How to Live Forever (3 page)

The fake bookcase that led into the flat where Peter lived was by no means the only secret door. They were everywhere, though most people were completely unaware of them. But Peter had a sixth sense about them. He could look at a wall of old oak panelling and know instinctively if there was a secret entrance in one of the panels. One twist of a carving and a great stone column that looked as solid as rock would open to reveal a spiral staircase going down into the earth. A finger slid under a ledge could find a button that made a wall revolve to reveal a room as big as a house.

On his fifth birthday Peter's grandfather had
given him a scruffy leather-bound journal with a brass lock and a gold key. Since then Peter had been making maps. There were diagrams of corridors that spread out like great cobwebs. There were drawings of a hundred secret doors with opening instructions, like how to crook your finger and place it just so to unlock the catch. There were instructions, too, on how to close the door behind you, so no one could follow you, and there were long lists of wonderful fantastic things that Peter never wanted to forget. He kept it all secret. Neither his grandfather nor his mother knew that he hid the little gold key on a fine cord round his neck.

His father kept appearing in his thoughts and Peter felt certain that somehow he was still alive. On Monday morning, when his mother had gone downstairs to her office, Peter told his grandfather.

‘I'm sure he's there somewhere. I've never seen anyone, not even a footprint, but sometimes I get a really strong feeling that there's someone else there.'

‘I wouldn't build up your hopes,' said the old man. ‘It's been a long time. You weren't even born when he disappeared.'

‘I know,' said Peter, ‘but I've got to try.'

‘I just don't want you to be disappointed,' said the old man.

‘I've been about as far as I can in one day,' said
Peter, ‘but I've still never reached an end. There's always another door or another corner. If I go further I might not get back by dinnertime. What about Mum?'

‘Don't worry about that. I'll tell her you're visiting a friend. Which in a way you are.'

‘Here, it's time you had this,' the old man added, and handed Peter a photograph.

A familiar face smiled up at Peter, not familiar because he knew the face, but because it was like an older version of what he saw in the mirror every day. It was the first picture he had ever seen of his father. He was leaning against one of the marble columns in the main Egyptian gallery. Although probably not much more than ten years old, the photo looked like a picture from a bygone age. His father was smiling and relaxed, leaning back as if he didn't have a care in the world. Peter noticed that the column was the only one in the room with a secret door in it, and wondered if his father had known about it. Was there even a clue to his disappearance in the photo? Peter had been through that secret door, but as far as he could remember, it had only led into a small corridor of storerooms.

‘Do you have any idea what might have happened to him?' said Peter.

The old man shook his head. He put an arm around his grandson and gave him a hug.

Then, without another word, his grandfather went back to his bread-making and Peter went up to his attics. Usually he took his time, stopping at familiar rooms, visiting his favourite treasures. But today he hurried past the rooms he'd visited before until he reached the limits of his previous journeys.

The corridor kept turning left then right then left again. Every thirty feet or so a tiny skylight filled the space below with dusty light, and the rooms contained the same sort of things – bears, toys, piles of magazines, old clothes and sagging furniture.

Then the air, which had seemed to have no temperature at all, began to grow cold. There was a slight scent of smoke in it, and far away, on the very edge of hearing, Peter thought he heard a voice. It was too distant to catch the words. He stopped and listened but there was nothing. It began to rain on the roof above him, lightly at first, like a whisper, then heavier, until any other sounds were drowned out by it.

For the first time in his life Peter felt frightened. He knew there was nothing to be afraid of. He had lived in the museum forever, but now there seemed to be something new in the air, something he hadn't sensed before. In all his exploring of the hidden corridors and tunnels, he had never come to the end of them, but he knew there had to be an end.

Nothing can go on forever
, he thought, though he had a feeling that some things probably could.

As he passed under the skylights, the rain beat on the glass like tiny fists. Dark corners seemed to hold menacing figures that melted into the walls and, hanging in the shadows, old paintings of sour-faced people watched him as he passed. Voices muttered around the attics, sending news of Peter's arrival ahead of him.

He started to walk faster. He told himself to turn round and go back to the apartment, but he knew he had to go on. He had to find his father. He felt tears behind his eyes and started to run. The corridors grew darker and darker and seemed to go on forever, like a maze, pulling him further and further into unexplored gloom. He ran faster but at every corner the corridor stretched ahead of him.

He leant against the wall to get his breath back. Some cobwebs caught in his hair and he brushed them away. He sat down and leant back against the wall and slowly began to feel calm again. He wished he'd brought Archimedes, but the old cat had gone out during the night and hadn't returned.

Peter had now gone too far to get back to the apartment before nightfall. He stopped, torn between the corridors ahead and the thought of his mother worrying about him, but he knew his grand
father would make it okay. He had never stayed out late before. There had always been another corner to turn, another staircase to climb, but until now he had always turned round and gone back.

This time, it felt different. There was something calling to him that blocked out any guilt or worry he might feel at leaving his mother. There was a noise ahead of him and Archimedes came round the corner towards him.

‘Hello, Archimedes,' said Peter, reaching out to him. ‘How did you get here before me?'

He picked the old cat up and cuddled him. Whenever Peter was sad or scared or had hurt himself, Archimedes always made him better. If he woke up from a nightmare, just feeling the weight of the cat sleeping on the quilt was enough to bring him back to safety.

‘You know,' he said, ‘I think you are my best friend.'

Archimedes nuzzled Peter's chin and purred loudly. For a second Peter felt a wave of sadness flow over him at the thought that his best friend was someone who couldn't even talk to him.

Holding Archimedes, Peter felt safe again. The rain was just rain and the half-heard voices fell silent. The cat jumped out of his arms and walked off round the corner.

Peter had often imagined to himself that Archimedes could speak. He had silent conversations in his head with the animal, and now the cat was telling Peter to follow him.

The corridors grew even darker here, the skylights were smaller and the cobwebs thicker so the light was weaker. Corners fell into darkness and the doors he passed were covered with cobwebs too, but with Archimedes trotting ahead of him Peter no longer felt afraid.

You could smell that no one had been there within living memory. Peter tried a few of the doors but they were all locked. He wondered why, if no one ever went up there, anyone would bother to lock them.

The corridor turned left then right then left again, getting darker and darker until it was more like an underground tunnel than a corridor. He turned one more corner and came to a dead end.

In front of him was a solid unmarked wall, no door, no hint of a door, no moulding that might hide a secret catch, nothing. Yet it was apparent that it had not always been that way. Someone had built a brick wall right across the corridor. Archimedes sniffed along the bottom of the wall and hissed.

‘What is it?' said Peter, getting down beside the cat. ‘I can't smell anything.'

He got up and turned to walk back. He felt really miserable. Not because all the doors had been locked and he'd come all this way for nothing, but because there was something old and dead about this place, something overwhelmingly depressing and sad, unlike anywhere else in the museum. Everywhere else was full of mystery, full of a million things from the past that held their own magic stories, but here time seemed to have given up. Whatever lay behind the doors would remain secret forever. Was it too awful for anyone to look at? Was it simply too dull and boring? Or were the rooms just empty? Everywhere else seemed to welcome him, but here he felt like an unwanted intruder.

‘Come on, old cat, let's go home,' he said. ‘It's horrible here.'

But Archimedes ignored him. He went to the last door on the right and tapped it with his paw.

‘No, come on, cat, they're all locked,' said Peter, but as he turned to walk back he heard a voice.

‘Brought him, have you, my little friend?' said the voice.

It was a woman's voice, old, thin and brittle like crumpled paper, and it was coming from behind the door that Archimedes was scratching at.

Peter's initial reaction was to run. His heart pounded against his ribs and his breathing grew fast and terrified. All the sensible thoughts about how there was no way there could be anyone there raced through his head, but they left just as quickly. Because there
was
someone there. Unless it was a ghost. In his heart he had always felt he was not alone in this great city of deserted corridors and rooms.

There were no clues to have ever made him think this, no sounds, no footprints in the dust, no fingerprints on doors, no bits of rubbish left behind. He had just sensed other life.

‘Come on then, come on then,' said the voice and, trying to soften a little, it added, ‘bring him inside.'

Archimedes touched the door again with his paw and it opened. Peter brushed aside the cobwebs and followed the cat inside. The smell of old damp books and wet clothes poured out around him. There was the smell, too, of earth after fresh rain and a mixture of all the other smells Peter had ever experienced, some wonderful, like turpentine and roses, and some disgusting, like mildew and cabbage.

‘Come on, come on,' said the voice. ‘I have not got all day.'

Peter peered into the darkness.

‘Well, actually I have got all day,' the voice continued, now talking to itself. ‘I have all day and every day, every day there has ever been, every day there ever will be. I have them all whether I want them or not, and most of them I do not want, nor ever did. A hundred years sitting by this window until I know every grain of sand in the cement between the six hundred and eighty-seven bricks I can see outside in those two chimneys, one chimney forever silent, one
chimney with winter smoke where you sit far below with your mother and grandfather and Archimedes. I have learnt the seventeen thousand and four patterns the smoke makes. I know by heart the million patterns in the ferns of frost that cover the window on winter mornings, and I could draw every one of them blindfolded. I have endless days of time and it has turned my soul to dust. My heart is lifeless, but it will not stop beating and sleep. Come on, young man, come on, over here to the light.'

Staring through the gloom, Peter walked into the room. In the middle of a filthy Persian carpet ankle deep in rubbish, surrounded by dark furniture, was an old chair with its back to him. The voice was coming from the chair. It was a rapid, squeaky voice full of impatience.

‘Come on, come on,' it said. ‘Hurry up, hurry up. There is no time to lose. Though what are a few more minutes after all these years already lost? What difference do minutes make, or even days? None at all, none at all. A second or a century, there is no difference.'

Peter walked further into the room. Sitting in the chair was a tiny white-haired lady. The cobwebs that were everywhere clung to her too. They were tangled up with her hair, both cobwebs and hair thin and silver. Peter looked into her face and saw what
he thought death would look like. The woman seemed very, very old, almost too old to be alive. Her skin was pale and lined, almost transparent. Her eyelids seemed to have grown too tired to hold themselves up, yet there was something about the eyes themselves that seemed as young as his mother. Peter wanted to run, but his feet wouldn't move.

‘Oh,' she said when she saw Peter. ‘It is you, the boy, so grown already, so like your father. I thought … well, never mind what I thought. I have lost all track of time as it has of me.'

She seemed to be expecting someone else. Peter waited for her to tell him who he was supposed to be, but she didn't. She waved her little hand impatiently at him.

‘Well, help me down,' she snapped. ‘Do I have to tell you everything? I suppose I do, suppose I do.'

‘I didn't expect …' Peter began.

‘Expect, expect, expect what?' snapped the old woman. ‘No one ever does. Who does? Do you? I certainly expect nothing and yet I suppose I expect everything, yes, everything and nothing. After all, what is the difference? Ah, philosophy, too much of that and that is for sure.'

She scrambled down from the high-backed chair and stood in front of Peter, no taller than his shoulders. Time seemed to have shrunk her into the
smallest adult he had ever seen, not just short but tiny all over, like she really had been shrunk.

Archimedes purred and rubbed around her legs. The old woman was so frail she nearly lost her balance.

‘Take care, my furry friend,' she said, ‘or you will have me over. Anyone would think you had not seen me for days.'

‘I didn't expect to see anyone,' said Peter.

‘Do not be ridiculous,' said the old lady. ‘Of course you did. Of course you did. Why would you have come here otherwise?'

‘I was just exploring,' Peter lied, unwilling to tell this stranger about his father.

‘No, no, no, no, no, not that easy,' said the old woman. ‘I am Bathline. Yes, yes, Bathline, that is who I am. Strange it is.'

‘What is?' said Peter.

‘My name, my name. It is ten years since I heard the sound of my own name. But then it is probably ten years since I heard the sound of my own voice. Unless I talk in my sleep. Do I talk in my sleep? I talk in other people's sleep, but do I talk in my own? Who can say?'

She muttered to herself about how long it had taken Peter to find her.

Peter wanted to protest. He'd been exploring the
museum since he was old enough to walk. He'd been down a thousand corridors and into countless rooms. How on earth could he have known she was there?

‘But you always knew I was here,' said Bathline.

‘I, er, sort of, well …'

‘Tell the truth, child, you knew I was here.'

‘No. I just sort of always thought there was someone,' Peter tried to explain.

‘Maybe, maybe,' the old woman snapped, ‘but you were always on your way here.'

‘But –'

‘Did I not speak to you in your dreams? Of course I did, of course I did.'

Peter remembered strange dreams in which someone he could never see kept calling him with words he could never quite hear. They had almost driven him crazy until he had learnt to shut them out by waking up. When the dreams came, he sat up in the darkness and rocked to and fro until the voice went away.

‘Was that you?' he said. ‘I couldn't hear you. I thought it was just a nightmare.'

Bathline seemed surprised at this.

‘Oh, people, people, people,' she said, shaking her head. ‘Do I look like a nightmare? I think you should not answer that. I do look like a nightmare. It's the mice, the mice. They make nests in my hair. Yes, yes,
I know, and my face has more lines than an encyclopaedia.'

She took Peter's hands in hers and looked up into his face. The feel of her hands, like just-thawed chicken, made Peter shudder. Her eyes, dark as night, stared right into his heart.

‘Look,' she said, in a voice grown suddenly soft, ‘do not try to be so old. Only children have open minds and as they change into adults, doors close, shutters are drawn, curtains fall and their vision grows narrow, but you know that. Do not let that happen to you. Be like Archimedes and accept everything. You are thinking all this cannot be happening. Remember that sometimes what is real may seem like a dream and what seems like a dream may be real. You were exploring, the same as you have every day since you could walk, and at last you found me. Yes, yes, you did.

‘You have seen so many wonderful and amazing things hidden away in this place, things that no other living person has seen, nor may ever see, and because you are a child you have taken them all for granted. You have never questioned any of it, how a particular door happened to be where it was, amazing artefacts that cannot be found in any book, maybe not even on this planet or time, and you have accepted it all. So now, accept that you have found me.'

‘But that's different,' said Peter. ‘You're alive. All the other stuff is just things. It just sits there. What about food and stuff like that?'

‘Ah, food,' said Bathline, her gaze travelling far away. ‘How I miss that, rabbit stew, apple pie, bacon sandwiches. I would give my legs to taste them again, to feel them in my throat, clearing the cobwebs away, to hear them crushing between my teeth. Yes, yes, my legs, for I have no need of them now. Yet I fear it is so long since I have eaten, I may have forgotten how. My insides are full of dust.'

Then she came back from her daydream and said, ‘Look, you must accept me just as naturally as you would accept finding a book. If you cannot believe in me with all your heart, I cannot help you.'

‘Help me what?'

The old woman paused.

‘No games, no questions,' she said. ‘I know all you know. Your father has gone and your grandfather is sick.'

‘But …' Peter tried to protest. It made him uneasy that this stranger seemed to know his every thought.

‘Do not be afraid,' said the old woman. ‘I know everything that goes on in this place, not just in your head, but everyone's. Archimedes brings me news. I know Doctor Eisenmenger lives inside your grandfather's heart.'

‘Oh,' said Peter, and then, ‘and my father, do you know where he has gone?'

Bathline ignored the question, and before Peter could repeat it, she grabbed his hand and with remarkable strength and speed dragged him over to the window. She rummaged in her clothes and finally pulled out a small book which she handed to him. It was very old, bound in soft leather that had been worn smooth by a thousand hands. On the spine in gold were the words:

 

How To Live Forever

 

‘Here,' she said.

Peter opened the book, but before he could read a single word, the old lady grabbed it back from him and slammed it shut.

‘You must not read it,' she snapped. ‘I am sorry. I should have told you before I gave it to you. You must take it to the Ancient Child. Yes, yes, that is what you have to do. Take the book to the Ancient Child and every problem will find its answer. There is a secret. I know not what it is, but I know it is there and only the Ancient Child knows it. And remember, above all, above the clouds and sky, tell no one, no one, not even your grandfather. And never read the book.'

‘But –' Peter protested.

‘Believe me,' said Bathline, ‘if you read the book yourself you will live forever. Yes, that is right, forever and ever with no amen to end it.'

‘What's so bad about that?' Peter asked. The thought of never growing old, never being ill, of living forever, seemed wonderful. Surely anyone would want to do that?

‘You do not just live forever,' the old woman explained, ‘you do not grow up. How old are you, ten? Do you want to be ten forever? Do you want to see your mother grow old and die, all your friends grow up, fall in love, have children of their own, while you are forever a ten year old child? No, no, no.'

‘Why couldn't they all read the book too? Why couldn't my grandfather read it?'

‘If everyone read the book, time would stand still,' said the old woman. ‘We would all become statues. Time would die. The clocks would stop. No, child, you must not read the book, no matter who asks you to. You must promise me that you will never ever open its covers again.'

She hid the book back in the folds of her clothing and pulled the red velvet curtain from the window.

‘I will make it safer,' she said and, tearing the
curtain into ribbons, she wrapped the book up, round and round, tucking each strip of curtain into the one before until every part of the book was hidden like a mummy. Then she handed the book to Peter.

‘You must find the Ancient Child,' she said. ‘He has all the answers. And promise me that, no matter what happens, no matter how desperate you feel, no matter who asks you, you will never, never, never read the book. These are the most important words you have ever heard. Yes, they are. Let them burn themselves into your heart and your brain. Never, never, never, never read the book. Do you promise?'

Peter nodded. He was lost for words. Or rather, there were so many words rushing round in his head that he didn't know which ones to use. If the book was so dangerous, why had the old woman given it to him in the first place? If no one could read it, why did he need to take it at all? And why hadn't the old woman just burnt it?

Bathline, sensing his confusion, put her hand on his arm and said, ‘I can see you are not convinced. Come with me, I will show you.'

She led him through a door into an almost empty room. The floor was bare boards and the only piece of furniture a tall chest of drawers against the far wall. In all his years of exploring Peter had never
seen a room like it. Every other room he had visited had always been packed to the seams with stuff.

Bathline went over to the chest and pulled at the bottom drawer.

‘Here,' she said, ‘help me open this. It is fifty years since I had the strength to do it all on my own.'

Peter pulled at the drawer. It was incredibly heavy. As it opened he could see why. It was full of old bricks.

‘To keep him safe,' said Bathline. ‘There are days when his mind wanders and his body wants to follow it. Here, help me take them out.'

‘Who?' said Peter.

‘You will see,' said Bathline.

Peter emptied the drawer and then the old woman pulled it right out and pushed it to one side.

‘Now the one above,' she said.

That too was full of bricks which Peter lifted out. The two top drawers were the same. When all four drawers had been emptied and taken out, Bathline bent down and climbed inside the chest.

‘Come,' she said. ‘Follow me.'

She took a key from her pocket and unlocked a small door inside the back of the chest. Peter crawled after her into a dark, windowless room. A thick, sickening smell of stale air poured out of the darkness like a disease. The old woman turned on a light and
in a mess of rags and straw that covered the floor a small grotesque figure lay curled up in a ball. It looked like a child about the same age as Peter but when it woke up and faced them, Peter could see deep lines etched into the creature's face – and creature was the only word to describe the thing that had obviously once been a human child. It turned its face towards the door, screwing up its eyes in the bright light it had been unable to see for half a century.