Runs in the Blood E-Book

Giulia Geovanini

• Herausgeber: Viseu
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 172

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Always feeling as if he had halted his existence on the right side of the world, Theodore has no memory of his life before New Year's 1971. Three years have passed since Theodore's odd arrival at St George's Institution for boys in Leeds. One afternoon, a letter arrives, only it is blank with nothing but his name on it. Theodore will soon find out that he is destined to the most profound adventures. Along with his friends, Theodore must find his way back home. But the journey will prove itself to be a mischievous and challenging one. How do you fulfil your destiny when you are not sure who you can trust? And how do you find out who you are supposed to be when you are just a thirteen-year-old boy?

Leseprobe

Conteúdo © Giulia Geovanini

Edição © Viseu

Todos os direitos reservados.

Proibida a reprodução total ou parcial desta obra, de qualquer forma ou por qualquer meio eletrônico, mecânico, inclusive por meio de processos xerográficos, incluindo ainda o uso da internet, sem a permissão expressa da Editora Viseu, na pessoa de seu editor (Lei nº 9.610, de 19.2.98).

Editor: Thiago Domingues Regina

Projeto gráfico: BookPro

e-ISBN 978-65-254-5173-2

Todos os direitos reservados por

Editora Viseu Ltda.

www.editoraviseu.com

Dedication

For the little girl who once saw a castle where a library stood, and who taught me how to live a myriad of adventures through the kind gesture of reading me a book. Mum, every copy of this book is affectionately dedicated to you, for you have treasured my writing long before I even knew how to write.

For the little boy who was of the sky and so always knew how to fly. Dad, five pilgrims await you. I hope their adventures invite you again to grow your wings.

Chapter one - 1974

Ever since he can remember, Theodore has always found himself on the wrong side of the world — this morning, on the wrong side of the bed — his thoughts gave him no peace; he was constantly wondering when the world had turned inside out, or when he had halted his existence on the right side.

Perhaps that night. Yes, that night. Three years ago. But no, let’s not talk about that. He repeated to himself as if he were talking to someone else, one younger than him, one who deserved a lecture for rescuing that memory.

He frowned. Still lying amid the covers, sleep weighed on his eyes, preventing him from opening them, but the brightness of the rays that reflected through the window, stretching to the end of his bed, did not deceive him. It was daytime once again.

It was impossible to keep lying at the foot of the bed, with his head sunk in the pillow. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, adjusting to the environment graced by the sunlight that invaded the room without asking permission. A thin layer of dust filled the air he breathed. His feet escaped from the blanket as if trying to reach the head of the bed, the boy raised his arms above his head and dropped them towards the floor, lying on his stomach he made his fingers dance on the wooden floor.

Closing his eyes once again, Theodore sat quickly on the bed. A wave went through his body, and everything became blurred; stars fell on him, one by one shining brightly in the bottom of his eyes. Perhaps he should not get up so fast.

His lungs breathed deep into the dusty air of the room as he headed towards the window. The boy’s feet now touched the ground his fingers used as a dance floor only seconds ago. There was no curtain on the windows, or rather window, wide and thin, made of bright old wood. This always bothered him.

He guided his tired fingers to the window latch. A push. Two. Three. Finally! The spring breeze soon replaced the heat the room had been keeping since the night before. — This place was old in every conceivable way. — The creaking of the stairs warned Theodore that Madame Whitlock had become impatient and had decided to call him to join the rest of the boys. He quickly walked to the door before the woman could even knock.

— Good mornin’, Madame Whitlock — Theodore said without raising his eyes.

— Still in pyjamas, I see. In five minutes, I hope to find you along with the other boys, neat and in a fit mood for today’s activities. — The woman’s voice echoed rigid and calm. Theodore did not fear her, much less liked her. But that does not mean that he was willing to enter another argument with her.

— Certainly — he grunted without driving his gaze away from the floor.

— Certainly, Madame Whitlock — she corrected him before closing the door and heading downstairs where the other delinquents — as she used to call them in secret — from St George’s Institution, were waiting for her, side by side.

Theodore rolled his eyes while buttoning a white linen shirt — it’s basically a uniform, as everyone received the same kind of clothes — his trousers were beige and before he tucked the bottom of his shirt into them, he thought about how much he hated that stupid dress code.

“They just want to label us” that’s what Arthur Lovejoy — one of the older boys — told him on the first day he arrived there. Well, that had happened years ago, and Arthur did not live with them anymore, but his words never ceased to resonate with Theo.

When he finished dressing, the boy glanced at the bottom of the room where a pair of brown shoes shone as if they had just been cleaned. In fact, Theo never let the dust rest on them again after the punishment he had taken the last time. He put them on and tied the shoelaces.

Another day had begun. Another day he did not want to see. Every day, every hour and every minute in that place was as dull and nauseating as the colours of his clothes.

He went downstairs, to avoid being corrected again; there was no one else in the main room where they all had their meals. Of course, he missed breakfast. There was only one thing left to do, the boy walked to the courtyard where he found everyone lined up listening to whatever Madame Whitlock was uttering this time. Probably another one of her worthless lessons about how they must learn to behave if they are ever to become decent men for society. Theo had lived in that home for three long years, and since he was ten — when he first arrived there — the governess had never changed her speech. Always the same words; always the same intention. Not that he or any of the boys bothered to become “good men for society”, after all, they were abandoned by that very society which Madame Whitlock so keenly desired to please.

He walked quietly to the last place in line, next to Frederick Nook, a boy only one year older than him, blonde, freckled and pale as if he hadn’t eaten anything for days, he was quite tall too — at least for Theodore who, in turn, hadn’t grown much until then. Theo got along well with Fred, in fact, with most of the boys, but he always got along better in his own world, in his own space, tied to his own daydreams — to Madame Whitlock’s dismay.

— Next time you’re late for announcements; she’ll kill you with her bare hands, y’know that, don’t you? — Fred joked as he cast a challenging glance at the younger boy.

— Have her try it — Theodore boasted in a smirk.

After endless minutes, Madame Whitlock finally reached the end of her morning speech. As always, the boys were already prepared to receive their daily tasks, but that was an unusual day they would soon notice. For there were none. The woman retired from the courtyard soon after warning them that they would have outdoor activities, as the climate was ripe for it. Seldom was a day without rain during that time of year.

— Can’t believe it! — Fred said with eagerness facing the boy.

— That’s right. A whole day to do whatever we want — Theo mocked. — More like a day to think of all the things we cannot do, huh.

— Least we ain’t spending the day cleaning or tidying up that stale, old garden, mate — Fred added hopefully. — You can have some laughs every now and then, y’know?

A smile rose on Theodore’s face.

— Eh, don’t think that’s allowed for ‘decent men’ — he repeated, imitating Madame Whitlock’s voice and the stance she always maintained when saying this kind of thing, causing Fred to burst into laughs.

The boys scattered into groups as soon as Madame Whitlock left, Theo and Fred remained behind as they chatted but soon joined one of them. The chosen heap of boys included two of Theo’s closest. Coincidentally, most of his friends were also older than him. Nathaniel Lott was also only a year older than him, the boy lived practically his entire life in that place and hated it more than any other — maybe more than Theo himself. He was tall, had delicate features and a pointy nose that even matched the rest of his face; besides him, there was also Percy Hopperstone, the youngest of all, a scrawny raven-haired boy who loved to be around Lott. Theo could not understand how the boy put up with Percy every day, he wouldn’t stop talking for a second, even when he had nothing to say, he would. Finally, leaning against the wall was Thomas Quintt; of all the troubled boys who lived there he was the only one who lived up to Madame Whitlock’s affectionately chosen title “troublemaker”. Thomas arrived the same year as Nathaniel at the institute, — like most of the children there — he began to hear every day that he was a waste and the “scum” in its purest state and this leveraged an idea in his mind: if that’s what you think of me, then that’s what I’ll be. The boy, like all the others, had his hair cut very narrowly, his face didn’t match his affected personality; his deep, lost eyes reflected who Thomas Quintt really was.

— She takes it easy on you, Widewood — Nathaniel announced on seeing the two walking towards the group. — If I overslept to the point of losing the speech… two weeks cleaning the loos, I’ll tell you that. — He grinned as he looked at Theodore who was now by his side.

Theo side-eyed him, but it was Fred who replied to the tease.

— No need to be jealous, Nate.

Theo smiled back at Nathaniel who was now rolling his eyes trying to hide his own grin. It did not take long for Percy to start his endless stock of topics — which he never finished before starting a new one — drawing everyone’s attention away from the previous conversation. Well, almost everyone’s. Thomas gave a slight push to the wall with his foot and got closer to the boys, leaning one of his arms on Theo’s shoulder before interrupting the chatter.

— Nightmares again? — he hinted with a grin.

The boy dodged to the side and shook Thomas off.

— Get lost.

— Just asking.

— Leave it, Thom — Percy pleaded.

— No doubt that’s why you’re not treated like the rest of us. — Thom looked around.

— The rest of us? — Nate questioned, failing to understand where he intended to lead that sudden attack.

— Troubled boys, I mean — Thom answered, without losing sight of Theo. — She pities him, y’know. Poor little Theodore, weeping night after night over bad dreams about his mum.

— Shut it! — Theo growled, moving closer to Thomas.

— Your bloody life ain’t any worse than ours — the boy grunted before swooping past Theo, heading back to the house.

Theo did not take his eyes off the already blurred image of Thomas, who moved further and further away every second, but time seemed to stop before his eyes, wrath grew in his chest with every breath. The boy was pulled out of his numb state as he felt Nate reach down on his shoulder, followed by words he could not immediately distinguish.

— Come again? — he said, taking his muddled gaze to his friend.

— I said to hold off on what he says — Nate repeated. — At times it seems you’re not in this world, mate.

— His mind certainly isn’t — Fred added, patting the boy on the back.

— I’m in this world all right! — Theodore said jokingly.

— You’d better be. — Percy nodded forward, signalling to the distant door from where Madame Whitlock had just left, heading towards the group. All the boys turned towards her, tidying up their postures while the woman walked up to them.

— Doubt she’s coming for me — Theo replied silently.

— Yeah, you’d think so, huh? — Percy continued.

The woman finally stopped in front of them, holding something in her hands.

— Theodore — she started. — I need you to accompany me to my office. — Percy let a silent laugh escape, as did the other two boys, as soon as Madame Whitlock turned her back and Theo glanced at them rolling his eyes.

During the short walk between the courtyard and the door, Theo observed the letter that the woman was holding. He had never received a letter since arriving in Leeds, but it couldn’t be any different since his parents… well, it was simply impossible. However, he had already seen Percy take a few letters each month to the dorm they shared.

Percy had been raised by his uncle and aunt but was left in the household for young boys in 1966, when he was only five; apparently, they didn’t want that responsibility, “but who could blame them”, Percy used to say. Even so, he received a letter from time to time.

Whenever they wrote to the boy, he would take it to read in his room, even though they were already open. Percy explained to him that all the things destined to the boys first went through Madame Whitlock or some of the people who worked there. A way of keeping order, she claimed.

Both passed through two large pine wood doors that were always open during that time of day, the Manor was extremely big, which justified the size of the doors. Everything in that place carried the same wooden tone, and although the house was old it was carefully cared for by those responsible; yet, to Theo, everything seemed grey, lifeless. The corridor that followed just after the entrance door was long and wide, somewhat poorly lit — unlike the rest of the rooms — and led to a single door at the end, which contained the office where Madame Whitlock spent most of the day taking care of various matters regarding the boys’ permanence in that place. Many of them were not there because they were orphans, but because they were considered irreparable and a stain on the reputation of their respective families.

One such case is that of Thomas Quintt, the boy was handed over to Madame Whitlock’s care just one year after his birth. The burden of raising a child alone was not well received by Mr. Joseph Quintt, the mourning never ceased to inhabit him and perhaps knowing that his son shared the day of birth with that of his wife’s death did not allow him to get attached to the boy. Yet Thomas spent many years writing home almost every day, writing about things he had learned, or asking when he might return. Until one day, after his father’s annual visit, the letters ceased. It is not known what the man told him, or what he had done to him that afternoon in July 1968, but Madame Whitlock was never again sought by him to help with the writing. At some point between the end of that year and the beginning of the following one his new behaviour led to the development of the label “troublemaker” and so it ensued, without deviating for a moment from his new achievement.

Once again Theo was taken out of his thoughts, the noise of the heavy door closing brought him back to reality. Madame Whitlock passed behind him towards the only table in that room; a long, dark desk, extremely organised, with piles of paper and folders lined up. A painting was hanging above the desk, it was a sea painting, deep and blending countless shades of blue; in the distance a ship, perhaps one of those Theodore had seen in one of his weekly history lessons. Finally, the woman signalled to him to take his place in the chair in front of the desk.

— Theodore, as you know all the letters go through a screening before they are delivered to the boys in this institute. — The woman paused reluctantly. — This morning this envelope arrived… destined, well, to you. — Madame Whitlock stretched out her arm and handed him the letter. Theodore, afraid, picked it up and quickly ran his eyes through it. — However, if you observe, you will see that there’s no sender. Only your name, written by hand. And… and a stamp sealing the envelope.

The boy ran his fingers over the seal; it was made of wax and marked by a stamp, but the symbol was blurred. It was deep midnight-blue and seemed quite peculiar. His name, on the back, had been written by someone with impeccable handwriting — very different from the ones he was used to seeing.

Soon he turned his eyes to Madame Whitlock, who in turn was as confused as he was. Her eyes seemed troubled at times like this, which reminded Theodore of the same look she carried the day he arrived at the shelter; he remembered thinking that the woman must not have been much older than forty, but when that expression took over her face, she looked like an ancient. Theo shrugged; he did not know what to answer or what to ask.

— What’s in it? — he finally questioned.

The woman seemed taken aback by his words; she still did not know exactly how to respond.

— It is blank. — Her voice cracked.

But now Theo’s eyes seemed to challenge hers, lost and unable to understand the situation he shifted his gaze away from her and faced the envelope again, now holding it with both hands ran his fingers through the opening and pulled out a square, yellowish paper, like a piece of old parchment. There was nothing but age spots, like an old document. He turned the paper over and once again his eyes found no sign of ink.

— Do you know who could possibly have sent this to you, Theodore? — Madame Whitlock broke the silence.

Without averting his gaze, the boy frowned and replied sternly.

— Don’t know. I have no family. — As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he was struck by the fact that he had not been given any trouble for having spoken to a Matron like that. Perhaps Madame Whitlock really did treat him differently, he thought. Maybe she feels sorry for what happened to him.

— Very well… You may take the letter with you, it is yours. — The woman stood up, pointing to the door. Theo put the paper back inside the envelope and got up from the chair, heading for the way out.

— Thank you, Madame Whitlock — she scolded him before he left the room.

— Thank you, Madame Whitlock — the boy repeated quietly.

The door closed behind him once again, now the corridor seemed even darker as the only source of light was the window inside the office. Theodore began to walk, with his head down without taking his eyes off the object he was holding in his hands, he followed the path back out. As soon as he crossed the door, he narrowed his eyes involuntarily because of the brightness — even though it was a rain-free day, the sky was grey, and the sunlight seemed more intense on days like this. He took one of his hands to his face and rubbed it carefully to get used to the outside environment again as he walked to his group of friends — who had been in the same place since he left — the boys seemed to laugh in the distance.

Theo was confused, he was not sure who could have sent it, but it was certainly for him since his name was hand-written and had been delivered to that place. He thought quickly about what to do in the face of that unusual situation, and before reaching the group, Theodore hid the letter in his trouser pocket and decided to keep it a secret; the last thing he wanted at that moment was another reason to draw attention to himself.

The boys saw him coming and walked the rest of the small stretch to him.

— What was it about? — Fred asked.

— Um, nothing really — Theo stammered. — Got a hard time for being late, that’s all.

— So, troublemaker after all, huh? — Nate teased with a grin.

— Guess so. — He chuckled.