One for Sorrow Read online

  OK, Tom told himself. This kind of thing’s happened before. It’s an alternate reality. Just stay calm.

  But it was hard to do that when a caption flashed up on the screen. My partner is an alcoholic!

  ‘You’re just in time,’ said Mum, without looking up at him. ‘It’s only been on a few minutes.’ She sighed. ‘I wish I’d worn a nicer top, though.’

  ‘What are you doing on this show?’ muttered Tom. ‘I thought you hated it.’

  ‘I do,’ she muttered. ‘But something had to be done.’ She shook her head. ‘Those leggings have seen better days. And why didn’t I wash my hair?’

  On screen, Guile started up with his opening gambit. ‘So, Catherine, what prompted you to come on the show?’

  ‘My partner, Hamish,’ said the onscreen Mum. She looked pale and thin, Tom thought and she was right about her hair, it hung lank and greasy around her face. ‘He’s so, unpredictable.’

  ‘Unpredictable?’ Guile by contrast, was immaculately suited, his glossy hair brushed neatly into place, his blue eyes sparkling like those of a crafty fox. ‘That’s surely not a crime, Catherine? We all like a bit of the unpredictable in our lives, don’t we? Surely it just makes things more interesting?’

  ‘Not the way he does it,’ Mum assured him. ‘One minute he’s nice and sweet, he’s telling me everything has changed and he’s going to behave himself . . .’

  Guile nodded, doing the sympathetic face.

  ‘The next, he goes out on a bender with his workmates and he drinks himself insensible. Then he comes back like a . . . like a wild beast.’

  ‘Oh, but surely after a hard day’s work, a man has earned the right to have a couple of pints?’ reasoned Guile.

  ‘It’s not just a couple,’ said Mum. ‘He drinks himself insensible. And then he has these awful mood swings.’

  ‘So he’s a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde?’ suggested Guile and Mum nodded.

  ‘Exactly, Jonathan.’

  ‘And you’re perfect, I suppose?’ Guile sat on the steps in front of the stage and consulted his clipboard. ‘Because, let me tell you Catherine, that’s not the picture that’s coming across here. Let me see now, you’ve been arrested for shoplifting . . . and you’ve had a caution after a fight in a restaurant. You sound like the ideal model for parenthood, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ protested Mum. ‘The shoplifting thing was an accident. I, I forgot to pay for something, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, you forgot. And why did you forget, Catherine? Was it because you’d had a few drinks yourself? One too many gin and tonics over lunch?’

  ‘Hamish drove me to it!’

  ‘They all say that. But what makes you so different to him?’

  ‘I . . . I try to be better. He’s promised me a thousand times he’ll clean up his act and turn over a new leaf. And for a week or so he manages it. He’s the perfect gentleman. Kind. Thoughtful. He buys me flowers, takes me out to restaurants, tells me how much he cares about me.’

  Guile sighed. ‘At the end of the day, isn’t that what every woman wants, Catherine?’

  ‘Yes, but . . . then he lapses. He goes out with his friends again and he gets drunk. Horribly drunk and then . . .’

  ‘Tell me, Catherine? Truthfully. Has he ever hit you?’

  Mum lowered her head and muttered something.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘Yes! Yes, he hits me.’

  ‘And how do you feel about that?’

  She glared at him. ‘How do you suppose I feel? Scared, angry, humiliated . . . but that’s not the worst of it. It’s the way he treats my son, Tom.’

  Tom moved to stand at the back of the sofa, intrigued.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Guile. ‘Is he violent towards your son?’

  Again, Mum nodded. ‘Sometimes. And other times, he’s just plain mean.’

  ‘Give me an example.’

  ‘Well, since Tom came up from Manchester to live with us, the two of them haven’t really been getting along.’

  ‘When did Tom move in with you?’

  ‘A few months ago. Tom’s father has a new partner, you see and, well, he made it clear that he didn’t want Tom around any more, cramping his style.’

  ‘He sounds like a charmer,’ sneered Guile.

  ‘It hit Tom really hard to be elbowed out like that. Him and his dad, they’ve always been so close. Anyway, the Christmas before it happened, Tom’s dad bought him a Kindle.’

  ‘Trying to buy him off, eh?’ Guile turned to look at the audience. ‘It’s funny how many parents think they can do that, isn’t it? But a fancy toy is no substitute for a loving parent.’ He turned back. ‘How old is Tom?’

  ‘He’s fourteen.’

  ‘Ah, I remember being that age myself.’ Guile glanced towards the camera. ‘Back in the middle ages,’ he added. Laughter swelled from the audience. He waited for it to die away before he said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, one night Hamish came back from the pub and he was . . . absolutely off his head with drink. Even worse than usual and that’s saying something.’

  ‘And what about you, Catherine? Were you stone cold sober?’

  ‘Yes, I was, actually.’

  ‘Bully for you. Go on.’

  ‘Well, Tom was just sitting there reading quietly, you know, trying to keep a low profile, because he knows how Hamish can be and Hamish started in on him. Told him that he should get out in the fresh air, play a game of football. He said he hated eBooks, thought they were the reason why so many children were failing their exams and, oh, all kinds of nonsense. None of it made any sense. Tom just tried to ignore him, and the more he did that, the angrier Hamish became until . . .’

  ‘Until, what?’

  ‘Until something snapped. He, oh, he . . .’

  ‘Go on, Catherine. Tell me what he did.’

  ‘He snatched the Kindle out of Tom’s hands and he just stamped on it, over and over again. Smashed it into little bits. Tom just sat there and watched.’

  Tom – the real Tom, reacted to that. ‘Hamish broke my Kindle?’ he cried and came around the side of the sofa. Mum looked up at him, puzzled.

  ‘You know he did,’ she said, but Tom barely registered the reply. He was too busy staring at her face. A big, purple bruise extended from the socket of her left eye to her cheek.

  ‘Mum!’ Tom promptly forgot to keep himself detached from what was happening and threw himself down on the sofa beside her. ‘Did Hamish do this?’ he demanded, reaching out and gently touching her face.

  ‘Of course he did. He found out . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I’d been putting some housekeeping money aside each week to buy you a new Kindle. He was like a madman.’

  ‘Where is he?’ snarled Tom.

  ‘He’s upstairs, sleeping it off.’ Tom started to get up, but Mum grabbed his arm and pulled him down again. ‘Don’t go up there,’ she advised him. ‘Please. Let him sober up a bit. If you wake him now, he’ll only start on us again. Besides, you’ll miss the rest of the show. I’m recording this, I hope I can get Hamish to watch it with me when he’s sobered up.’

  Tom frowned, not particularly caring about the programme, but Mum hung tightly onto him, so he settled back and put a protective arm around her shoulders.

  Onscreen, Guile was back on his feet and grandstanding to his audience, striding up and down the stage like some Roman emperor. ‘So what do we think, ladies and gentlemen?’ he cried. ‘Does Hamish sound like a nice guy? Or does he sound like a five star, solid gold creep?’ There was a roar of agreement from the studio audience. The camera panned around them, showing their angry faces. They were waving their fists at the stage and yelling for Hamish’s blood.

  ‘Do we think this man should be allowed to carry on in the same manner? Or should he be brought to account for his actions?’

  Another concerted shout from the crowd.

  ‘Shall we get him out here?’r />
  Now they were positively howling their indignation. Guile stood for a moment, looking left and right, a smug little smile on his face.

  ‘All right, would you please welcome to the stage − Hamish!’

  A stunned silence descended as a figure came gliding out from the wings, a tall, thin figure dressed in a full-length leather cape and gauntlets, his face hidden behind a crow-like leather mask with a huge curved beak. He took a seat beside Mum, who was staring at him in astonishment. She appeared to be frozen in position.

  The camera closed in on Guile. He looked outraged. There was some uncertain laughter from the crowd.

  ‘What’s with the fancy dress?’ he demanded.

  But there was no response from the figure in the seat. The newcomer just stared back at Guile through round red goggles.

  Guile turned to gaze imploringly at his audience.

  ‘What do we think, ladies and gentlemen? We invite a man to come on our show and this is how he turns up? Does this strike you as respectful?’

  ‘NO!’ roared the crowd.

  ‘Do we think he’s treating this process with the dignity it deserves?’

  ‘NO,’ repeated the crowd.

  ‘Should I have it out with him?’

  ‘YES!’

  Guile turned and strode towards the masked figure. ‘I don’t ask for very much,’ he said. ‘A little politeness. Some basic good manners. And when I invite somebody to appear on my programme, I expect them to at least have the decency to show me their face.’ With that he leaned forward, took hold of the top of the mask and yanked it upwards, revealing the face beneath.

  Tom felt a jolt of terror go through him. Because McSweeny’s head was just a skull with the occasional scrap of shrivelled flesh attached to it, all that was left of him after the quicklime had done its work. On the sofa beside Tom, Mum – the real Mum – gave a gasp of revulsion and clutched at Tom’s arm.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered. ‘This isn’t what happened.’

  Guile was slow to react. He appeared to be about to take a step back, but in that same instant McSweeny’s gloved right hand shot out and clamped tight around Guile’s throat. Then McSweeny stood, lifting the talk show host bodily off the ground as though he weighed no more than a bundle of clothing. Guile’s skinny legs kicked wildly as he struggled to free himself. McSweeny took a couple of steps closer to the audience and then, almost contemptuously, he tossed Guile straight into their midst. The camera cut to a shot of the audience, people screaming and scrambling out of their seats in a panic as Guile crashed amongst them in an ungainly sprawl. Now the camera cut back to the stage, where Mum had finally realised that she needed to move. She jumped up out of her seat, but McSweeny stepped quickly back and, grabbing a handful of her hair, he pulled her to him.

  ‘Don’t be in such a hurry, Catherine,’ he croaked in that familiar rasping voice. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her with him across the stage as he strode closer to the camera. His empty eye sockets stared out of the screen and as he began to talk Tom’s blood turned to ice within him.

  ‘Tom! I know you can see me. Look what you did to me. Look!’ His hideous fleshless face filled the screen. ‘I have no eyes, but I can see you. I have no nose, but I can smell you. I have no tongue but I can taste you. I’m coming for you, boy. Do you hear me? I’m coming to get you. And there’s nowhere you can hide from me. Nowhere.’

  Beside him, Mum let out a snuffling little cry. The camera pulled back to reveal her terrified face. She was gasping for breath as the adrenalin pumped through her. ‘Now,’ crooned McSweeny. ‘What shall we do with your dear mother? Do you remember what happened to my mother, Tom? Thrown into a jail and left to rot, and all because of you. So, shall we finish it quickly? Or shall we take our own sweet time about it?’

  ‘Tom, Tom, turn it off!’ cried Mum, cowering beside him on the sofa.

  Tom obeyed instinctively. He couldn’t see the remote control, so he ran across to the television as McSweeny continued to rant. ‘Shall I make her feel the pain you caused me, boy? Shall I burn the very flesh from her bones?’

  Tom reached for the off switch.

  And a gloved hand burst out of the television and grabbed him by the throat with a power that made him wince. It began to pull him slowly towards the screen. Tom tried frantically to hit the off button, but McSweeny’s arm was blocking his view and in his panic he couldn’t seem to locate it. The hand around his throat was tightening, cutting off his air supply. His head filled with a buzzing red mist. Now his face was moving towards the screen, but the glass seemed to melt as his forehead touched it and then he was being pulled into the television, while manic laugher exploded all around him.

  ‘Welcome home, Tom,’ crooned that hateful voice.

  And blackness descended once again.

  Seven

  Tom opened his eyes to find himself enclosed in a swaying, clattering semi-darkness. A sour-looking face was peering closely at him, as though searching for signs of life. He recognised Lloyd’s glum little features. ‘He’s awake,’ announced Lloyd, sounding far from happy at the news.

  He was back in Edinburgh. The thought barely registered because by now he was very used to the practise of flying around in time and space. Another face swam into focus. Lou. He was looking at Tom in the gloom, his expression anxious. ‘Are you all right, old sport?’ he asked.

  Tom registered a smell of leather and horse and realised that he was in a hansom cab, but this time he was at least comfortably seated. Through a narrow gap in the window blind to his left, he saw that the vehicle was making its way noisily along cobbled streets, the horse’s iron-shod hooves rattling out a fearsome tattoo. Tom didn’t have the least idea how he’d got here but again, he no longer really questioned such things.

  ‘You were making noises in your sleep,’ said Lloyd and managed to make it sound like a terrible accusation. ‘You were whimpering.’

  ‘You’ve been sleeping a lot lately,’ said Lou. ‘More than seems natural. Do you know what’s happening, Tom?’

  ‘Umm . . .’ He struggled to try and piece everything together. ‘The last thing I remember is . . . is leaving your house to go and see . . .’ It came back to him in a rush. ‘Catriona!’ he said. He sat up. ‘Did I, did I get to see her?’

  Lou shook his head. ‘You barely got three steps outside the door,’ he said. ‘Two minutes after you left us the doorbell rang and a stranger reported that you’d collapsed on the pavement. Sleeping like the dead, you were.’

  ‘We thought you were dead,’ said Lloyd, sounding rather disappointed that they’d been wrong.

  ‘Of course, we summoned a doctor,’ said Lou. ‘He examined you and said he thought that you were suffering from nervous exhaustion. He advised us to put you to bed, which is mostly where you’ve been for the past two days. But this morning, you got up and had breakfast, bright as a lark.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Yes. And when I suggested you might accompany Lloyd and myself on this little errand tonight, you said you thought it was a capital idea. Don’t you remember any of that?’

  ‘Erm, I . . . er . . .’ Tom tried to gather together any images from the last couple of days but failed miserably. ‘No, not really,’ he admitted. ‘I do get these blanks from time to time. I’m not sure why.’

  ‘As soon as we climbed into the coach, you were gone again,’ said Lloyd. ‘And then you started making strange noises . . .’

  ‘All right, son.’ Lou gave Lloyd a sharp look. He turned back to Tom. ‘I’m beginning to think that it’s something more serious than just exhaustion. How do you feel now?’

  ‘I feel . . . okay,’ said Tom, and he wasn’t lying. Despite the brief return to his own time, he felt calm, rested. His mum’s appearance on the Jonathan Guile show seemed nothing more than a bad dream he’d had. And perhaps that’s all it had been. ‘So, where exactly are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘To visit Long John Silver,’ said Lou, with a gri
n.

  ‘Oh, right, your friend? The one you said you based the character on?’

  ‘Correct,’ finished Lou. ‘I’ve decided to take your advice and press him to pester his publishing colleagues to have a wee look at Treasure Island. I’m counting on you, Tom, to help me convince him that it’s an idea worth trying.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give it a go,’ said Tom.

  ‘Me too, Papa!’ said Lloyd urgently. ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘Of course you will.’ Lou patted the boy’s head fondly, then looked at Tom again and his expression became grave. ‘Tom, there’s something we need to talk about. When we found you unconscious, I sent a messenger around to Miss McCallum’s house. Naturally, I wanted to assure her that you were well and under our protection.’ He shook his head.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Tom, anxiously. ‘Has something happened to Cat? I mean, Miss McCallum?’

  ‘No. Well, not so far as I’m aware, anyway. Her manservant said that she was out of the country for a few days. In England, as it happens, doing a series of lectures. She’ll be back the day after tomorrow. Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Oh, well that’s a relief,’ said Tom.

  ‘Perhaps, but it does suggest that you haven’t been entirely truthful with us. You said you were staying with Miss McCallum, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Er, yeah . . .’

  ‘But the manservant denied all knowledge of you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tom. ‘I see. Well, I am a good friend of Catriona’s but I haven’t seen her for quite a while. She doesn’t know I’m back yet.’

  ‘You said you were staying with her.’

  ‘I meant, I was going to stay with her.’

  ‘So she doesn’t know about it yet?’

  ‘No, not yet, but don’t worry, we’re good mates, me and Cat.’

  ‘You’re a dirty liar,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘Lloyd,’ snapped Lou. ‘That is not a nice word.’

  ‘It’s true though,’ protested Lloyd.

  ‘Quiet, son,’ said Lou. ‘Let’s see what Tom has to say for himself before we go jumping to conclusions.’ He stared at Tom. ‘Go on.’