That evening, after reading to his mum as she slept and enduring another silent tea with his dad, Alfie decided he needed to get out of the house, even though it was still cold. He threw on a heavy coat and some gloves and walked out into the blackness. There were no roadside lamps out on the headland, and low clouds had moved in that evening, which meant that it might rain and there would be no stars or moon that night. And now it was dark, that soft, velvety dark that country dwellers know well, where hands can only just be seen in front of eyes and every step has to be checked before taking the next.
So Alfie, no stranger to the country night anymore, pulled out his phone and shone its light on the path in front of him, but his battery was low, so after walking along the road to the rough, muddy track in the woods, he turned it off, and decided to shuffle and sense his way forward slowly instead. He headed along the track, towards the Abbey, knowing its layout well, and thinking of the many times he had sat beneath its crumbling stone walls, gazing at the full moon or watching the bats flutter by. As the track started to go downhill, he knew he was approaching the Abbey. After a few minutes, he sensed the dark shadow of one of the Abbey’s walls looming up in front of him and put out a hand to steady himself and to guide himself along its front wall, to the step where he would normally sit. As his hand went out, it touched not cold, hard stone but a soft, large, padded object.
“What the…!!!” shouted a man’s voice, and he felt the breeze of a great swing of an arm over the top of his head. It was a good job he’d been stooping, looking for the step.
Then, all hell broke loose. Spotlights flashed on all around him, torches, lamps and truck headlights. In a split-second Alfie could see he was surrounded by at least four men, the whites of their eyes picked out by the lights against the blackness of the night and their clothes. The closest was already coiling up again to grab him with both hands, another leapt out of a large hole he had been digging with a spade, wielding it like a mad axeman. Another two, by the truck, began to sprint towards him.
“Get heem!” rasped a voice that Alfie recognised. It was the giant goatee man, Poliakov.
Alfie fled. Ducking instinctively under the next haymaker punch, he pushed hard against the man, managing to overbalance him onto the floor, and ran for his life. Their flashlights flicked back and forth around him, sometimes he could see what was in front of him, next second, he could see nothing, and ran blindly into the blackness. He headed for the cliff, helter-skeltering down the grass slope, tripping, stumbling, skidding as he ran. He could hear them in close pursuit, shouting, angry and then suddenly a loud “crack” sheared through the air, and something whizzed past his head. They’re shooting at me!! he thought, ducking quickly. Another “crack” and a second bullet ricocheted off a rock to his left. Terrified, he ran even faster.
A shrill shout suddenly went up, “STOP SHOOTING! STOP IT!” from directly in front of him, and with a mighty “thwump” he ran at full pelt straight into someone. He fell sprawling to the floor. It started to rain heavily, a cloud burst, huge drops of icy rain fell on them like a waterfall. Dazed, Alfie jumped to his feet and there, illuminated in front of him, was Dr Finch. She swiftly grabbed hold of his arm and shoved him backwards onto the ground. The others had arrived now with more lights. Alfie looked up at her face. Rain was bouncing back up off her black, wide-rimmed, hat, and running in streaks down her oilskin coat. With an expression as cold as the night air, she walked menacingly towards him. Alfie shuffled backwards on all fours like a crab, slipping and sprawling, until his right hand suddenly fell away into nothingness, and he stopped, flat on his back.
He realised that he must be teetering on the cliff edge. The rain had made the cliff edge soft and slippery. Alfie, terrified, glanced down into the dark shadows below. The torrential rain had formed streams of running water that raced down the slope, coming from the higher ground of the Abbey, and fell as mini waterfalls over the cliff edge, and onto the rocks on the beach far below. Seeing Alfie hesitate, Dr Finch lunged forward with her boot, kicking Alfie further backwards, so that the cliff gave way under his weight, and he slid down over the edge, his hands flailing wildly for something to grip onto.
As he fell, everything seemed to go into slow motion. Instinctively his right hand felt and closed around a large root that was sticking out of the cliff face, leaving him dangling in mid-air. Loose stones and soil clattered around him and onto the rocks below. He looked back up and saw Dr Finch looking over the edge, peering down into the gloom. She could see Alfie hanging on with just one hand. She stooped down and picked up a rock close by her feet and raised it up ready to finish him. Alfie looked up through the rain into Dr Finch’s merciless eyes defiantly, readying himself for the blow that would send him tumbling onto the rocks below and to certain death.
“SOMETHING WEIRD THIS WAY COMES!” she shouted.
But the blow never came. Her expression changed, a look of puzzlement and confusion suddenly ranged across her face. She dropped the rock, which sploshed heavily into the soft mud by the side of her feet.
“I’m so sorry, boy!” she shouted back down the cliff. Then she turned her head and yelled, “Abort… ABORT!” and sprang quickly back away from the edge, disappearing from sight.
Alfie still dangled from the root. Above the noise of the rain, a truck engine revved hard, but Alfie could also hear the loud scream and whoop of a police siren. That’s what must have scared them off, he thought, the relief washing through his body.
Slowly, face and clothes streaked in wet, slippery mud, he found a foothold on the cliff and carefully inched his way up, until finally he managed to perch on a small ledge next to the root. Except it wasn’t a root, it was more like a piece of wood, it felt smooth or carved. In the darkness, Alfie put both his hands on it to try and loosen it. At the exact moment that both his hands touched it, the most extraordinary thing happened. It was like he was suddenly transported to another world. The rain had gone. He was sat on the ground next to a small tree, the air was scented with lavender, bright sunshine was warming the back of his neck. Beyond the tree, golden fields of rye were billowing in the light breeze, next to the sea. As his gaze came back round to his hands, he jumped in surprise. Someone else was holding the other side of the piece of wood, and it wasn’t just a piece of wood, but the stem of a wide polished wooden cup. It was a boy about his age with black hair, olive skin and brown eyes, who smiled and then gently released his side of the rim, at which point the dream collapsed and, all in that split-second, Alfie was back on the cliff face holding the cup in his hands, the rain and mud slurry falling away all around him.
Too shocked to process what had just happened, he focussed on how to get back up. With his face squashed up against the cliff, he slowly put some more weight on his left foot that was jammed into the ledge, and reached up as high as he could to grasp a tuft of grass growing at the very top of the cliff edge, managing to haul himself up onto the grass slope again, just as the ledge collapsed and fell away below. Cold and exhausted he quickly sat upright and looked around, but he was totally alone. All Dr Finch’s men had gone. But there was no sign of the police either. The rain lightened and Alfie managed to stand up, bruised and unsteady on his feet, still holding the cup. Soaked, and now shivering uncontrollably with cold and shock, he staggered back home as fast as he could.
Bursting through the front door, he shouted to his dad, but there was no reply. All the lights were blazing, and there was a half-finished meal on the kitchen table, but there was no sign of his father. He raced upstairs to his mum’s room, but she wasn’t there either. Her sheets were pulled over to one side. He touched the rounded impression left in the mattress with his hand, where his mum had lain, but it was cold. Idiot, he thought, and quickly pulled out his phone and switched it back on. Eight missed call messages pinged through.