Journey from Darkness Read online

  GARETH CROCKER

  & LLEWELLYN CROCKER

  Journey from Darkness

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Part 1 Ghosts in the River

  Prologue I

  Prologue II

  Prologue III

  Prologue IV

  Part 2 The Great Grey

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part 3 The Ancient Trail

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Part 4 The Blood Hut

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Author’s Note – Gareth Crocker

  Author’s Note – Llewellyn Crocker

  A Final Word from the Authors

  For the real Derek, Edward, Ernest and Morgan.

  Brothers and uncles, long since departed.

  And for the elephants.

  When arriving at a place where an elephant has died – even years after the animal’s passing – many elephants will stop walking and stand, motionless, often for minutes on end. Experts believe this is both an act of mourning and a gesture of respect for those who have fallen, unique among all living things.

  It is known, simply, as an elephant pause.

  PART 1

  Ghosts In The River

  Prologue I

  6 December 1901

  King’s Cross Reformatory, London

  A predatory fog, the kind that severed hands and feet from sight, crept up the banks of the Thames and stalked through London’s grey and cobbled streets. It was a wraithlike creature whose breath turned flesh and bone into coughs of shadow and made phantoms of passing carriages. As it trawled between buildings, a soft and settled rain sweated from its back. In an alleyway, a torch lit up the edges of a sign mounted above a metal and wood-panelled door.

  King’s Cross Reformatory

  ‘Submit yourselves to your masters’

  1 Peter 2:18

  Father Gabriel removed his gloves, withdrew from his robe a single, crooked key – like the curve of a dead man’s finger – and unlocked the heavy door. As he pushed from the street into the ivy-clad courtyard, a large crowd of boys clapped and cheered his arrival.

  As was now an established and highly anticipated tradition at King’s Cross Reformatory, the first and last Friday of every month were ‘Fight Night’. An opportunity for the boys to settle their differences safely, channelling their anger in a way that the priests could control. While frowned upon by some, the priests at King’s Cross – and Father Gabriel in particular – were adamant that the orchestrated bouts prevented more serious fights from erupting in their absence. It was a claim borne out by the facts. Over the past year, only a handful of minor skirmishes had broken out in the dormitories; a calm drizzle compared to the violent deluge of previous years. The near death of a fifteen-year-old boy, stabbed with a pair of scissors three years before, remained foremost in the minds of all the priests. Many of the errant boys in their care were capable of adult levels of brutality. Some, in fact, had been sent to King’s Cross for crimes committed against their own parents.

  Father Gabriel bent over and stepped between two sagging ropes. The boxing ring was little more than a crude wooden stage and four old mattresses lashed to wooden posts, but it sufficed. He raised his arms and waited for the boys to settle down. Then, turning in a slow arc, he reached into his robe and fished from it an old wooden whistle. He looked up at the indistinct figures standing beyond the torches on the embankment and in the dark corridors flanking the courtyard. Dulled by both the fog and the encroaching night, their faces appeared almost featureless in the gloom – without identity. Just as they appeared under bright sun and clear skies to the majority of London’s aristocracy, he thought.

  ‘King’s Cross … what is our abiding rule?’ he called out, wiping the rain from his furrowed scalp.

  ‘That which is brought here,’ the boys answered in chorus, ‘ends here.’

  Father Gabriel closed his eyes. ‘There is no shame in defeat and no glory in victory. Only courage and honour between brothers.’

  The boys repeated the line.

  ‘May the Lord forgive us our sins and may that which divides us today, bind us tomorrow.’

  ‘Amen,’ the faceless boys chimed, completing the now-routine exchange. With the formalities over, a nervous energy settled over the courtyard. Father Gabriel lowered his arms and turned his attention to the two curly-haired brothers standing in opposite corners of the ring. Despite the cold, both were bare-chested, their hands made heavy by boxing gloves too large for them. It was a familiar scene. What was not familiar were the young fighters in question.

  ‘Derek … Edward … are you certain you wish to proceed?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Derek replied immediately.

  With notably less enthusiasm, Edward nodded his agreement.

  ‘Very well, then. You know the rules. No kicking. No head butts. No biting. Keep your punches up at all times. The fight will last precisely two minutes or until one of you gets knocked down. If you’ve had enough, raise a glove. When I blow the whistle to end the fight you shake hands and make your peace. You leave your quarrel in the ring. Understood?’

  Derek’s gaze remained locked on his brother. ‘Understood.’

  Although normally close, the Hughes twins had been at each other’s throats for days. Father Gabriel was not privy to all the particulars, but was told that their dispute had been sparked by an incident during a football match and further stoked by the duplicitous affections of a girl from a nearby convent. But the details were of minor significance. As far as Father Gabriel was concerned, all that mattered was that the boys were given a chance to clear the fetid air between them, and fast; the faintest of infections quickly festered in a reformatory.

  Orphaned as children, Derek and Edward had been raised at King’s Cross not as a consequence of any deviant behaviour, but simply because there had been nowhere else for them to go. Once their grandmother had passed away, they had exhausted a very short list of relatives who could take them
in. Now, as young men, they were two of the reformatory’s brightest lights. Lights that, for the moment, flickered uncertainly in the cold London rain.

  Father Gabriel lifted the whistle to his lips, recited a quick Hail Mary, and gave a sharp blow. As expected, Derek took off from his corner, bounding into the middle of the ring. A foot taller and more than a stone heavier than Edward, he immediately went on the offensive, swinging wildly with both arms. But what he possessed in bulk and strength, he lacked in technique and speed. By comparison, Edward was agile and quick on his feet, measured, able to avoid the blows with relative ease. He was also something of a boxing scholar and immediately began to bob and weave as though he had been doing it for years. Most of Derek’s punches either missed their mark entirely, were blocked by Edward’s gloves or glanced harmlessly off his brother’s arms and shoulders.

  ‘It’s a fight, Edward. Not the bloody Queen’s Ball,’ Derek yelled, his nostrils flaring with exertion. ‘What are you waiting for? Come on … throw something!’

  As Derek paused to regain his breath, Edward darted forward and fired off two straight jabs. Though not powerful blows, they snapped Derek’s head back and brought whoops and cheers from the crowd. ‘Like that?’ Edward asked, dancing on his toes.

  Wide-eyed and flushed with embarrassment, Derek launched into a fresh assault. One of the blows clipped the top of Edward’s head, another ghosted across his cheek, but again his combinations were unable to breach what was a surprisingly sturdy defence. Picking his moment again, Edward fired a short uppercut into Derek’s sternum. Though not powerful enough to end the contest, there was enough in it to bow his brother.

  ‘Last minute, boys,’ Father Gabriel announced.

  Edward watched as Derek struggled for breath, tears of frustration welling up. ‘What are we doing here, Derek? Can you even remember what we’re fighting about? If this is really just about Elizabeth, she’s not worth it. This is pointless.’

  ‘You want to stop?’ Father Gabriel asked, his whistle poised.

  ‘Yes,’ Edward answered, lowering his arms. ‘We should never have–’

  ‘No,’ Derek insisted, his eyes narrowing. ‘Put up your gloves. We’re not done yet.’

  Gritting his teeth, he hurled himself into one final attack. Charging forward, he threw jabs and hooks, uppercuts and straight rights and lefts, but still his blows had little effect. To the crowd’s growing incredulity, Edward continued to keep his more powerful brother at bay. But then, with only seconds remaining, Derek landed a body blow and noticed a slip in his brother’s guard, a slackening in his stance; a chink in his armour. It was a minor opening, barely a few inches wide, but it was all the window he needed. Straightening up, he pulled back his right arm and launched his fist through the breach. His glove connected just beneath Edward’s left eye. The force of the blow buckled his legs and he collapsed, poleaxed. Lying on his back, blinking away both the rain and a sudden tide of nausea, Edward tried to stand up but almost immediately crashed back down onto the glistening boards.

  Derek froze, as if unsure of what he was looking at, and then swooped down in shock. ‘No! Ed! Ed! What have I done? I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!’

  Trying to ignore what felt like a shattered skull, Edward opened his mouth to speak; to reassure Derek that there was nothing to apologise for, that it was a clean and fair punch, but his words slurred indecipherably.

  Derek’s eyes, swelling in a growing panic, darted between Father Gabriel and his brother. ‘He can’t talk, Father! What have I done?’

  ‘Calm yourself, Derek,’ he replied, fanning Edward with his handkerchief. ‘He’s just taken a blow, is all. Give him some air.’

  Yes … just a blow, Edward replied inwardly, but outwardly groaned and drooled like a newborn child. And then, in mid-gurgle, a phantom hand – grizzled and made black by the underworld – reached through the boards and pulled him under.

  Prologue II

  When Edward came around, he was lying sprawled out on a large wooden chair in the middle of Father Gabriel’s office. Light from a cobalt-and-yellow stained-glass lamp fell like a bruise across his cheek – a fitting foreshadow of what his face would look like in the coming days.

  ‘So you’re alive. Well, at least we can stow away the shovels,’ the priest said, pressing a damp cloth to Edward’s temple. ‘How are you feeling, son?’

  Edward cleared his throat and blinked in a futile attempt to focus his eyes. ‘Like I pulled Samson’s hair and he punched me in the face.’

  ‘So you know how you came to be here?’ the priest asked.

  A pained expression followed by a nod. ‘We were fighting. I think I was even winning. Right up until I lost. How long have I been out?’

  ‘Since yesterday.’

  Edward’s eyes widened.

  The ghost of a smile danced over Father Gabriel’s lips. ‘A few minutes.’

  ‘Where’s Derek?’

  ‘I gave him strict instructions to wait in the hallway. Threatened him with the Holy Spirit if he came in here,’ he said, glancing up at the infamous wooden cane hanging on the stone wall above the fireplace.

  ‘I’d better talk to him, Father. You know how he gets,’ Edward said in a low voice, and began to stand up.

  The priest clamped his hands over Edward’s shoulders and eased him back down. ‘Hold on a minute. Leave Derek be for a while. You don’t have your land legs yet. Besides, I want to talk to you about something.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ll get to that. Would you first like to see what your face looks like?’

  ‘Is it as bad as it feels?’

  ‘Worse. Infinitely worse,’ he suggested, lifting a silver tray from his desk.

  Edward accepted the tray and grimaced as he caught sight of his distorted reflection. The entire area covering his left cheek was bright red and swollen, the raised skin protruding almost comically away from his face. Thin tendrils of blood radiated out from the centre of his eye. ‘I guess this means Derek gets the girl.’

  ‘On the basis of what I’ve heard, I have a feeling that this … Elizabeth … is a prize not worth pining over,’ Father Gabriel said. ‘You know, that was some punch he caught you with. One of the best I’ve seen in a long time.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked it,’ Edward said, lowering the tray onto his lap. ‘I’m almost sorry I missed it.’

  Father Gabriel smiled and then sat down on the corner of his desk. He turned to his side and stretched his hands out towards the fireplace. The coal’s warm breath exhaled against his fingers, making them tingle. ‘You surprised me. You’re quite the boxer. Shades of a young Bill Mann. Where did you learn to fight like that?’

  ‘I’m quite the boxer?’

  ‘You said it yourself, you were winning. Up until those last few moments you were in complete control of the bout.’

  ‘I was joking about the winning part and, besides, fear does powerful things to a person,’ he replied, his words still slurring slightly. ‘As Father Bale often says, “If you want to see a cripple rise up and walk, set his chair on fire.” I wasn’t in control of anything.’

  ‘Really?’ Father Gabriel said, leaning forward. ‘I know you better than most, Edward. And for years I’ve watched you look out for Derek. He may be bigger than you, powerful as a bloody thunderstorm, but you’re able to cope with life better than he can. I know you’re only a few minutes apart, but sometimes the gulf between you seems a fair deal wider. Like it did today.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘Father, I really–’

  ‘Let’s speak honestly, shall we? We’re in the Lord’s house, after all. You dropped your guard on purpose. You let your brother punch you. I saw you do it, clear as day. There it is … the truth has been set free from its black tower. Don’t you feel better now?’

  Edward began to deny it, but was quickly cut off.

  ‘Don’t waste your breath, son. I know I’m right. I just wa
nt to understand why you did it.’

  Edward paused, swallowed, uncertain of how to proceed.

  ‘Out with it.’

  He held his expression briefly, stood his ground for a beat, before surrendering a sigh. ‘It just meant more to him. I could see it in his eyes. That’s all.’

  ‘So you just decided to drop your guard?’

  Edward shrugged, accepting the charge. ‘If I knew how hard he was going to hit me, I never would’ve done it.’

  ‘Oh yes, you would have.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Father. I’m just relieved it’s all over. We should never have been fighting in the first place.’

  ‘Well, this may surprise you … but I’m pleased you were.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘It proved something to me. Something I’ve been waiting to see for a while now.’

  ‘Again, I’m not sure what you mean, Father.’

  The fire hissed and spat an ember tooth onto the stone floor.

  ‘It showed me that you’re ready.’

  Edward’s frown remained.

  ‘Before I reveal any more, you should know what happened after you volunteered your face to your brother’s fist,’ he said, pushing to his feet. ‘Derek was beside himself with concern; more upset than I have ever seen him. The only reason he’s not banging down the door right now is because you came around briefly as you were being carried out of the ring and managed a few consoling words. That calmed him down somewhat.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘No idea, but it made him smile. Even laugh. Anyway, the point is that today’s events have clarified matters for me. I think you’re both finally ready.’

  ‘For what?’ Edward pressed, and then suddenly thought he knew what it was. ‘You think it’s time for us to leave King’s Cross. You want us to go. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  Shaking his head, Father Gabriel walked behind his desk and pulled open a drawer. ‘I’ve been holding onto this for a long time. Maybe too long.’ He withdrew a crumpled brown envelope and gently emptied its contents onto the table. ‘These belonged to your father. They were given to me the day you were brought here.’