One for Sorrow Read online

  ‘What now?’ muttered Tom.

  He dropped over the side of the coach onto solid ground and walked around to examine the horse. Its chest was rising and falling, its eyes staring wildly at nothing in particular. As Tom watched, it made an attempt to struggle upright, but the harness held it in position and it snorted, fell back again, shook its head.

  ‘Whoah, boy.’ Tom patted the creature’s flank in an attempt to calm it, but this seemed to have the opposite effect and the horse tried once again to get itself upright. Worried that it might hurt itself, Tom crouched beside the horse and began to free it from its harness, a skill he’d picked up when working at Laird’s Lodging House in 1824. After a few minutes of frantic tugging and unbuckling, he had the restraints undone and the horse finally managed to struggle to its feet. Then, without so much as pausing for breath, it trotted briskly away along the road, its head turning this way and that as if searching for the direction that would take it home. After a few moments it disappeared around a corner, but Tom could still hear the hollow clopping of hooves on unseen cobbles for quite some time.

  He stared down the street for a moment and then turned back to look at the coach. One wheel was still turning, so it was clear that it hadn’t been lying here for long. The accident must only just have happened, but if that was the case, where was everybody? He opened his mouth to shout for help and in that instant, a church bell, somewhere nearby, tolled the hour. Three a.m.! No wonder the streets were deserted. Tom stood, looking around, trying to identify his surroundings. He was in Edinburgh, he was sure of that, but it wasn’t a street he recognised from earlier visits and for the moment at least, he had no idea in which direction he should go.

  He began to remember what had happened in Hamish’s car, just before everything had gone haywire; the familiar cloaked figure that had drifted across the road. He glanced nervously around, paying particular reference to the many narrow alleyways dotting each side of the street. For the moment at least, he appeared to be completely alone.

  He told himself that he couldn’t stand there all night, and besides, what if he got blamed for the accident? No, he’d just have to do what he always did at such times and seek refuge. Only now, as the adrenalin began to subside, did he register that it was bitterly cold. Whatever year he had stumbled in to, it still felt like late December. He shrugged his coat tighter around him and began to walk, looking for something he recognised.

  As he walked, he slipped a hand into his pocket, expecting to find his mobile phone there. But then he remembered he’d forgotten to take it to the party with him, that he’d left it on the bedside cabinet in his room at Hamish’s house. This was a blow. On his previous journeys into the past, he’d had a phone with him, a touch of 21st century technology that he could use to prove to the people he met that he was from another time. All he had with him on this trip was a handful of assorted coins. He cursed his forgetfulness.

  He neared the top of the street and looked left and right along an intersecting road, trying to get his bearings. To his left, he saw the familiar silhouette of Edinburgh Castle, looking strangely menacing under the light of a full moon. Instinct made him turn towards it and walk slightly downhill, his eyes swinging left and right to seek out possible areas of ambush.

  He came to a narrow alleyway on his left and hesitated as he heard the sound of a low moan, issuing from out of the shadows. His first instinct was to run, but when he looked into the alleyway he saw the figure of a man lying on his back, looking imploringly up at him. Tom hesitated, suspecting that the stranger might be trying to lure him into the alley where others could be lying in wait, but the man’s thin, pale features suggested that he really was in trouble and a shaft of moonlight filtering into the alley revealed that blood was dribbling down his chin.

  ‘Please . . .’ he croaked. ‘Help me.’

  Tom edged closer. He could see now that the stranger was in his late twenties or early thirties, his gaunt but striking features framed by long dark hair. He had a thick, carefully shaped moustache and there was the hint of a tiny v-shaped beard under his bottom lip. It was the oddest thing, but something about the man seemed familiar to Tom, as though he’d met him somewhere recently, although he couldn’t think where.

  Against his better judgement he stepped into the alleyway and stood for a moment looking down at the man. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked and immediately felt stupid, because he so clearly wasn’t. ‘Are you sick?’

  The man gave a ragged cough. ‘I was . . . heading home after a night’s carousing with some . . . good friends and I . . . missed my footing in the dark. I feel ridiculous.’ He had a refined Edinburgh accent and seemed to be having difficulty in drawing breath. ‘I have a . . . condition of the lungs, you see. It is my scourge, I’m afraid. I wonder, young sir . . . if you might be so kind as to help me to stand up again?’

  Tom decided there was nothing for it. He could hardly clear off and leave the man lying here in the freezing cold. He crouched and allowed the stranger to slip an arm around his shoulders, registering as he did so his shockingly thin frame. With some difficulty Tom managed to straighten up, lifting the man back to his feet. In doing so, Tom couldn’t help noticing the powerful smell of whisky on his breath.

  ‘How long have you been lying here?’ he inquired.

  ‘Not sure. I . . . I blacked out for a while. What time is it?’

  ‘Just after three, I think.’

  ‘Quite some time, then. It was around midnight when I left my companions.’ He groaned and lifted his free hand to his forehead.

  Tom frowned. ‘Are you, are you drunk?’ he asked.

  ‘Good heavens, no! Slightly under the influence, but . . . not excessively so. And after all, it is . . . almost Christmas.’ He looked at Tom and gave a weak smile. ‘So, to whom do I have the pleasure?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your name, son, so I can . . . thank my saviour.’

  ‘Oh, I’m Tom. Tom Afflick.’

  ‘And I’m Lou. At least that’s what my friends call me. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ He took a deep breath and seemed to try and steady himself. ‘I wonder, Tom, if I might . . . impose upon your good nature a trifle longer?’

  ‘Er . . . well I’m not sure, I . . .’

  ‘I need a guide.’

  ‘I’m a bit lost myself, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Oh, I know my way well enough. I just can’t . . . quite make it under my own steam.’ Lou gave a dry chuckle, which turned into another hacking cough. Flecks of blood spattered his chin and he reached into a coat pocket and withdrew a white handkerchief. He mopped at his lips and Tom noticed that the linen was already liberally flecked with spots of red. ‘I wonder, would you please be so kind as to help me home? It’s not very far and I promise you’ll be rewarded for your efforts.’

  Tom considered his options. It wasn’t as if he had any other plans. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Which way?’

  Lou indicated that they should leave the alley and continue onwards so that was what they did, Lou leaning heavily on Tom’s shoulders. As they limped slowly along the street, Lou attempted to make conversation.

  ‘That accent of yours,’ he said. ‘I’d wager you’re English, but . . . not a Londoner.’

  ‘No, I’m from Manchester.’

  ‘Ah. That isn’t a city I know well. What brings you to Auld Reekie?’

  ‘Umm . . .’ A good question, decided Tom, but not one that could easily be answered. He decided to stretch the truth a little. ‘My mother lives here. I’m just up for Christmas.’

  ‘You’re out late.’

  ‘Yes, well like you, I was . . . visiting some friends.’

  They reached another intersection and Lou waved a hand to his right. They swayed around the corner.

  ‘I’m sort of visiting myself,’ said Lou. ‘I was . . . in Davos until recently.’

  Tom frowned. ‘Davos?’ he muttered. He thought it sounded like a character from Doctor Who.

 
; ‘In Switzerland. We usually winter there. The doctors assure me it’s . . . better for my . . . health.’ He laughed bitterly but it quickly turned into another cough, obliging him to wipe his mouth again. ‘But, I . . . couldn’t resist the lure of Hogmanay in . . . my home city. No doubt my dear wife will use this as an excuse to send us straight back to the Alpine air. She’s a . . . remarkable woman, but . . . something of a worrier.’ He looked at Tom. ‘How old are you?’

  he inquired.

  ‘I’m fourteen.’

  Lou nodded. ‘Just a year older than Lloyd,’ he said. ‘My stepson.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Look, do you mind if we stand for a bit?’ he whispered. ‘I need to . . . get my . . . breath back.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Tom took the opportunity to study the long stretch of street ahead of him, identifying as he did so, a dozen places where somebody might be lying in wait. He wondered what would happen if McSweeny suddenly jumped out at them. Would he just leave Lou to his fate and get out of there? Or try to defend him? But then, he reasoned, McSweeny wasn’t after Lou, was he?

  After a few moments Lou’s breathing seemed to settle and he indicated that they should be on their way again. ‘It’s not so very far now,’ he told Tom. ‘Fran will probably have the entire Edinburgh constabulary out looking for me.’ He glanced at Tom. ‘How far away are you from home?’

  Another good question. ‘A long way,’ said Tom and hoped that Lou wouldn’t enquire further.

  ‘Well, since I’ve . . . taken you off your route . . . I’m sure we might find you a berth for the night. Seems the least we can do. That way you can meet Lloyd in the morning.’ Lou pointed along the street and indicated a row of imposing Victorian houses at the far end. ‘That’s where we’re headed,’ he said. ‘We’re renting a house down there for a few days.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘It’s going to sound a bit odd.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’m rather fond of odd questions.’

  ‘Good. All right, then.’ Tom took a deep breath. ‘Erm . . . what I really want to know is, what year is it?’

  Three

  Lou stopped in his tracks and Tom was obliged to wait for a moment.

  ‘You don’t know what year it is?’ muttered Lou.

  ‘Er . . . no, I’ve . . . kind of forgotten.’

  ‘I see.’ Lou lifted a hand to pull at his moustache. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘That does seem strange.’ He shrugged, carried on walking again. ‘Well, since you ask, it’s eighteen eighty-one,’ he said.

  Tom did some quick mental calculations. Fifty-six years later than his last visit. But what, he wondered, had drawn him to this particular year? He knew from previous experience that there tended to be an anchor, something that drew him to a particular time and place. At Mary King’s Close, it had been Morag’s ghost that had reeled him in. In the National Museum of Scotland, the tiny coffins, displayed in a glass case had taken him to 1828, the year they’d been created. But Hamish’s car on a lonely stretch of Edinburgh road? Surely there was nothing there to connect him with 1881?

  ‘A penny for them,’ said Lou and Tom looked at him.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A penny for your thoughts.’ He smiled. ‘It looked like you have . . . a lot on your mind.’

  ‘You’ve no idea,’ Tom assured him.

  They were nearing the long curving terrace of townhouses now. In one of them every window seemed to be glowing with yellow light. Lou sighed. ‘What did I tell you?’ he muttered. ‘All lit up like Jenners department store. Fran will have assumed I’m lying dead in a ditch somewhere.’ He indicated a short flight of steep, stone steps up to the door and Tom helped him up them, Lou using his free hand to support himself on the cast iron railings that edged the steps. They got to the top and Lou reached out and pulled the bell cord. A shrill clanging seemed to echo throughout the house. ‘Now we’re for it,’ muttered Lou and he winked at Tom.

  They didn’t have to wait for very long. The door swung open and a formidable-looking woman stood there, glaring out at the newcomers. She was considerably older than Lou, Tom decided, her

  black hair tied up in a bun. She had piercing dark eyes and a prominent chin. She looked, Tom thought, extremely cross.

  ‘Lou, where in the name of heaven have you been? I’ve been going out of my mind with worry!’ She had an American accent, Tom decided, and a very domineering manner. It sounded like she was talking to a little boy.

  ‘Now, Fran, there’s no need to make a fuss . . . I just . . .’

  ‘There’s every need! Why I allowed you to talk me into coming back to this godforsaken city is beyond me. And why did I let you out with those reprobate friends of yours? I ought to have my head tested.’ She noticed the smear of dried blood on Lou’s chin and stepped closer. ‘Lou, you’re bleeding again!’

  ‘It’s nothing, dear, just the usual problem. I’ll be right as rain, once I’ve rested.’ Lou indicated Tom. ‘This young gentleman was . . . kind enough to help me back,’ he explained. ‘He tells me he’s far from home himself, so I thought . . . we might offer him a bed for the night?’

  Frances gazed at Tom for a moment, and frowned as though she wasn’t particularly keen on the idea. But then she seemed to soften and beckoned the two of them inside.

  ‘Well, don’t stand there on the cold step all night, come in, COME IN!’

  Tom did as he was told, helping Lou into the hallway and along it to a large sitting room. Lou indicated an armchair in front of a slumbering fire and Tom steered him towards it. Lou removed his overcoat, handed it to his wife and slumped down with a sign of relief. ‘I suppose Lloyd is asleep?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course he is, as we all should be. It’s half past three in the morning! One of these days you’re going to heed the advice of the doctors and start having early nights. And I don’t suppose I even need to ask if you’ve been drinking whisky?’

  Frances seemed to remember there was somebody else there and she smiled apologetically at Tom. ‘Thank you so much for bringing him home,’ she said. She held out a hand. ‘Shall I take your coat?’

  Tom slipped off the overcoat he was wearing and handed it to her then realised that Lou and Frances were staring at him in alarm. He was quite used to this effect. At that moment he was wearing blue jeans, purple trainers and a brightly-coloured t-shirt featuring an image of a gorilla wearing a suit and a top hat. A caption in bright orange letters read GO APE!

  ‘Is that what passes for fashion in Manchester?’ asked Lou.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Tom assured him. He took a seat on a sofa opposite Lou. ‘It’s just, well, we dress a bit differently to other cities.’

  Lou pointed to the image on the t-shirt. ‘What’s the significance of that?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, er, it’s just saying, you know, go a bit wild? Let out your dark side?’ He looked from Lou to Frances and back again. ‘Everyone’s wearing them

  in Manchester.’

  Frances was the first to recover. ‘Yes, well I know it’s late, but I dare say a cup of something hot wouldn’t go amiss?’

  ‘I could murder a latte,’ said Tom, and then, noting the look of bafflement on Frances’s face, added. ‘Er, whatever you’ve got.’

  ‘I was thinking of cocoa,’ she said.

  ‘Couldn’t Anna get that?’ suggested Lou.

  ‘I sent her to bed ages ago,’ Frances told him. ‘You can’t expect hired staff to stay up till all hours just because you take it into your head to go out carousing. But don’t worry, I’m quite capable of making a cup of cocoa.’ She hurried away, taking the coats with her. Tom and Lou were left smiling at each other in companionable silence. Lou picked up a poker from beside the fire and stirred the slumbering coals, then threw on a few more chunks from a brass scuttle beside it. Tom looked around the room. It was a nice enough place and there was a small Christmas tree in one corner of the room, adorned w
ith baubles, but otherwise the room seemed devoid of the kind of knick-knacks you’d expect to find in a real home. He remembered that Lou had said that he was only staying here for a few days.

  Lou seemed to read Tom’s thoughts and said, ‘It’s not much of a tree, this year. The best we could scrounge up at short notice. Normally, of course, we’d have stayed with my parents at Heriot Row, but I rather fancied some time in my home city away from them. They don’t even know we’re here!’ He looked for a moment like a mischievous boy, confessing to some prank. His breathing seemed to have settled a little now that he was sitting down. ‘So I’m afraid we could only bring a few bits and pieces with us. Some of Lloyd’s toys, naturally, he’d never have

  forgiven us if we’d brought him nothing to play with. And one or two of my books. I’m afraid I have an awful lot of them.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a keen reader then?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  Tom noticed a magazine lying on the arm of the sofa and picking it up, he glanced at the cover. The title of the magazine was Young Folks, so he assumed that this must be one of Lloyd’s things.

  ‘Ah, that’s the latest edition,’ said Lou, rather puzzlingly. ‘If you have time to look at it while you’re here, I’d be glad of your opinion.’

  ‘My opinion?’ Tom leafed idly through it, not quite understanding the comment. He paused at a pen and ink illustration of what looked like a pirate standing on the deck of a sailing ship, a fierce-looking fellow dressed in a tricorn hat. He had a wooden leg and a parrot was sitting on one of his shoulders.

  ‘This guy looks like Long John Silver,’ observed Tom.

  ‘He is,’ said Lou and he gave Tom a strange look.

  ‘So . . . you’re familiar with the story? You must already be a reader of Young Folks.’

  ‘This?’ Tom shook his head. ‘No, I’ve never heard of it.’

  Lou scowled. ‘Then . . . I don’t really understand. How do you know the name?’ he demanded.

  ‘What name?’

  ‘Long John Silver.’

  ‘Well, because everyone knows . . .’ Tom hesitated, as a thought occurred to him. He looked again at the page and this time, registered the title of the story. Treasure Island, or, the Mutiny of the Hispaniola. And then the name of the author: Captain George North. He returned his gaze to Lou. ‘But, this is, it’s the same story as−’ he looked again at the title. ‘Who’s Captain George North?’ he demanded.