Will write more. Feel a fever coming on. I hope I remember this.
That must have been when I woke up. I patted the rail pass in my pocket and decided I would go searching for my other bolthole this weekend.
Chapter 27
I rode down on the tubes. Even those had changed immensely in 16 years. These were electric and ran on silent rails, the air was clearer than I remembered and that blue-gray haze that always hung over the city was gone. I wondered if London’s famous pea-soup fog was still coming in. It was warmer than I remembered, too.
People seemed the same. Dressed in jeans and t-shirts, wearing expensive coats, watches and carrying cell phones and devices Khalid had told me were called i Pads. I wanted one but they cost hundreds of Euros. No one used pounds anymore.
I had 10E in my pocket. I was afraid to risk anymore of my meager funds than that.
I took the station nearest to Tom’s flat and got out a goodly distance from his gated avenue. No one bothered me as I trudged up the side lanes marked for bikes. The trees were taller and shaded more of the lane, sixteen years had made quite a difference in their appearance.
It took me an hour to reach the guardhouse and I didn’t know the man sitting there reading a dog-eared book; he seemed annoyed when I asked if Mrs. Watson still lived there.
“Who?”
“Tom Watson’s wife? Camilla Mowbry Watson?”
He stared at me. “The drug lord got murdered at the Airport? She goes by Cammy Mowbry now. Coppers hounded her for years so she changed it.”
“Does she still live here?”
“Nope. Moved about five years ago,” he went back to his book.
“Where to?”
“Dunno. Somewhere in London. I look like the ‘effing post office? Who are you anyway?”
“Nobody,” I turned and retreated the way I’d come, my shoulders slumping in defeat.
The rest of the afternoon, wandered the streets until I found the abandoned lot that had been a movie stage. Covering at least five acres, there were hundreds of buildings all tucked behind a seven-meter chain link fence. I knew exactly where the hole was in it and found my way to the Quonset hut that was the Director’s domain. Forty feet long, the rear quarter had been converted into a studio office with a shower, sauna, and small kitchenette. There was no electricity but the water ran. Cold.
I had a sleeping bag on the floor, Coleman lanterns, and an AGA fueled cook stove. Several extra AGA cans were stacked to the side for use in cooking and heating. Two heavy-duty coolers held cans, drinks, and perishables. Garbage was stacked neatly in rubbish bins lined in plastics.
I searched the cabinets, the closets and under the thin ground mattress. I found nothing. I wasn’t secure enough to have left anything in this place as I had at the boy’s school.
There were old movie posters on the walls, the last one I recognized was the one Tom, and Cammy had taken me to on my birthday. I sighed. I was still only about ten years old in my mind although my body said otherwise.
Towards teatime, I was ravenously hungry and slipped out by a very different route. This time, I went overhead, climbing the rooftops and dancing lightly across the ridge caps and flat roofs of warehouses until I spotted lights and open signs on a take-out place. I slid easily down the drainpipe to the sidewalk and read the posted menu. It was a MacDonalds, imported from America and the best thing about it were the prices. I could eat there for a week on what would have been one fish and chips meal.
I walked in and studied the overhead menu. The pimply faced teenager behind the counter asked, “What’ll it be, mate?” He stared at my face as if he’d never seen a human before.
“Those real?”
“What?” I was puzzled.
“Your eyes. They real or contacts?”
“You mean the color?”
“Yeah, dude. Not colored contact lenses?”
“They’re mine.”
“Cool. What’d you want?”
“Mac double. Fries. Large coke. Apple pie.”
He named a ridiculously low price and I handed over a 10 , received change and my meal on a tray. He told me to have a nice day and come back in a bored tone. I went to a corner table and ate the whole meal. It was almost tasteless except for the fries; they were crisp, hot, and salty. I nearly went back for more.
Chapter 28
After my meal, I wandered the streets, saw closed circuit TVs on every street corner, traffic pole and building. They had to have an entire police constabulary just watching them. What I didn’t find was a phone kiosk and when I asked, I received looks of such profound disbelief you’d have thought I’d asked for someone’s liver or first born.
Finally, I walked into a small antique and consignment shop and asked if I could see their directory. I chose that one because of the Cornish Lion in the window. The lady behind the counter was Irish and her accent made me homesick. I muttered something in Gaelic and her eyebrows rose. She nattered away asking my name, my town and my family’s lineage and ran on for five minutes before she petered out self-consciously.
“Excuse me,” she laughed somewhat chagrined. “I rarely encounter another Irish who speaks Gaelic and I do run on.”
“I’m Cornish, actually. I speak both Gaelic and Welsh. My name is Aidan Argent.”
“Cornish. I would never have guessed. Are you related to the Argents of Cryllwythe Farms? Oh, but then, I suppose not. Lord Bowden’s son died forty-two years ago. Never had another child.” I didn’t say anything. “What can I do for you, young Aidan?”
“I would like to borrow your directory. I’m looking for a friend. Camilla Mowbry. She used to live in Mayfair. Moved to London proper, I believe.”
“I can look it up in the White Pages online.”
“You can do that?”
“Of course I can. Where have you been that you don’t know that?”
I shrugged. You can’t explain to just anyone you’ve been dead for thirty out of forty some odd years on and off.
“What’s her name?”
“Camilla Mowbry, used to be Watson,” I answered and she brushed her cherry brown hair behind her ears and turned the monitor around so I could watch.
She smelled pretty, like flowers and sunshine. Her eyes were sky blue and made up to a smoky brown with thick lashes, her lips peachy and plump, shiny as if they were wet. I watched her concentrated rather than watch the computer.
“You’re staring,” she said, smiling. I swallowed, felt a stirring in my pants and my ears reddened.
She looked up, her eyes serious and they had taken on a shine I’d seen before. Her voice thickened. “How old are you, Aidan?”
“Sixteen,” my voice cracked. She took my hand and placed it on her breast. I felt her nipple harden instantly, stood there, and didn’t know what to do.
She pulled me close, tilted my head, and kissed me, her tongue thrusting into my mouth. My dick hardened in my underwear, I shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. My belly quivered as she slipped her had down in and softly encircled me. Her eyes widened. “Oh my,” she breathed into me and waited. I stood there, indecisive. She pushed back. “Aidan?”
“I---I…never…don’t,” I stuttered, hands in front of my suddenly bulging jeans.
“You’ve never done it, Aidan?” she asked kindly. I nodded, red-faced. She smiled. Went to the shop door, locked it, and pulled the closed sign. Said, “Miss Cammy Watson can wait another day, Aidan. It’s my turn and my treat.”
She took me upstairs to her flat and taught me what those boys only dreamed about.
In the morning, she gave me a shower, a good meal, fresh clothes and a farewell kiss. Two pieces of paper with phone numbers. I asked if one was hers and she shook her head fondly. “Not a good idea, Aidan. In the eyes of the law, you’re a child even if your eyes say different. Your beautiful eyes have seen more life and death than any one adult’s lifetime. I’ve enjoyed teaching you. I’m proud to be your first but don’t come back. I’m afraid I’d lack the for
titude to send you away the second time. You could become addictive.’
She told me her name was Cybele and I told her the Irish blessing in Gaelic before I left with Cammy’s address and phone number in my sweaty palm.
Chapter 29
Cammy’s address was 25 Posthwaite Terrace, SE6, London. I asked directions and a kind gentleman, retired from the army actually drew me a map. He’d served in NATO forces and been invalided out, spoke Arabic and Farsi he’d picked up on his billet. He enjoyed chatting with me. Asked me how I’d learned and didn’t believe me when I said just by listening. Anyway, I found a quick way via the underground and electric trolleys to anew section along the Thames where skyscrapers had pushed out old mills and warehouses.
She had a penthouse suite on the 25th floor. The uniformed doorman wouldn’t let me in and insisted I give my name. I hesitated and said slowly, “Aidan. Aidan Watson.”
He called up and spoke into his phone, waited. Seemed surprised and said, “Wait in the lobby. She’ll be down.”
He pushed a button, buzzed and the door opened to allow me entry into a glassed hallway and thence to a large lobby dominated by lush plants, a sparkling fountain and soaring windows to a skylight stories over my head. What a wonderful place to climb. I admired the view and missed the sight of an exterior lift come billeting down.
An older woman ran towards me, dressed in tailored jeans and fisherman’s Aran. She stopped yards from me and her eyes devoured me. Red hair faded to a pale rose, eyes as bright green but there were wrinkles, her smile as blinding as ever. She was crying. “Oh my God! Aidan!” she hesitated and I rushed forward into her arms and squeezed her gently.
“I’m sorry, Cammy,” I whispered. “I would have saved him if I could.”
“You did save him, baby. You kept us all from being bombed into pieces. You died with a bullet in your back to save us. Two hundred people lived because of what you did.”
“I had to come find you. See how you were,” I explained.
“Can you come up? No one’s waiting for you? Where are you living? You look thin, worn down.” she tugged me to the lift and brought me to her flat. The view from her windows was awesome, looking out over the Thames and the top of the Park. I saw the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, and the Palace; saw the Royal Flag that denoted the Queen was in residence.
“Sixteen years, Aidan,” she marveled. “You’re sixteen, now? You’ve matured into a remarkably handsome young lad. The chicks will be all over you.”
I grinned and she smiled gleefully. “Dare I remind you to be careful, dear boy?”
“Cammy, I---” I blinked and looked down at my feet. We were in the kitchen, a room all in blonde wood and stainless steel with all the mod conveniences. She still liked to cook.
“Let me make you something to eat,” she suggested.
“Sorry. I ate at MacDonalds.”
“Junk food,” she returned scathingly.
“Really, Cam. Don’t fuss.” I hesitated and asked in a rush, “Cammy, where’s he buried?”
“Tom? He wanted to be cremated. I had his ashes dumped in Cornwall, as he wanted, Aidan. Near your folks place.”
“I want to go home, Cammy.”
“Why don’t you?” she asked sensibly.
“I tried. Something stopped me; I couldn’t breathe, nor make myself go on. Anyway, I live in Somerset now. At an exclusive boy’s prep school.” My face reddened. I thought that she would think I’d come here for money if I told her my circumstances.
“So you’re doing well, then?”
“Just great,” I gushed.
“Sure you are. Your hair needs cutting. Your nails are dirty and the cuticles torn. You have on jeans that haven’t been washed in ages, your collar is dingy and sweat stained, your cuffs are fringed. Your trainers have holes in them. Your socks don’t match. Now, while I realized that teenage lads don’t care about their appearance or state of cleanliness, I do know you, Aidan, and you would never have come to me like this if you had better. Plus, you’re thin; your eyes are hollow and flat.
“Are you out of money?”
I sat there, didn’t know what to say. Finally, I spoke, “Cammy, I didn’t come here to beg for money,” I was insulted.
“I know that,” she said. “Just as I know you’re not doing drugs. Are you living alone, still?”
“No,” I thought of all those boys.
“No?”
“Three hundred other chaps share the place with me. Can’t call that alone.”
“Juvie?”
“No. Cammy!” I was affronted, paused, thought of my next plan and reddened. If I was caught, I would wind up in worse than Juvie. In Jail.
“I came to see how you were faring. It’s Holiday at school, I found my rail pass and thought I’d look you up.”
“Who did you save this time?”
“Girl. Russian. Sent her to America.”
“Anastasia?” Her eyes grew to the size of moons. “How did you die?”
I shuddered. “Painfully.”
She lifted my shirt and her hand traced the dimples and scars across my belly that were more like blemishes than actually scars save for the twin matching pair where I had fallen on the fence spikes. Her hand was warm, the nails a bright orange cut square and sent tingles down to my groin.
“You’re buff,” she said surprised. “Six-pack, too. Do you work out?”
I laughed and her fingers followed the movement of my muscles. My belly quivered. I looked everywhere but at her face. Thought of Tom, how she was like a mother but my newly awakened hunger had no reasoning.
I let her decided. She moved her hand to my chin and raised it. Her eyes were brilliant. “Your body is sixteen, Aidan and ready. Your memories much younger. Your soul is older than I am. I’m old enough to be your mother.”
“I don’t feel like your son,” I whispered. “I came because I need a friend, Cammy. Someone who doesn’t want to hurt me, use me or fuck me. Just love me.”
She wrapped her arms around me and held me while I cried, waited for me to stop, took me to bed, and stayed with me the rest of the night.
Chapter 30
Breakfast was a feast. The smell of Earl Grey, rashers of bacon, muffins, coffee and cinnamon woke me. I rolled over in a strange bed and groaned. I was stiff, smelled myself, and threw the covers off to go in search of the restroom.
It had a walk in shower in one corner with glass doors. I couldn’t find any knobs to turn on the water and the holes in the wall and ceiling puzzled me.
Cammy knocked and came in. I was still in my clothes, in the act of peeing in the toilet. I tucked myself back in self-consciously.
“How’d you turn the blasted water on?” I asked and the water shot out, hitting the sides of the glass in pulsating jets splashing through the open door.
“Water off!” I shouted and it stopped. I grinned. This was way cool. “Water on!” I played with it for minutes. “What else can it do?”
“Music on. Sirius Classical,” she enunciated and the strains of Mozart filled the area. I thought I was in a Symphony Hall.
“Massage, shower, pulsating, heavy,” she ticked off her fingers. “Hot, warm, cold. Lights, dim.”
“Everything but bubbles,” I said happily.
“Big enough for two,” she grinned back. I pushed her gently out the door and closed it. Stripped and took a long soak to the strains of Pavane for a Dead Princess and bagpipes. So, I’m a closet Scotophil.
I found a stack of clothes on the sink counter. Fresh slacks in khaki, long sleeved dress shirt, a thin leather belt, briefs still in the cellophane from Masons, socks and lace up shoes. A watch and a smart phone, an iPhone. How she had managed to do all that in the space of time she had amazed me.
I came out of the bath feeling like a kid playing dress up yet I felt good, smelled good, and looked at least my age.
I followed the smells to the kitchen and sat down to an English breakfast. In my opinion, the best meal of the day. Ate m
y way through it with single-minded determination and no conversation on my part. She let me eat without badgering me.
“Finished? Good. Now tell me all. Where are you living and how?”
“Somerset. Exclusive Boys Prep school. Seems I used Tom’s money to set up a trust that funds my stay there.”
“But not for meals and clothes.”
“Guess not.”
“How much is left?”
“Three hundred sixty Euros.”
“After you…died, the account was left untouched. Tom watched it until he was killed. It just kept growing. Until the crash. Three quarters of it was wiped out. I would have replaced it but my own income took a hit, too. It’s just now recovering. This place was paid for and I don’t pay for anything but power and food. I sold all the jeweler and Tom’s flat. It just covered my expenses the last ten years.”
“Cammy, do you need money?”
“No, Aidan. I’m not rich but I get by. I write short stories for travel agencies and magazines. Make a decent dole that way. Pays for the butter.”
I looked at my new clothes. “Don’t worry. I’m a bargain shopper. I spent what I could afford. What are your term fees?”
“3000.”
“Hmmn. Due in January, I assume,” she mused. “Will you be there that long?”
“I don’t know. I never know. I didn’t even know when I woke this time. I was there before I knew I was there. Some of the boys told me I’d been there for months before I remembered anything. I just woke up in bed.”
“That’s new, different. You know, I researched you on the internet. There are millions of kids lost, missing, but none in the circumstances you’ve lived through. You have made it to the web. Someone took an interest in old murder cases and somehow connected the Moor Murder victim to the bombing victim. Because of your beautiful amethyst eyes. Interviewed that DI, Van Gilder. He still remembers you. He’s retired. I see him sometimes.”
“See him how?”
“Dates.”
“Cammy! He’s a copper!”
“We call them fuzz, pigs or cops, now, Aidan. Bobbies, sometimes. He retired as a Supervisor. Worked at New Scotland Yard. They have something called the Cold Case Squad. He headed it.”
“It should have ended when I died.”