The 1,000-year-old Boy. Ross Welford

you won’t smell it.’

      

      I woke up at ten o’clock and spent a few minutes staring out of Libby’s bedroom window. The sky was a clear light blue with no clouds, and there were a few lone wisps of smoke rising from beyond the trees. I opened the window and there was still a faint smell of burning wood.

      Downstairs the local TV channel was showing pictures of firemen and people in white overalls standing by the burnt-out shell of a building. And by ‘burnt-out’ I mean it was just a few blackened walls and a doorway, and half of an upper floor supporting a bit of roof. I could make out the remains of a table and some other furniture, and the camera showed close-ups of some burnt books, a stone sink, a bookshelf and a picture hanging wonkily on the wall.

      ‘… blaze was well established by the time firefighters arrived on the scene. The secluded house, parts of which are believed to date back to the eighteenth century, was completely destroyed in the inferno, which the fire service spokesperson described as one of the worst house fires she had ever seen.’

       Chief Fire Officer Harry Oxley: ‘We have recovered one body from the scene which has been removed for forensic examination. I cannot say more than that at the moment.’

       Reporter: ‘Can you say what started the fire?’

       CFO Oxley: ‘At this moment in time, we are pursuing all avenues of enquiry, but there is nothing at present that indicates foul play.’

      Reporter: ‘The fire spread to other parts of the woods, and locals from the nearby Delaval Estate were warned they might have to evacuate …’

      At this point, the picture cut to our street, and there I was, gazing up at the fireman on the ladder. Normally I’d have gone, ‘Dad! Dad! I’m on telly!’ but I didn’t. I just watched in glum fascination as the reporter finished her piece.

      ‘… finally brought under control shortly before dawn. The area has been cordoned off while fire and police investigators try to establish both the cause of the fire and the identity of the unfortunate victim. This is Janey Calvert in Whitley Bay for North Today.’

      When I heard BANG BANG BANG on the window, I jumped so hard I spilt milk on the sofa. It was Roxy.

      ‘Still in your pyjamas?’ she said, her high voice muffled by the glass. ‘See you in the garage in ten minutes. It’s important.’

      

      The trees were still dripping from their soaking the previous night and the ground underfoot was soft pale mud, with fresh footprints. Roxy, I figured, must already be inside, and I pushed the door, which swung open, but no one was there.

      Just then, Roxy squeezed herself through the gap in the fence, her tiny foot first, her tousled head last.

      ‘Hiya,’ she said, immediately noticing the door was open. ‘How did you get in?’

      ‘It was open,’ I said, then raised my finger to my lips to say ‘shh’ and pointed to the footprints in the mud, which, it seemed, were not hers. Now that I looked, I could see that the trail led inside the garage. Instinctively, I think, Roxy lowered her voice.

      ‘Someone’s been in here. One of the firemen, you reckon?’ she said.

      I pointed at the small footprints. ‘It’d have to be one with very dainty feet.’

      She gave her little bark of laughter. ‘Very good, Sherlock! But what about my laptop?’

      I shrugged, and she pushed past me to the other side of the desk where she kept the computer. Then she just screamed.

      And I mean screamed.

      For all her small frame, it was a big shriek, followed by little gasps, ‘Ah-ah-ah,’ then, ‘Aidan!’

      ‘What?’ I was just standing there, unable to do anything because I had no idea what had caused her to shriek.

      Roxy’s eyes were fixed on something under the desk, something I couldn’t see.

      ‘Th-there’s a … a person.’

      OK, so what we should have done was calmly leave the shed-cum-garage, locking the door behind us, and call the police.

      That would have been sensible. That’s what you should do if you’re ever in the position of finding a person hiding under your desk in an old workman’s hut.

      Instead I stepped forward and seized the desk with both hands, tipping it towards me on two legs till it crashed over, revealing a smallish figure curled up in a ball like a scared hedgehog and visibly trembling.

      ‘What the …’

      ‘Who the …’

      Slowly, like a leaf uncurling in spring, the figure lifted its head, straightened its back and looked up at us standing either side.

      ‘You!’ Roxy and I said in unison.

      The boy from the cottage blinked hard at the light coming through the doorway and slowly stood up and said, ‘Memam … memam … memam …’

      Just that. Babbling and blinking, looking first at me and then at Roxy.

      She, of course, understood first.

      ‘Your mam?’

      He nodded. ‘Me mam.’ He swallowed hard and carried on blinking in the light.

      

      The last friend I had ever had was Jack McGonagal. It was Jack who changed everything.

      You probably do not remember 1934. Me, I liked it. We had no refrigerator or telephone, but nor did most people. Televisions and computers had hardly even been invented and it would be another sixty or more years before everyone used email and the internet, and everybody knew everything about everybody else. Which was not entirely a good thing if you were trying to hide a secret.

      By then, Mam and I had been living in Oak House for nearly eighty years. Mam had bought it in 1856 for £300 cash. You could do that then. It was all legal, and Mam and I had enough money.

      It was certainly remote, and perfect for us. There were no housing estates nearby then. We grew stuff on a little patch of ground that had been cleared when the cottage was built. We had a goat called Amy and some chickens. (We did not give names to the chickens, because we sometimes ate them.)

      Biffa loved it. The house had been empty for a while when we moved in, and there were a lot of mice. Biffa caught them all within a few weeks.

      We read a lot, and – once it had been invented – we listened to the radio, which we called the wireless.

      Once or twice a week, Mam would cycle into Whitley Bay on our rickety old bicycle, and sometimes I would go instead to fetch groceries. I made sure I went outside of school hours so that no one would think I was playing the wag.

      There was a grocery shop in Eastbourne Gardens run by a couple, Mr and Mrs McGonagal. He was tall and thin with huge red ears and sharp eyes, and she was short and dumpy. They had a boy my age called Jack who helped behind the counter.

      Jack and I eventually got to the point where we would say ‘hello’ and he once helped me put