No worries, Timothy told himself, though his heart was skittering around in his chest. You left the tap on by accident, that’s all. Feeling his way through the blackness, Timothy followed the noise to find a steady trickle coming from the bathroom faucet. He turned it off-and at the same instant, the lights behind him blinked back on.
Timothy didn’t believe in ghosts. But something was playing games with him, and the knowledge sent electric eels down his spine. Slowly he walked back to his room, braced to confront whoever-or whatever-might be waiting. But he had just reached the doorway when all went black again.
That was it. Timothy leaped into the darkened bedroom, zipped his backpack, and flung it over his shoulder; then he snatched up his guitar case in one hand and his shoes in the other, and fled.
It was an almost impossible effort to slow down and tread lightly on the staircase, but somehow Timothy did it, reaching the front door with barely a creak. As he wrestled his feet into his running shoes he held his breath, sure that at any moment Paul or Peri would come out of the kitchen to challenge him; but no sound came from the far end of the house except the clatter of dishes and the blare of the evening news.
Timothy eased the door open and squeezed out onto the step, clutching the guitar in front of him like a shield. Then he stepped cautiously over the wheelchair ramp, hurried through the front garden, and sprinted down the road toward the village.
The train station at Aynsbridge wasn’t far, not for a seasoned walker: It took Timothy only forty minutes to get there. But by the time he struggled through the door with his guitar case he felt as though his arm were coming out of its socket, and he was glad he hadn’t brought anything heavier with him.
He bought a ticket and sat down to wait, his leg jittering nervously, until the last stripe of sunlight bled into the horizon and the sign above him read: LONDON BRIDGE: 1 min.
As he walked to meet the train, the man sweeping the platform gave him a quizzical glance, and despite the chill, Timothy felt sweat prickle along his hairline. Any minute now somebody would march up and demand to know what he was doing traveling so late on a school night, and where his parents were But this was England, where other people’s children were other people’s business, and no one spoke to him or even moved in his direction. The train screeched into the station, and he jumped onto it. The doors hissed shut, the carriage jolted into motion, and just like that, Timothy Sinclair was away.
Four
A rack of brochures stood by the station exit. Timothy flipped through them, looking for hostels. There seemed to be quite a few within walking distance, but the closest was the Trans-National, a few streets away. Stuffing the pamphlet into his pocket, he picked up his guitar case and headed off.
As he walked, a slimy rain began dripping down the collar of his jacket; taxis honked at him and buses rumbled by. He passed clumps and straggles of pedestrians, all walking briskly and not sparing him so much as a glance. The guitar case dragged at his arm, and the straps of his backpack chafed. Timothy was gazing blearily into the distance and thinking that the hostel had looked a lot nearer on the map, when suddenly he tripped, staggering against a shop window. He looked down and saw with dull surprise that his shoelace had come untied.
Now that was odd. He’d done it up on the train, and he was sure he’d double-knotted it. Setting down his guitar case, he dropped to one knee to fix it-and someone bumped into him from behind.
“Oh, sorry!” said a light alto voice, and a hand came down on his shoulder. Timothy spun around to see a willowy girl with skin the color of tea leaves and dark hair falling in braids to her shoulders. His heart felt weak, and his lips moved in soundless disbelief: Miriam?
No, of course it wasn’t. This girl’s nose was narrower and longer, her lips less full. “It’s okay,” he said, feeling his ears grow hot at his own mistake. “I shouldn’t have just stopped like that. Sorry.”
The girl laughed, a rich throaty sound. “Well, if we’re both sorry, then it can’t be anyone’s fault, can it?” Under the glow of the streetlamp her teeth flashed white. “I’m just glad I didn’t smash your guitar. Off to a gig?”
He had a fleeting thought of lying and saying yes, just to impress her. “No,” he admitted. “Just the hostel.” She looked only a couple of years older than he was, well-dressed and alone; it was probably safe to tell her that much. Besides, even if her accent was pure London, the friendliness in her voice reminded him of home.
“Which one, the Trans-National?”
He nodded.
“Ah.” She looked amused now, though he couldn’t imagine why. “Well, best of luck.” Without waiting for a response she walked off, her hips swaying lightly but her shoulders perfectly straight. It was the same way Miriam walked when she was carrying something on her head-a skill he’d never been able to duplicate, no matter how hard he tried-and Timothy watched her with a wistful lump in his throat until she raised a hand to her ear and began speaking into it:
“Rosie? It’s Veronica. Listen…”
The sound of her voice faded as she crossed the street. Funny, he hadn’t seen her take out a cell phone… Timothy shook himself back to attention, finished tying his shoelace, and started off again.
When he reached the Trans-National, its doors were half blocked by a cluster of young people in ragged jeans, smoking cigarettes and chatting in a babel of languages. Whoops and giggles rang in his ears as two of the boys shoved each other around in a mock fight. Timothy dodged past them and plunged inside.
“Sorry,” said the shaggy, heavily pierced clerk at the desk. “Can’t get a room here without proof of age. Driver’s license, that sort of thing. Got to be eighteen or over ’cause of the bar, see.”
Timothy slumped. Sixteen he could pass for, but not eighteen. “Do you know another hostel I could try?” he said.
The clerk chewed on his lip ring, sizing Timothy up. “There’s the Old Victoria,” he said, pointing out the location on the map tacked to the desk. “They’ll probably take you.”
“Thanks,” said Timothy wearily, and squeezed back out the door again. This time he bumped into one of the boys, who said in a gruff American accent, “Watch it!”
“Aw, he’s just a kid,” said the girl next to him. “Leave him alone, Tyler.”
Tyler shot him a glare but subsided. Timothy gave the American a wide berth and was just stepping onto the sidewalk when a young woman with hair like a crested crane touched his shoulder. “Try this place,” she said, pushing a card into his hand.
Timothy looked down, expecting a coupon for some local pub or tourist trap. Instead he saw a cream-colored card with a single engraved word on the front:
SANCTUARY
He turned it over and read:
For the discriminating traveler on a budget
Secure, well-maintained, attractive hostel in the heart of London
No smoking, no alcohol, no age limit
Present this card at booking for a 20 % discount
“So why aren’t you staying there?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light so he wouldn’t sound accusing, merely curious.
She gave him a sly grin and tapped the words no alcohol. “But if I were underage or just wanted a place to sleep, I’d go to Sanctuary like a shot.”
Timothy started to pocket the card, then thought better of it and handed it back. “It’s okay,” he said.
“What, you don’t trust me?” She looked affronted. “I was just trying to help.”
“I know,” he said, “but the Old Victoria is closer.”
He must have spoken louder than he’d realized, because someone in the crowd behind him laughed. “Yeah-if you like ripped sheets and bedbugs.”