The Book of Hours (The Solitary Plainsong of Magpies)
Prologue
She had been in labour for six hours. Her ordeal was finally drawing to a close.
The delivery room was state of the art. No NHS facility could match it. The equipment, and the skills of the medics, were of the very highest order. And she knew why: for this was to be no ordinary birth. It was the culmination of far more than nine month’s worth of planning.
They had been anxious, for a while, that she would deliver her child too soon. She understood why the timing was so significant.
The clock on the wall registered:
00:00.
A new day was beginning. They were relieved. They told her that now she must push: she was almost done. She glanced across the room.
The others were there, standing back while the medics attended to her. Her husband: and four additional men beside him. Her husband looked sad, his soft-brown eyes conveying a deep melancholy. By way of contrast, the man with the mesmeric gaze standing to his right radiated an aura of triumph.
The music playing in the background had been her selection. It could only be Rossini. La gazza ladra.
Six minutes later the crescendo, and the cry, told her - before she saw him - that her son had been born.
She was exhausted. More than ordinarily empty. She had been nurturing something within her that was wonderful and awesome and frightening. There was no name for it. Now she held him in her arms.
‘He should be named Adam,’ said the man to her husband’s right. ‘I claim that privilege.’ The others nodded their assent. All except for–
‘No,’ replied her husband, sharply. ‘You will not own his name. Ever.’ He looked at his wife - was it sternly or tenderly? ‘You should choose.’
So she did.
Seven for a Secret Never to be Told (Compline)
Oh You Pretty Things
Don’t you know you’re driving your
Mamas and Papas insane
Let me make it plain
You gotta make way for the Homo Superior
(David Bowie)
Berkeley Butterworth had known for a long time that he was different. It wasn’t just his slightly disconcerting physical appearance, with his pale milky-white skin, contrasting strongly with his untidy, Cimmerian curls and over-plump carmine lips; nor the slight but still discernible lack of balance between the jug-like ears jutting out from either side of his rounded face. All that, together with his sad brown puppy-dog eyes, was sufficient to give a comic yet melancholic air to his countenance from a very young age. But Berkeley’s sense of difference was tied up with other aspects of the self beside mere physical appearance.
For instance - unlike most of the other schoolboys in his class - Berkeley preferred ITV’s lineup of children’s television programmes to that offered by the BBC. His Saturday morning viewing favoured the anarchic Tiswas over the more controlled, suburban feel of the Multi-Coloured Swap Shop; and he’d rather soar with Magpie’s eponymous mascot, a corvid named Murgatroyd, than go sailing with the steady crew of the Blue Peter.
Above all else, the adventures of the adolescent Tomorrow People were distinctly preferable to those of the alien protagonist of Doctor Who. More than once, Berkeley had wished he could ‘jaunt’ away, from home or from school, using the teleportation mind powers of John, Stephen, Elizabeth, Mike and the other members of the Tomorrow People - the elite group of Homo superior that had begun ‘breaking out’ of their mental chrysalis with their advanced psychic powers. This was the next step in human evolution, usually manifesting at puberty, and taking the chosen few - and one day, it was to be hoped, the whole race - away from the mundanity, prejudice and thuggery of the far-too-long dominant Homo sapiens (or ‘saps’, as they were generally referred to by those destined to become humanity’s future).
The attraction was obvious to one such as Berkeley Butterworth. There were other ways of being different, after all. Other ways of being Homo.
And without a doubt - it was better than being a sap.
*
Then there was Berkeley’s hidden dressing-up obsession, which in his case took a decidedly idiosyncratic form. Some of the boys from his class had taken to wearing long multi-coloured scarves, in homage to Tom Baker, currently playing the part of the Fourth Doctor. Berkeley too would sometimes wear a scarf - of sorts - when indulging in his playtime fantasies. However, this was the kind of scarf more commonly referred to, in certain religious circles, as a stole. The kind that formed part of the ecclesiastical garb of a Catholic priest when celebrating the Mass.
During the long hot summer following his tenth birthday, Berkeley had converted his play-shed at the bottom of the garden into a miniature chapel, complete with altar and candles. It was here that Berkeley adopted the guise of Father Butterworth. In dressing-up, he made use of scraps of choirboy robes he had found discarded in a skip outside St Agnes’ church, half a mile from home; whilst the priest stole he had cut out from some unwanted curtain fabric which he had blagged from his mother. Within the repurposed play-shed, the rough-hewn altar was in reality a worm-ridden workbench purloined from his father’s garage; whilst the makeshift altar cloth was the torn remnant of a disused net curtain which Mrs Hollins, his bemused next door neighbour, had given to him when he had timorously asked her for it. On a shelf in one corner - in lieu of a pipe organ - sat a tape deck. The audio cassette inside was labelled ‘Gregorian Chant of the Canonical Hours’. He’d pinched it from Declan Duffy’s front room, along with Declan’s Ma’s rosary. He didn’t have a clue how to use it, but with its cultured pearl beads it looked resplendent, lying there on the altar. As did the silver candlesticks, the most valuable repository within his ersatz chapel: well, Berkeley was sure his mother wouldn’t miss them. The Butterworths had ceased giving formal dinner parties some years before, and rarely invited guests across the threshold of their home these days. Theirs had long since ceased to be a warm and welcoming abode.
What had been the origin of the young lad’s fanciful obsession? The Butterworths were not Catholics; his parents had been married in a registry office, and apart from an annual visit to the local nondescript Anglican church at Christmas, none of the family had had much in the way of dealings with organised religion. And as the Butterworth marriage had slowly withered away, even these intermittent visits had ceased.
Perhaps, a psychologist might conclude, Berkeley was simply seeking refuge in religion. If it was more than mere artifice, perhaps his peculiar play-acting was serving as an antidote to the increasing indifference of his distracted parents. Then again, perhaps the bullying that Berkeley had begun to experience at primary school had something to do with it. Or perhaps dressing up as a priest, in the inner sanctum that he had christened Ss Aidan & Cuthbert’s (in honour of the great saints of Northern England), listening to plainsong, munching on Ritz crackers and drinking Ribena (in lieu of bread and wine) and pretending they’d somehow turned into the body and blood of Christ, was all just another way of ‘being different’?
To some extent, maybe. But perhaps there was one further explanation for this sudden desire to ‘play at priest’. That summer, after all, was the one in which Duncan Butterworth had been diagnosed with the cancer that would end his life some eleven months later…
*
Berkeley had watched his father’s decline closely over the course of his final year. To those who did not know Duncan well, initially the change was slow, almost imperceptible. But his son thought of the horse chestnut tree that until the great summer had graced the entrance to the local park. For generations it had stood there: proud, aristocratic, yielding its seeds with patrician civility each autumn to grateful schoolchildren for their seasonal conker games. There it might stand forever. But a few months before, Berkeley had overheard the exchanged contemplation of wiser heads, who had known that tree for seventy years, or more.
‘That ol’ ’orse chestnut’s ain’t looking so grand these days, Bert.’
‘Too right, Bill. Summat tells me there’ll ne’er be so many conkers for the bairns this autumn.’
And so it had proved. Maybe the drought was the final push; but one day in July - three days after learning of his father’s illness - Berkeley had visited the park, only to find the horse chestnut riven in two, split right down the middle. The canker of the stricken leviathan was plain to see: it was rotten to the core. The next morning, council workmen arrived to clear it away; by the end of the afternoon, only the stump remained of a tree that had been beloved by countless children.
Throughout his illness, Duncan had carried on his mysterious work, continuing to visit the office of which he never spoke to Berkeley. Every effort was made to preserve the semblance of normality. But gradually the hospital visits became more frequent. His father’s once vigorous frame began to appear attenuated. His voice, always so thunderous, started to lose its customary resonance; his hair became like gossamer, then, almost overnight, seemed to disappear completely; only his soft-brown eyes, reminiscent of his son’s, remained undimmed.
Then one afternoon in June 1977 Maureen Butterworth arrived at Berkeley’s school early and unexpectedly. Duncan had collapsed, and had been rushed into hospital. Berkeley went with his mother straight to his father’s bedside. He had half expected to find him split open, like the horse chestnut tree; his insides exposed, and his rottenness clear for all to see. That wasn’t quite how it was. But from the deathly pallor of Duncan’s angular face, and the wan smile of acknowledgement that played across his thin pursed lips, Berkeley knew that the final, short phase of his father’s illness had begun.
*
Nine days had passed by since then; and now Berkeley sat alone, beside his father’s bed. Maureen was waiting in the corridor outside, as per Duncan’s request; in his last few moments with his son, he wanted the two of them to be alone.
‘There’s something I want you to have,’ rasped Duncan Butterworth. He was propped up, as comfortable as might be expected, considering how close he was to death. The morphine driver had done its job smoothly and effectively, and had kept the worst of the pain at bay; but there was nothing more that could be done to delay the inevitable. Duncan’s hands, looking more gnarled than his son had ever remembered, were clasped together on his lap, resting upon a book. A Bible.
Duncan must have noticed his son’s look of perplexity. Even now, his eyesight was undimmed. He chuckled. ‘It’s never too late, they say. “Joy shall be in heaven over one sinneth that repenteth.” But I’m done now making my confession to God. Do you still “play at priest” in that shed of yours?’
Berkeley blushed. ‘Sometimes.’
‘That old workbench of mine has woodworm. You could do better than that for an altar.’ Duncan smiled, then started coughing violently. When the convulsion had passed, he lay there, exhausted, his eyes closed.
‘Dad?’ asked Berkely anxiously. ‘Would you like some water?’
Duncan shook his head. His voice, when it came, was weaker than before. ‘No. Too late for absolution with water - holy, or otherwise. Here.’ He pushed the Bible towards Berkeley. ‘Inside the cover. There’s a letter. For you. When I’m gone - read it - but only then. Promise me you’ll burn it, once you’ve read it. That you’ll tell no one of what it says. Promise me, Berkeley.’
‘But– ’
‘No buts. You’re my son, Berkeley. In every sense that matters. When you read the letter - remember that. Promise you’ll do as I say!’ He lay back, gasping. The effort of speaking had almost overwhelmed him.
Berkeley nodded his assent, anxious not to distress his father. ‘Yes, Dad. I promise.’ He gently laid his hands upon Duncan’s, and with a sigh, the dying man released his grip upon the Bible.
A minute passed in silence. Berkeley looked at the bedside clock, watching the second hand ticking off the last moments before nine o’clock.
21:00.
The light was beginning to fade beneath the leaden sky. Not the cheeriest day, this Midsummer’s Day. What a day on which to breathe your last.
The raucous cawing of magpies could be heard from outside. The monastic plainsong of magpies, thought Berkeley. He peered out of the window, and counted the black and white birds, strutting across the neatly manicured lawn below. Seven magpies, searching for fat worms. What did the old rhyme say about that?
Duncan opened his eyes once more, and Berkeley immediately forgot about the magpies. ‘There is one more word I need to hear from you. From a Father to his son.’
Berkeley frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know you know the words, even though you were never baptised, or raised, as a Catholic. I need to hear them from you. Your absolution. I’m sorry, Berkeley, for not being what I should have been - to you - for so long. But now I need to hear those words.’
‘But I’m not a priest.’
‘We’re all play-actors. In more ways than one. I’m no Catholic. It might be too late for me, anyway, after years in service to the Enemy; I don’t know anymore. But it’s not too late for you... to choose a different path. Remember that. Just say the words, Father Butterworth.’
Baffled, Berkeley met his father’s clear gaze. His voice might be the merest shadow of what it had once been - but his bright eyes were undiminished. Berkeley raised his right hand; and voice trembling as he did so, he pronounced the words of absolution, making the sign of the cross.
‘Ego te absolvo.’
He leaned over and kissed his father on the forehead.
‘Thank you.’ Duncan looked at his son one last time, and smiled. Then he closed his eyes, and murmured. ‘You’d better send your mother in. I’ve some valedictory words for her too. Just her. Goodbye, my son.’
Berkeley stared at his father, feeling the long suppressed tears finally welling up within. He gripped the Bible tightly, and choked out: ‘Bye, Dad.’ He turned away, and practically ran for the door.
Six for Gold (Vespers)
Goldfinger
He's the man, the man with the Midas touch
A spider’s touch
Such a cold finger
Beckons you to enter his web of sin
But don’t go in
(Shirley Bassey)
Berkeley Butterworth felt uncomfortable holding his mother’s hand as they crossed the road. If Peter Addleton or any of his gang caught sight of him, he’d get a right royal piss-taking in school the next day. Or worse.
‘Don’t dawdle,’ snapped Maureen, practically dragging Berkeley along beside her. She stopped abruptly outside a weather-beaten black door with a polished brass knocker, surrounded by a circle of six brass magpies. How peculiar, thought Berkeley. He squinted, and read the Latin inscription beneath it: Qui dormiens suscitare debet. He would look it up later. The legend on the plate above the knocker was in English: ‘Felsham & Haslett, Solicitors. Office Hours - Monday to Friday, 10:00 am to 5:30 pm.’ Berkeley looked at his watch. Almost six o’clock.
‘Is it closed?’ he asked.
His mother looked down at him, then shook her head. She ignored the knocker, instead pressing the bell affixed to the left hand doorpost. A few moments later, the door opened a few inches, and a face appeared, cautiously looking out.
‘Mr Haslett? We’ve met before. I believe you’re expecting us.’
The door opened wider, revealing a short fussy-looking man, wearing an old-fashioned pinstripe suit with a white carnation for a buttonhole. He stood on the threshold, eyeing up the mother and son.
‘Yes, Mrs Butterworth. It’s been quite a while. Err… do come in. Down the passageway, and up the stairs. My office is the first door on the left.’
*
Josiah Haslett followed them up the stairs, wheezing as he did so. He gestured towards the office door, clearly inviting them to go before him. Maureen pushed the door open, and Berkeley got his first glimpse of Haslett’s other visitor, seated within.
‘Please, do sit down,’ urged Haslett. ‘Berkeley, let me introduce you to–’
‘I would prefer it,’ said the immaculately dressed man facing them - with a calm yet menacing authority in his voice that, Berkeley felt, brooked no dissent - ‘if Mrs Butterworth waited elsewhere, while we enacted our business. As per your late client’s request, I believe. Perhaps the reception area downstairs?’
‘Well, really!’ spluttered Maureen, her cheeks flaring. ‘We didn’t have to come today. All this “cloak and dagger” business - I had enough of that when Duncan was alive. If you think you can manipulate my son, now that he’s dead, you can think again.’ She pulled Berkeley closer to her. Instinctively, he felt afraid.
‘Mrs Butterworth, no one will harm your son,’ insisted Haslett. ‘My sincere condolences on the passing of your husband. A great loss. But the terms of his final testament are clear. I’ll speak to you in due course, naturally, about the will. But first, in accordance with Mr Butterworth’s wishes, Mr Pendergast and I must speak with Berkeley. Alone.’
Maureen released her son, fumbled with the ornate silver and black onyx brooch pinned to her jacket, and threw it onto Haslett’s desk. She turned to the seated man. ‘I’ll have nothing more to do with the Society, Pendergast. Do you hear? I’ll wait for you downstairs, Berkeley.’ She turned on her heel, and left the room without a backwards glance.
*
Josiah Haslett sat down behind his desk; smiled his weak, uneasily smile; and waved Berkeley towards a vacant chair. As he did so, the mantelpiece clock chimed six times.
18:00.
‘Do forgive your mother’s outburst,’ said Pendergast smoothly. ‘She and I have known each other for many years; I’m one of your father’s oldest friends. Grief can have an unbalancing effect, particularly on women of a certain age. She’ll come round. As you’ve doubtless gathered, my name is Pendergast.’ He gave Berkeley a smile that might have appeared congenial, but which the boy instinctively knew to be insincere. This man was dangerous.
Yet there was also something about him that was appealing, almost… seductive. He radiated power. The simple clear cut lines of his a la mode black suit, with its crimson lining, together with his shiny black shoes and narrow tie, ebony black hair and neat goatee, created a strong contrast to the fusty old fashioned tailoring of the older man. Though was Pendergast really the younger of the two? There was some suggestion of a far older man in those mesmeric watchful eyes…
Berkeley shivered.
‘Yes, well, let’s turn to the business in hand,’ said Haslett, leafing through the papers spread across his desk. ’I’ll try and put this into language that you can comprehend, Berkeley - you’re a clever boy, I’m told, but even so - you’re only eleven. Last month, wasn’t it - your birthday?’
Berkeley nodded. ‘Yes, sir. On the sixth of June.’
‘An auspicious day,’ murmured Pendergast. ‘One might even say, a superior day’. The way he said “superior” - with added emphasis - sent a chill down Berkeley’s spine.
‘Err… quite,’ said Haslett. ‘Some of what I must tell you will come as a surprise, Berkeley. A pleasant surprise, I hope. Now, all your life your family have lived in a fairly modest home. Your father, as you know, was a businessman; though as to the exact nature of that business… well, he’s always been rather - shall we say - discrete about it.’
‘I’ve never known about it,’ interrupted Berkeley. ‘I asked if I could see where he worked once - if he would take me to his office. He didn’t like it. I never asked again.’
‘One day, when you’re old enough, you can see for yourself,’ said Pendergast. ‘One day, your father’s business will be yours.’ There was that smile again. And those ever-watchful eyes.
‘But for now,’ continued Haslett, ‘the part of your father’s estate that he has left to you - which is much the biggest part - will be held in trust. Until your eighteenth birthday, Mr Pendergast and two other trustees will administer it. They also sit on the board of directors of your father’s business - Butterworth Holdings - and will continue to oversee its affairs, until you reach your majority. Company matters are not part of my remit; but as the Butterworth family solicitor, I handle legal matters regarding the estate itself. Your mother, rest assured, is generously provided for under the terms of your father’s will. She could, obviously, dispute the will, as surviving spouse–’
‘But she would be ill-advised to do so,’ added Pendergast. That unruffled hint of menace again.
‘I’m certain there’ll be no need to worry on that account,’ said the solicitor, dabbing at his forehead with his voluminous handkerchief. ‘Moving on… you’ll have a small allowance to draw upon yourself, Berkeley, which will increase incrementally year on year, until you turn eighteen. I think you’ll find it sufficient for the time being.’
‘How much money do I have altogether, sir?’ asked Berkeley. ‘I mean - from my father’s - what did you call it? - his–’
‘Estate?’ Berkeley nodded. ‘Well,’ said the solicitor - shuffling through the papers before him - ‘it’s all rather complicated: what with various funds, bonds, shares, property portfolios, and so forth. It’s not like there are bundles of banknotes hidden under the mattress.’ He chuckled lamely. ‘But um - this here’ - he pushed a slip of paper towards the boy - ‘will give you an idea of just how large your inheritance is.’
Berkeley picked up the proffered paper. He looked at the figure written upon it, with uncomprehending eyes. How many zeroes...?
He looked from the sweating Haslett to the smiling Pendergast, and back again. ‘My father left me - all this?’ he nodded at the slip. And inwardly, he thought about the letter that his father had given him - that painful secret letter he had read, and reread, and read again, before burning it, in the dark silent hours following his passing.
It didn’t make sense.
‘Sir, this must be a mistake. Not the money. But him, my dad - leaving it all - to me.’ He pushed the paper back across the desk. For some reason, the picture of Auric Goldfinger from his favourite 007 movie floated into his mind. He was looking forward to seeing the latest Bond film - The Spy Who Loved Me, due out next week - though, naturally, Roger Moore was no match for Sean Connery. And no Bond villain could ever be as memorable or menacing as Goldfinger…
He dismissed the image. He had no desire to emulate Goldfinger. He had been a cold, calculating monster. Rich beyond the wildest dreams of most - yet obsessed with becoming wealthier still. That wasn’t Berkeley. And whatever his personal failings, that hadn’t been his dad either - had it? No man ‘with a spider’s touch’ was he. That sounded more like this Pendergast.
‘It’s a mistake, don’t you see?’ he repeated.
‘No mistake, I assure you,’ said Pendergast, as silky as ever. ‘You’re Duncan’s sole heir. The inheritor of the Butterworth fortune. It’s understandable that you have many questions. We’ll answer them all, in time. But your father kept his true wealth hidden for a reason. You must do likewise, Berkeley.’ It was the first time he’d spoken his name. That faint hint of menace was now directed at Berkeley himself. ‘Understand?’
Slowly, Berkeley nodded. More secrets. He looked once again at the solicitor’s big desk - and spotted his mother’s discarded brooch. With a sudden movement, he reached out, and before Josiah Haslett could object, he snatched up the trinket, and slipped it into his pocket. ‘I’m keeping this,’ he said, in as strong a voice as he could muster - daring either man to object. Haslett gasped; but Pendergast simply smiled.
‘As you wish,’ he said, with a hint of condescension. ‘Just don’t show your mother, there’s a good boy.’
What was the Society she mentioned? wondered Berkeley. But he knew better than to ask that question aloud. Instead, he turned to the solicitor, and reached out a hand towards him. It was the gentlemanly, adult thing to do. He had no intention of shaking Pendergast’s hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Haslett. I should go to my mother now. Can I ask one more thing before I leave?’
‘Oh? Wh-what?’ said the solicitor, taking hold of Berkeley’s outstretched hand.
‘Whatever happened to Mr Felsham? Your - partner? Isn’t that what you call it, with solicitors?’
Mr Haslett let go of the boy’s hand abruptly, as it suddenly scalded. He said nothing, but looked aghast.
It was the saturnine Mr Pendergast - his eyes firmly fixed on Berkeley - who gave answer to what the boy had intended as nothing more than a flippant parting shot.
‘He died, Berkeley. He died.’ He stood up, but didn’t offer his hand. ‘Goodbye - for now. We’ll be in touch.’
Without another word, Berkeley turned to the door of the solicitor’s office, feeling both shaken and stirred.
Five for Silver (None)
Mercury marches –madcap rover,
Patron of pilf’rers. Pert quicksilver
His gaze begets, goblin mineral,
Merry multitude of meeting selves,
Same but sundered
(C S Lewis)
‘Butterworth, did you hear me? Or are you daydreaming again?’
With a start, Berkeley looked up. ‘Sorry, sir?’ He looked at the clock on the wall.
15:00.
Just twenty minutes left until the conclusion of the school day.
Mr Plumtree tutted, and shook his head. ‘I appreciate that double science is not your preferred way of ending the week, Butterworth. Would you like me to repeat the question?’
Titters right across the classroom. Berkeley blushed, and nodded his head.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What is another name for the metal mercury?’
‘Quicksilver, sir.’
‘Well done. And why was it so-called?’
‘Because it’s the only metal to take the form of a liquid at room temperature. It’s used in thermometers. And it’s shiny.’
‘Good. Anything else?’
‘The Roman god Mercury was the messenger of the gods, associated with speed and mobility. So that’s how the metal acquired its other name. In mediaeval alchemy, each of the seven known metals were associated with the known planets - one metal for each planet. So Mercury was also the name of the innermost planet. The one that circles the Sun in a shorter time than any other.’
‘Astronomical folklore rather than practical chemistry - but spot on,’ said Plumtree, impressed despite himself. Butterworth was a bright lad. When he could be bothered…
‘Turn to page 57,’ he continued. ‘I want you to spend the next ten minutes reading, and noting three specific scientific qualities of mercury in your exercise books.’ Groans across the room. ‘Stop that! No talking, and no snoring either. If you get on quietly, I’ll even let you out five minutes before the final bell.’
As incentives go, it was pretty feeble. But it seemed to work. After a minute or two of silence, the teacher reached over and picked up an exercise book from the pile of first year books on one side of his desk. He might be able to mark half a dozen whilst Form 2B was getting on…
He didn’t notice the screwed-up ball of paper that landed on Berkeley Butterworth’s desk. Berkeley sighed quietly, and slowly unfolded the paper. The handwriting was familiar, but he’d already guessed who had lobbed it, with considerable accuracy. Peter Addleton might be mentally challenged, but he was the best bowler in the class. He read:
After school, Butterballs. You’ll need feet made of quicksilver if you fink you can get past us.
*
They were waiting for him on the far side of the road, loitering just outside the main gate. Addleton and his four cronies, hovering there in their black blazers and trousers, and white shirts: resembling nothing more than five mean magpies, anticipating some fun, though Berkeley. He knew it was hopeless to try to outrun them. That would only make them madder. Besides, there was no hope of ever getting past Lanky Larson, the tallest, leanest and fastest member of Addleton’s gang. He might as well submit. It would be no more than a bloody nose, a Chinese burn, and a few kicks to the ribs, if he was lucky. It was better than being ambushed in the bogs. Last time they had done that they had almost drowned him, he was certain.
Addleton smiled as he caught sight of his prey. He glanced across at Wiggins, who was keeping lookout, making sure there were no pesky teachers nearby who might interfere (although most staff at Kalekirk High were entirely disinterested as to what pupils might get up to once outside the school gates). Wiggins nodded insouciantly, whistling, hands deep in his pockets. Addleton relaxed. Time for some sport.
He sauntered across the street towards Berkeley, his lieutenants falling into step alongside him. ‘Ready for your beating, Butterballs? Or do you think some poncey Greek god is gonna come to your rescue?’
‘Mercury’s Roman - not Greek - twatface,’ said Berkley. He bit his lip. Fuck. What possessed him to say that? Thinking it was one thing, but actually saying it…?
Shit.
He was in for it now. He could see the split-second disbelief on Addleton, immediately giving way to rage.
‘Right, you little toerag,’ hissed Addleton, his face turning purple. His fists were bunched up, and he looked at his companions. ‘Get him!’
There was just one hope, thought Berkley. Best to avoid Larson and that big bruiser Skilbeck; but there was a slight gap between Wiggins and McKillop. Perhaps, just perhaps - it was probably hopeless, but he had to try.
If only he was like that other Quicksilver - the Marvel comic book character. He was a mutant, one of the X-Men; blessed with superhuman speed, lightning reflexes and extraordinary stamina. If only…
The circle was tightening. It was now, or never.
Berkeley darted for the gap. He saw McKillop sneering, and Wiggins extending his foot to trip him up. He swerved, and found himself running straight towards Addleton himself. There was no chance now. He attempted a desperate burst of speed, aware it was futile, and closed his eyes - knowing he was about to make contact with Addleton’s lunging fists…
…and opened his eyes to find himself diving headlong over the patterned sofa that occupied pride of place in his mother’s drawing room. One moment he had been about to hurtle into the unforgiving clutches of his mutton-headed nemesis; the next he was going arse over tit at 5, Whitmore Avenue. His head narrowly avoided connecting with the corner edge of the glass coffee table.
For a full two minutes he lay there, sprawled across his mother’s beloved fake bear-skin rug, gasping for breath, his heart pounding.
What the hell had just happened?
*
That was the first time. A sprained ankle from his awkward landing was the only slight misfortune he had suffered; it was certainly preferable to a beating from Addleton’s gang (who, strangely enough, started to avoid him now, muttering uneasily amongst themselves if he passed even a little too close for comfort).
Initially, Berkeley discovered, his new-found powers of teleportation only worked when he was under a degree of stress. The next time he employed them happened to be after a shopkeeper had spotted him nicking some fags. The protesting shopkeeper had given chase, and Berkeley had run around a corner, only to realise he’d entered a dead-end alley. With the puffing retailer hot on his heels, he had launched himself at the wire fencing that closed off the alley, hoping he might somehow be able to scramble to the top, and heave himself over. As before, he found himself instantly transported to another random place: this time the riverbank where in happier days his father had taken him fishing. He teetered for a moment or two on the edge of the bank, before regaining his balance.
For days afterwards, he wondered if the cops would turn up at his home, pursuing him for his petty larceny. But no knock on the door came. Nevertheless, he made a mental note to avoid that part of town in future.
He read more about the Roman god Mercury - and his Greek equivalent Hermes - and was amused to discover that as well as being the messenger god, and the god of travellers, he was also patron god of thieves. That kind of made sense, he thought.
Pilfering stuff was really nothing new for him. After all, there was Declan Duffy’s Ma’s rosary, and his own mother’s silver candlesticks. Plus her discarded brooch - though maybe that didn’t count. She’d thrown it away herself, after all.
As he sat on the river bank, puffing away at the first of the cigarettes he had purloined during his recent ‘jaunt’ - yes, that was what they called it on The Tomorrow People, wasn’t it? - Berkeley took out the brooch from his pocket. He often examined it; for it was a fascinating object, not least because of the Latin words inscribed upon it that he had seen somewhere else before. It had taken him a while to make the connection; even once made, he was none the wiser…
*
Berkeley had just turned thirteen. He was becoming aware of the dramatic physical and psychological changes that his body was undergoing; and alongside that, he was also wrestling with the fact that his burgeoning sexual interest was directed towards members of his own sex. Girls, in his opinion, were silly and capricious. They did nothing for him sexually; whereas there were a few boys in his class whom he liked very much indeed. Like Charlie Gupta. And Max Dalton. And Skipper Sheridan. But he knew better than to share his feelings with anyone else - least of all the boys who were the objects of his desire…
Learning to control his jaunting techniques simply made adolescence even more complicated for Berkeley than it already was for his peers.
If only he could meet someone who was like himself: ‘same, not sundered.’
Four for a Boy (Sext)
To live is to change,
And to be perfect is to have changed often
(Cardinal John Henry Newman)
Fourteen is a terrible age to fall in love.
The focus for Berkeley’s newfound affections was a blue-eyed fair-headed dreamboat called Cuthbert Caulfield. Berkeley had laughed out loud when first introduced to him: and had received a hefty punch in return. It wasn’t (as Caulfield had initially assumed) because the other boy was amused by his sharing a surname with Salinger’s famous distillation of teenage angst and rebellion. Rather, it was his somewhat unusual Christian name that had struck a chord, reminding Berkeley of those childhood games in the shed-cum-chapel at the bottom of his garden. Eventually, he had plucked up the courage to tell Cuthbert about his ‘playing at priest’ games. And it was Caulfield who, naturally, had rechristened him Aidan.
Berkeley had met Cuthbert in his first week at Cardinal Newman. After twelve months of persistent hectoring, his mother had finally acquiesced to his request for a transfer from Kalekirk - in truth a pretty mediocre grammar school - to the fourth year of the rival Catholic High School.
*
‘I don’t want to be a priest,’ he stressed, unconvincingly. ‘But I’ve never been happy at Kalekirk. Everyone says Cardinal Newman’s a better school.’
Maureen gave him a sceptical look. Always she had said No: and always he had asked again. She folded her hands across her knees, and considered how best to deflect him this time.
‘The fees are quite substantial, Berkeley, for a non-Catholic pupil. I could manage them, just about - but it wouldn’t be easy.’
‘I’ll help, from my allowance.’
She laughed. ‘That will only pay a fraction of the cost.’
‘Every penny I have,’ he insisted. ‘Whatever it takes.’ A cunning thought popped into his head. ‘You keep refusing, mother. Perhaps I should write to Mr Pendergast, and ask him to help.’
‘You will not,’ she answered sharply. ‘Stay away from him, Berkeley - do you hear?’
‘Why do you hate him so much?’
She bit her lower lip. Studiously avoiding his question, she admitted defeat. ‘Very well. I’ll ring Cardinal Newman tomorrow.’
*
Berkeley looked at himself in the hallway mirror. The same familiar clownish face, alas: but he liked the uniform. Okay, the grey shirt and black trousers were unremarkable. But he approved of the purple and yellow striped tie; and the stylish cut of the green jacket. Best of all was the badge bearing the heraldic device of four garden birds - a magpie, woodpecker, finch and sparrow, representing the school’s houses, each facing in a different direction - together with the school motto: Vivere est mutare (‘to live is to change’), part of one of Cardinal Newman’s most often-quoted aphorisms. He was to be a magpie, and had been placed in ‘Four Magpie’ - 4M for short.
Maureen appeared behind him, and gave him an unexpected hug. Maternal shows of affection from Mrs Butterworth were rare. Was she trying to reassure him that she had truly accepted his desire to go to a Catholic school? Whatever her motive, he was grateful.
The doorbell rang. Who could that be? He answered the door - and froze.
Pendergast stood there, smiling. ‘Ready for your new school? You look smart, Berkeley.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’ve brought the limo.’ He winked at the silent Maureen. ‘Hop in.’
*
‘You know, time is just another dimension,’ mused Cuthbert Caulfield. They had just made love, again, on a mouldering mattress in the disused basement room beneath the gymnasium that they had discovered three weeks before. As so often after a bout of pyretic passion, their minds had propelled them to other matters. Their mental sparring was as important to them as their more physical jousting.
‘If you can move in any direction in space,’ he continued, ‘moving any direction in time ought to be just as easy.’
‘Except it isn’t,’ replied Berkeley testily. He stared at Cuthbert. It was now or never. ‘Believe me,’ he continued, ‘I’ve tried.’
Cuthbert laughed: but seeing the seriousness of the look on his friend’s face, he stopped. ‘What do you mean, Aide?’
‘Remember when I told you about the boys that used to bully me? At my old school?’
‘Yeah. You said it stopped after a while. But you never said why.’
So Berkley told him.
*
The silence between them seemed to last forever. Then–
‘God, you’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘Cuthie, I’d never lie to you.’
‘You can really teleport - like in Blake’s 7?’
‘Jaunting, I call it - not teleporting. But yeah.’
‘Bloody hell. Like - how far?’
Berkeley shrugged. ‘I don’t usually try more than a few miles at a time. More than that is draining. Though my range is gradually improving; as also my control. I don’t materialise on railway lines or in Mrs Hollins’ bathroom any more.’
His friend looked at him in disbelief, then started laughing hysterically. They embraced each other, and kissed; and in that moment, Berkeley knew he would never love another like he loved Cuthbert Caulfield.
‘Never mind “jaunting” a few miles, Aide,’ whispered Cuthbert. ‘Can you manage materialising inside me - the normal way - again?’
*
Fifteen minutes later, as they were dressing in haste, Berkeley said bleakly, ‘It’s not normal, though, is it?’
Cuthbert finished knotting his tie. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Not according to this school. Or the Catholic Church. Or most people. They don’t think that we’re normal. We’re not Homo superior - to them. We’re Homo inferior - sub-humans. Or just plain homos.’
‘Then teach me to jaunt,’ said Cuthbert. ‘If it all gets too much - we can escape. Just like–’
He snapped his fingers.
‘That!’
Berkeley tried to smile, but without success. ‘I don’t believe it works like that. I don’t think I could teach you - it’s something about me. I don’t know…’ He trailed off.
‘You mean like your genes?’
Berkeley nodded. ‘Sort of. Though there’s more to it than that.’ He thought of Pendergast. ‘There’s something else. I don’t know - mystical? Spiritual? Something–’
He wanted to say dark. But he didn’t.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the brooch. He handed it to Cuthbert.
‘This was my mother’s. See the words, in small letters, written round the edge? It’s Latin. It means “The Sleeper Must Awaken.”’
Cuthbert examined the brooch, shrugged his shoulders, and handed it back. ‘You’re much better at languages than I am. So what?’
‘There’s more. I saw the same motto at the office of my dad’s family solicitor. I think it might be a password - or a motto - something like that, anyway. Of a secret Society. My parents were part of it. I think my father was pretty high up in it. And I think–’
He gulped.
‘I think,’ he continued, ‘that I’m important to this Society, somehow. That they know about my power. Or suspect about it, at least. I think they want to use me. I’m afraid, Cuthie. Afraid that one day, they’ll come for me.’
‘Hush,’ soothed Cuthbert Caulfield, embracing his friend. ‘No one’s going to take you away from me. Not now - not ever.’
Beep beep.
The alarm on Berkeley’s digital watch told them that their ‘free period’ was over.
12:00.
Time to be elsewhere.
Three for a Girl (Terce)
I may be right, I may be wrong
But I’m perfectly willing to swear
That when you turned and smiled at me…
(Maschwitz & Sherwin)
Berkeley’s abilities were developing fast. Provided he had a focus - a photograph was best - he had now mastered the technique of jaunting across a distance of hundreds of miles. Churchill’s War Rooms, Stonehenge, Glastonbury Tor, the caves of Cheddar Gorge, the cloisters of Iona Abbey… he had visited them all, and many more places besides.
Gradually, Berkeley became convinced that he should be able to teleport with another living person. After all - he’d reasoned - the clothes he was wearing had travelled with him. He experimented by filling his pockets with various objects, and shouldering larger and weightier rucksacks: then carefully concentrating his mind, just as he had learnt to do. Depending on how far the distance, and how great the burden being carried, his efforts were more or less tiring. But the principle seemed clear: he could travel with anything he happened to be wearing, or holding. In theory.
His successful jaunt to the summit of Scafell Pike with Nathan Nethercot’s pet rat in his raincoat pocket was the clincher. Twenty minutes later he was back behind the school bike sheds stroking Tickles, who seemed none the worse for the journey.
The first transdimensional passenger, thought Berkeley. One day, you might be as famous as Laika the dog.
*
That evening he told Cuthbert about his latest breakthrough.
‘So, where do you want to go for your first trip?’
Cuthbert pushed aside his homework, frowning. ‘This blasted algebra is impossible.’
‘You’re in the top maths set, Cuthie. Stop complaining - it’ll be a cinch for you. Were you listening to what I was saying?’
Cuthbert smirked. ‘Course. But I’m not your lab rat. Stick to Tickles.’
‘Don’t you remember, you wanted me to teach you to jaunt?’ persisted Berkeley. ‘Well, I can’t do that. But this is practically the same. I’ll always be the designated driver - but now you can come along for the ride!’
But try as he might - even when he repeated the experiment with Nethercot’s pet before his friend’s distrustful eyes - Berkeley could not persuade Cuthbert to join him on one of his jaunts.
*
Berkeley understood Cuthbert’s caution. He’d freely admitted the close calls he’d experienced in his early experimental days. What was it Han Solo had said to Luke Skywalker?
‘Travelling through hyperspace ain’t like dusting crops, boy.’
Well, he’d not drowned himself, or been run over by an articulated lorry. He’d make sure Cuthbert was safe. A short journey, to start with.
But still the answer was No.
Berkeley began thinking in a different direction. Cuthbert kept insisting that, mathematically, time was just another dimension. What if that was so? If Berkeley could conquer movement in the three dimensions of space, why not the fourth dimension of time? No time machine required. He just needed to unlock another potentiality within his Homo superior mind.
Perhaps if he used a visual focus. Photographs had helped him hone his space-hopping talents. What if they could help him learn how to jaunt through time?
When to first? The Beatles playing in the Cavern Club in Liverpool? Or how about Caesar’s invasion of Britain? No - that would be too much for a first attempt. And there were no photographs to serve as a focus. Something in the relatively near past would be best. Something from a more personal perspective...
Of course. It was obvious.
His mother kept the perfect photograph upon her bedside table.
A photo marking the event that had given him his name.
*
Duncan Butterworth slowly read back the words of his latest diary entry:
June 6th 1956. Bumped into the most gorgeous girl today. Literally. Green Park tube station was unexpectedly closed, and I was running late for work. Heard some big clock chiming 09:00 in the distance - maybe Big Ben? Probably not near enough for that. It was damn annoying, since I was due to meet the mysterious Mr Pendergast today. Had to cut across the overground, and lost my bearings. Running thro Berkeley Square, not looking where I was going. Slap bang into this girl. So embarrassing: but she was pretty forgiving. She’d been feeding the magpies. Taking photographs of them too, she said, pointing to three of them, standing close together. A change from feeding pigeons, I said. Or nightingales, she replied. I didn’t get it - at first. Like the song, she said. A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square. God, I felt like a fool. Then she kissed me. Just like that. It’s weird - there we were, in broad daylight - but no one seemed to notice. Except this lad, standing there, gawking. He was wearing the strangest clothes. It was odd. One moment he was there, the next - not. Such a queer day. The girl’s name was Maureen. You never see nightingales in London, she told me - not really. We sat on a bench, chatting for ages. She gave me her landlady’s telephone number. And got a passerby to take a photograph of us with her camera. A Leica M3. Pretty impressive. Never met such a forward girl before. Felsham was livid when I finally got in at 10:00. Pendergast didn’t show up either.
Duncan picked up his ink pen, dipped it into his pot of Quink, and added:
I think I’m in love.
Two for Joy (Matins)
O loving wisdom of our God!
When all was sin and shame,
A second Adam to the fight
And to the rescue came
(Cardinal Newman)
Berkeley was ecstatic. It was days after the time-travel experiment before he was able to try anything else. He even wondered if he had lost his powers. But his fears of ‘burnout’ were unfounded. When he began testing his faculties again, he discovered that other abilities were beginning to manifest themselves. It might just be pushing copper pennies, for now: but he was doing it, with his mind. And it wasn’t just telekinesis. Now and then he would catch the odd stray thought from a passerby entering his mind. In other words: telepathy.
Were there others like him? he wondered. Or was he the very first Homo superior to ‘break out’ into the world?
Since observing his parents’ first meeting, Berkeley had made other attempts to time-travel, without success. It was frustrating. Churchill’s War Room seemed like a good choice: why wouldn’t it work? He’d tried Iona Abbey - once the home of St Aidan - though, of course, there were no photographs of the place dating back to its foundation in 563. Nothing. Perhaps the emotional connection had to be particularly strong. What could be stronger than one’s own parents’ love at first sight?
His love for Cuthbert, perhaps.
The night before his fifteenth birthday, Berkeley made a decision. He was convinced that Pendergast and the mysterious Society would move against him soon. They would seek to entice him - seduce him - entrap him. Just like his parents. He had to escape. And he would take Cuthbert with him. Tomorrow. He would delay no further. He wrote a note for his mother. He hoped she would understand.
He felt more tired than usual that evening. He would sleep well, for sure. And the next day…
*
‘He’s coming around, Master.’
‘Hello, Berkeley. Happy birthday. It’s 06:00 in the morning. We’re overjoyed to see you.’
His headache was excruciating: even so, he knew that voice. He opened his eyes. Pendergast’s smile was more repellent than ever. Berkeley looked around, taking in his surroundings. It was a dimly-lit room, without visible windows: a dungeon. He was shackled to a pillar. On the far side of the room, bound to an identical pillar, but additionally gagged, was his friend and lover. Between them there was an altar covered with strange esoteric objects that pulsated with evil.
There were five others in the room besides Pendergast, all wearing identical coarse woollen robes. Each had an insignia pinned to their robes: wrought in silver and black onyx, a stylised magpie. Their cowls had been thrown back, revealing their faces. In addition to Pendergast, Berkeley recognised two others. One was his father’s solicitor, Josiah Haslett. The other was his own mother.
Maureen smiled at her son. ‘Thank you for your note. Thoughtful to the very end. You left it too late, though. And as you can see, we brought Cuthbert here too.’
‘Two new magpies,’ continued Pendergast smoothly. ‘Two for joy. Our joy, naturally. Not necessarily yours. That’s your choice, Berkeley. You were destined for this moment, from the day you were born. On the sixth minute of the sixth day of the six month of the sixty-sixth year of this century. Surely you learnt enough from your Catholic teachers about the Book of Revelation to glean what that means? You can be the first of a new humanity: truly Homo superior, with extraordinary powers. But if you refuse, we will destroy you both. So: which will it be?’
One for Sorrow (Nocturns)
Seven times a day do I praise thee
because of thy righteous judgments
(Psalm 119:164)
Aidan put aside the manuscript. His contemporaries would not decipher it. Written in Modern English, it told the tale of two boys - their friendship, their love, their parting.
Seven years ago: fourteen centuries to come.
*
‘Which will it be?’ repeated Pendergast.
In answer, Berkeley’s mind blazed forth, engaging every sinew, fibre, fundament of his psyche. The cords tying both boys snapped asunder, the diabolical altar was overturned, and Pendergast’s shrieking acolytes were thrown against the wall. As the floor heaved and the pillars cracked, Berkeley crossed the short distance to Cuthbert, still gagged, lying on the ground in a swoon. He embraced him. Their eyes met; and Berkeley felt Cuthie’s mind touch his.
‘I love you, Aide. Forever.’
Berkeley closed his eyes. An image of one place formed in his mind. He ignored the despairing cries and the crescendo of chaos rising about them.
Every fundament... focused on the Abbey. A safe haven. A dream given form. The path was clear.
Someone had grabbed him. Unbalancing him. Pendergast. Shouting above the tumult.
‘My son!’
Berkeley was losing control…
Everything was crashing down.
Blackness.
*
He didn’t know where - or when - Cuthbert had ended up. But he could make a shrewd guess.
As for Pendergast - God alone knew.
He knew his history well. One day Aide would search for Cuthie along the slow path. His former powers had died. Overloaded. As dead as his digital watch, last vestige of a future life.
The bell was ringing for Nocturns. Was it 03:00 now? Best guess.
The lone magpie, Murgatroyd, that had befriended the man once called Berkley cawed at the window of his cell.
Singing the monastic plainsong of a solitary magpie.
Commentary
The important abbey of Iona was founded by the Irish monk St Columba in 563. St Aidan was an Irish monk born in about 590 who spent much of his early life at Iona, before founding a new centre at Lindisfarne in about 634. From here he was responsible for the conversion of the kingdom of Northumbria to Christianity. He died in 651. St Cuthbert was born in about 634, and lived in boyhood in the Scottish Borders. In 651, on the night Aidan died, he witnessed a great light in the sky, which he later interpreted as angels carrying the soul of Aidan heavenward. He became a monk, eventually becoming Bishop of Lindisfarne, and continuing the missionary work of his predecessor Aidan to great effect. He died in 687.
As monasticism developed, the tradition of praying seven times daily became central to Christian religious life. The name and times of the so-called ‘canonical hours’ of prayer have varied: the scheme suggested by the chapter titles and timings mentioned in The Book of Hours is not intended to be definitive. The attentive will have spotted that the ‘counting down’ of the ‘hours’ from one chapter to the next is accompanied by a progressively shorter narration: time is literally ‘running out’ on Berkeley as the story progresses.
This story began as a Prose Challenge featuring the line (supplied by Hunter Graham) ‘The Monastic Plainsong of Magpies’. The well-known folk-song about magpies provided chapter headings (in reverse) and themes as the story unfolded. An earlier and slightly different form of the first chapter was submitted as a stand-alone piece to the Prose Challenge proper, entitled Homo Superior.
And of course Aide was reunited with Cuthie before his life’s end. The historical timeline allows for it. How could it have been otherwise?