The Quickening of Tom Turnpike (The Talltrees Trilogy) (13 page)

“Anyway,
Turnpike, even if Milo really was there, it may well be that he just
sleepwalked from the Sick Bay.  It does happen.  And I daresay he wouldn’t have
looked his usual spritely self.”

I
hadn’t even thought of that.  Boys were sleepwalking all the time, especially
when they were ill, and doing strange things, like holding doors open for
people and even talking to people, without any idea that they were doing it.

“Have
either of you heard of Ockham’s Razor?” asked Caratacus.  He did not wait for a
reply presumably because it was pretty obvious what it would be.  “Let’s see “
Pluralitas
non est ponenda sine necessitate
” I think it is.  A self-consciously
succinct formulation of the rule,” he mused (Heaven only knew what he was
talking about).  “It means “
Plurality should not be asserted without
necessity
”, hmm?  Ockham’s Razor is a philosophical and scientific tool
whereby when you are trying to explain why or how something happened, you
shave
away all the unnecessary assumptions in order to give the simplest
explanation.”

He
looked at us and noticed that we were both completely baffled.  “What I mean to
say, boys, is that there are plenty of simple and reasonable explanations for
all the things you have seen and there is no good reason for you not to think
that those simple reasons explain them.  Now perhaps you will tell me that your
zombie-theory
is
the simplest explanation because it explains all of
these things in one sentence.  But it is not, in fact, a simple explanation at
all because it
assumes
far too much that hasn’t ever been proven.  Do
you see?”

“Yes,
Sir,” said Freddie.

“Yes,
Sir,” I agreed, just about grasping what he was saying.  “But, Sir, do you see
why we thought there was a danger?  I mean, all the coincidences.”

He
paused, sipping his tea.

“Yes
I do, Tom.  And you are both very young and with typically wild imaginations. 
You read in a book that zombies might exist and so you thought, perhaps
reasonably, that they do.  And so that was your explanation.  When you are
older, you will learn that you cannot trust everything you read.  Even in
classroom text books.  So, now then, what’s to be done with you two vigilante-sleuths
then, eh?”

This
was a rhetorical question of course.  Bitter experience had taught me that
under no circumstances should you ever suggest your own punishment:  If you
suggest something lenient, the teacher inevitably issues a punishment harsher
than he otherwise would as a further lesson for underestimating your
wrongdoings; if you suggest a punishment the teacher agrees to, you are left
wondering if he would have agreed to something a bit lighter.

“There
is, as I see it, only one possible solution,” he said.  Freddie was clutching
his teacup so tightly that his fingertips had turned white.  “I will have to
let you off.”  I could have wept with joy and Freddie was beaming from ear to
ear, though he tried to contain it.  “
But
there are some conditions,
yes?  One, your behaviour is exemplary until the end of term.  Two, you explain
this to Pickering and tell him that these conditions apply equally to him.  And
three, you tell nobody else about any of this at all.  Ever.  Yes?”

“Thank
you, Sir.”

“Thank
you, Sir.”

“Good. 
So don’t let me catch you up to anything else.  Now, I think you had better let
me have that research log, Freddie.”

“Yes,
Sir,” said Freddie.

We
walked calmly out of Caratacus’ room, not daring to say a word to one another. 
Then, when we reached the top of the Spiral Staircase, we ran down to our
classroom as fast as we could so that Caratacus wouldn’t be able to catch up
with us to tell us that he’d changed his mind.

***

Freddie
and I caught up with Reggie in the queue for Confectionery Ration.  We tried to
explain what Freddie called “Ogden’s Blazer or something”, but somehow we
didn’t seem able to put it as well as Caratacus had.

“Look,
anyway,” said Freddie, “the point is that there’s nothing for us to worry
about, right?  We were just getting a bit too carried away with it all.”

“But
how can you possibly say that?” said Reggie, totally indignant.

“Look,
we nearly got expelled, alright?” said Freddie.  “I suppose you had to be there
to understand what he was saying.  I can’t be bothered to explain it.  And
anyway, Caratacus has got the logbook now, hasn’t he?  So it’s out of our
hands.  If there’s any chance that we were actually right all along, then he’ll
find out and deal with it, won’t he?  And we can stop worrying.”

The
argument went on for a little while until eventually Reggie gave up in much the
same way as anyone who has ever had an argument with Freddie does – battered
into submission by his sheer persistence, regardless of whether he made any
sense.

For
my part, I was too exhausted to involve myself in the discussion.  And Mr.
Caratacus had convinced me, perhaps partly because I had had a near-expulsion
experience and was therefore willing to hang on every word uttered by the
person who had offered salvation.  So I now felt content that there was nothing
for me to be concerned about.

But
my contentment was short-lived.

twenty one

That
night, a long time after lights-out, matters took a terrifying turn.  God knows
what time it was.  At first, it was just such a mad scramble that I barely had
time to orientate myself or even convince myself that what I was seeing was
actually really happening.

What
happened, as I could recall, was this.  I must have been pretty deeply asleep
because at first the sound of the door to our dorm creaking open was just a
part of my dream.  In fact, it somehow fitted in perfectly with whatever it was
that I was dreaming about.  Then there were some sharp whisperings and shuffled
footsteps.  But those didn’t fit in with my dream at all. 

I
opened my eyes.

I
woke up confused, not knowing where I was.  My dream must have been about being
at home with my mother.  So, when I woke up, I didn’t recognise the harsh
wooden and metallic surroundings of the dorm, illuminated by the frosty
whiteness of the Moon.  I also didn’t understand why there were two figures
looming over Freddie’s bed.  That certainly seemed out of the ordinary.

Then
I suddenly realised that this was not just out of the ordinary.  This was, in
fact, horrifyingly sinister.  And so now I was fully awake, trying to suppress
the welling panic so that I could act rationally.  Should I scream and wake
everyone up?  No, I shouldn’t – if one of these sinister figures was
Barrington, here to collect another “subject”, as he called them in his log,
shouting out would not help and would give him a reason to bundle me out of the
dorm on the pretext of punishing me for keeping everyone awake.  Nobody would
be any the wiser.

So
I had to wait, watch and, if possible, follow.  I slipped quietly from
underneath my sheets and rolled softly down onto the cold, wooden floor.  I
then crawled, very slowly, paranoid of the faintest sound, and curled myself as
tightly as possible underneath Peregrine’s bed, right up against the wall so
that I was completely hidden from view.  Or, at least, I hoped I was.

I
was terrified.

From
here, I just about had a line of sight towards Freddie’s pillow and the area of
the room beyond.  At that moment I was not quite able to see the two figures in
the room, but I could hear their muted shuffling.  At first, I had supposed,
based on their height, that they must both have been men.  The only people I
could think that they would be were Barrington and Boateng.  It occurred to me
that I had not seen Doctor Boateng for some time.

But
then, as one of the figures leant over Freddie, I saw the deathly white hair of
Head Matron.  In this petrifying light, she looked like a witch – not the old,
haggish type with chin-warts and a hawkish nose, but rather the young, soft and
beguiling type who lures children with sweets and cakes and false promises. 
Her face was as expressionless as marble, like that of a corpse lying in an
open coffin at a wake, bleached of all colour, but strangely calm as if already
enjoying the pleasures of the afterlife.

She
raised her bony hand towards Freddie’s face.  In her long fingers was a white
handkerchief, which she placed delicately, ritualistically, over Freddie’s
mouth and nose.  She then stood up out of my view.  After a few seconds, she
raised Freddie into a sitting position.  I saw with horror that his body was
heavy and lifeless. 

The
other person, whom I presumed must be Barrington rather than Boateng, grew
restless and padded softly past the foot of Peregrine’s bed and stood for a
moment.  From here, all I could see was that he was wearing a pair of brown
moccasin slippers.  A jolt of terror shook me when I heard a man’s voice
whisper, “Isn’t this Turnpike’s bed?” and then, “He was next”. 

Head
Matron didn’t reply.  She heaved Freddie from his bed.

I
heard some more shuffling, the moccasin slippers swivelled and disappeared from
view and then the door creaked shut.

I
waited for a few moments, heart pounding, trying to gather some understanding
of what had just happened.  I then crawled out from underneath Peregrine’s bed
and tiptoed towards the door, which I pushed open as softly as I could.  It let
out a long and treacherous creak.  I froze, praying that they had not heard. 
After a moment, I poked my head out of the dorm.  I could see Head Matron further
down the corridor, just as she rounded the corner towards the Surgery. 
Barrington was already out of sight.

By
now, the Sun was beginning to rise and a deep violet light was spilling out
from the Junior Bathroom and sloshing down the Upper Corridor, which was silent
and empty.  I ran quietly after them, hoping to see where Freddie was being
taken.  As I peered round the corner towards the Surgery, I just managed to see
Freddie’s feet being dragged up the stairs towards the Sick Bay.

There
would be nowhere to hide up in the Sick Bay and if I went any further, I would
be caught.  I realised that there was nothing more I could do for now.  So I
crept back to bed.

I
could not sleep.  I lay awake until the bell rang, running all of the
possibilities through my mind, trying to think like Mr. Caratacus had taught us. 
Was it possible that Freddie really was ill and that Head Matron had come to
offer him a handkerchief and take him to the Sick Bay with the help of the Duty
Master?  Surely not.  Freddie was absolutely fine yesterday and he could not
possibly have got so ill during the time since lights-out.  And even if he had,
how on Earth could anyone have known?  No.  There was only one possible
explanation for this:  Freddie was Barrington’s latest victim.  And from what I
had heard, it sounded like I would be next.

twenty two

“What? 
You mean you actually saw it happen?” gawped Reggie.

We
were on our way back from Prayers.  Wilbraham had announced that Freddie and
two boys from Form Four had had to be taken to the Sick Bay during the night. 
Monday mornings were never fun – Geography, followed by double Physics and
Chemistry.  But this morning I could watch Colonel Barrington during the two
periods before Break and see if I could pick up any clues, evidence or ideas.

“Yeah,
I did.  Head Matron and Barrington came in and took him away.  Head Matron did
this thing where she put a cloth over his mouth first and...”

“What,
chloroform
?  Whoa!”  Reggie’s eyes were wide with disbelief.  “Maybe she
drugged him so he couldn’t wake up.”

“That’s
what I thought,” I said.  “Then it seemed like they were looking for
me
,
but I was hiding under Peregrine’s bed the whole time.”

“Blimey,
I can hardly believe they were right there while the rest of us were sleeping. 
We’ve got to do something now.”

 “Well
we’ve got until tonight to prove what is happening and let everyone know,” I
said.  “And I’ve decided there’s only one thing for it.”

“What?”
said Reggie.

“I’m
going to get into Colonel Barrington’s Private Room and see if I can find
anything.  There must be
something
...”

“That’s
nuts
!” said Reggie.  “After yesterday, if you get caught, you’re for the
high-jump this time.  Rather you than me, mate!”

“I
know.  But I won’t get caught this time.  I’ll need your help though.”

“What
do you need me to do?”

 “At
breaktime, wait at the top of the Spiral Staircase so that you can see where
the stairs begin at the bottom.  When you see Barrington start to come up, dash
along to his room and bang on the door.  Okay?”

“This
is totally crazy,” said Reggie.  “Anything could go wrong!”

***

Geography
was even more dull than usual.  I found it impossible to concentrate for any
longer than a minute at a time before I started to think about what had
happened last night.  Wilbraham droned monotonously about something to do with Australian
bushfires.

The
lesson ended two minutes late – something you would not expect a schoolboy to
notice.  But Colonel Barrington did not tolerate lateness even if the excuse
was as water-tight as “Sir, the Headmaster kept us in his lesson for an extra
couple of minutes and then we had to get all the way here
without running down
the corridors
”.  But, this morning when we arrived, Barrington was not there,
where he usually was, outside the classroom, holding open his pocket-watch and
the door to his Lab.

And
Barrington was never, ever late.

So
we stood outside the Lab and waited silently.  After a further minute or so,
now
five
unprecedented minutes past the scheduled time for the start of
the lesson, the Colonel stepped out of the Lab to usher us in.

I
noticed immediately that he looked very tired.  His eyes were bloodshot and
sunken, and what was even more out of the ordinary was that he had obviously
not shaved – yesterday’s facial hair had formed an ashen shadow like a layer of
dust on forgotten furniture.

Colonel
Barrington was obviously distracted throughout the lesson.  He would
occasionally rummage through his desk drawers, presumably trying to locate the
research log which Caratacus had clearly not yet returned. The lesson was on something
to do with fertiliser, which I thought would have been more Miss Prenderghast’s
province than Colonel Barrington’s.  I think he must accidentally have been
teaching us what he should have been teaching Seniors because this all seemed
rather too complicated for us.  But we all just scribbled down what he said
word-for-word, our hands cramping with the effort of having to write so
quickly, “...ammonium nitrate, used in agriculture as a fertiliser, when heated
to over 170 degrees celsius, decomposes to produce nitrous oxide and water
vapour.  Above 240 degrees, exothermic reaction accelerates to dangerous
levels, resulting in detonation.  Various catalysts can be employed...”.  Total
gibberish.

My
hand was so badly cramped from having to write non-stop for more than an hour
that it looked like a claw.  I had even tried to use my left, but it just
couldn’t keep up.  The lesson finished mercifully early.  Five whole minutes
early, in fact.  Presumably, I thought, he had some urgent work to do to making
zombie-poison and preparing for the Quickening.  Nevertheless, since every
other class was still in lessons, it meant that I had a clear run up the Spiral
Staircase to the Top Floor.  I nodded towards Reggie.

***

Just
as Caratacus’ Private Room was an accurate reflection of his character –
eccentric, dusty, disorganised, everywhere you looked was a solution to a Times
crossword clue – Barrington’s was of his, and it could not have been more
different.  In fact, aside from the fact that the room was fastidiously clean,
it looked as if it had never been occupied.  In one corner there was a bed with
sheets pulled so tautly across it that there wasn’t one crease, and in another
corner was an old table with a small stool pushed underneath it.  The whole
room looked monastic and wooden – even the bedsheets looked hard and creaky.  The
only decoration was a framed photograph of the
Führer
above the table.  It was a recent photo:  The thumbprint moustache was greying,
the eyes were wrinkling at the corners, losing their intensity, the hairline
was retreating.

I
had prepared myself to attempt to pick the lock on his door, but perhaps the
fact that there was almost nothing in here was the reason why I found it
unlocked.  Or maybe the Masters never locked the doors to their Private Rooms
because the locks were so antique and the keys had long been lost.

The
only other noticeable item in the room was an intricately engraved wooden box
sitting upon the table.  I opened it gently.  It had a strange smell about it. 
Not a bad smell, but a strange one, like hot tarmac on a seaside promenade.

Inside
was a small collection of letters, newspaper clippings and photographs.  I
began to flick through, desperately looking for, well, I wasn’t sure what. 

The
letters were a bit difficult to understand because, of course, like listening
to someone else speaking on the ‘phone, they represented only one side of the
conversation.  All three of the letters in the box were from Doctor Boateng. 
The first was pretty old, in fact almost as old as me, and was addressed from
the Gold Coast:

“
Dear
Alec,
” it began – I had no idea that Barrington’s Christian name was Alec. 
Actually, it was odd that Barrington should have something as familiar and
human as a Christian name - “
I trust that this letter will find you well. 
You have no doubt read of the events that have unfolded here since your timely
departure.  I thank God that I chose a life neither political nor military. 
Blood will flow in the market places before this act is played out.  I thought
I had seen more than my share in these past years.

But
I must not whine.  It was not the purpose of my letter.  My intention was to
wish you well in your new life.  Though you are sorely missed here at the
school (and I know you scoff at that), I have no doubt that your decision has
been the right one for you personally.  I am delighted that many more children
will have the privilege of learning in your classroom.

Finally
(need I say it?), please maintain our correspondence.  You have been a dear
friend for many years and I trust that you will be for many years yet.

Yours
sincerely,

Edmund.
”

The
next letter was dated around two years later and addressed from the Ethnology
Laboratories in Frankfurt.

“
Dear
Alec,

Many
thanks for your recent letter, though I cannot say that its content was wholly
comforting.

The
coincidences of which you speak (and sense dictates that they are no more than
that) should not occupy you.  I am concerned for you, deeply.  You have
evidently spent too long brooding over the events of the past.  There must be
some light at the end of your tunnel, but you must seek it out for yourself and
back away from these delusions and this desire for vengeance against unknown
assailants.

You
know my views on these aspects of the Vodun as well.  I will not insult you by rehearsing
them in this letter.  It seems to me that your vain pursuit of revenge has
tainted your reason, and your reason surely is now the boys in your charge. 
The harm that could be caused to them may be irreversible, even fatal.

However,
the potential for experimentation in this area is causing a good deal of excitement
here at the Laboratories.  In fact, it has become amply clear that this is the
only reason why I have been brought here.  It is perhaps even the only reason
for my continuing existence.  I had thought that the academic life would keep
me out of all this. 

Do
please keep me informed of your progress.

Yours
sincerely,

Your
old comrade-in-arms and dear friend, Edmund.
”

There
was a hammering on the door.  “Turnpike.  You in there?”

“Yes,
Reggie.  Where is he?” 

“He’s
on his way.  Heading up the Spiral Staircase.  Suggest you clear out right now!”

“I
need a couple more minutes,” I said. 

“Well
you haven’t got a couple of minutes.  You’ll get caught.”

“Okay. 
Look, just hang on and let me know when he gets really close.”

I
heard Reggie scamper away.

The
last letter was a telegram dated only three weeks ago.  It was very brief, as
if it had been written in a temper or a hurry:  “
Alec,
Agreed.  Do
not act.  Have happened upon something.  Will discuss.  Will take next zeppelin
to Croydon.  Arriving Ecl. –8.  Edmund.
”  I realised immediately that “Ecl.
–8” must have meant “Eclipse minus eight days” and that this telegram set out
Boateng’s travel arrangements.

Surely
there was enough evidence here in these last two items of correspondence to
show Caratacus or Wilbraham, wasn’t there?  Well, they would have to do.  I
stuffed them into my pocket, and, as I did so, a newspaper cutting fell out and
drifted down onto the floor.

I
reached down to pick it up and unfolded it delicately.  It was the public
announcement from years ago of a marriage: Colonel Alec Barrington, D.Phil. DSO,
3rd (Nigerian) Brigade, to Miss Angela Greymalkin.  There was a photograph of
their wedding day.  Barrington’s face was a picture of pride and joy.

“Tom. 
Now
!  Get out of there right now.  He’ll be with us in literally twenty
seconds.  I’m gonna hide.”

I
hurriedly replaced the items I had not pocketed back in the box.  But, as I did
so, I noticed something in the newspaper cutting that I couldn’t believe I had
not seen in the photo Freddie and I had found in Barrington’s wallet.  It was
the picture of his wife, Angela.  I now realised why her face had previously
seemed strangely familiar.  The facial expressions were unfamiliar, but not the
face; soft, porcelain, glamorous, even bewitching.

Head
Matron.