The Quickening of Tom Turnpike (The Talltrees Trilogy) (5 page)

***

One
moonless night, there was some kind of raid on the suburb where the school was
situated.  There was confusion and screaming terror.  Nobody knew what the
raiders wanted or who had sent them.  All they knew was that guns were being
blasted and firebrands were shattering through their windows, casting their
belongings in a frenetic, blood red light.  There were people running in all
directions, panicking to find their children or parents.

The
raiders were single-minded and merciless, as if they were possessed.  As men,
women and children scrambled from the fire and smoke, they were set upon by
these demonic creatures.  Many were bound and gagged and bundled onto the backs
of the horses on which the raiders had arrived.  Many more, those that had
presented too much resistance, were shot or hacked down bloodily with machetes
and left to die.

The
Colonel and Doctor Boateng spent hours crashing from one burning home to
another, battling with the flames, trying desperately to round up as many
people as possible and guide them to the safety of the schoolhouse. 

As
Barrington entered one burning hut, he was thumped around the back of the head
with the butt of a rifle.  He was knocked off balance, staggered forward and
lost consciousness inside the blazing shack with smoke billowing all around
him.

It
is possible that Barrington would, with hindsight, have preferred to have been
left there, in his own crematorium, to pass without notice from unconsciousness
into comfortable death.  But Boateng, having seen this cowardly attack, was on
hand to prevent that from happening.  He waited nearby in the shadows until Barrington’s
assailant was gone, and then, closing his eyes, barged headlong through the
pounding heat into the hut where Barrington lay.  Raising his forearm against
the flames, he opened his eyes for just long enough to locate Barrington amid a
crackling mirage.  He then took Barrington by the feet and dragged him back out
of the hut, just as it finally surrendered to the fire and came crashing down
before him.

Eventually,
shortly before daybreak, the cinders settled and there was a restless calm,
punctuated by cries of pain and despair.  The raiders might have left hours
ago, nobody knew.  There was so much panicked activity throughout the night
that they may have left within minutes of their arrival. 

Barrington
regained consciousness as the sun rose. 

It
took him a second or two to understand where he was, why his head was pounding
and why he felt that his skin was stretched taut over his face.  He opened his
eyes to see that he was looking up at the ceiling of his classroom.

“Colonel,
you are awake,” said Boateng, holding a glass of water to Barrington’s lips,
the jubilation of his tone thinly veiling his tired distress.

Barrington
sipped tentatively.  He felt as if his ragged, parched throat was causing the
water to evaporate as he tried to swallow it.  “Where is she?” he strained to
ask.

“You
are looking well,” said Boateng, avoiding Barrington’s eyes.  “No permanent
damage.  Just a few cuts and bruises.”

“Dammit,
man, where is she?” croaked Barrington angrily, struggling to raise himself up
onto an elbow.

Boateng
put down the glass and looked at Barrington, a look of exhaustion, pain and
bewilderment. 

“She
is gone.”

The
Colonel spent the next weeks, and then months, in a frenzied and desperate
attempt to locate his wife.  He journeyed sleeplessly throughout the Gold Coast,
Togoland and Dahomey, clutching at any futile thread that might lead him to
her, issuing threats and bribes to people who had no relevant information.  But
it was hopeless.  Her captors had left no trace.

Throughout
this time, Boateng had tried to persuade Barrington of the pointlessness of his
search.  Doctor Boateng knew that, though the hope sustained by the hunt was
all that was preventing the Colonel from drowning in despair, the Colonel would
have to accept that his Angel of Accra was gone forever.  Boateng eventually
managed to convince Barrington to return to the school.  The Doctor’s hope was
that gradually, by applying Barrington’s efforts to his classroom routine, the
Colonel’s agony would soften into pain and then into an ache, and eventually
some of the joys of life might creep back into his heart.

But
nothing could persuade Barrington that life held any pleasure.  And slowly the
life disappeared from him and his hair faded from jet black to ghostly white. 
His existence became mechanical, zombie-like.  He scarcely spoke, slept or
ate.  He dwindled into shadow, without any remnant of the man he once was.

Eventually,
in order to try to heave himself from one day to the next, he filled his
heart’s emptiness with omnivorous hatred.  And it satisfied him.  He bore ill-will
towards any person, indeed any creature, that had any glimmer of happiness in
its eyes.  He took delight in suffering, even his own, and he took to
disciplining his pupils cruelly and mercilessly.  He even turned upon Doctor
Boateng, whom he blamed for not having left him to die on the night of the
raid.

***

“Gosh,”
muttered Freddie, who had been completely mesmerised by this story.  “In a way,
I can understand why he became so bitter.  I mean, wouldn’t you if you lost the
thing that was most important to you?  I feel sorry for him.”

“Well
I’m not sure if you should feel sorry for him just yet,” said Pontevecchio,
“not until you have heard the last part of the story.

You
see, this chap whose old man used to work out there told me that there was a
rumour at the time that Barrington got involved with an African religious
cult.  I’m talking black magic, witchcraft, maybe even
human sacrifice
.”

Freddie
gasped.  “No way!”

“Look,
I can only tell you what I heard.  I can’t tell you whether it’s true.  Anyway,
what happened was that children from the school started to disappear, you know,
like orphans who nobody would miss.  At first, everyone thought they were dying
from malaria or one of those other horrible diseases.  But then the numbers were
just getting out of hand.  People started to get suspicious and rumours started
going around that Barrington was kidnapping the children for rituals and
sacrifices. 

Well,
Doctor Boateng stood by Barrington at first because they were such old comrades. 
But the rumours started getting way worse and Barrington did nothing to deny
them.  And so, after a while even Doctor Boateng wasn’t sure because it was as
if Barrington had turned into a totally different person.  So Boateng finally
managed to convince Barrington to leave the country for his own safety.  The
Kommissar gave him a permit to return to Britain.        

So,
there you have it, chaps.”

“Wow!”
exclaimed Freddie.  “Witchcraft, eh?  Do you believe it?”

“Well,
Strange, I’m not really sure that I even believe in witchcraft at all.  Sounds
like a load of poppycock to me.  Anyway, look here, chaps, I’m going to have to
go.  I’m meant to be supervising First Form bedtime in a mo.  So, whatever you
do, don’t tell a word of this to anyone at all.  Okay?”

“We
won’t,” I promised.

After
Pontevecchio had left the room, Freddie turned round to look at me.  “Whoa! 
You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

“Well
don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence?”

“What?”

“Come
on, Fred.  Milo and the others!  What was Barrington doing down in the Dungeon
the other night?  Don’t you think it might have something to do with the fact
that so many boys have been falling ill lately?  In fact,” something had just
occurred to me, “come to think of it, has Barrington been on night-duty a lot
recently?”

Freddie
stared at me wide-eyed, absorbing what I had just suggested.  “God!” he said. 
“I think you might be right.  But why would this be happening now, all of a
sudden?  We’ve got to work out what’s going on.  Come on.”

“Where
are we going?” I asked.

“To
find Al de Sucksley.”

five

The
Library was deserted and we had just over half an hour before Third Form Curfew.

 “Okay. 
Hughes, Hugo, Hume...  Huxley,” muttered Freddie.

Five
shelves up and wedged between the end of the shelf and a book called
Hume’s
Enquiries
was a tattered copy of a book entitled
Brave New World
by
this Aldous Huxley.

Freddie
pulled it from the bookcase.  He stepped back, with an expression of reverence
as if he were waiting for something magical to occur.  After a second or two of
nothing happening in the way of hocus-pocus or divine intervention, he pushed
his hand into the gap where the book had been.  He felt around the inside the
bookcase, but found nothing.  He brought his hand back out, filthy with black
dust, which he wiped on his shorts.

He
pulled more of the books from the shelf and peered into the space where they
had been.  But there was nothing.  No switches, no latches, no levers or
catches.

I
shook my head.  “Come on, Fred.  This is silly.”

Freddie
threw me a look of dejection and began to replace the books.  “I was
sure
Mr. English was trying to give us a clue earlier.”

I
shrugged.

“What
now?” he asked.  But before I could reply, I heard someone pacing in our direction.

“Someone’s
coming,” I whispered.

Freddie
hadn’t have time to squeeze Huxley back into the shelf.  So he turned quickly,
clutching the book behind his back with both hands, to face the footsteps.

“Evening,
soldiers!” sung Caratacus cheerfully.  I felt Freddie release a sigh of relief
next to me:  It wasn’t Barrington!  “So you didn’t fancy a dip in the pool
then, I take it?”

“That’s
right, Sir,” I replied.  “We finished our reading books today, so we decided to
come to the Library instead to choose some new ones.”

Freddie
looked at me with an eyebrow raised quizzically.  I realised that this was a
ridiculous and wheedling fib.  It might almost have been believable of me, but
there is no way any teacher would ever believe that Freddie would take any voluntary
steps to advance his education outside of the designated hours. 

But
anyway, I thought, it’s only Caratacus.  And besides, we have nothing to hide:
why would anyone imagine that there was anything against the rules in browsing through
books in the Library?  After all, this is exactly the sort of thing the
teachers want us doing, isn’t it?

“Ah,
well that’s marvellous,” said Caratacus.  “Let’s see.  So you’ve been looking
under H, have you?  Well I have two excellent recommendations for you, Strange:
 Homer and Herodotus.  They share your passion for the propagation of elaborate
stories.”

He
reached up to one of the higher shelves and Freddie looked at me with a
bewildered shrug.

“Here
you go,” Caratacus continued.  “Herodotus’
Histories
.  My favourite
book.  I think Book One will be just to your taste.”  He presented this
hardback slab to Freddie with mock reverence and a wink at me. 

 “That’s
very kind, Sir,” said Freddie, “but I have a book already.  Perhaps I will move
on to Hairytoss after I’ve finished this one”.  He produced Huxley from behind
his back.

“Good
heavens!” exclaimed Caratacus, looking around the Library as if he needed to
check nobody was there.  “Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.  I’m amazed this
book is still here.  I think you’d better get it back into the shelf before
anyone sees you with it.”

“Why,
Sir?” I asked.

“Well,”
he said quietly, “it’s
subversive literature
.  Totally illegal.  You’re
better off steering clear of that altogether unless you want the Gestapo
rifling through your tuckbox!”

“But,
Sir,” began Freddie, “Mr. Eng...”

“Sir,”
I hurriedly interrupted, realising that Freddie might accidentally get Mr.
English into trouble if he mentioned that Mr. English had recommended the
book.  “Um... so did Huxley write anything else?”

 
“Difficult to say,” mused Caratacus.  “As far as I know, he moved to the United
States before the War and so obviously we haven’t heard anything of him since
then.  Ah,” he said, looking at his watch, “I’d better be off, chaps.  I don’t
suppose either of you has seen Pontevecchio, have you?”

“Yes,
Sir,” I replied.  “He’s supervising First Form Curfew.”

“Aha! 
Marvellous.  Well I’ll see you both tomorrow morning.  You’ll be pleased to
know that you both scored handsomely in last week’s vocab test.”

After
Caratacus had left, Freddie turned to me and said, “So what was Mr. English
doing, telling us to read a forbidden book?  And what the devil was that all
about; telling Caratacus we were choosing new reading books?  Honestly!  Do you
think Caratacus has never met me before?” 

I
chuckled.  “Well we got away with it, didn’t we?”

Freddie
began to head off towards the door.  But something had occurred to me.

“Hang
on a mo, Fred,” I called after him.

Stupidly,
it hadn’t previously occurred to me that, since
Brave New World
began
with a B and was at the end of a shelf, it was perfectly possible that there
might be more books by Aldous Huxley on the next shelf down. 

 “That’s
odd, Freddie, look!”  He came dashing back over.

The
first book on the next shelf down, lodged between another book by Huxley called
Crome Yellow
and the end of the shelf was an unassuming and very slender
green hardback in mint condition.  If I had been glancing casually along this
shelf, I probably would not have noticed it at all.  It was entitled
Moses,
Man of the Mountain
by Z. Neale-Hurston.   

“This
one’s out of position,” I said.  “It should be under N for Neale, not H for
Hurston.”  I managed to wrench the book from the shelf. 

Freddie
slid his right hand into the narrow gap left by this book and spent a few
moments exploring the inside of the bookcase.  Turning his head away and with
the grimace of effort of an alcoholic desperately seeking a ten pfennig coin
down the back of an armchair, he pushed his hand as far in as he could without
removing any other books.  

“Eureka!”
he exclaimed.

This
time there was a gentle click and Freddie removed his hand and retreated. 
Again he waited for some magic to happen and, when it didn’t, he looked at me,
shrugging.

I
stepped forward to replace the book.  But then, as I was forcing it back into its
space, the whole bookcase swung slowly and smoothly backwards.  I looked around
to ensure that nobody else had entered the Library.

“Quickly,”
snapped Freddie, bundling forwards and giving the bookcase-door an extra shove,
“before anyone catches us.”

Behind
the bookcase, about four feet away, was a second door that looked just like any
other door in the building.  We both squeezed around the bookcase-door and
pushed it shut from the other side.  There was another satisfying click so that
we knew that nobody who entered the Library now would have any inkling that we
were there.

We
were now in what was effectively a very cramped and very dark chamber with the
bookcase-door behind us and this second door, presumably leading to the secret
room, in front of us. 

I
felt around in front of me for the handle and pressed my left ear up against
the door.  There was no sound.

“Hurry
up, will you?” said Freddie anxiously.

“This
handle’s really stiff.” I struggled and forced all of my weight down upon it.

Eventually
it gave way and I pushed the door open very gently.  The elongating light of
the evening slid into the tiny chamber.  I poked my head into the room beyond
and nodded to Freddie.

We
closed the second door behind us.

Like
the Library, this room was constructed almost entirely from wood and books. 
The room was quite small and square with a large window directly in front of
us, the window in which I had spotted Colonel Barrington and Doctor Boateng earlier. 
There was a lectern standing proudly in the middle of the room with a large,
ornate chandelier hanging over it like a clumsy booby-trap.  Over to our right,
surrounded, of course, by more bookcases, was another door like the one we had
just come through.  It had been left slightly ajar.

The
whole room was shrouded by a thin layer of dust which, in the reddening evening
light, seemed to rise ghoulishly from where it rested.

The
books ensconced in the shelves all around us were, if it were possible, even
more ancient than those looming in the higher shelves in the Library.  They
were colossal tomes which looked like roughly hewn logs, engraved on their
spines with angular Latin abbreviations.  I struggled to believe that these
texts, if indeed they weren’t just blocks of wood, had ever been meant for
reading.

“Freddie,”
I warned, “get away from the window!”

Freddie
had been gazing out in the direction of the Swimming Pool, apparently not
realising that he might be seen by any of the Seniors who were now beginning to
return from their swim.  Freddie stepped aside and began to nose around the
room with intent.

He
opened the door on the right hand side of the room.

“Look,”
he said, beckoning me over from where I had been admiring the immense
hardbacks.  The door led directly to a cast iron staircase which spiralled
upwards into total darkness.

“Where
do you think it goes?” I asked.

“Not
sure,” he said, calculating which rooms might be above us on the Second Floor. 
“I guess it might end up in Mr. Wilbraham’s flat.”

Well,
I thought, that would certainly rule this out as an escape route.  If we were
to emerge unannounced into his dining room, interrupting dinner with his
sparrow-like wife, from a room in which we were not meant to have been, there
would be hell to pay.  Probably the cane, expulsion, criminal records, and a
one-way pass to the Eastern Front.  It really didn’t bear thinking about.

“Hey
look!” said Freddie, walking towards the lectern.

Upon
it was a very tatty looking book which had been left hanging open listlessly
like a gormless man’s jaw.  In contrast to the stately volumes enthroned in the
bookcases around the room, this book, if it could be called a book, clearly did
not belong here.  It was a ragged sheaf of papers of differing dimensions held
loosely together with strips of tired leather.

“Someone’s
been reading this recently,” Freddie said.  “See, there are fingerprints in the
dust on this book-stand thing.  But what does all this say?  It’s not Latin, is
it?” said Freddie.

I
looked over the two pages that were on display.  I didn’t dare to turn the
pages for fear of tearing them or dislodging them from their flimsy binding.

“I
don’t think so,” I replied.  “Looks like a load of gobbledegook to me.”

The
text was written in scrawling manuscript.  What Mr. English would say was neat,
but not exemplary.  The ink had faded with age and was further obscured by the
dust that had ingrained itself into the paper.

It
was written in an
unfamiliar language.  Most of the
letters were recognisable, but some of the words contained additional,
strange-looking characters, like
ɣ
,
ɔ
,
ɖ
and ŋ, which gave the text a
magical, hieroglyphic look
.

The
middle of the right-hand page set out what looked like an extract from my
mother’s ration-book with numbers at the ends of each line of words.  The top
of the left-hand page had a roughly drawn diagram, showing a number of circles,
some outlined, some filled in, connected by arrows. 

“This
looks like a picture of the solar system,” said Freddie, staring at the
arrangement of arrows and circles.  “Do you think that this language might just
be English or German, but in some kind of code?”

I
was just about to tell Freddie that I had no idea, when we both heard a click. 
Someone had opened the bookcase-door.

I
froze, all of a sudden engulfed by panic.  I could see the stiff doorhandle
moving.  Freddie grabbed my arm, wrenching me from my paralysis, and we tiptoed
as quickly as we could through the door that led to the cast-iron staircase,
leaving it as it had been, slightly ajar.  We waited behind it, hearts racing. 
The slightest sound, I thought, and we would be learning a great deal more
about human sacrifice.

The
door from the Library eventually opened and we heard hushed voices speaking
sharply. 

“...I
still find it hard to believe that you, of all people, would entertain such a
dangerous plan.”  This must have been Doctor Boateng:  He had a deep, but soft,
grainy voice and he seemed to place stress on all of the wrong syllables to
give it the intonations of a record being played backwards.  “In fact,” he
continued, “what you propose is based on views that are
insulting
to my
culture”.