By Royal Command

  James now turned to the other boys in the room, who were all watching closely in dead silence.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said. His voice loud and clear and firm. Then he walked steadily out of the room, being careful not to limp.

  Once safely outside he groaned and leant against the wall, his legs wobbling uncontrollably. He grimaced as he tenderly felt his wounded flesh with his fingers.

  He stayed like that until he was sure he could walk, and then hobbled down the stairs, along the lower passage and up again to his room where he threw himself face down on his bed. He would get his revenge on Bentinck one day. When the time was right.

  Pritpal knocked on the door a few minutes later but James said nothing and after a while he heard his retreating footsteps.

  He didn’t want to see anyone. He wanted to be alone with his dark thoughts. But the more he brooded, the more the image of Roan in the boat kept coming back to him, until it banished all the darkness and he found that he didn’t really care one jot about Bloody Bentinck.

  He fell asleep in his clothes, dreaming of the girl.

  12

  An Invitation and an Order

  ‘You’ve been looking rather uncomfortable these last few days, James. Ants in your pants?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m all right, sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir, no, sir, quite all right, sir!’ Mr Merriot was packing away his books after private business and had held James back.

  If James had been squirming in his seat it was because he still found it difficult to sit down after his beating. The bleeding had stopped and the wound was healing, but it was still very sore and he was covered in purple bruising. He had had to be careful around Bentinck, because he knew the boy would relish the chance of giving him another beating and opening up the wound gain.

  ‘You are quite sure there is nothing the matter?’ said Merriot. ‘Nothing I can help you with?’

  ‘I’m quite sure, sir.’

  ‘Your mind hasn’t been on your work lately, has it?’

  ‘I suppose not, sir. I do try…’

  Mr Merriot stuck his unlit pipe into his mouth and studied James’s order-card. The card showed how well James was doing in his lessons.

  ‘This is showing a distinct downward trend,’ said Merriot, the words muffled by the pipe. ‘If you don’t pull your socks up we might have to prepare for squalls ahead. How many rips do you have at present?’

  ‘Six this month, sir, and two yellow tickets.’

  ‘Hmm. Not good, not good.’ Merriot signed the order-card and handed it back to James before walking him to the pupil-room door.

  ‘I can’t say that I really blame you, James,’ he said, opening the door. ‘It must be difficult getting back into the swing of things after your time away, and all that has…’ Merriot paused, searching for the right words. ‘All that has happened.’

  Merriot was one of the few people in the school who knew what James had been through.

  ‘I try my hardest to keep your life here at Eton as straightforward as possible,’ he went on. ‘So that you can lead something approaching a normal life.’

  ‘I know, sir,’ said James. ‘But I suppose I’m just not that excited by Latin and Greek. I like the stories, but…’

  ‘He likes the stories, does he?’ barked Merriot, leading James out on to the street. ‘Well, that’s a start. The bloodier the better, I suppose?’

  ‘Maybe, sir,’ said James, and they both smiled.

  They set off down Common Lane towards the High Street, walking side by side. It felt good to be out in the fresh air and the bright sun. James liked Mr Merriot. He was clever, he had a sense of humour and he taught well. He also knew when not to push a boy too hard. He tried to make the boys’ lives at school fun and interesting and not too taxing. He was one of the few masters who seemed to realise that there was more to life than school.

  ‘You must thank your lucky stars you were not a pupil here in the early days,’ said Merriot. ‘Way back in 1440, when the school was built by good King Henry, you would have had to get up at five o’clock in the morning for prayers, then lessons at six – Latin. That’s all they taught – Latin. Latin in the morning and Latin in the afternoon and Latin at night.’

  They crossed the road by the Burning Bush and as they stopped by the entrance archway under Upper School a cloud passed over the sun. James shivered in the sudden chill. Summer was approaching, but the air was still cool.

  ‘And you were only ever allowed to speak in Latin,’ Merriot went on. ‘Woe betide any boy caught speaking English! He would have been soundly thrashed. Lessons finished at eight o’clock at night and there was one hour for play.’

  James wasn’t really listening. Something had caught his eye on the other side of the road. Someone was standing in the shadows between Durnford House and Hawtrey. James hadn’t noticed him before because in contrast to the bright sunlight on the pavement the shadows had been deep and black, but now that the sun had gone in and his eyes had adjusted to the lower light levels he clearly saw the familiar shape of a man, wearing a trilby and overcoat. It was only for an instant, and then the man sank back into the darkness and was gone.

  James had only seen the man for the briefest of moments, but it was enough to unsettle him. He could have sworn that it was the same man he had glimpsed before.

  Mr Merriot was still filling James in on a bit of Eton history. ‘There were two meals a day back then, and nothing on Fridays, which were fasting days. And do you know how many weeks’ holiday they had a year? Six! Not the luxurious sixteen you pampered lot get these days. Six weeks a year. Imagine! Three in the summer and three at Christmas, although they were only allowed to go home in the summer. So, Mister Bond, aren’t you glad you don’t live in the fifteenth century?’

  James mumbled a yes.

  ‘Me too.’

  Merriot winked at James and strode off through the archway, his pipe jutting out in front of him like the bowsprit of some great sailing ship.

  James turned and looked towards where the man had been.

  Could it be the same person? And why on earth would he be watching James? Following him? His life had been settled and happy lately, with nothing to worry about except Bentinck and his schoolwork. Was that it, though? Deep down inside, he knew that he needed excitement and danger to give flavour to his life. Was his bored brain inventing imaginary enemies and trying to create a fresh adventure for him?

  There was one way to find out.

  James checked that there was no traffic and sprinted back across the road and into the shadows. He looked in vain for the man as he worked his way through the warren of back alleys and gardens behind School Hall. He came out eventually on to the Eton Wick Road and looked to left and right. The sun came out again and glinted off an open window, catching his eye.

  There he was.

  On the corner of Keate’s Lane.

  James ran after him as he crossed the road and entered the gardens by Queen’s Schools. He had to dodge between some cyclists and momentarily lost sight of his prey, but he worked out that he must have gone into Jourdelay’s Passage, which ran along a row of masters’ houses.

  As James entered the alley, though, he found it empty. There was no sign of the man. Surely he couldn’t have made it to the other end already? Maybe he’d gone into one of the buildings?

  James walked slowly along, his senses alert to any noise or movement.

  Nothing. It was just a normal spring day in Eton.

  Unless the man hadn’t come this way at all?

  James set off back the way he had come, but just before he came to the end of the passage he heard running footsteps behind him and turned to see someone dashing out the other way on to the High Street.

  The man must have been hiding in a doorway.

  James wasn’t going to let him get away again. He was on to him in a flash, pumping hard over the flagstones, and he burst back into the sunlight at full pelt, skidding to a halt as a big coal lorry thundered up in
a cloud of smoke and grit. James just had time to register that he couldn’t see the running man before someone barged into him from behind and he was spilled into the road, directly into the path of the speeding lorry.

  He was aware of several things at once. A sharp pain in his knees and elbows as he landed on the tarmac. The squeal of tyres and hiss of the lorry’s brakes. A woman’s scream. A man’s shout. The roar of an engine…

  But no terrible crushing blow. No hideous impact of hot metal on soft flesh.

  Some deep-rooted animal part of his brain had made him move fast, without thinking. He had rolled between the wheels of the lorry and then flattened himself against the road surface.

  He was lying there, eyes closed tight, holding his breath, every muscle tensed, his nerve-endings tingling, ready for the awful pain that must surely come.

  He opened his eyes and twisted his head to look up at the underside of the lorry, which was rumbling and smoking. There was just enough space for him to lie there, unharmed.

  Shouts came from the pavement.

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Can you see him?’

  ‘What happened?’

  James shuffled sideways and crawled out from under the lorry.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m not hurt.’

  Someone helped him to his feet. Miraculously, there was not a scratch on him. The lorry driver climbed down from his cab, white as a sheet, half angry, half terrified.

  ‘You scared the living daylights out of me, son. What did you want to go and play a trick like that on me for?’

  ‘Someone knocked into me,’ said James, searching around for the man he had been following.

  ‘Come along, it’s not his fault,’ said a short plump woman, and she was backed up by a babble of voices, all talking at once.

  James wasn’t listening. He had spotted, on the opposite side of the road, near Tom Brown’s, a familiar coat and trilby hat.

  He tried to move off, saying he was unhurt, turning down offers of help, pulling away from hands that tried to hold his sleeve.

  He apologised to the driver, said he didn’t need a cup of tea, and at last managed to break free. By the time he got across the road, though, the man was already past the barber’s and walking briskly away in the direction of Windsor.

  ‘Hey,’ James shouted, and speeded up, but he was suddenly pulled to the side as someone grabbed his arm.

  ‘Please,’ he shouted angrily, ready to lash out if needs be. ‘I don’t need any help!’

  He was confronted with the startled face of Miles Langton-Herring.

  ‘James,’ he said, propping a crutch back under his armpit. ‘It’s me.’

  James looked quickly down the road. The man had disappeared.

  He sighed. This time he would let him go.

  ‘What is it, Miles?’ he said.

  ‘I’m back,’ said Miles.

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘You don’t seem very pleased to see me.’

  James shook his head and offered Miles a sour smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was going somewhere. I was late.’

  ‘You certainly seemed in a bit of a hurry. If I’m holding you up…?’

  ‘No, it’s all right. It doesn’t matter now. How’s the leg?’

  ‘Mending. I still have a cast on, as you can see – will do for a good few weeks – but I’m up and about. I was coming to see you later, actually; you’ve saved me a trip.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I’ve an invitation for you. My father wants to ask you over to our place for a small celebration.’

  ‘Celebration of what?’ said James.

  ‘Celebration of me not being dead, I suppose,’ said Miles. ‘It’s a sort of party. We only live in Virginia Water, so you won’t need a Leave Ticket, just a House Ticket for the evening.’

  ‘I don’t know, Miles.’

  Miles’s face fell and he looked at the ground. ‘I know you don’t like me very much, James,’ he said, quietly. ‘But it would mean a great deal to me if you could make it. I’ve changed since my accident; it’s brought me down a peg. I realise I don’t know everything and maybe I should listen to what other people have to say more often.’

  James sighed and took the invitation from Miles.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m being ungracious. Of course I shall come. Will you tell your father for me?’

  Miles smiled broadly. ‘Good man.’

  That evening James fetched his suit from the slab by the back door at Codrose’s. He had had to have it cleaned and pressed after the beating, and it had been sent back wrapped in brown paper and string. As he was picking it out from the other parcels on the slab Roan appeared. She wasn’t her usual lively self and had a concerned look on her face.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Bentinck beat you, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s hardly news,’ said James. ‘He beats everyone.’

  ‘He was particularly hard on you, though, James.’

  ‘It wasn’t so bad.’

  ‘I saw the blood,’ said Roan. ‘On your clothes. He hurt you.’

  ‘It’s not your problem,’ said James, embarrassed. But Roan wasn’t about to let it go.

  ‘I’ve heard the gossip, James. I know it was because of me,’ she said.

  ‘Not really,’ said James. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, it would have been for some other reason.’

  ‘All the same, I feel responsible.’

  James tried to leave, but Roan held him back.

  ‘You don’t have to be a hero,’ she said. ‘It’s not weak to admit that something hurt you. It’s not weak to allow other people to help you. You don’t have to carry the world on your own shoulders all the time.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ said James.

  ‘Wouldn’t I? Listen. This Sunday I’m to the park for a picnic. Why don’t you come along? It’ll be my treat. And don’t worry – I’ll make sure nobody sees us together. We won’t give Bloody Bentinck any reason to thrash you again. What do you say?’

  James shrugged. Roan put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side, turning the full power of her gaze upon him.

  ‘What are we going to do with you?’ she said. ‘It’s not every day a pretty girl asks you to go on a picnic.’

  ‘Do I have any choice?’ said James.

  ‘No,’ said Roan. ‘It’s not an invitation, darling, it’s an order.’

  ‘In that case I’ll come,’ said James.

  ‘Good lad. Oh, and I nearly forgot. I’ve this for you.’

  Roan passed him a small glass jar with a white paste inside it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you I was a witch?’ said Roan. ‘It’s a healing ointment I made up. It’ll help. Just don’t ask me to rub it on for you.’

  Roan laughed and walked away. When she had gone the corridor seemed smaller and colder and darker.

  James went up to his room, confused.

  He was finding everyday life a lot harder to cope with than he had expected. Dangerous adventures were fine. Back in Mexico all he had had to worry about was trying to stay alive. True, he had needed to take terrible risks, but he’d found that pretty simple. Coping with people was different. Understanding their emotions, understanding his own emotions, was a lot harder. Nearly dying under the wheels of the coal lorry had shaken him up a lot less than Roan Power had.

  He punched the back of his armchair. Why did he feel so foolish in her presence, like a small child? Why did he feel the compulsion to be rude and offhand to her, when what he really wanted was to make her smile?

  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t spent a lot of time with girls before. He got on well with them usually, and easily felt their equal, so why now did this one make him feel so utterly useless?

  He wondered if this was what it felt like to be in love.

  ‘No,’ he said, dismissing
the thought instantly. Love was for saps.

  Before bed he rubbed some of her cream on to his tenderest parts, and, although he felt faintly ridiculous doing it, he had to admit that it did soothe the pain.

  13

  The Invisible Man

  James was sitting in the light by the open window in his room. It wasn’t the largest room in the world, and tucked up here under the eaves it was made even smaller by the sloping roof beams, but at least it was bright and the extra height gave him something of a view. Lately he had felt the need of a view. Like a guard in a watchtower he could see everything that was going on outside.

  Every once in a while he cast a glance down into Judy’s Passage, the alleyway that led to Codrose’s. He did it almost without thinking, and would look just long enough to make sure that nothing was happening, before he returned to the job in hand.

  If anyone had seen him they might have laughed.

  James Bond was sewing.

  He had borrowed a sewing kit from Roan and had been busy since breakfast.

  He had opened the seam of one of his coat-tails, carefully unpicking the stitches with his penknife, and was now busy sewing a small pocket into it.

  James wasn’t laughing, though. This was serious business.

  He couldn’t prove that he was being followed. He couldn’t prove that someone had pushed him into the path of the coal lorry. He couldn’t prove that it wasn’t an accident. But he knew in his gut that something was wrong and he didn’t intend to sit around on his backside waiting for something worse to happen.

  If the man in the trilby came after him, he was going to be ready.

  He cursed and looked out of the window for the hundredth time.

  This was ridiculous. He couldn’t keep on calling him ‘the man in the trilby’. He needed to give the stranger a name. Once you gave a name to something you took the first steps to controlling it. But how did you give a name to a man you had never properly seen? A man who might not even be there, a man who was, to all intents and purposes, invisible.

  Well there was his answer. From now on he was ‘The Invisible Man’.