Sentinel: Book One of The Sentinel Trilogy Read online

  Finally, Max and Anita found themselves at the train door.

  Peopled jostled about them like caged animals, frantic for an escape yet too panicked to make any sense of their surroundings.

  Max shouldered his way up to the double doors, making sure that Anita was close behind him. He jabbed the button marked ‘OPEN’ with empty optimism, knowing that it would fail to function.

  “The door,” Anita wheezed, standing her ground as limbs stabbed her painfully and feet crushed her own. “We have to get it open.”

  Max cast about the exit swiftly, then gripped at the fissure at the centre of the doors. He strained against them, attempting to drag them apart. They quivered a bit, stubbornly resisting his efforts. Anita moved to help, heaving at the door with all her strength.

  Another man who seemed to understand their intentions grabbed at the door. Together they all laboured, and with a submissive sigh the doors finally skated open.

  Suffocating summer air rushed keenly inside.

  Anita tried to push herself backwards as the wind snatched at her clothes and hair, but the wall of people prevented her from doing so.

  She clung at the edge of the doorway, peering down in horror.

  The carriage teetered on the edge of the bridge, the world falling away mere inches from her feet.

  Below, the river’s dark waters swelled hungrily in the moonlight.

  “How did this happen?” a tall man asked.

  “A car,” Anita breathed. “Somebody said something about a car.”

  Gripping onto the other side of the doorway, Max eased himself out and peered down the length of the train. When he drew back inside, he was shaking.

  “Well?” the tall man asked.

  “The whole thing’s going to go,” Max told Anita quietly. “We have to get off on the other side.”

  At that moment, the train shifted under their feet and Anita was flung into Max’s arms.

  She buried her face in his chest.

  “Nicholas,” she whispered.

  And then they were falling through the night.

  *

  The world came crashing down.

  As Sam Wilkins observed the shadowy grimace on Nicholas Hallow’s face, he knew that everything had changed for the fifteen year old forever. The boy’s eyes were fixed on a spot on the lounge floor, unmoving, still absorbing the enormity of what he had been told.

  “I’m… sorry, Nicholas,” Sam said.

  Attired in a scratchy grey suit, the old man’s wardrobe was outdated and functional. White hair was thinning at the crown and his face was etched with the cares of seventy-one years of living. Despite this, the elderly man was in remarkable shape – he didn’t slouch like so many other pensioners, as if the years were pressing down on his shoulders, nor did he have a catalogue of ailments and prescriptions to contend with. Sam Wilkins had embraced the world all those years ago and he had no intention of letting it go just yet.

  Sitting in a sturdy armchair, he struggled to conceal his anguish. He loathed that he was the one to saddle Nicholas with such terrible news – news that the lad should never have to deal with. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “There was an accident on the railway. A car somehow found its way onto the track and caused a collision.”

  He spoke slowly so as not to trip over the difficult words. He didn’t believe in patronising the younger generations, never had. Bare facts, while sometimes difficult to stomach, were always the best policy in his opinion. Sam knew better than anyone how terrible a creature the imagination could be if only fleeting details of such an awful event were given.

  No, he had no intention of burdening Nicholas’s subconscious any more than he had to.

  “The crash…” he began, and somehow the truth now seemed far worse than anything Nicholas could imagine. “The crash would have lasted mere moments.”

  Nicholas gave little reaction. His quiet was unnerving. Not for the first time, Sam noted the resemblance the boy bore to his mother. He was sullen-looking, having inherited both her soulful eyes and her dark, tousled hair. There was no doubt that the quick temper was his father’s. His face held an almost ghostly pallor that not even the soft lamplight could warm.

  “They’re both…”

  Nicholas’s voice made Sam’s chest tighten.

  “Yes, lad,” the old man conceded softly. “I’m afraid so.”

  He trudged over to where Nicholas was sitting on the sofa. With great care, he moved to kneel down beside him, his knees popping with the strain.

  Nicholas barely moved, barely seemed to notice he was there.

  “Nicholas,” Sam said. “I know this is a lot to take in, lad, but I am here for you.”

  He reached out a hand and touched Nicholas’s arm.

  It was as if he had been struck with a bolt of electricity.

  Even as the old man touched him, Nicholas shrank back in sudden anger.

  “You’re lying!” he yelled. He jumped away from the sofa. “You’re lying! They’re not dead!”

  His voice rose to the ceiling and the returning echoes mocked his despair.

  Dead! Dead! Ead! Ed!

  The boy bolted from the room, tearing up the stairs.

  Sam heard his bedroom door slam shut.

  The old man put a hand on the arm of the sofa and eased himself up.

  A figure entered the room.

  “You told him,” the newcomer said simply.

  Sam didn’t look at the speaker. Instead, he walked to the fireplace.

  Behind him, Tabatha Blittmore fidgeted with her over-sized woollen jumper.

  “Yes,” Sam puffed wearily. “I have told him.”

  Tabatha tutted.

  “Poor boy,” she said sadly. “Such a loss. Such a great, great loss.”

  “Max and Anita were fine people.” Sam stared into the cold fireplace. “The world is a sadder place without them.”

  “However will he cope?”

  “Nicholas is strong, he’ll survive. These things are sent to test us.”

  There was quiet for a moment.

  “What’ll happen now? He can hardly stay here all by himself.”

  “The Hallows asked that you keep an eye on Nicholas,” Sam mused, “and if you were willing, perhaps you would carry out their wish… At least until an alternative is found.”

  He turned to face her.

  If the circumstances had been any different, the comical sight of Tabatha Blittmore would have amused him. Her tangerine jumper was four sizes too big, hanging almost to her knees, while her brown corduroy trousers tapered down to conceal her bare feet. A mountain of crimped, dirty blonde hair spilled either side of a moon-like face.

  She was young – perhaps in her late twenties, he couldn’t quite tell; everybody started to look the same once you hit sixty – and naïve, but her kindness was immeasurable.

  Even as Sam suggested the arrangement, Tabatha nodded, and the curls fell across her eyes.

  “Of course,” she said, swiping at the bothersome locks. “I would be happy to.”

  Sam nodded.

  “That’s what we’ll do, then. I expect social services will be in touch. Just refer them to me.”

  He retrieved a coat and battered fedora from the armchair, his voice taking on a hushed tone as he began muttering to himself.

  “I’ll have to make a few phone calls, things will have to be set in motion…”

  “I’m sorry?” Tabatha said.

  Sam met her bemused gaze.

  “I must be off,” he said. “I’ll visit again in the next few days. Don’t worry about the, uh, the funeral arrangements, I’ll see to those.”

  Tabatha hurried to shake his hand.

  “Thank you, Mr Wilkins. I couldn’t have broken the news to him myself.”

  Sam gave her a warm smile. “You’ll do fine, my dear.” The smile slackened thoughtfully. “And if anything… happens, be sure to call me. I’m always about.”

  “Thank you, I will.
”

  *

  Hours later, when Nicholas lay in a fitful slumber, two eyes watched him in a silent vigil from the windowsill.

  Almost a part of the night itself, the raven perched there until dawn set the sky on fire.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Letter From Beyond

  NICHOLAS COASTED NUMBLY THROUGH THE DAYS following the news of the train wreck. He slept late, wrapped in the snug cocoon of his duvet, and picked at his food with disinterest, preferring the seclusion of his bedroom over all else.

  The constant fussing of Tabatha Blittmore – who was originally only meant to keep an eye on him during his parents’ absence, but had now all but moved herself in from next door – provided momentary distraction, but was mostly just another source of frustration.

  Shock and disbelief reverberated through him, finding no outlet for expression or acceptance.

  Up in his room, Nicholas lolled on his bed, peering solemnly out the window. The third floor attic conversion offered an impressive view of Midsummer Common, located in the centre of the city of Cambridge. A great, green expanse of land, the Common rolled all the way down to the River Cam, where the Fort St. George pub nestled by the waterside, its outdoor areas crammed full with sun worshippers.

  The summer season was at its peak. Immaculate blue skies graced each bright August morning. The air buzzed with busy insects and fat cats dozed. Whereas other youngsters were playing and laughing on the Common, though, Nicholas hid here.

  As he stared out across the Common, he escaped into memory, recalling something Sam had once told him.

  Midsummer Common was a place heaving with history; it had seen births and deaths, but it was a strange bylaw from the 1800s that came to Nicholas now. According to the law, any person found beating a carpet or rug, or caught gambling or betting on the Common, would be fined forty shillings. The law had never been repealed, which meant that even today, law-breakers could face the fine.

  The anecdote had tickled Nicholas before. Now he didn’t care. Rolling over in bed, he flipped open his phone and brought up a photo. His parents beamed at him. He’d taken it at London Zoo earlier in the summer. His dad wasn’t fussed about seeing a load of wild animals in cages, but his mum loved the reptile room. She’d spent hours in there cooing over the geckos and they’d dragged her away practically kicking and screaming when the penguin show started.

  Their faces brought only confusion now.

  As the loneliness inside of him welled, his parents’ grins warped, coiling into cold sneers.

  Nicholas hurled the phone across the room.

  It struck the wall before hitting the floor.

  He let it lie there for a minute. Then, when his breathing had calmed, he got up and checked it wasn’t broken.

  There were texts from his friends. A few missed calls. He didn’t reply to any of them. What would he say? Thanks? No worries, anybody fancy pizza?

  There were no words.

  Restlessly, Nicholas paced the house’s darkened halls.

  It was a robust, Victorian building with narrow staircases and high ceilings. The last house on the left in a run of three-storey terraces, all of which overlooked the Common, the austere residence was bright by day and cosy by night.

  Before moving here, they had lived in an unremarkable semi-detached in Milton where hot water was a luxury and the birds in the roof were an annual menace. Then Nicholas’s father had landed a job at a publishing company and they’d moved into the city, away from Milton. With its view of the river and the friendly neighbours – Tabatha had been the first to introduce herself – it was a happy home.

  It felt drained, now. The colour had gone out of it and Nicholas felt like he was wandering a tomb. The house had become a powerful reminder of what he had lost.

  Before he knew why, the boy found himself outside his parents’ bedroom. He stared at the closed door.

  Images of his mother and father flashed before his eyes; imagined, blurry conjurations of them battling to escape an exploding train. Snatches of their panic. The pain that they must have endured. The confused emotions inside of him surged. Nicholas found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Almost independently of his thoughts, his hand reached out to take the door handle.

  “Nicholas? Are you there?”

  His chest tightened and a smothering hand seemed to clamp over his mouth.

  His mother! The boy’s mind raced. His mother! She was on the other side of the door!

  The door handle burned into his palm. Moulded to his skin. Air refused to enter his lungs. There was a distant rattling sound. His entire arm was shaking, making the metal handle rattle with it.

  “M–mum?”

  He managed a throaty croak and the sound of his voice sent shivers across the back of his neck, as if a ghostly breath had fallen there.

  “Nicholas? Lunch is ready!”

  Nicholas’s hand dropped to his side, free of whatever madness had seized it.

  It hadn’t been his mother calling to him; it was Tabatha shouting up the stairs. He couldn’t tell if that realisation was a comfort.

  Turning slowly to traipse down the stairs, he eyed the closed bedroom door with uncertainty. What had drawn him to it?

  He found Tabatha in the kitchen. Her hands were concealed by large, flowery oven gloves and she was heaving a saucepan from the stove by the pantry. She shuffled across the floor, straining under the weight of it, before pouring soup into bowls on the table.

  “Blast!” she muttered as a quantity missed the second bowl entirely and slopped across the tabletop. She mopped the mess up with one of the oven gloves, only for a clump of hair to come loose from behind her ear. Juggling the saucepan, she swiped the hair back with the glove.

  “Well isn’t that perfect, now I’ve got soup in my hair!”

  The saucepan was consigned to the hob with a bang.

  Looking annoyed, Tabatha flapped off the oven gloves and pulled at her hair.

  Nicholas peered down at the murky contents of his bowl. It looked like watery paint.

  “Well, that was a learning process,” Tabatha declared, sitting down with a sigh. “Don’t look at me like that, young man,” she scolded lightly. “How you could call that contraption an oven I’ll never know. I might as well have tried to cook on a park bench.”

  Nicholas stirred the soup with his spoon.

  “You should eat something,” Tabatha urged. “Don’t want you ending up like a skeleton, do we? You’re skinny enough as it is.”

  Nicholas sipped a spoonful, if only to humour the woman, and grimaced.

  “Not my best, I admit,” Tabatha complied, meekly sucking at her own spoonful. “Maybe it needed just a touch more salt. How are you feeling today?”

  Nicholas pushed the bowl away and slumped back in his chair.

  “I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

  “Oh, come, come,” Tabatha reprimanded. “What would your mother sa–”

  She stopped abruptly, realising what she had been about to say. Her cheeks flushed a violent, guilt-ridden crimson. “Oh Nicholas, I’m sorry,” she puffed. “I didn’t mean... Oh I am a fool! Curse this stupid trap of mine.”

  “It’s okay.”

  They sat in silence as Tabatha picked awkwardly at her bread.

  Nicholas dug into the tabletop with his bread knife, chiselling out little fragments of wood.

  “Mr Wilkins is popping round later,” Tabatha told him with strained exuberance. “Won’t that be nice?”

  Nicholas merely nodded.

  In a soothing voice, Tabatha added: “It might help to talk about it.”

  Nicholas stopped his carving, paused with the blade embedded in the table.

  “Sometimes it helps,” Tabatha added.

  “I don’t feel like talking,” Nicholas said through clenched teeth. He felt his throat reddening. Didn’t she understand that talking about it only made it more real? Made it something that he couldn’t ignore?

  “It couldn’t do any ha
rm,” Tabatha soothed. “You might feel better. Can’t keep stuff pent up for long, it goes bad inside.”

  Nicholas’s eyes were fixed on the dents in the table. Unblinking. Then he couldn’t bear it anymore.

  “I hate them.”

  The words came out blistering with pent-up emotion, and as soon as he had uttered them, tears came. He couldn’t stop them. “I hate them for leaving me here.”

  Tabatha nodded and leaned in closer to the table. “It’s alright,” she murmured.

  “It’s not!”

  Nicholas struck the tabletop again, beating the wood angrily with the blade.

  “Why did they have to go? They wouldn’t even tell me where they were going! They should have taken me–”

  “Don’t think that.” Tabatha took the hand that he was using against the table and held it tightly. “It’s okay to hate them, it’s okay to feel alone. But you’re not alone.”

  “Easy for you to say.” The tears spilled fiercely. “I just wish...”

  He fell silent again.

  “What do you wish?”

  “I want it to stop.”

  “It will never stop,” Tabatha told him shrewdly. “But I can promise that, over time, it will be more bearable.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. Five years ago I lost my brother.”

  Tabatha met Nicholas’s stunned gaze.

  “At the time I thought the pain and misery would never end. And to a point it hasn’t, but I’ve learned to cope with it. I don’t pretend to be wise in anything, and I’m not exactly known for having a clever head… But I know enough about losing a loved one to tell you that you’ll start to feel better. It just takes time.”

  Nicholas wiped at his cheeks and nodded slowly. Some of the weight that had been crushing him seemed to have lessened slightly.

  “I know what’ll cheer us both up,” Tabatha said brightly. She jumped up from her chair and disappeared into the walk-in pantry. Nicholas heard a few crashes and a number of out-of-breath shouts before Tabatha emerged once more. She brandished a worn wooden box, setting it down on the table in front him.

  “It’s my dad’s, he lent it to me especially,” Tabatha said proudly. “It contains just about every old magic trick you could imagine. Want a peek?”