The Quickening of Tom Turnpike (The Talltrees Trilogy) (16 page)

“Do
you think he can see us?” panicked Samson.

I
remembered what Barrington’s log had said about the boys’ bodies being dead,
but that they would still have the power of thought.  Did that mean they could
see and hear as well though?  “I don’t know,” I gulped.  “God, I really hope
not.  That would be too... weird!”

Samson
moved further down into the Crypt.  “Whoa!” he exclaimed, holding the light
over another box.

There
was no mud in this one at all.  But it contained a skeleton wearing a rotting
dressing gown and slippers.  Its bones were a brilliant white, like it had been
meticulously cleaned, almost seeming to emit its own light.  Its hollowed eyes
and fleshless mouth grinned maniacally, mocking us.

“This
boy’s been here for a
very
long time!” said Samson.

“Hang
on!” I said.  “It can’t be...  I know who this boy is.  Look, the spine is smashed
and, here, all of his finger bones are crushed up.  Some of them have broken
off altogether.”  I looked at Samson and Reggie, waiting for a reaction.  “You
know the story of the boy who fell from the top of the Spiral Staircase on his
birthday.  These are
his
injuries.”

“The
Deathly Screamer!” said Reggie in amazement.  “And I thought all those injuries
were made up to scare First Formers.  Urgh, and look!  If you look through the
eye-hole, you can see his brains are still there.”

“But...
why wouldn’t his brain rot away?” frowned Samson.  “Hey, you know about this
one?” he said shining the light on the next box along.  It was another
skeleton, this one wearing a decaying boiler suit, face down to display a great
cavity in the back of its skull like a large piece missing from the middle of
an old lady’s jigsaw puzzle.  But again its brains appeared to be intact.

“I
don’t believe it!” I said.  “It’s the boy who fell out of the Watchtower tree
and smashed his head on the Red Rock.  The Fallen Boy!”

“Exactly. 
And look at these two,” said Samson.  “The Wondering Monk and the Black Dog!” 
He was right.  The monk’s cowl was thickly layered with mould and slimy fungus.

We
had reached the end of the row of boxes by now and had not yet seen Freddie.  I
supposed that he must have been in one of the coffins that were full to the
brim with mud, or maybe he was one of the boys lying face down.  After the
racks of boxes, the Crypt opened up into a wider circular area with straw
strewn around.

“What’s
this?” said Samson.  Around the outside of the area of straw were numerous
twisted lumps of what looked like large clods of soil positioned at regular
intervals.  But on closer inspection, I realised what these were.  They were
small, roughly chiselled wooden dolls, like the ones that Doctor Boateng had
shown us during his talk in the Orangery.  They were Fetishes.

“Guys,
I know what this set-up is,” I said.  “This is where the Bokor summons the
Loa.  It’s where he goes into a trance so he can cast the Quickening spell to
turn people into zombies.  And these are the Fetishes, look.  They’re voodoo
dolls that are used to contain the souls of the boys who become zombies.  This
is where it’s all going to happen.”

“This
place is evil,” said Samson, horrified.  “Come on, guys.  We’ve seen enough. 
Time to get out of here.”

“What
are we going to do then?” asked Reggie with a note of relief in his quavering
voice.

“This
is all the evidence we’ll need.  We’ve got to bring Caratacus or Wilbraham down
to see...” I began.

Suddenly
we heard the unmistakeable growl of the Dungeon door echoing down the
passageway and into the Crypt.  Oh God.  We were stuck.  There was no way we
would be able to make it to the Crypt door in time to avoid being seen and
there was certainly no way we could close the Crypt door without being heard.

“Oh
no!” panicked Reggie.  “Oh Jesus!  What do we do?”

“There’s
only one thing for it,” whispered Samson, switching off the torch.  “Find an
empty one and get in face down.  Don’t move a muscle.”

“What?!”
exclaimed Reggie.  “You’ve got to be kidding.  I’m
not
getting in one of
those!”

“Reggie,”
I said, trying to pretend I wasn’t also horrified by Samson’s grim suggestion,
“we’ve got no choice.  It is either that or get turned into a zombie.”

“No
way
!” he insisted.

The
footsteps were getting closer.

“Reggie,
you’ve
got
to do it,” ordered Samson.  “Or you’ll get Tom and me turned
into zombies too!”

Reggie
took a deep, hesitant breath.  “Okay, okay.  Alright.  I’ll do it.”

We
scurried around in various directions and clambered up into vacant boxes.  We
waited, struggling not to twitch or breathe.  My box, as one would expect, was
hard and uncomfortable.  It also had a damp, foetid smell seeping out of the
wood, like rubbish which has been left in a bin for too long.  I couldn’t help
wondering why this box was empty and whether it had had any previous occupants.

I
strained to hear.  I expected whoever it was to be in the Crypt by now.  But
then I realised why they were not; I could faintly hear a dragging sound,
getting louder and louder.  This must have been the sound of another boy being
brought to his coffin.  Maybe it was Freddie.  And then I heard a voice
whispering hoarsely and tersely.

“You’ve
left the door open, woman.  Look at it!”

There
was no reply.

“Right. 
Bring him in.  Find an empty box.  Put him in it and pile on some earth. 
There.  Clear enough?”

Out
of the corner of my eye, I could see a light being flashed around.  And I heard
the footsteps getting louder and louder.

“Right,
my little beauties,” the voice whispered faintly.  “Tonight is your night!  And
some of you have been waiting a long, long time for this.  It’s just the
beginning.  Just the first small step in our grand scheme, eh?  One tiny little
corner of the world which will be our very own!”

I
could hardly believe what I was hearing.  This was like something from a scary
film - a deranged lunatic with a ghastly plan for the destruction of humanity! 
The footsteps got louder and louder still until they ceased right next to my
head.  I lay dead still, my nose pressed up uncomfortably against the base of
the coffin, holding my breath for dear life.  And then, horrifyingly, light
blazed orange through my closed eyelids.  Oh God!  I had been discovered.  If I
tried to climb out and run, Barrington or Head Matron would surely catch me.

“This
is odd... and no soil!”

In
my desperation not to move a muscle, I felt my whole body tense up.  I couldn’t
help it, but my knee jerked impulsively.  Oh no!  That was surely it; my
treacherous right leg had sold me to the zombie-makers.

“Ooh!”
he whispered excitedly and clapped his hands.  “We’ve got a twitcher. 
Marvellous, marvellous!  Don’t you get impatient, my little zomboy!  We’ll have
you up and out tonight and you will have your fun.”

To
my relief, he removed the light from me.  But, as I took the opportunity to
draw breath, I felt something pattering onto my back and in into my hair.  I
opened my eyes briefly and, just then, a large clump of mud landed right by my
head and a long, swollen worm oozed out of it towards my face.  I wondered
whether worms and maggots could tell whether boys were dead or alive and prayed
that this one could and would decide not to squirm into my nose or ear.

After
a few more minutes of mud heaping onto my back and piling up around my face and
as I was beginning to weigh up whether I would rather suffocate in a coffin or
be turned into a zombie which lived in a coffin, the shower of soil ceased.  I
heard the shovel being tossed clangourously onto the floor and footsteps
retreating from the Crypt.

“Jolly
good!” whispered the voice and then, with a certain amount of shuffling and
grunting, the Crypt door squealed shut.

After
a few moments, I crawled spluttering from my coffin.  Samson switched on the
torch and shone it up and down me.

“Blimey!”
he snorted.  “You look like a coal-miner!”

I
brushed off as much dirt as I could.  “Do you think it’s safe to go out there
yet?”

“I
think so.  Come on.  I’ll be glad to get out of here!”

twenty six

“Who’s
the Duty Master tonight?” asked Samson as Reggie closed the Dungeon door
delicately behind him and let out a profound sigh of relief.

“Pretty
sure it’s Caratacus tonight,” I replied, “which is lucky really.  We’ve got to
show him this place.  This time he’ll have to believe us.”

“Come
on then.  We need to find him right away.”

***

Well
this was a very unfortunate situation.  Samson was late to start helping the
Cook prepare Wilbraham’s dinner and thought it would be quickest if he dashed
across the Front Hall instead of using the servants’ passages.  We had hoped
that nobody would be there.  But we were out of luck.  Samson should not have
been with us when we burst out of the door that led from the Spiral Staircase
to the First Floor corridor and stopped dead in our tracks.

Just
to our left was the Front Hall and, standing in the middle of it, deep in
discussion, were Mr. Caratacus, Mr. English, Doctor Boateng, Colonel Barrington
and Mr. Wilbraham.  Doctor Saracen was looming in the background, studying the
newspaper.

Wilbraham
at first frowned, surveying us scornfully.  But then, when he noticed Samson
cowering behind us, his scorn mutated into an expression of abject disgust.  In
the pompous tone that always made him sound like you had interrupted his
dinner, he said, “What is the meaning of this?  You two know perfectly well you
should be outside.  You’ll be reporting to my study at six o’clock tomorrow
morning for Hard Labour.  And
you
,” he said, wagging a disdainful finger
and scarcely able to bring himself to look at Samson, “you can wait there for
me to fetch my cane.  I clearly haven’t beaten you for some time.”

Reggie
pretended to smoothe down his hair so that he could whisper to me behind his
hand, “Let’s wait on the Veranda for Caratacus to stop talking to Barrington”.

Reggie
and I shuffled past them apologetically.  We didn’t dare to look at Samson. 
That might get him into more trouble.  But, just as we reached the open double
doors to the Main Hall, Mr. English shouted, “Hoy, Turnpike, stop right where
you are, boy!”

We
froze.

“Turn
around, both of you.  You too, Akwasi.”  We obeyed.  “For Heaven’s sake,
look
at you all!  You are
covered
from head to toe in mud.  Especially you,
Turnpike.  What the
devil
have you been doing?”

Watching
Barrington carefully, I noticed that when he saw the mud that caked the front
of my trousers and shirt, his brow furrowed with an expression that seemed like
a combination of anger and puzzlement.  I cursed Mr. English under my breath.  Colonel
Barrington must have realised where we had been.  I could actually see him
thinking it through.  This was it.  We were done for.

“Answer
me, damn it!” shouted Mr. English, his eggy head immediately switching
chameleon-like to a terrible deep puce.

“Well,
Sir, I... that is to say, Sir, we...” I spluttered.

“Sir,”
interrupted Reggie in a tone of sense and authority.  “We’re terribly sorry,
Sir, but we’ve been out in the Forest without our boiler suits on.”

“Yes,
Sir,” I said, taking up Reggie’s theme.  “We know we shouldn’t have and we will
wash our clothes ourselves.”

But
Mr. English’s rage was beyond the point of no return.  “For goodness sake,
boys!  You display a
flagrant
disregard for the school rules and a
surprising lack of respect for the matrons, who work tirelessly to ensure that
you can turn up to lessons every day
not
looking like vagrants.  And
let’s not forget that this is
not
the first of your misdemeanours of
late, is it Pickering?  Oh no...”

During
Mr. English’s ear-bashing rant, I watched as Colonel Barrington studied my
facial expressions, looking for a chink in my armour, a weakness to exploit.  I
looked pleadingly towards Mr. Caratacus.

But
Barrington must have noticed.  “Mr. English,” he interrupted, “I think I’d like
to deal with this matter, if you wouldn’t object.” 

Mr.
English’s anger abated as quickly as it had brewed.  “Well,” he said calmly, “I
don’t see why not, Colonel Barrington.”

Oh
dear no!  This just would not do.  I had a very strong notion of just how Colonel
Barrington would go about “dealing with the matter” were he to be given the
opportunity.  I looked imploringly at Mr. Caratacus.  I had one slim chance at
getting us out of this predicament.

“Mr.
Caratacus, Sir,” I said.  “I wondered whether I could talk to you about that
Ockham’s Razor thing...”

Wilbraham
interrupted irately.  “What on Earth are you talking about, dammit?  Is this
some new insolence, boy?  I’ve a good mind to give you a thrashing right now!”

He
was furious and Barrington looked at Caratacus, angry and affronted.  Caratacus
then looked at me, but not with his usual smiling eyes.  He sighed and rubbed
his right hand down his face with exhausted submission.  “Colonel Barrington,”
he said finally, “if you wouldn’t mind awfully, I think I would like to deal
with these three... ragamuffins.”  Barrington began to protest, but Caratacus
continued, “After all, these two are Swallows, so I see it as within my purview
as their Housemaster to deal with such disciplinary matters.”

I
waited, with relief daring to flower within me, for Barrington to raise any
sustained protest.  But Wilbraham settled the matter.

“Well,”
he said in a deep tone, making it seem like a full-stop at the end of a
paragraph, “that must be right.  Mr. Caratacus, I trust that you will deal with
these three juvenile delinquents in a fitting manner.  Thank you.  Now then,
Doctor Boateng, where were we?”

“Follow
me please, boys,” said Caratacus.

As
we left the Front Hall back towards the Spiral Staircase, quiet and chastised,
as I cast a glance back over my shoulder to where English, Wilbraham, Barrington
and Boateng remained, I noticed Barrington staring back at me, shaking his head
very faintly, and Doctor Saracen creeping over to whisper to him.  They must
have worked it out.  This was our last chance to convince Caratacus.