Arnie Jenks and the House of Strangers (6 page)

Arnie leaned further into the chamber, which appeared to him thin in width, tall in height, rectangular and unremarkable. He saw that part of the back wall had tilted forward slightly, revealing a small gap top and bottom. Careful not to touch anything and wary of being trapped, he climbed in and gently pulled the vertical slab down towards him. It pivoted like a see-saw, opening just enough to allow him to slither underneath and through to the other side.

He wriggled until his feet slipped over an edge and landed onto something solid. He dragged himself out fully, onto the cold stone spiral staircase that rose up to his right and fell away below him to the left. Carefully he made a slow descent into the dark, stroking the cool wall lightly with his fingers to guide him.

Arnie counted fifty-seven steps, the last bringing him hard up against a solid door. Not finding a handle, he leant all of his seven stone eight pounds in weight against the heavy timber and with a not too great a shove it gave way easily, leading him to believe that it had recently been used.

Outside, he stumbled into the long grass. Above, the tower stood majestic and fairy tale-like, while around him, a blanket of humid air hung limp and for a moment he felt he was in a perfumed flower garden in the midst of a vibrant summer. The willows waved benevolently as Arnie made his way across the lawn into the red-brick walled garden and reached a rickety summerhouse overhung by heavily laden plum trees. Arnie looked inside but could see nothing of interest. Then he sniffed something hanging in the soft air – burnt tobacco – and he smiled.

‘Was that you Thomas? Here just now?' he muttered to himself, as something glinting on the porch caught his eye.

Arnie recognised it as the same cigarette lighter that Thomas had handled in the Blue Room less than an hour earlier. He slid it into his trouser pocket to consider later, just at the same moment that out of his peripheral vision, he saw someone nipping through the garden. He flicked his head round. A figure in the mid-distance was running for the woods.

The tall, overbearing yews, which populated the area beyond the manicured lawns, stood like ogres watching Arnie as he rushed towards them, more menacing as silhouettes than when doused in snow.

He felt relieved to pass them safely and was nearing the dense undergrowth beyond when he sensed something veer off to his right.

‘There you are Thomas,' he muttered, ‘now where are you going? The road is
that
way.'

Arnie moved his head trying to see more clearly, but the figure had vanished. He staggered onwards, hesitating every so often in the hope of spotting Thomas, before arriving at a mighty spruce standing directly ahead – strong and unflappable. It gave him an idea.

He tensed up, checked the route was clear then bolted nimbly, covering the short distance to reach the safety of the tree. He swung onto the bottom branch and threw his right leg up and over, trusting it would be capable of taking his weight. Tightening his stomach muscles, he levered himself higher, clutching and stretching to reach a position where he could watch unnoticed.

As he climbed steadily upwards, his bird's eye view spread out in all directions and not far away he could see lanterns burning. He counted eight in all.

They must have called for reinforcements, feared Arnie, as their words drifted up to him;

‘Right…well…we should try again in the morning…the traitor has probably gone to ground for now…thanks everybody. We'll meet by the lodge gate at first light and start from there…'

Arnie heard the voices agree the plan before the men slowly slunk away in a snakelike slither. He followed their direction of travel until he spotted in a clearing a lone walker hurrying along. The moon was peeking out from behind the clouds and shards of light started to fork lines upon the land below.

It had to be Thomas, thought Arnie, and he was walking straight towards these men!

In the distance he picked out a scrubby track reaching up over the hill and down towards the coast. It might just work, he thought. Arnie put his hands to his mouth.

‘Thomas! You are walking into a trap! Run to your right, and keep going!'

The words boomeranged as he watched in horror at what he had done. Thomas was stuck to the spot, confused at first, like someone caught in a car's headlights. The moon stared down.

The lanterns turned, searching for the source of the shout, twitching uncertainly, looking and pointing for the place. The lights started moving towards Arnie.

‘Come on! Come on!' whispered Arnie to himself. ‘Go Thomas, Go!'

Thomas recovered, first reacting jerkily and then sprinting decisively towards the unmade track, and seeing the ridge take shape – he made a headlong assault for the mount.

He skimmed, jumped and juddered around the rocks and mounds as he covered ground quickly. Arnie watched him run. He could almost feel Thomas's determination as he sped on towards freedom.

Arnie started to make his way down the tree, feeling like a fugitive himself, eager to make it back to the safety of the house. He saw the lights splitting up like fireflies dancing.

Then a scream lanced the air.

The searchers regrouped and started to shuffle agitatedly in the direction of the sound.

Arnie reached the bottom of the tree in seconds. ‘Run to the house, you must get away,' screamed the logical side of mind, but his conscience wouldn't listen. ‘You have got to help him! You're the only one who can,' it pleaded. ‘He hasn't another friend in the world.' Arnie didn't know what to do.

Then a series of sharp piercing cries followed, each more painful and desperate, begging for help. Arnie stopped dithering and instinctively raced towards them.

Thomas was grabbing at the man trap trying to pull the jaws open to free his twisted leg as Arnie flew into view. His face was ghostly white and his hands awash with blackening blood running thick and heavy along his calf. Shattered bone protruded through pink gaping flesh.

‘What can I do, what can I do?' Arnie trembled, as Thomas lay stricken on the dewy grass. His left leg was so badly mauled it was barely recognisable.

Arnie grabbed both sides of the trap and tried to spring them free, but they bit tight into Thomas.

‘Agggggggggh!' he screamed, and Arnie let go. Thomas tried to drag himself up, but a whiplash of pain ripped through him and he fell back onto the ground.

‘Why did you betray me? I thought you were my friend,' Thomas hissed.

‘I didn't tell them anything,' Arnie mumbled desperately.

Thomas was fighting his screams. ‘Who else could it be? Unless the girl…'

‘Emily?'

‘I ‘eard you talkin' to ‘er ‘bout me before you both left the room. Did you tell ‘er to do it?'

‘Emily? No! She sent the men at the door away and told them there was nothing for them to find. She…'

Arnie realised that he didn't know what Emily had actually done. Could he trust her? ‘Impossible!' he muttered to himself, wrestling free of this thought and moved closer to Thomas.

‘Here, I must help you, your leg…'

‘Get off me! Leave me alone!'

‘I didn't tell – I swear!' said Arnie. ‘I tried to stop you walking into them – you nearly made it! I'll get an ambulance.'

‘They won't come to ‘elp me – more as not let me die ‘ere. Rough justice maybe but at least it'll be quick.'

‘Thomas…'

‘But you'll be fine. Get rewarded no doubt, for catchin' me,' he moaned.

‘I didn't betray you!' pleaded Arnie, as he made another attempt to unlock Thomas's leg – but the teeth were buried deep.

‘Liar!'

‘Look…' Arnie struggled, ‘if I were in your place and felt the same, I'd want to have the courage to do what you did and walk away.'

‘Then I pray for you Arnie Jenks you never get asked!'

As they stared into each other's faces, they were suddenly shrouded in the dappled light from the handheld lamps swarming in all around them.

‘There's nothin' you can do for me now that you ‘aven't already done!' Thomas shrieked with anguish.

‘This is all wrong!' Arnie shouted out, but Thomas was in too much pain to hear.

The men formed a circle around the two boys. There was a pause before one of their number stepped forward. He wore a dark tunic with a belt and silver buttons and clearly stood apart as the leader of the group. The others, who looked to Arnie like farmers – from the pitchforks and shovels they held threateningly in their hands – stood in readiness.

‘Which of you is Private Thomas Hodges?' the officer demanded.

Arnie looked to himself; a roughly dressed boy in a baggy coat hiding his school blazer and tie, his face smeared with grime, his hands scarred with earth. Could he fake it as a soldier absent without leave for long enough to save Thomas?

Without delay, Arnie committed himself. ‘I am,' he said instinctively.

The policeman removed his helmet and laying it down walked up close to Arnie. He studied him for a moment before he looked to Thomas.

‘Who are you then?'

Thomas was almost unconscious but he managed to lift his head up slightly.

‘I didn't see…see the trap…till it were too late…'

‘He came to warn me that you were searching the area…' said Arnie softly.

The policeman waved across two gruff looking bearded men who moved in and knelt by Thomas.

‘You are fortunate to have a friend like him,' he said, staring at Arnie coldly, ‘however misplaced his loyalty was in helping you. See what happens?'

Thomas clenched his teeth and tensed up as the men began unscrewing one side of the trap.

‘No good comes to those who aid criminals…'

‘He needs help! Get him a doctor!' cried Arnie.

‘That's very touching son. On top of all the misery and hurt you have heaped on your family by your actions, it's nice to hear a bit of concern – though it's far too late!'

Arnie cowered under the long shadow of the man.

‘I've no choice but to hand you over to the military now. And you know what they'll do with you?' said the man in uniform, cracking his fingers.

Arnie felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

‘Not really…' he struggled to say.

‘If you are lucky,
really
lucky, then you might get ten years in a hard labour camp. But these are
not
lucky times are they? You had better get used to the idea that your future is very definitely going to be a short one.'

Arnie tried to protest. ‘I didn't know what to do…'

‘Get the cage,' the policeman shouted.

A thick set man stabbed his pitchfork into the ground and did as he was ordered.

The officer then knelt in close to Arnie's face and whispered, ‘If it were down to me, I would let you go. If you were older, you'd understand what you have done is wrong. But the law won't make allowances for you Private Hodges.' He then offered Arnie his hand. ‘Stand up son and come with me. Don't think of making a dash for it. I would hate to use this,' the officer threatened, indicating a flintlock pistol hanging from his belt as he slipped a pair of handcuffs around Arnie's shaking wrists.

‘I think I'm going to die,' Arnie shuddered as his hands were fastened tight.

‘Boy,' he said addressing Thomas, ‘you'll be taken to the lodge gate where treatment will be sought. And let this be a tough lesson to you – not to come to the aid of lawbreakers and runaways. It never ends well.'

A large grilled metal cage, the kind used to transport wild animals, rolled into view and parked up in front of the boys. The horse pulling it was shaking its mane and braying apocalyptically.

‘Put that one in and lock him up!' the officer said, pointing to Arnie.

Arnie was dragged to his feet and frog marched along to the open end before being pushed up a ramp and thrown hard onto the floor. Arnie looked around wildly, the truth dawning on him.
He
was Thomas Hodges, about to be condemned in a time before he had even been born.

A burly man, who Arnie had not seen before, rounded the cage and stood staring at him through the bars for a moment before approaching menacingly. He stood over Arnie and laughed, his diseased gums sweating as though they had been boiled.

‘My two lads died for their country,' he said, quietly seething. ‘They didn't run home to mummy the minute things got tough. What makes it all right for you? How the hell are we to deal with the Bosche with examples like you around?
I
want to kill you for what you have done – you're no better than what we're fighting against!'

Arnie recoiled from the man's spit.

‘But that would leave my youngest child without a father. So I won't do it.'

‘I'm sorry,' Arnie heard himself say.

‘But I'll give you one hell of a taste of what my boys would do to you if they were here!'

Arnie saw the man's arm pull back, ready to strike.

In slow motion, the fist powered towards him. The impact touched Arnie for a split second sending him reeling. He blacked out before he hit the ground.

Arnie lay perfectly still. His hair was matted with sweat and slivers of ice, his body encased in snow.

He slowly came round and aching, he heaved himself up and looked about. It was darker than before. The cage, the horse and the men had all gone. Thomas too. Wearily, he started trudging back towards the house when he struck something with his foot. He fell to his knees and dug deep until he reached the freezing soil and tugged hard at what he feared was buried there.

As each hint of corroded metal was exposed, he scraped, picked and pulled, until he wrestled the implement out of the ground. It was unmistakable; the same man trap that had done for Thomas, it was lying here still, as a reminder of those events from 1916.

Arnie let go in horror. ‘No no!' he stuttered, as Thomas's screams returned to haunt him. Desperate to get away, he pushed on – head down, harder and harder, sinking a little with each stride, until he made it to the corner of the house and along the damp brickwork to the French windows. He forced his way inside.

Arnie stood on the carpet too cold to cry: ‘I nearly died out there…I nearly died…I nearly died!' He was shaking so much, that he didn't see Mr Silverthorne enter.

‘What on earth have you been doing?' he accused, staring at the quaking boy in front of him. ‘Have you quite lost your senses?'

Arnie stood there his eyes fixed, almost dilated. Mr Silverthorne moved a step closer and his tone lightened.

‘You are frozen…you'll need some dry clothes. I will get Towersee to look some out for you straight away and then you should go to bed. I won't ask for an explanation now – you look as though you are in no state to give one.'

‘Bath…' Arnie muttered, his teeth chattering.

Mr Silverthorne focused his attention. ‘Yes quite, you need to get warmed up…you look like you have taken quite a mauling out there.'

Arnie stared into the distance as the old man considered him.

‘Perhaps you like hot chocolate? I think I should make some.'

*

A short time later, Arnie stood in his bedroom staring into a cracked and lopsided mirror. The air felt damp and there was a sense of decay all around. Blotches of mould splattered the paintwork.

A knock at the door and Towersee hobbled in bearing a heavy bowl of steaming water under which was draped a pair of moth-eaten towels. Without saying a word, he slowly staggered across the room and placed these on a side table. He delved into the misty water to retrieve a block of soap and let it slip messily into Arnie's hand.

With a weary smile Arnie began cleaning his face. Slowly, the threads of ingrained dirt and the smell of body odour came away.

Towersee busied himself by sorting and laying out a range of clothes on the bed. He then left, just as he had arrived, with no comment or opinion, shutting the door behind him.

‘Thanks,' said Arnie to the sound of shuffling footsteps. He finished washing and then turned to view the assorted garments. He chose:

He changed quickly and left the room dumping his wet overcoat and uniform in the corner by his school bag.

As he walked along the landing towards the stairs he thought of what he was going to say to Mr Silverthorne.

The door to the first floor room was open, and through the crack Arnie could see a hand stirring something on a portable stove. He stuck his head inside and was motioned to where he should sit.

‘Yes, I think that's about done.' Mr Silverthorne hunched over the pan to inspect his efforts. ‘Now,' he continued, turning down the heat, ‘I add the plain chocolate – sorry that's all I have – until it has dissolved into the liquid. See?'

Arnie couldn't really but nodded anyway.

‘If I don't do it exactly like that it will go lumpy.'

Arnie sat down. Sparsely furnished, the room seemed to double for a study and an occasional bedroom. A small bureau leant against one wall and next to it, a bookcase crammed full of box files standing neatly to attention. Precisely written dates in curly letters suggested years of diligent record keeping.

‘Now, I whisk until it is all frothy on top before adding a little sugar. Do you like nutmeg?'

‘Can't say I've ever tried it,' said Arnie without enthusiasm.

Mr Silverthorne edged his glasses up his nose.

‘Well – I'll leave that out then,' he decided, as he fetched two cups and began to pour. ‘You've changed I notice. My, I haven't seen those for a long while.'

Arnie looked down at his clothes.

‘Oh, haven't you?' he said, suddenly concerned about how he might look.

‘Such joyful expressions of youth,' the old man mused, ‘though who they belonged to escapes me for the moment.'

Arnie pulled a face.

‘There's your drink,' Mr Silverthorne said, settling into his high backed chair.

‘Thanks,' said Arnie, taking his hot chocolate and blowing gently across its surface.

Mr Silverthorne sipped carefully from his cup and then rested it on a coaster.

‘I think you may have something on your mind, Master Jenks. Would you like to share it with me?' he said, looking towards the window.

Arnie didn't wait to be asked twice.

‘Is this house haunted?' he asked directly.

‘Well, I have never seen any ghosts here – though all houses as old as this one are supposed to have them. Why do you ask?' Mr Silverthorne enquired casually.

‘Because tonight I have met people from other times who show me and tell me things which are so incredible and unbelievable…but they are as
real
as we are sitting here now…a deserting soldier and then being chased by the police and talking to my long dead great-great-grandmother and well Mr Silverthorne
I almost got
taken away
out there and it
happened
because the man trap is still under the snow…but it wasn't snowing…because it was summer back then…though how could it be?' Arnie gasped, almost hyperventilating.

Mr Silverthorne thought for a moment before answering. ‘Dreams can be like reality, Master Jenks, and when they are over the memory can feel just as true as the moment you wake from them.' He threw Arnie a look. ‘How is your hot chocolate? Calming?'

‘But this is different!' Arnie fought back. ‘ They are real people from this house telling me their stories. It is like I'm
there
, in the past and whatever I do or say becomes part of the adventure,' he exclaimed. ‘And I'm not sure I like it!'

‘How do these “adventures” start and end?' Mr Silverthorne said airily, as a doctor might to a patient.

‘Well – with the first one – I had been asleep in the hall waiting to go home and I saw someone – who I thought was you – however it wasn't but I couldn't see that until I followed him and ended up in the kitchen and there I met all these other people including Emily who, by the way is still about somewhere now, though
you
can't see her and I can't see her all of the time either, unless she opts to do something to help me which she isn't at the moment – obviously.' His endless stream of words stopped dead like an old-fashioned typewriter whose ribbon had suddenly got jammed in the keys.

‘This
Emily
is here somewhere?' queried Mr Silverthorne.

‘Oh yes!' Arnie started up again relentlessly, ‘She got left behind. I met her as I just said with a whole bunch of other servants in 1900 and we had supper – or rather they did – I didn't get any…Oh – I wonder – if I had eaten something back then would I be hungry now? Anyhow – I don't know about that…but what did happen is that when they all disappeared – she didn't.'

‘Right.' Mr Silverthorne paused, adjusting his spectacles again. ‘And then?'

‘Well you turned up and we talked but you didn't see Emily though she was there all the time! And after you had gone to get the biscuits – thanks, filled a hole – we went to the Blue Room and Emily couldn't believe that she was here
today – now
! She even noticed that parts of the house had changed – that sort of weirdness – and then she was trying to light a fire but vanished just before the boy arrived.'

‘A boy?'

‘Yes. That's right. As I told you – Thomas Hodges, the soldier – he was fighting a battle.'

‘Really? Did he win?'

‘This is serious Mr Silverthorne! He was at the Somme being shot at by the Germans!'

‘All right, all right,' he said, waving his hands to placate Arnie before placing them together contemplating his next question. ‘And where were you when you met him?'

‘I told you, in the Blue Room.'

‘Where exactly?' said Mr Silverthorne, thoughtfully.

‘I was…sitting on the sofa and then I got up to look out of the window and then he was there – right behind me!'

‘I see. Interesting.'

‘What's “
interesting
” got to do with anything? It's mad!'

Mr Silverthorne took a leisurely slurp from his cup and looked over the rim to Arnie.

‘You are not drinking your chocolate. It will get cold you know.'

Arnie blew on the wrinkled skin releasing a little steam.

‘Too hot still,' he said distractedly.

‘Ah – would you like a drop of cold milk in it?'

‘No it's fine; look I don't mean to be rude – but
what about these ghosts
?' insisted Arnie.

‘Well,' said Mr Silverthorne tapping his spoon, ‘what you've described, suggests to me – quite clearly – is that both these incidents occurred during periods that you were asleep. You thought you woke up but in fact your dreams were continuing, though they may have felt incredibly real…'

‘Are you saying that I was sleepwalking?
'
Arnie squawked.

‘It's the most likely explanation as far as I can see; once you had dozed off, you rose to move around the house and grounds acting out these dramatic fantasies, waking up confused. My cousin Melkeur often suffered from
noctambulism
, as we used to call it, though his trance like meanderings quite often ended up in the bath – he had a terrible sense of direction.'

‘But that doesn't make sense – what about you finding me coming in from the snow just now?'

‘Yes – but I interrupted your sleepwalking dream! If I hadn't, you would have probably wandered off again and who knows what might have happened to you. You're lucky you didn't perish out there – no one would have found you for weeks. I am surprised you have not been diagnosed for the condition,' Mr Silverthorne concluded. ‘You should see a doctor when you get home.'

‘There's no point! I don't sleepwalk. I never have,' Arnie protested.

‘How do you know?'

‘What!' said Arnie exasperated, plonking down his drink.

‘Well, I can think of no other reason to explain your story.'

‘Unless the people I met
are
ghosts,' said Arnie.

‘Or you're making them up because you were caught.

‘But…' Arnie wrestled hopelessly.

‘One thing I am sure of is you need rest. You should be away to your bed.'

‘I'm too tired to sleep,' said Arnie. ‘Why won't you believe me?'

‘Because it is incredible to imagine that these people, of whom you speak, could be real.'

‘But they are and they all lived in or around this house, I'm sure of it!'

‘And can you see them now?' Mr Silverthorne enquired.

‘No. They've gone,' Arnie said. ‘For the moment.'

Mr Silverthorne stroked his chin and moved his glasses back to the bridge of his nose.

‘If only I could
prove
it to you.'

The old man fell silent as he quietly drained the last of his drink. The muscle in his cheek twitched as he pursed his lips and exhaled a sigh. Then he stood up sharply and moved to the door.

‘All right young man,' he said, ‘there's a place that might hold the answer to this puzzle. And if you're not too tired, I think we should pay it a visit.'