyjamas on and ran himself a nice hot bath while his mother prepared him breakfast. There was an atmosphere between his parents, the result of another argument. From the little he could work out it seemed Lewis hadn’t returned home either, something for which his dad was being blamed. Owain had barely managed to finish his cereal before his dad rushed him into his coat and out of the house. For a long time they walked in silence, except for a comment from his dad about why Owain was wearing Lewis’ grey thin-rimmed trilby. Owain simply said there was no real reason, but really it kept hidden the metal cap that served to keep him connected to Gordon up at the Manor.

  It was only now, as they turned off Fore Street and onto the lane which led up towards Diggory’s Field, that Owain realised he was the same height as his dad. Around six-foot. Unlike his dad though, Owain and Lewis both had fair hair, something they’d inherited from their mother’s side of the family, but both had their dad’s deep brown eyes. Owain still had a few more years of growth left, and he hoped to become taller than his dad. He took an odd moment of pleasure in that knowledge for reasons he couldn’t put his finger on.

  ‘Were you at the Manor?’ his dad asked rather abruptly.

  Owain forced a laugh. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Ray thinks he saw you there.’

  Owain shrugged. ‘Maybe I was then.’

  His dad raised an eyebrow and shook his head. ‘Why were you up there? Wasn’t the best night.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter why.’

  ‘With the Connolly girl? What’s her name? Karen?’

  Owain chose not to answer that. He couldn’t tell his dad why he’d been up at the Manor, so if his dad chose to believe he’d taken a girl up there… well, so much the better.

  ‘Unless you’re one of them?’

  Owain glanced at his dad. ‘One of what?’

  ‘You know, them.’

  Owain couldn’t help but feel offended by the insinuation. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Well, you’ve never had a girlfriend, and I don’t think I can remember you ever even showing an interest in a girl. Lewis has had a few over the years, but not you.’ His dad pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘No boy of mine is going to be a woofter,’ he said, putting a cigarette in his mouth.

  ‘I’m not!’ Owain snapped, pulling the cigarette from his dad’s mouth and inserting it into his own. ‘Give me a light.’

  His dad sparked a match and lit the cigarette, picking out another for himself. ‘Good, didn’t think so. But people do start talking, so maybe you need to call in on Karen Connolly. We’re passing her house soon.’

  ‘She’s probably out anyway. Hear she got a job over in Liskeard.’

  His dad eyed him for a second. Owain puffed on the cigarette and ignored the lingering accusation.

  ‘What brought Mrs Lethbridge-Stewart back?’ Owain asked. ‘Never heard of her before.’

  ‘Appears to have returned here looking for her dead husband. Poor dear thinks he’s waiting for her here, or something.’

  ‘Her husband?’

  ‘Yes, they used to own Redrose Cottage, but gave it to Ray’s family shortly after Mary’s husband died back in ‘45.’

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘That’s her name. Mary Lethbridge-Stewart.’

  Owain was a bit reticent to ask the next question, because he felt sure he knew the answer, but ask he did. ‘What was her husband’s name?’

  ‘Gordon,’ his dad answered. ‘Wing Commander Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart of the Royal Air Force, believed to have died near the end of the last war. From what I’ve been told, the Phillips used to live over at…’

  Owain didn’t hear another word his dad said. His mind had returned to the last conversation he’d had at the Manor. About how Mary was lost to them.

  No wonder Gordon wanted her to return – she used to be his wife!

  Ray couldn’t imagine how it must have felt for Alistair to return after so long. The two men now stood before a row of white crosses in the graveyard of Bledoe Parish Church. They had been on the way to Kilmar Way when Alistair decided he wanted to cut through the graveyard, just in case his mother had returned now the sun was up.

  The cross before them read:

  Gordon Conall Lethbridge-Stewart

  1902-1945

  It was merely a memorial, for there had been no body to bury. On the way they had discussed why Mrs Lethbridge-Stewart would return to look for her dead husband, and Alistair had wondered if perhaps his father had returned after all these years – if perhaps he had not been killed during the final days of the war after all? Ray had a fertile imagination and had to admit that it was not unknown for such things to happen, but surely if Wing Commander Lethbridge-Stewart had returned then someone would have seen him – after all Bledoe was not so large.

  But then again so many strange things happened in Bledoe that most people were either unaware of or ignored. He wanted to tell Alistair about some of them, get his view on them, but he wasn’t sure how to start the conversation. So many years he had been on his own, without anybody to discuss things, yet Alistair had been there back in the late ‘30s, he had seen what had happened up at Draynes Wood. If anybody would understand it surely would have been Alistair, especially after what had happened with James.

  Ray glanced at Alistair. Twenty-four years was a long time, but that t
ime had stood Alistair well. He looked healthy and strong, not even a hint of grey in his black hair and moustache. His eyes were as sharp as ever, watching and observing everything. There was a lot going on behind his impassive face. Ray had never expected Alistair to take up military service; he always remembered as a boy Alistair was never enamoured by the stories his father told him of life in the RAF, and after his death… If anything Alistair had turned against the military even more. Of course Alistair had not remained in Bledoe for much longer after his father’s death, and other than a few letters at the start Ray had never heard from him again. Who was to say what had happened to Alistair in the last twenty-four years? Not Ray, that was certain.

  As witnessed by the many white crosses, a lot of good men had never returned to Bledoe after the last war. The country had been financially crippled after putting so much into the war effort, and for what? World peace? There was no such thing. Ray imagined there never would be. He could never blame young Alistair for being so angry with the military and the war, and now he couldn’t imagine what must have changed for him to end up as a colonel in the British Army.

  Without another word Alistair moved away from his father’s memorial and Ray followed.

  Lethbridge-Stewart looked down at his shoes as they squelched in the mud underfoot. He would definitely need to see about getting some fatigues after this initial search was complete. The weather, although it was no longer raining, didn’t look like it was going to improve much past cloudy and damp. And there were plenty of fields and meadows about. Shoes were no good – he needed his heavy boots.

  He was thankful to Henry for the loan of the coat he now wore; it was a little weather beaten, but serviceable.

  He and Ray were now walking through the fields behind Penhale Meadow. So many places his mother could be hiding. They had already knocked on a few houses, but no one had witnessed a strange old woman about. He and Ray had searched the gardens of those who were not at home, and still nothing.