The old man acted as if he hadn't even heard him. When he spoke again, it was in a conspiratorial whisper. 'Strange things happening at Spadeadam,' he said, his accent a curious hybrid of dialects. 'Always have been, ever since I can remember, ever since Blue Streak.'
Ben shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'What's Blue—?' he started to say, but the old man continued to talk as though Ben wasn't even there.
'They cover it all up, of course. Have to, don't they?' Suddenly his head twisted back over his shoulder as though he were looking for someone, or something, and his face started to twitch more frequently. He continued to look around, and his eyes even started darting up and down, as though he expected something to come at him from one of the top corners of the room.
Ben wanted to stand up and leave; but something about what the old man was saying had grabbed his attention. 'Cover what up?' he asked. 'What are you talking about?'
The old man seemed suddenly to remember that he was there. He turned his attention back to Ben, and slowly his lips curled into a grotesque mockery of a smile, displaying yellowing teeth with more gaps than there should have been. It was as though his face had forgotten what a smile looked like.
'Not a place for young 'uns, Spadeadam,' he whispered. 'Best to stay away.' The old man started looking up to the ceiling again.
This conversation was giving Ben a very uneasy feeling. Spadeadam was just an RAF base, wasn't it? There were plenty of them dotted around all over the country — what was so different about this one? Any other time, he would have dismissed this guy's comments as the ramblings of a crazy old man. Problem was, he seemed to be echoing all Ben's unspoken feelings about the place. Annie had been right — there had to be some sort of explanation for what they had seen earlier in the day. It was a long shot, but maybe this old man had the answer.
'Um… excuse me,' Ben asked politely, and the old man's eyes shot instantly back at him. 'Can I ask you a question — about Spadeadam, I mean?'
The old man didn't answer, but Ben assumed that his fixed stare was an agreement.
'We saw something earlier on, me and my friend. Two birds, being shot down by a guy in an RAF uniform.'
Suddenly the man grabbed Ben by the wrist. As Ben looked at his hand, pale and covered with prominent blue veins, he noticed that it was surprisingly strong. 'Rare breed, was it?' the man asked.
'Very rare,' Ben replied. 'One of the rarest.'
'Makes sense, doesn't it? Makes perfect sense.'
But it didn't make any kind of sense to Ben. 'Not really,' he started to say. But as he spoke, he sensed someone else approaching them. He looked up to see the friendly receptionist who had greeted them when they arrived the previous day. He was still smiling, but had a firm demeanour as he approached. The old man saw him too. Immediately he let go of Ben's arm and, as swiftly as a bird flying from a loud noise, he stood up straight and walked to the common-room door. Ben and the hostel worker watched him go, but before he left the room the old man turned round and fixed Ben with another of his piercing stares.
'Stay away from Spadeadam,' he called hoarsely, ignoring the fact that all the other guests were now looking at him. 'It's not safe.' And then, with a final twitch of his face, he was gone.
Ben blinked, then looked up at the youth hostel worker with a flicker of annoyance. He almost said something, but stopped himself at the last minute. 'Sorry about that,' he mumbled. 'He sort of latched onto me.'
'Mind if I sit down?' the receptionist asked. 'Name's Don, by the way.'
'Ben,' he replied shortly, shaking Don's hand.
'Was he bothering you, Ben?' Don asked.
Ben shrugged noncommittally: truth was, he didn't really know the answer to that question. The old man still made him feel a bit jumpy, and the idea of him creeping around in this old stone building didn't make Ben feel particularly at ease; but he had found himself drawn in by what he'd been saying.
'He arrived here last night, a few hours after you. Says his name is Joseph. I put him in a dorm on his own — didn't think any of the other guests would really fancy sharing with him, and we're not busy.' Don stretched out, put his feet on the table and clasped his hands behind his head. 'We get quite a lot of them round here, to be honest.'
Ben didn't understand what he meant. 'A lot of what?'
Don looked around to check he wasn't being overheard, then spoke in a softer voice. 'Nutters. Cranks. Spadeadam, you see. It attracts them. All the conspiracy theories — you wouldn't believe the stuff people make up about that place.' He rolled his eyes as if to indicate his disdain for such people.
'Right,' Ben replied, not wishing to let on that he was having his own doubts about the place.
'Anyway.' Don jumped up brightly. 'Part of my job is to look after any unaccompanied kids who stay here. Don't want you getting into any kind of trouble, do we? Let me know if he gives you any gyp.' With that he walked off.
Ben sat there in silence for a few minutes, deep in reflection and chewing on his fingernails. Conspiracy theories, he thought to himself. Don had laughed it off so easily, and under different circumstances no doubt Ben would have done too. But he couldn't get the image out of his head of the soldier shooting the two hen harriers earlier in the day. Whatever anybody said, that was a strange thing to happen, and the old man seemed quite sure he knew what was going on. He decided to try and find him, now, and ask him what he had been about to say when they had been interrupted. No doubt it would be nonsense, the ravings of a crazy mind; but at least Ben would be able to satisfy himself of that.
All the dormitories were on the first floor of the building, up a central flight of stone steps that clattered as he hurried up them. Turning right at the top of the steps led you to the dormitories that were in use — boys on the right, girls on the left — but Don had told Ben that the old man had been put somewhere else. Following little more than his instinct, Ben turned left.
In this direction, the corridor was less well lit — a single low-wattage bulb hanging from the ceiling was all the illumination it had. There were several doors on either side: tentatively, Ben tried them, but they were locked. Eventually, though, at the end of the corridor on the left, he found one that wasn't. He gently opened it. 'Hello,' he breathed into the darkness.
There was no reply, so he opened the door a little wider and stepped inside.
His hand fumbled for a moment for a light switch, but he couldn't find one. Instead he stood still and waited for his night vision to become accustomed to the darkness. It took a minute or two until he could see that he was indeed in a dormitory, but the beds were all empty. There was a general aroma of disuse about the place, and the large windows had no blinds or curtains: clearly this was not somewhere that was frequently used. Certainly there was no sign of the old man.
All of a sudden, Ben heard Don's overly cheery voice. For some reason he didn't want to be caught snooping around, so he closed the door behind him and stepped further into the room, crossing the wooden floorboards to the window. He looked out into the blackness.
Clouds were scudding past the almost-full moon, which was bright when it was in view. Mesmerized by their swift movement, Ben thought of the moonlit African nights he had seen in the Congo, and of the silent airborne majesty of the hen harriers earlier today. And then he thought of something Annie had said back in Macclesfield. 'We humans can do some pretty dumb things sometimes.'
Too right, Ben thought to himself. Like standing around in dark rooms looking for weird old men.