The Story of Cirrus Flux (12 page)

The Boy Who Did Not Exist

C
irrus woke. He was lying on a hard wooden floor, in a narrow room, his right leg twisted under him. A shaft of light hovered in the air in front of him, threading across the interior like the strand of a broken spider’s web.

Tenderly, he rubbed the nape of his neck and sat up, trying to make himself more comfortable in the small, confined space. What was he doing here? Why was he not safely tucked up in bed?

And then he remembered. He was hiding from someone.

The sound of footsteps startled him and he pressed his eye to a gap in the boards—a keyhole—giving him a partial view of the hall outside. Daylight was streaming in through the open windows and he could see Mr. Chalfont pacing back and forth. His wig was askew and his frock coat and breeches looked crumpled and creased, as though he had slept in them overnight.

“Any sign of him?” asked the Governor, as Mrs. Kickshaw joined him.

Mrs. Kickshaw shook her head and wiped her brow. “He ain’t nowhere to be found,” she said. “I’ve checked the chapel, the lodge and the infirmary. You don’t suppose he’s wandered into them fields again?”

Mr. Chalfont wrung his hands and then hung them uselessly by his side. “I honestly do not know,” he said. “I locked the dormitory last night, as I always do, but this morning it was open and his bed was empty. How he could have got out, I have no idea.”

“The little devil!” said Mrs. Kickshaw. “Wait till I get my hands on him! I’ve warned him many a time to stay away from them fields! They ain’t safe for no one, especially the likes of a child!”

Only slowly did it dawn on Cirrus that he was the boy they were looking for. He was tempted to rush out and surprise them, but the risk of their displeasure kept him back. He remained very still and quiet in his hiding place.

“What should we do now?” asked Mrs. Kickshaw, turning anxiously to the Governor.

“I suggest we keep looking,” said Mr. Chalfont. “I have locked the boys in the dormitory and asked the maids to check on the girls, just in case he’s up to his father’s tricks. You search the grounds, and I’ll … I’ll …” His voice trailed off and he peered up the stairs, his face clouded with worry.

“Yes, Mr. Chalfont,” said Mrs. Kickshaw, with a curtsy. “I’ll ring the bell should I find him.”

She gathered up her skirts and bustled out into the yard, while Mr. Chalfont turned and clambered up the staircase, his footsteps passing over the spot under which Cirrus crouched, concealed.

Cirrus relaxed his hold on the closet door and sat back, deep in thought. From the edge of his mind came the fleeting image of a woman prowling round the dormitory, looking for him. She had held a silver instrument, which she had used to bewitch Tobias. And then he remembered the fiery-headed girl. His fingers closed round the loop of keys she had left for him and which had slipped to the floor. Where was she? Why had she not returned?

Heart pounding, he wriggled out of his hiding place and emerged, dusty and disheveled, in the front hall. Luckily, there was no one around to see; he was dressed still in his nightshirt.

He crept to the base of the stairs and listened carefully.

From up above he could hear the Governor’s footsteps roaming from floor to floor, searching for him. He waited until the sounds had withdrawn into the furthest corner of the hospital and then, as softly as he could, padded up the wide wooden staircase, keeping close to the wall, where the boards were quietest.

What had the girl said? Something about the Governor’s study and a token shaped like a sphere …

He made his way across the landing, clutching the keys in his hand, wondering which one to use, but there was no need. The door to the gallery was open and he slipped soundlessly inside.

The curtains had been drawn and the air had a musty smell of tobacco. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a sullen glow and the portraits on the walls were barely visible. There was no sign of the girl from the night before.

He opened one of the curtains to let in more light. If anything, the haze above the fields was even thicker than the day before, and he could already feel the heat behind it, pressing against the glass. Below, in the garden, Mrs. Kickshaw was talking to the maids, who were taking baskets full of washing to the laundry.

The clock on the landing started to chime. He hurried away from the window.

It had been a long time since he had stepped foot inside the Governor’s study and he was surprised by the memories stirring within him. There, on a little table by the window, was the spyglass Mr. Chalfont had once jokingly told him showed you the other side of the world when you held it to your eye. And next to it lay a spiky seashell, which sounded like a sleeper breathing in your ear.… All of a sudden he remembered the Governor bouncing him up and down on his knee and couldn’t resist a smile.

The floor above him creaked and he turned his thoughts back to the present. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for,
but he started with the cabinets against the wall. They seemed promising.

Each cabinet was lined with slender drawers and, when he opened them, he found all manner of trinkets heaped inside. Buttons, brooches, coins that had been sawn in half and even scraps of paper containing handwritten notes and prayers:

His heart started beating faster. Were these the tokens the girl had spoken of? If so, was there one for him?

He rummaged through the drawers, wondering what secrets he might find. Each object was attached to a loop of red string and identified by a number—corresponding, he supposed, to the medallions the children wore around their necks. A sudden doubt pierced him. He was the boy without a number, the boy who did not exist.… What if the girl was mistaken? What if there was no token for him?

He continued sifting through the keepsakes, his mind full of troubled thoughts. But each item was already accounted
for, labeled with the number of another child, a different child who had been loved, longed for and missed.

Not him.

At last, in despair, he turned to survey the entire room. There were no more cabinets to look through, no more tokens in the drawers. And then he spotted a ledger lying on a nearby table and went over to it, curious to know what it contained.

The pages, each divided into rows and columns, recorded the names and numbers of all the children who had been abandoned at the hospital since its inception many years before. A large proportion of the entries held the words “dead” or “deceased” next to them in faded ink.

He fanned through the pages until he came to an entry he recognized.

His friend, Bottle Top!

Cirrus took a deep breath and checked the preceding page. Halfway down was a gap—a missing entry—where, he supposed, another child ought to have been. A ghost.

A chill crept over him. There was writing near the margin, but it was faint and hard to read. He carried the ledger over to the window to study the words more carefully. Under the column labeled
Remarks
was a statement:
Father paid £100 for the boy’s maintenance. Child to be known as C—F—
.

Cirrus felt a tide of grief and shame wash over him, as though he had been abandoned at the hospital all over again. His heart was pounding painfully and he could barely breathe.

The girl was right: he
did
have a father. But his father hadn’t wanted him. His father had paid to get rid of him. He had been given away for a sum of money.

The room dissolved in a mist of tears and he turned away from the window, not sure what to do or think. His legs wobbled under him and he sank into a chair beside the Governor’s desk.

A young woman was smiling at him from an oval picture on the wall. She had a kind, compassionate face, with bright green eyes and a hint of auburn hair. He laid the ledger down and stared up at the portrait, longing suddenly for a mother’s touch. Underneath the picture was a caption:
Elizabeth Chalfont, 1723–48
.

He glanced at the Governor’s desk. It had never occurred to him before that the Governor might have a past of his own—that he might have been married, even. But now that he looked more closely, he could see that the desk was not just a clutter of quills and paper, but a memorial to his wife.

He found a locket in the topmost drawer, with a curl of hair inside, and a tortoiseshell comb. Delicately, he stroked each item, and then he noticed the tin. He suddenly remembered the playful taste of ginger in his mouth and opened it. Inside was a loop of string. Curious, he fished it out and withdrew a small metal sphere.

His heart skipped a beat and a strange tingling sensation passed through him. The sphere was attached to a tag with no number!

He replaced the tin at the back of the desk and rolled the sphere around in his fingers. The surface was encrusted with sticky brown sugar and he wiped it clean on his nightshirt. The sphere was inscribed with the outlines of distant countries. Two words were engraved near its base:
James Flux
.

This was his inheritance, his token of remembrance! He was sure of it. It was just as the girl had said. But why was Madame Orrery after it? And why had it been hidden?

Voices wandered into the adjoining room and he squeezed into the gap between the wall and the door, gripping the sphere tightly, unwilling to let it go. Two figures had entered the gallery and were standing, like duelists, on the rug. Cirrus recognized the Governor immediately.

“It is not my fault,” said the little man, his hair sticking up in tufts. “He is just a boy. What else ought we to have done?”

The other man’s voice was gruff and low; his back was turned to the door. “You ought to have guarded him more closely. Never let him out of your sight.”

A shiver ran down Cirrus’s spine. There was no mistaking the owner of the other voice. It was the man from Black Mary’s Hole! Peering stealthily round the door, Cirrus could just make out his dark blue coat and the three-cornered hat clenched in his hand.

“Come now,” said the Governor. “You were just like him once. A happy, carefree child. What has changed you so?”

“I have seen the ways of the world,” said the stranger, “and grown up.”

Cirrus felt the blood drain from his cheeks. He wanted to flee from the room immediately, but his path across the gallery was blocked. He would have to remain where he was. He hugged the wall and listened carefully.

“The woman,” said the man from Black Mary’s Hole. “She was here last night. I saw her.”

“Madame Orrery?” said the Governor, his voice quavering a little. “No, no, it is not what you think. She was helping me with a private matter; that is all. She is a mesmerist. She was relieving me of my gout.”

“She is a damnable woman and not to be trusted,” said the stranger. “She has seen the sphere before and will not rest until she finds it.”

Cirrus rolled the sphere once more in his fingers, wondering what it was for. It didn’t look all that special. Perhaps the metal was valuable? Or perhaps it led to treasure?

“Have you still got it?” asked the man suddenly. “Is it here?”

The Governor glanced at the study door. “But of course,” he said. “The sphere is well hidden, I assure you.”

“Get it for me now,” said the man. “I shall take it with me and be off. It is something I should have done long ago.”

“But it is the boy’s token of remembrance,” said Mr. Chalfont feebly. Nevertheless, he did as he was told and marched the short distance to the desk.

Cirrus stiffened behind the door. The Governor was so
close that Cirrus could almost reach out and touch his crimson jacket. But Mr. Chalfont seemed interested in only one thing. He grabbed the tin of ginger and carried it back to the man in the other room.

“There. You see,” he said, removing the lid. “It’s … gone!”

The color drained from his face.

“It must have been the woman,” said the man from Black Mary’s Hole.

“No, no, it was there this morning,” said the Governor. “I checked. I was feeling rather dizzy and needed a piece of ginger to revive me. It was still there when I looked.”