One for Sorrow E-Book

Philip Caveney

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

When Tom Afflick heads back to Edinburgh to stay with his mother and her partner, Hamish, he begins to think that he has finally come to terms with the breakup of his parent's marriage - but a sudden accident on a country road sends him tumbling once more, headlong into the past. This time, the book he is reading serves as the catalyst for his adventure. The book is Treasure Island. In 1881, Tom meets Robert Louis Stevenson, a sickly young author who has just published the story as a weekly serial in a children's magazine. Can Tom persuade him to try and publish the book as a novel or will one of the world's greatest adventures be lost forever? And is Tom going to prove to be the inspiration for some of Stevenson's best-known adventures? One ally in Tom's quest is Catriona McCallum, the young girl he last met in 1828, now an elderly woman and an author herself. But Tom's deadly adversary, The Plague Doctor, has once again followed him through time, and is intent on taking his revenge. As events spiral out of control, Tom realises that this is destined to be the deadliest adventure of them all ...one that he may not even survive.

Leseprobe

One For Sorrow

Philip Caveney

© Philip Caveney 2015

The author asserts the moral right to be identified

as the author of the work in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of

Fledgling Press Ltd,

7 Lennox St., Edinburgh, EH4 1QB

Published by Fledgling Press 2015

Cover Design: Kylie Tesdale

lalliusmaximus.wix.com/kylietesdale

Print ISBN:9781905916955

eBook ISBN: 9781905916962

This book is for the nicest in-laws a fellow ever could hope to have.

Jon, Frances, Dylan and Esme . . .

thanks for everything.

Foreword

Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic novel Treasure Island started life in a children’s magazine called Young Folks. It was published in a series of weekly instalments between 1881 and 1882. Stevenson’s original title for the story was The Sea Cook, but it rejoiced under several long and unwieldy titles along the way; and he chose to publish the adventure under the pen name of Captain George North, because he didn’t feel it was ‘serious literature’.

It wasn’t until May 1883 that it was finally released as a book with the title that we all know and love. It has remained in print ever since, has inspired countless other pirate books and films and is recognised as one of the greatest ‘coming of age’ novels ever written. How Stevenson came to decide that it might have a life beyond its humble origins has been a matter of debate ever since.

What historians do not know, is that Stevenson had some help on the matter . . .

This is the story of a boy from the future who travelled back in time to offer his advice and inspiration, not just for Treasure Island, but for some of Stevenson’s other classic works.

One

It was something to do with the magpie. Tom only came to that conclusion long after the event, but the moment he saw the bird sitting calmly on the motorway barrier in the glare of the car’s headlights, he knew that it was the start of something; that it was all going to happen to him again and that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Everything had been going so well, up to that point.

Mind you, it hadn’t started promisingly. He remembered coming home from his school in Manchester, one afternoon in mid-December, to find Dad and his new partner, Ruth, sitting on the sofa, looking decidedly shifty. Ruth was a primary school teacher and Tom liked her, he really did, the two of them got along just fine. She tended to come across as meek and mild, but she could wrap Dad around her little finger when she put her mind to it. Tom was listening to his favourite band, The Deceivers, on his iPod as he walked in. He was planning to grab a bit of toast and head up to his room to play on his Xbox, but Dad had clearly been waiting for him to get back from school.

He gestured for Tom to take out the earphones. ‘Can I have a quick word?’

‘Sure.’ Tom switched off the music and stood there, his school bag still over his shoulder. He noticed that Ruth was gazing abstractedly out of the window, sort of trying to pretend she wasn’t there, but fooling nobody.

Dad looked very serious. ‘Ruth and me, we were just talking about our plans for Christmas,’ he said.

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Hmm. We’ve, well, we’ve booked a cottage in Derbyshire, for Christmas and New Year. A little place, way out in the sticks . . .’

‘Will there be WiFi?’ This was always Tom’s first thought in situations like this. ‘Only, it sucks when I can’t get in touch with my mates, so . . .’

Something in Dad’s guilty expression made him tail off.

‘Er, no, Tom, you don’t understand.’ Dad looked flustered. ‘Me and Ruth are going to Derbyshire. Just the two of us. We, er . . . we didn’t really think it was your kind of thing.’

The truth hit Tom like a punch to the stomach. They’d never even considered taking him along. They wanted time away from him, so they could be all lovey-dovey without him cramping their style. He tried not to look crushed. ‘Oh . . . well, that’s . . . that’s OK, I suppose.

I . . . I can always stay at Jonno’s place or . . .’

Dad was shaking his head. ‘We discussed this, me and Ruth . . . and we thought, well, what a perfect opportunity for you to head up to Edinburgh and reconnect with your mum. It has been quite a while. So, I phoned her and she loves the idea. Really looking forward to it.’

‘Wait.’ Tom actually lifted a hand as if to halt an oncoming vehicle. ‘Edinburgh? Dad, you do know things always happen to me when . . .’

‘It’ll be great.’ Dad was rushing on, oblivious to Tom’s concerns. ‘I know you’ve had a couple of little er, mishaps when you’ve been up there, but . . . what are the chances of it happening a third time, eh? And you’ll be able to stay on for Hogmanay, it’s supposed to be a blast!’

‘Yeah, but you don’t understand. What about Hamish?’ Hamish was Mum’s new partner and he wasn’t anything like as easy to get on with as Ruth.

‘What about him?’

‘We . . . we don’t really hit it off.’

Dad gave him a disparaging look. ‘Why not?’ he asked.

Tom considered how he might truthfully answer the question. ‘Well, you see, Dad, every now and then I go back in time. I never really know when it’s going to happen, but it’s always when I’m in Edinburgh.’

‘Right . . .’

‘And the first time it happened, it was the year 1645 and Hamish was the absolute double of this guy called William McSweeny, a crook who was pretending to be a Dr Rae, a famous plague doctor.’

‘I see . . .’

‘And after that he chased me back through time to the year 1824, when I was a guest at this lodging house owned by Burke and Hare. You know, the famous serial killers?’

‘Uh huh . . .’

‘And, the last time I saw McSweeny, he was dissolving in this big barrel of quicklime, so chances are he’s dead now,but, well, with him, you can never really be sure.’

Of course, he couldn’t say any of that. After a lengthy pause, he could only think of one complaint to make about Hamish.

‘He’s a Hibs supporter.’

‘A what?’

‘It’s a football team.’

Dad looked baffled. ‘Well, Tom, it’s not as if you’re keen on football, is it?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘So I really don’t see what all the fuss is about. You’ll have a great time. And Hogmanay in Edinburgh is supposed to be absolutely amazing!’

It was pointless to say anything else unless he wanted Dad to worry about his sanity, so Tom just shrugged his shoulders and quietly accepted his fate.

The week before Christmas he boarded the train at Manchester Piccadilly, waved off by Dad and Ruth, who he imagined would be opening a bottle of champagne just as soon as he was out of sight. But they did present him with a book-sized package wrapped in festive paper.

‘This is your main Christmas present,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll give you the other bits and pieces when we see you in the New Year.’

‘Don’t open it until Christmas Day,’ Ruth reminded him. And she gave him a polite peck on the cheek to send him on his way.

But he quickly got bored on the train and unwrapped the present anyway. It was a Kindle. At first he felt a wave of disappointment. He’d never been that big a reader, to be honest, though since discovering that Catriona McCallum had published some books, he’d made an effort to change his ways. He knew that, once again, this was Ruth’s influence. She had some kind of bee in her bonnet about him not reading enough books and she’d obviously talked Dad into getting this instead of the computer games Tom had asked for. He switched on the device, which he was glad to see was already fully powered and once he’d experimented with the controls, he discovered that it came pre-loaded with some classic adventure stories. One of them was Treasure Island, a book he’d always meant to read, but had never quite got around to. So he grudgingly started with chapter one and within the space of a few pages he was hooked.

He was vaguely surprised when, a little over three hours later, the train pulled into Waverley station, where Mum and Hamish were waiting for him.

This was when things got really weird, because it quickly became apparent that Hamish had changed his attitude. Tom wasn’t sure if it was anything to do with the little pep talk the two of them had shared in the National Museum of Scotland, but whatever had happened, it was a leaner, friendlier Hamish who led him to the car and drove him and Mum back to the house in Fairmilehead. On the way, Mum sang Hamish’s praises as though she’d become his manager or something.

‘Don’t you think Hamish is looking good, Tom? He’s lost a stone and a half and he’s going to the gym twice a week.’

‘Go, Hamish,’ muttered Tom under his breath, but Mum didn’t seem to notice. Tom reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out the Kindle, eager to find out what happened next.

Hamish studied him for a moment in the rear view mirror. ‘Is that one of those e-reader things?’ he asked.

Tom nodded.

‘I like the feel of a real book myself. So, what are you reading?’

‘Treasure Island.’ He waited for the inevitable put-down, some line about how Tom needed to get out in the fresh air, do a bit of physical exercise, get some colour in his cheeks, but amazingly, it never came. ‘Love that book!’ exclaimed Hamish, sounding like he actually meant it. ‘Read it when I was a bairn. One of my all time favourites, that is.’

‘Really?’ Tom was genuinely surprised. Hamish had never struck him as the sort that enjoyed reading anything more challenging than The Sun.

‘Oh, absolutely. Such characters! Long John Silver, Ben Gunn, Blind Pew . . . I tell you what, every pirate film that’s ever been made owes a big thank you to Robert Louis Stevenson. Never mind Johnny Depp, RLS is the guv’nor.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You know, there’s a Writers’ Museum in Edinburgh that’s got a whole room about him. Perhaps we could pay it a visit some time. If you’d like to, that is.’

‘That would be . . . cool,’ muttered Tom.

And it didn’t end there. When they got to the house, the place had been transformed, freshly decorated from top to bottom, including Tom’s bedroom, which had formerly belonged to Hamish’s oldest son. The last time Tom had stayed there it had been decorated with tatty old Hibs posters, flags and plastic trophies. Now it looked cool, clean and completely free of clutter.

‘We wanted to make it nice for you,’ enthused Mum. ‘What do you think?’

Tom looked around, badly wanting to vent some teenage spleen by grunting a monosyllabic reply but instead found himself breaking into a smile.

‘It looks great,’ he admitted. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ He turned to look at Hamish who was standing in the doorway, clearly seeking approval. ‘And Hamish,’ he added. ‘Seriously, it looks fantastic.’

Hamish grinned with evident relief and advanced into the room. ‘Did it all myself,’ he announced. ‘Only took a day or so.’

‘You haven’t heard the best part yet,’ said Mum. She looked at Hamish. ‘You tell him,’ she suggested.

‘All right.’ Hamish reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. For a moment, Tom thought he was going to be presented with some money, but as it turned out it was even better than that. Hamish reached into the wallet and whipped out three brightly coloured tickets. ‘We heard about this Hogmanay concert,’ he said. ‘Thought it sounded like something you might enjoy. According to your dad, you’re a bit of a fan of these guys.’

Tom stared at the tickets in mute disbelief. He’d had no idea that The Deceivers were playing an open-air concert in Princes Street Gardens on New Year’s Eve. But apparently they were and here were three tickets to the event. ‘Of course,’ added Hamish, ‘you’ll have to drag us old-timers along with you, but if you’ve no objection to that?’

Tom finally found his voice. ‘Wow!’ he said. ‘Thanks, Hamish, that’s . . . that’s just the best. Really, thank you.’ The two of them stood looking at each other for a moment and it occurred to Tom that Hamish was probably hoping for a hug at this point, so he hastily defused the situation by reaching out and shaking the man’s hand, which, based on their previous encounters, was very like genuine progress. He didn’t feel quite ready for the hug thing yet.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Hamish. ‘My pleasure.’

Hamish continued to behave himself. On Christmas Eve the three of them drove up to Falkirk to meet Hamish’s brother and their family and Tom watched in amazement as Hamish steadfastly refused all offers of alcohol, telling everyone that he would be driving home later and needed to keep a clear head. Even Mum said that he could have one drink and still drive, but he’d stuck with several glasses of Diet Coke instead. And now here they were, the three of them, driving back to Fairmilehead in Hamish’s car, Mum chatting happily away in the passenger seat and Tom in the back, reading Treasure Island on the illuminated screen of the Kindle.

He’d just got to a really exciting bit, where Jim Hawkins and his companions had taken refuge in the stockade, when something made him glance up from the book. A strange feeling, a vaguely light-headed sensation that was all too familiar to him . . . the feeling that he knew from experience often affected him shortly before one of his little trips into the past. He looked towards the windscreen and there was a magpie, sitting alone on a crash barrier as the car sped around a long curve in the road. It stayed absolutely still, seemingly unafraid of the sound of the approaching vehicle, staring straight towards it as it drew closer, its tiny black eyes reflecting the beam of the headlights. Then the car was accelerating around the bend and the bird was lost to sight, but Tom felt a powerful sense of foreboding. Wasn’t a single magpie supposed to be unlucky? What was the old poem, he remembered from primary school? One for sorrow, two for joy . . .

Mum and Hamish didn’t seem to have noticed the bird, they were chatting happily away, discussing something that Hamish’s elderly grandmother had said back at the party. She’d got confused about the meal they were eating and announced that the fresh salmon they’d been served was the oddest tasting turkey she’d ever had. Mum and Hamish broke out laughing and Tom saw that Hamish had turned his head slightly to look at Mum, that he wasn’t watching the road as the car came out of the curve and accelerated into the straight.

That was when Tom saw the figure gliding across the road in front of them, a tall, imposing figure in a long leather cape, the man’s face hidden behind a crow-like mask, a mask that even now was turning towards the car to stare as the vehicle bore down on him.

And Tom opened his mouth and yelled, ‘Hamish, look out!’

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion after that. He was aware of Hamish wrenching the steering wheel hard to the left and he was also aware of the car tilting to one side, brakes squealing in protest. He heard Mum give a long shrill scream and then they were swaying sickeningly through the air, passing by the masked figure and hurtling headlong towards the crash barrier. There was an impact that Tom felt in his bones but weirdly, didn’t hear and quite suddenly the windscreen was transformed into a crazed mess that he could no longer see through, although he felt the motion of the journey in his guts as the car arced forward and down. He steeled himself for the impact when it hit the ground.

But when the sensation came it was exactly something he had experienced before, a soft treacly blackness that seemed to spill through him like a dark tide. The pain he’d anticipated didn’t happen. As he went down into the dark there was a brief flapping of wings and a lone magpie fluttered briefly past him, but it was the last thing he saw for quite some time.

Two

He came slowly back to his senses, but even as they returned to him, bit-by-bit, he knew that he was back again, that he was no longer in his own time. He knew it with a grim certainty, even before he registered that the gloomy interior he was sprawled in wasn’t Hamish’s familiar hatchback, but an altogether different kind of vehicle. His nostrils filled with the smell of leather and wood and the musky tang of some kind of animal.

He was lying in a foetal position amidst a litter of smashed glass and the square window immediately beneath him framed nothing more than a pattern of rough cobblestones. He stirred himself and looked upwards, to see another smashed window revealing a view of the night sky, sprinkled with a generous helping of stars. When he looked to his right, where he might have expected to see Mum and Hamish, he saw only another leather seat rising vertically in front of him and behind it, nothing but a smooth board covered in maroon velvet. His brain began to make sense of his surroundings and he realised that whatever vehicle he was in, it was lying on its side. With some considerable effort he managed to get to his feet, standing on the cobbles. He braced himself and reaching upwards, he grabbed the window frame above him and pulled himself through it. It was only on emerging that he realised he’d just been inside an old fashioned four-wheeled carriage that had overturned. He crouched for a moment, looking around. The narrow street seemed deserted, the tall buildings looming over the stricken vehicle, but oddly, the accident seemed to have attracted no attention. Ahead of him, also lying on its side was a horse, still harnessed to the coach, though there was no sign of a driver.

‘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.’