The Forgotten Son Page 13

  They were nearing Redrose Cottage. Another search of that house was probably needed, Lethbridge-Stewart decided.

  ‘So, what is it you do now, erm, Ray?’ he asked, feeling oddly uncomfortable with the familiarity.

  ‘I’m an author, at least I was. Haven’t written anything in a while.’

  ‘I see. Do you use a pen-name?’

  Ray shook his head. ‘Well, no, but I doubt you would have read my books, can’t imagine ghost stories are your thing after what happened at the gorge.’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ Lethbridge-Stewart said. Whatever had happened at the gorge was not a memory he had access to. Of course he wanted to know more, but right now was not the time.

  Ray looked at him for a moment, clearly trying to work something out. For the life of him Lethbridge-Stewart didn’t know what. He found it very hard to read Ray – the man was, to use the obvious pun, a closed book. He kept himself guarded, casting Lethbridge-Stewart the odd furtive look when he thought he wasn’t being watched. Something was definitely on his mind.

  ‘What is it, man?’ Lethbridge-Stewart snapped, stopping in his tracks. He couldn’t stand the scrutiny, especially when he didn’t understand the cause. ‘You obviously have something you wish to talk about.’

  ‘Well,’ Ray began, then stopped. He looked around the field, awkward. ‘You’re here, now, after all this time and I…’ He shook his head. ‘I have to confess that I am at a loss to explain why you never returned. A couple of letters and that was it. We promised to keep in touch, remember, that we’d remain friends. We owed it to…’ Ray looked away, clearly distressed about something.

  Lethbridge-Stewart wasn’t sure what to say. ‘What reason would I have to return?’

  ‘We were friends, Alistair. What we went through – one would think that would be enough of a reason.’ Ray carried on walking, leaving Lethbridge-Stewart to watch his departing back.

  How could he explain to Ray that he didn’t remember whatever it was they ‘went through’? He had vague recollections of a childhood life in Bledoe, but mostly it involved him watching the older boys play, never quite being a part of it. He shook his head and caught up with Ray.

  ‘I’m sorry, but my memory of Bledoe is quite vague. As you said, it was all a long time ago.’

  Ray glanced at him and sighed. ‘No, it is I who should apologise. I suppose it is harder for me to forget everything since I never left here. Thirty-one years I’ve lived with the constant reminders of what happened up at the Manor.’

  ‘The Manor?’

  ‘You really do not remember? The accident at the gorge?’

  Lethbridge-Stewart searched himself. ‘I recall a picnic in the woods, playing by the river, but an accident? I’m afraid not. I also recall someone called James, but I see he didn’t remain here, unlike you and Henry.’

  ‘You recall someone called James?’ A dark cloud passed over Ray’s face. ‘How can you forget…? But you have, haven’t you? You’ve forgotten him.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Lethbridge-Stewart said, not much caring for the look of disbelief on Ray’s face. James was clearly important to their past, but other than that dream last night, Lethbridge-Stewart could recall nothing about him. ‘Where did James go?’

  ‘He never left Bledoe,’ Ray said softly.

  Lethbridge-Stewart cleared his throat. He wasn’t entirely sure he wished to have this conversation any more. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt as though to do so would open up a door to a very dark place. One he did not wish to enter. Ray knew what was in that place; he had clearly seen and lived with it for a long time. But for whatever reasons Lethbridge-Stewart had forgotten it. Perhaps it was best forgotten.

  ‘Tell me about these ghost stories of yours,’ he said, abruptly changing the topic.

  For a moment Ray said nothing. ‘Very well. They’re mostly based on what we experienced back in the late ‘30s. You must remember, up in Draynes Wood there’s a Manor house, and as kids we decided to visit there…’

  Shirley Vine was finding it hard to keep herself occupied. George had insisted she take care of the post office while he helped to search for the missing old woman, taking Owain with him, but distracting her mind was not so easy as that. First there was Owain, coming in at God knows what time, and barely an explanation given. Then there was Lewis, who went out to look for Owain with Charles and had still not returned. How was she supposed to focus on the usual pointless conversations the locals had to offer when one of her children was still missing?

  Never mind some old woman – George should be out looking for Lewis! Especially as it was his fault that Lewis had failed to come home. Of course her husband had given the boys hidings before, but not since they were children; the twins had grown out of that, and there was no excuse for George punching Lewis like he had. That was unforgiveable.

  The bell rang as the door of the post office opened. She looked up from the tins she was re-arranging and saw Mr Watts entering. He looked a lot like Charles: rough features, a face not used to smiling.

  ‘Is my boy with your son still?’

  Shirley was caught off guard by the abruptness of his question. Not even a polite hello! ‘I imagine so, but don’t ask me where. They left here late last night and no one had seen them since.’ She stood up. ‘I’d hoped Lewis was at your house.’

  ‘No, he’s not. That bloody boy. Never does anything he’s told. Well, this will learn him.’ Mr Watts reached into his jacket and pulled out a slip of paper. ‘This is a ticket for the train back to London, and here,’ he pulled out some coins from his trouser pocket and handed them over to her. ‘Should be enough for a taxi back to Liskeard. Tell him I don’t have time to wait for him. I’ve a job to return to.’

  With that Mr Watts turned and left the post office.

  For a moment Shirley stood there looking at the ticket and coins in her hands. She shook her head. Lewis was supposed to be with Charles, safe at his gran’s house, not… She rushed out of the post office and up to the Watts’ Morris Minor. It was obvious that Mr Watts was not impressed by her banging on the door window. He wound it down.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Can you pop by The Rose & Crown on the way out of the village? George is there, tell him that Charles hasn’t returned.’

  Mr Watts checked his wristwatch. ‘I really don’t have time for that. Why don’t you?’

  Shirley was about to open her mouth, not that she really had an answer, when Mrs Watts leaned over and patted her husband’s arm. ‘It’ll only take a few minutes, Richard.’

  Mr Watts wasn’t convinced. He cleared his throat loudly, gave Shirley the dirtiest look she had ever seen and shook his head. ‘Okay then!’ he snapped. ‘We’ll do that, after all it’s not like I haven’t got better things to do than run around after that no good skinny little git of mine.’

  Thinking – hoping – that Mary may have returned of her own accord, they decided to double-check Redrose. As Ray opened the door to the cottage, Lethbridge-Stewart reflected on the tale his old friend had told him. He had heard some strange stories in his time, but his recent experiences in London had left wondering how much truth was in them. They were troubling prospects, and he could now add to his worries Ray’s story about their first visit to the Manor in 1937.

  Remington Manor existed just beyond Draynes Wood and the three boys were exploring, playing kick the can, while Ray’s parents were elsewhere in the woods walking the family dog. It was one of those rare occasions where the young Alistair was a part of the small gang – just the three of them, Alistair, Ray and James. There was no Henry around to push Alistair away; a revelation that Lethbridge-Stewart found interesting. Boys will be boys, and all that. He wasn’t going to hold it against Henry; after all, why would he want a seven-year-old tagging along and spoiling their fun? Three years was a big difference in age when you’re a child, Lethbridge-Stewart knew.

  Ray’s tale took an odd turn when a man appeared to them only a few feet from the Ma
nor. They had never seen him before, or anyone in such clothes. Old fashioned, dressed like someone from the nineteenth century. As Ray told it the man looked cold, his skin almost deathly white, hair as dark as night beneath a top hat. It was like looking at Death itself. The man did not speak, but he looked at the three boys, his eyes finally resting upon James. At this point Ray’s story became a bit muddled, and he admitted that he often confused himself with the real events and the fictitious version he had created for his first novel. But the upshot of it was that the man, the Hollow Man as Ray continued to call him, had touched James. Simply reached out a hand and rested it on his head. Neither Ray nor Alistair had been able to move, only watch as the Hollow Man seemed to fall apart, like ash from burning paper.

  Even now, hearing Ray tell the story, Lethbridge-Stewart could understand why it had been so easily dismissed. But there was a truth in Ray’s voice, a sense of fear that came from a place of honesty. Ray went on to say how James had never been the same since then: always whispering to himself, never quite the upbeat outgoing kid Ray had known all his life.

  ‘Where is James now?’ Lethbridge-Stewart asked, following Ray into the cottage.

  Ray glanced back. ‘I still don’t understand how you could have forgotten him. Of all people to forget… Henry I could understand, even me, but not James.’

  ‘But why? What is so important about him?’

  Ray never got a chance to answer. The sound of movement in the kitchen alerted both to another presence in the cottage. They looked at each other, and Lethbridge-Stewart motioned for Ray to be quiet. He passed Ray, and called out. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Gordon, what time do you call this?’ an old and familiar woman’s voice responded.

  Lethbridge-Stewart stopped at the kitchen door. There was his mother. Her clothes were dirty and still damp from a night out in the rain. He curls had been flattened by the weather, and her cardigan hung loosely about her. She looked over at him from her position by the stove, where she appeared to be preparing food. Lethbridge-Stewart felt Ray stop behind him, letting out a breath of surprise.

  Mary Lethbridge-Stewart smiled. ‘I knew you’d be home soon, dear, and I came back as quick as I could. Oh, and it wasn’t easy. But I’m back home now, and so are you.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart frowned. ‘Mother, I…’

  ‘Mother? Good grief, Gordon, we’ll have none of your…’ She stopped, her lined face crumbling into a state of confusion. ‘You’re not Gordon, but you look like him. Who are you?’

  ‘It’s me, Mother, it’s Alistair.’ He stepped slowly into the kitchen, an arm reaching out.

  ‘Alistair? But you’re too old, you’re…’ Mary blinked tears at him. She fondled the crucifix on her necklace and gave him a sad smile. ‘Oh, Alistair, you look so much like your father. Especially with that moustache. He had one just like it before he… Before he… But no, he called to me. Told me to come home.’ She looked around. ‘Where is he?’

  Lethbridge-Stewart was at a loss. He hadn’t seen his mother in years, and she’d seemed perfectly healthy and of sound mind back then. But now?

  He opened his mouth to speak, to try and answer her question, but before the words could come out, his mother collapsed. He rushed forward and managed to grab hold of her before she hit the lino. He looked down at her face. She was out cold, but at least, for now, she looked peaceful.

  ‘What is going on here?’ Ray asked, and Lethbridge-Stewart wished he could explain. But, like Ray, he had no idea. None at all.

  They all met back at Redrose. Alistair was upstairs making his mother comfortable, while Ray provided them all with hot drinks. Coal was on the fire, and the men sat around it, warming themselves back up.

  ‘Well, now Mrs Lethbridge-Stewart has been found, gentlemen, I need your help,’ George said.

  The Watts’ had passed him and Owain on the street and told them that they were going back to London. How Charles had not returned home, and when he did, he’d find his ticket and fair waiting with Shirley. George had never much cared for the Watts’ family – old Mrs Watts, Charles’ grandmother, was a battleaxe of the worst kind. Always shouting at children when they played in the streets, always complaining about being short changed when she came to the shop. Her son, it seemed, had inherited all of her manners. George felt sorry for Charles’ mother, but she seemed quite willing to stand by her husband, and George left his sympathy there. He had no time for rude people.

  He explained to Henry and Ray about Lewis and how he and Charles had gone looking for Owain the previous night. ‘Owain returned eventually, although he still won’t tell me why he was up at the Manor, and…’

  ‘The Manor?’ Ray stared daggers at George. ‘You all laughed at me last night, but I told you, didn’t I? I told you Owain was up there.’ He turned to Owain, who was sat on the windowsill with a bottle of Corona Orangeade in his hand. ‘Why were you up there? He got to you, didn’t he? The Hollow Man.’

  George stood up. ‘Don’t start all that again, Ray. Bloody Hollow Man indeed! We’ve all heard the ghost stories, but that’s all they are. Stupid stories your parents used to tell you.’

  ‘They’re not stories,’ Ray whispered.

  ‘He’s right.’

  The men turned to Alistair as he re-entered the living room from upstairs. He looked around them. ‘I don’t know what is going on here, but something is very wrong. And I have a distinct feeling it has something to do with Ray’s story.’

  George laughed. He’d heard the story many times in the last twenty years, but he never once believed it, not that he was above recounting it, with embellishments, on occasion. ‘Oh come on, Colonel, you’re a smarter man than that.’

  Alistair raised an eyebrow. ‘Smart enough to listen.’ He turned to Ray and Henry. ‘I want to know more about this James, and just why I don’t remember him.’

  Henry looked at Ray. ‘He doesn’t remember James?’

  Ray shrugged. ‘I don’t understand it, either, but I believe him.’

  Henry shook his head in disbelief. ‘How can you not remember your own brother, Alistair?’

  Alistair looked like he’d been slapped, but recovered quickly. ‘Because I don’t have a brother.’

  ‘But you do,’ Ray said, stepping forward. ‘And you were there, with me and Henry when it happened.’

  ‘When what happened?’

  ‘At the gorge, when James died.’

  Alistair just stood there, looking from one man to the other. George couldn’t even begin to understand what was going on in Alistair’s mind at that moment. Slowly his old friend shook his head and spoke, his words deliberate and determined.

  ‘I do not have a brother.’

  Some way down Fore Street, a Morris Minor was approaching the village limits. Inside Mr and Mrs Watts continued to argue about their son and Mr Watts’ usual disregard. So engaged were they that they failed to notice the creature that stepped out of the hedge and onto the road before them.

  The Yeti let out a roar.

  Mr Watts looked away from his wife, but it was too late. The small car crashed into the Yeti, and the savage beast swung one of its great arms. The car, carried by its momentum, was battered sideways off the road, smashing into the nearest lamppost. If the Watts’ had bothered to use their seatbelts they might have been saved, but as it was, both crashed through the windscreen.

  The Yeti, impassive, paid no attention to the carnage. Instead it remained standing in the middle of the road. Its mouth opened and a strange sound emitted from it. It was hard to make out, a vibration that moved up and down like a chant without words.

  All around the edge of Bledoe the same chant reverberated, linking the Yeti that surrounded the village. In unison they raised their guns.

  — CHAPTER NINE —

  The Art of Denial

  THIS WAS ALL SO ABSURD. Lethbridge-Stewart may have experienced some bizarre things in the past month, and he was the first to admit that he could not explain the gaps in his memory. But t
he idea that James was his brother… Last night, in the dream, was the first time he could even recall seeing James.

  It was absurd. Impossible!

  How could he possibly have forgotten something so important? A brother who was, apparently, dead. He shook his head, looking at the men gathered in the room. They were all watching him, even Private Bishop and young Mister Vine. No, he would not accept that. He had no brother – he knew this, and nothing anybody could say would convince him otherwise. He didn’t know what was going on in Bledoe, but he knew that much at least.

  ‘Okay, gentlemen, this joke is running tired now, but clearly something is not right about this village. And I feel certain it’s connected to Ray’s books.’

  Ray shook his head. ‘Books?’ he said, frustrated. ‘They are more than books, dammit! It all happened.’

  Henry tutted wearily. ‘Ray, enough. We all know the story of the Manor, we all know about the Whisperer, but this nonsense about the Hollow Man is just that – nonsense.’

  ‘It is not nonsense, Henry! And you know it.’

  Lethbridge-Stewart watched the two men. It was clear that this was an old argument, and he had no time for such things. For now his mother was comfortable, resting, but he knew when she woke up she’d still be expecting to find her dead husband waiting for her. He glanced through the window which overlooked the small driveway of the cottage. Arnold was out there somewhere, maybe even in the village, and whatever had drawn him there was almost certainly the same thing that had drawn his mother.

  It had to be connected to Ray’s story – he checked himself, Ray’s account – of the Hollow Man that had appeared before them in 1937. It was another memory Lethbridge-Stewart did not recall, but that didn’t make it untrue. Just another thing forgotten.

  He stepped further into the room, and directed his question at Ray. ‘Why does he know it’s not nonsense?’ He looked at Henry. ‘You were friends with Ray and James, so you were around when all these strange things happened. What did you see?’