While the Others Sleep, page 1
Tom Becker won the Waterstone’s Children’s Book Prize for his first novel, Darkside, aged 25. Born and brought up in West Lancashire, he now lives in
London.
For Lindsay; for the precious gift of peace at midnight, and bright dreams of tomorrow.
Contents
Cover
Half Title page
Quote
Title page
Dedication
Prologue - A Spark of Light
Chapter One - Bitter Welcome
Chapter Two - The Madhouse
Chapter Three - Selena
Chapter Four - A Meagre Congregation
Chapter Five - The Lady of the Lake
Chapter Six - The Punkawallah’s Son
Chapter Seven - Shadow Puppets
Chapter Eight - I See You
Chapter Nine - The Maidan
Chapter Ten - Ill Whispers
Chapter Eleven - Heartbeats
Chapter Twelve - The Shallow Grave
Chapter Thirteen - Rest in Peace
Chapter Fourteen - Behind the Banyan Tree
Chapter Fifteen - The Bathhouse
Chapter Sixteen - S.O.S.
Chapter Seventeen - The Bees in the Church
Chapter Eighteen - Blind Man’s Buff
Chapter Nineteen - The Cloud
Chapter Twenty - Darkness
Chapter Twenty-One - Into Hell
Chapter Twenty-Two - A Father’s Lament
Chapter Twenty-Three - Bedtime
Chapter Twenty-Four - Farewell
Copyright
It began with a whisper, a secret shared in the hush of midnight.
It began with the rasp of a match, and a spark of light in the darkness.
It began with a hint of a smile on a child’s face.
The floor of the parlour was strewn with torn book pages, which rustled softly as the child knelt down. Slowly, with the solemn tenderness of a mourner laying flowers at a grave, they lowered the fizzing match. There was a crackle as the pages caught, a curling and blackening of sepia. The child’s mischievous breath played upon the flame, coaxing it across the paper, and within seconds the fire was spreading across the floor. Bare feet padded out of the room, and the parlour door closed with a satisfied click.
Left alone to plot and scheme, the flames crept along the wooden skirting boards, clambering up curtains and clinging on to the bookshelves. Within minutes the room was choked with smoke. Gathering in rage, the fire erupted from the parlour with a snarl, stalking into the corridor outside and making for the staircase with a dark, violent intent.
The smell of burning carried up to a box-room at the top of the stairs, where a slumbering attendant awoke with a start. He hurriedly buttoned up his shirt and raced out of his room, swearing loudly at the sight of the fire roaring up the stairs. The attendant ran along the landing banging on doors, his cries of alarm drawing the other adults from their rooms. They fled shrieking from the onrushing flames, stumbling and coughing down the backstairs and out into the safe embrace of the night air. There the women broke down and sobbed upon the lawns, while the men watched helplessly as the fire devoured their possessions.
Amid the crackle of flames and groan of timbers, a back door opened in the distant west wing of the building. A host of pale spectres came floating out upon the breeze, small figures in white nightshirts.
They had forgotten about the children.
Biting back oaths, the attendants hurried across the grass and began herding the children away from the house, their gruff barks masking guilt at having left their charges to fend for themselves. At the top of the slope looking out over the lake, the inhabitants of Scarbrook House came together – doctor and patient, adult and child – and watched, united in their bewilderment, as the building’s east wing succumbed to the flames.
A hasty summit was called, during which one of the doctors volunteered to cycle down to the local village for help. An argument broke out amongst the men, with several of them pointing fingers at a portly, whiskered man in a nightshirt and sleeping cap.
“Well what on earth would you have me do?” he retorted angrily. “The nearest fire brigade is over twenty miles away in London! Do you think we can put this out with buckets of water? Until the men come from the village there’s little we can do but pray that the fire burns itself out.”
Whilst the adults argued, the children appeared overwhelmed by the blaze. Some milled around in a daze; others sat down on the grass and picked daisies, singing softly to themselves; others capered gleefully, their faces turning an impish red in the fiery glow. One boy burst into sudden howls of laughter, bending double at some unexplained hilarity until his breaths became wheezes and sobs wracked his body.
There was a loud crash of falling masonry, and a scream rent the night sky. A girl with tumbling black hair broke away from the other children and ran towards the knot of doctors, a tall, good-looking boy on her heels.
“Someone’s still inside!” the girl cried. “You have to save them!”
The portly man with the whiskers shook his head. “We’ve done a full headcount. There’s no one in the building.”
“But the screams!”
The boy stepped forward and gently grasped her arm. “It’s the horses,” he said quietly. “The fire’s reached the stables.”
Another shriek joined the first, then another. The girl paled. She found herself wishing that the flames could burn even louder, and roar with greater ferocity – anything to block out the horses’ screams. They were piercing screeches torn from inhuman throats, terrible hymns of searing pain and charred flesh. As the adults listened, grim-faced, some of the children joined in, throwing back their heads to add their own banshee shrieks and wolf howls, filling the air with an unholy chorus of anguish. The dark-haired girl shuddered and turned away, shrugging off her companion’s attempts to comfort her.
Away from the others, in the shadows by the entrance to the rock garden, two smaller figures stood in silence. The girl shrank back from the inferno, her face drenched with an unspoken horror. She clutched a rag doll tightly to her chest, burying her face in its hair as the last stricken aria from the stables died away. Beside her the boy watched impassively, his large round eyes betraying no flicker of emotion.
“It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “There’s nothing to fear. The fire can’t hurt you now.”
As the boy raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare, he noticed a dark smudge on the end of his fingertip. He carefully brushed the residue away, aware of the telltale scent of a burnt match.
“You just stay close to me,” the boy continued, wrapping an arm around the girl. “I’ll take care of you.”
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The grandfather clock dolorously paced out the silence as Alfie Mandeville waited, hands clasped patiently behind his back. Everywhere he looked around the study there were hints and subtle boasts of wealth and success. Bookcases sagged under the weight of thick medical journals. Plunging leather armchairs looked deep enough to swallow a man whole. A row of crystal wine glasses had been arranged on a bureau in a manner seemingly designed to catch the light, while the ornate gas lamps were grey and dormant in the brilliant summer afternoon. Through the bay windows, the lawns sloped languidly down towards a line of birch trees. Alfie caught a glimpse of himself in one of the panes, and saw a tall, rangy boy with a mop of sandy blond hair staring back at him.
In front of Alfie a man was seated behind a polished desk, peering at a letter through half-moon spectacles. He cut a plump, satisfied figure, the first white flecks of middle age dusting his whiskers like icing sugar. From time to time he broke off to take a slurp of tea from a china cup. The man was taking a long time over the letter – although whether that was because he found its contents pleasing or disturbing was hard to tell. Eventually he put down the piece of paper and loudly cleared his throat.
“Well now,” he declared. “There we have it.”
“My father has always spoken very highly of you, Dr Grenfell,” Alfie said quickly. “He says that if anyone can help me, you can.”
“And no man holds Lord Mandeville in greater regard than myself,” replied the doctor. “Over the years Scarbrook House has been indebted to his frequent and most generous donations. However. . .” Grenfell trailed off, waving vaguely at the letter.
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“Ordinarily I would do anything in my power to help a Mandeville. But you must understand – the condition your father describes in his letter—”
“Insomnia, I believe they call it.”
“Quite, quite. This . . . insomnia . . . does not fall within the compass of our medical programmes. Scarbrook House provides a home for well-bred young gentlemen and ladies with recognized mental conditions: anxiety and nervousness, melancholia, feminine hysteria. I am not sure that mere sleeping problems necessitate admittance.”
“My father asks for no guarantees,” said Alfie. “Merely that I can stay here for a time under your observation.” He hesitated. “He also instructed me to say that he heard about the accident here last month.”
Dr Grenfell glanced up sharply. “The fire, you mean?”
“My father says that rebuilding the east wing will cost a great deal of money, and that if he was sure you were taking care of me, he would be glad to help. A token of friendship, he called it
“A token of friendship,” echoed Dr Grenfell, nodding slowly as he sat back in his chair. “I see. Well, then: tell me exactly what the problem is.”
Alfie frowned. “Well . . . I can’t sleep, sir.”
“Quite,” the doctor responded, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “Do continue.”
“I’m not sure what else I can say,” said Alfie. “I can’t sleep. It doesn’t matter how long I lie in bed, or how tired I am. Morning comes, and I’m still awake.”
“How long have you been suffering from this condition?”
Alfie made some quick mental calculations. “Two months?” he ventured. “Three?”
It was hard to be certain. Alfie couldn’t remember a precise date, the first time he had lain awake all night. He had had no such problems in India, and even on the Mandevilles’ return to London – the biting December wind gnawing on bodies slow-roasted by two years in the heat of Calcutta – Alfie had slept normally. Then, one April or May night, he had been unable to drop off. One sleepless night had become two, then three. Alfie began to haunt the midnight hallways of the Mandevilles’ Chelsea townhouse, pacing up and down the corridors in an attempt to exhaust himself into sleep. All he succeeding in doing was waking up the butler, Stowbridge, who angrily shooed him back to bed.
The toll of these barren nights could be detected in Alfie’s bloodshot eyes and the ghostly pallor of his skin. Dark rumours began circulating amongst the servants in the kitchens and pantries of the great London mansions – the young Mandeville slept only in the daytime, he had been seen in a graveyard in the middle of the night, his teeth were as sharp as daggers. . .
Though his parents took no heed of servants’ gossip, Alfie knew that he was embarrassing them. He found himself nodding off during the daytime, often at inopportune moments – during a meal with the French Ambassador, he caused cries of alarm when he slumped unconscious into his plate of food. In private, Alfie’s father sharply criticized his weary demeanour, whilst his mother patted his hand dreamily and told him to go to bed earlier. Though his parents had never overburdened Alfie with affection or attention, he noticed a slight increase in the distance between them, a new note of shame in their voices when they mentioned his name. Then again, in the lofty circles in which the Mandeville family moved, appearance was everything. They were one of the richest and most important families in the Empire, and Alfie was their only son. Anything that could cause raised eyebrows in a Pall Mall gentleman’s club, or wagging tongues at a dinner party in Mayfair, had to be avoided at all costs.
Even so, the decision to send him away took Alfie by surprise with its swiftness. He was sitting up in bed reading, the candles burning low, when Lord Richard Mandeville – the fearless explorer and businessman, the toast of London’s aristocracy, the “White Tiger of the Raj” – strode into his bedroom and told him to prepare for travel to Scarbrook. Alfie’s protests died in his throat when he saw the look in his father’s eye. It was said that even the prime minister thought twice before disagreeing with Lord Mandeville. What chance had a fourteen-year-old boy of changing the White Tiger’s mind?
And Scarbrook did have certain things to recommend it. Much to the relief of Alfie’s father, the true nature of its medical activities was carefully concealed. To genteel ears, “sanatorium” sounded little better than “asylum” or “madhouse”, whereas the casual listener might have mistaken Scarbrook House for a finishing school. And naturally, as one of the institution’s most generous benefactors, Lord Mandeville could rely upon an especial amount of discretion.
Preparations for Alfie’s departure were carried out with discreet haste, the townhouse’s windows burning late into the night as servants hurriedly packed Alfie’s bags. Alfie left early the next morning. His hopes of saying farewell to his mother were dashed with the news that she had fallen ill again. Lady Mandeville suffered from recurring spells of lethargy that she called “the shades”, which drove her to her bed and left her too fragile to see any visitors. Even as her son’s carriage rattled away down the drive, the curtains over Lady Mandeville’s bedroom window remained firmly closed. Lord Mandeville had managed a brisk handshake and a pat on the arm, without ever making eye contact with his son. The only consolation of Alfie’s hasty departure was the absence of Stowbridge, whose displeasure Alfie feared almost more than his father’s.
The carriage fled London through a thick pall of fog, heading for the Hertfordshire countryside. It was well over an hour before the first glimpse of patchwork fields appeared through the grey, and by that time Alfie’s eyelids were drooping. A childish melody popped into his head unbidden, a line from a lullaby his mother used to sing to him:
“My lady wind, my lady wind, went round about the house. . .”
As Alfie tried to recall the next line, he was distracted by the sight of the hedgerows whipping past him in a thorny blur. The coachman’s lash sounded clear and hard over the rattle of carriage wheels and the horses’ whinnied protests. The animals were being driven at a furious pace – surely too quickly for these narrow lanes. The vehicle took a sharp right turn, throwing Alfie against the side of the carriage. He thought about banging on the roof of the carriage and shouting at the coachman to stop, before deciding against it. After all, this would not be a journey that would appeal to a man from his superstitious class – despite the careful curtain Scarbrook House drew around its activities, whispers about its troubled patients still reached the capital. Anyway, Alfie supposed, the sooner the coachman returned to London, the sooner he could get to the alehouse.
He clung on to the door handle as the lane narrowed still further, low-hanging branches clawing at the carriage roof. Then, suddenly, the vehicle exploded between two gateposts and flew along a long gravel driveway coiled up a hillside. Alfie’s breath caught in his throat as he gazed out of the window.
Situated directly on the hill’s brow, Scarbrook House added a flourish of dark drama to the horizon. It was a sprawling country house consisting of a central block flanked by two arcaded wings, which faced off against one another across a gravel yard. The roofs were a confusion of domes and towers and pointed eaves, giving the building an air at once both haughty and haphazard. A dense wood ran around the back of the house, providing a natural boundary to vast grounds that contained not only a rock garden and a lake, but also a folly built in the style of an Asian pagoda. The estate’s motley appearance was accentuated by the fact that Scarbrook’s entire eastern wing was a blackened ruin of charred stonework, with an aching hole where its roof should have been.
As the carriage crunched across the gravel yard, the coachman wrenched on his horses’ reins, bringing the vehicle to an abrupt halt by the front entrance. He all but threw Alfie’s suitcases down from the roof, glancing fearfully at the house before scrambling back into his seat. Alfie’s feet had barely touched the ground before the whip had lashed again, and the carriage was hastening back down the hill and out of the grounds. As he picked up the suitcase, Alfie resolved not to tell his father about the coachman’s rudeness. He did not believe in telling tales, no matter what the provocation.
Juggling awkwardly with his luggage, he walked up to the front door and rang the bell. A young woman in a black dress and an apron answered. She was disconcertingly beautiful, with large brown eyes set into an oval, dusky face. It was a struggle for Alfie to remember his manners, and not stare at her open-mouthed.
“I’m here to see Dr Grenfell?” Alfie said uncertainly. “He should be expecting me.”
If the serving girl was surprised to see him standing alone on the doorstep, she didn’t betray it.
“Follow me,” she said, a trace of a hot, foreign climate softening the edges of her English accent.
Gesturing Alfie inside the building, she led him through a deserted hallway into a warren of parlours and drawing rooms. The grandeur was tainted by the smell of burned wood that had infected the entire building, leaving an ashy aftertaste in every room. When they arrived by a study door, the girl knocked twice and left Alfie outside, telling him to wait in a tone that didn’t invite any further questions.
