The Impostor

CORNWALL - 1809

TOMMY

Never make anyone a promise about anything. Rule number ten. Might make it rule number one, seeing as it’s the reason I’m standing in this damn field in Cornwall instead of resting in barracks at Canterbury. This place gives me the jitters, with its birdsong and air so fresh every lungful makes me cough.

Who’s this then, charging across the meadow? Fast little bugger. Skinny legs beneath short trousers, arms pumping, bare feet kicking up the dust. Had the Charleys on my heels often enough as a boy to know he’s running for his skin.

‘You see that? What’s he running from, d’you think?’

Billy shades his eyes with one hand and squints across the field. ‘Probably just late for something. This isn’t Spain, Tommy. No one’s fleeing anyone.’

You don’t run like that for no reason. But he’s right, this isn’t Spain. It’s the queerest thing not to be surrounded by men and tents, the musty smell of damp washing, and porridge bubbling over open fires. There’s nothing here but sky and grass. Instead of the hiss and boom of cannon fire, seagulls swoop and squawk and won’t bloody shut up.

It’s been weeks since we fled Galicia, but the stink of black powder still clings to my jacket. God, I love that smell of rotten eggs and the tang of spent lead. ‘Take two weeks’ leave,’ the army said, ‘rest and recover.’ It’s been three days, and I’m ready to go back.

Billy turns to face me. A smudge of dirt streaked across his chin. His dark hair falls longer over his right ear than his left—a bad haircut with a butcher’s knife.

‘We could follow him, just to see. That is, if you can move any faster.’

‘It’s my joints.’ I rub my knees as if that’ll wipe the pain away. ‘They’ve ached since Galicia. Must’ve been the cold, worked its way inside me. It’s Napoleon’s fault, chasing us across Spanish mountains in the bloody winter.’

He nods because he knows. Fleeing the French broke me. I’m like this jug I once found—or stole, who cares. Looked fine from the outside, but inside, cracks ran from top to bottom. That’s me. Cracked inside.

‘Come on, then.’

We jog up a narrow animal track, Billy leading as usual. Keeping his tattered redcoat in my sights, I slog up the slope behind him, trailing my fingers through the long grass. Bloody odd, really, to think this is what others see when they look at me. Not just the clothes, but the dark hair falling over his collar, same height, same everything. I could be his brother.

At the top, we stop for a breather beside a low stone wall. I re-tie the string around my boots, the only thing keeping them together, and scan the next field.

No felled trees, bushes uprooted, the ground flattened to haul guns around—that’s Spain. There’s something about this English meadow—the chirp of crickets in the daisy-dotted grass, the crumbling molehills, the rabbit burrows waiting to snare my feet. Might all be very charming if it wasn’t for the boy. He’s further away now, running alongside the woods that border this field.

A man bursts from the trees, his long strides eating the ground between him and the boy. A wide-brimmed hat jammed on his head flaps like wings, like he’s part man, part bird. Some kind of monster.

But the boy’s fast. My legs used to sprint like that, outrunning the Charleys as a boy. Now I outrun the French, same terror driving me.

Not breaking his pace, the man dips mid-stride, snatches up something and hurls it.

The boy stumbles, arms flailing, but stays on his feet. Run, boy. My fists clench. Run! By the time the boy finds his footing, the man is on him. With the flat of his hand, he swats the boy as if he were a fly. The boy crumples, folding in on himself like paper.

‘You think that’s his father?’ Billy hunches his shoulders, scowling.

I shake my head. ‘Nah. Christ, I hope not.’

The man picks the boy up by one of his scrawny feet and drags him back the way he came, towards the woods. Each dull thud of the boy’s head against the ground sends a sharp jolt down my spine.

‘His master then. An apprentice running from his master.’

‘Could be.’ My eyes stay locked on the boy.

‘And because the master owns him, he has every right to haul him back.’ Billy kicks his boot against the wall.

Man and boy are steps away from the tree line. The boy thrashes like a fish on a hook, struggling to break free.

‘We should leave. This isn’t the fight we came back for.’ But Billy doesn’t move.

‘Hmm.’

A familiar hollow beneath my ribs opens up again. That old emptiness that’s followed me since I was a child, watching my mother’s back as she disappeared from my life. I’m nothing like her. Won’t turn my back on this boy.

Man and boy melt into the woods.

An explosion of crows whirls from the treetops before settling again. Then silence. The kind that makes the hairs on my arms stand to attention.

Billy turns to me and does that thing with his eyebrows—raising one and not the other. I nod. He leaps over the wall and runs towards the trees with me in pursuit. Arms pumping, knapsack bouncing against my back, I struggle to keep up. Billy, always faster, pulls ahead.

I crash through the treeline, panting, pulse pounding in my ears. Thick branches reach for me, drawing me into the musty tangle of leaves and earth. Billy’s nowhere to be seen. My mouth opens to call his name, but my voice is a coward, deserting me.

A narrow track cuts through the undergrowth, wide enough for one. I take it, stepping over roots and fallen logs. The trees close ranks like enemy soldiers. The light thins and sounds fade until there’s nothing. No birds. No rustle of leaves. Where the hell is Billy?

A flash of movement flits between the trees. The boy? I follow. Plunge through a thick mass of brambles. Spiky fingers claw at my ankles, ripping more holes in my stockings. I skid to a halt. A massive oak, wider than two men, blocks my path. A shadow pools across the ground behind it. The acrid stink of gunpowder fills my nostrils, but there’s no battle here, just shadows. I ball my shaking hands into fists and leap from behind my cover, remembering too late I have no weapon except my rage.

Only darkness shifts and creeps along the leaf-strewn ground.

‘Psst.’

I whirl around. Billy presses a finger to his lips and jerks his head to the left. I stand still, straining to hear, but there’s only the thudding in my chest. Not like the steady march of soldiers, but the frantic rhythm of retreat.

Until another sound drowns all.

The wail rocks me backwards, stealing my breath. It’s like the howl of the wind through the trees. Like the shriek of an animal in pain. It can’t be human, can’t be the boy. I sprint towards a lingering echo of the cry, and bolt into a clearing. Ahead, the ground drops into a wide pit, but my legs won’t stop. I fall, landing on the balls of my feet, knees bending into a roll, bumping against a body, scrabbling away until my back hits solid earth.

The man from earlier. He lies on his back, his hat covering his face. Asleep?

Billy lands beside me. ‘Dead,’ he says.

I swallow hard and kick the man’s leg. Nothing. I inch closer and flip his hat off with the tip of my foot.

A sour taste coats my tongue. ‘What the... what the... what?’

Billy leans over for a closer look. ‘Bloody hell.’

We stare at each other open-mouthed, much like the man on the floor, except his mouth gapes so wide his lips have split, blood crusting the corners.

‘This cannot be.’

‘It can.’ Billy bends over the body. ‘Means he’s still here, the Dark Watcher. Fifteen years later and still killing. Said he would be.’

‘Is there a nail?’

No way am I checking. Not that I care about him, not after the way he treated the boy. He’s just another dead body, and I’ve seen plenty of those.

Billy pulls a face. ‘Wedged behind his teeth, keeping his mouth open. Same as before.’

‘The boy!’

He must be here somewhere. I scramble out of the pit and race around the trees, scanning the shadows. The killer, the Dark Watcher, could still be here, too—that thought hits late.

‘He’s long gone,’ Billy calls after me.

‘You sure?’

The woods feel different now, as if the murder awakened something dark that’s been sleeping here for fifteen years.

He nods. ‘If he wasn’t, we’d have found him.’

I sink to the ground beside Billy. ‘So, what now?’

‘Move before someone comes. A soldier trained to kill. A dead body. Won’t look good. They hang men like us without proof.’

My knees creak like old doors when I stand. ‘We could give chase. The killer can’t have gone far.’

‘In these woods? He could be anywhere. And everywhere... just like before.’

My back prickles and tightens, trying to shrink away from what might be watching. I spin around, reaching for a weapon I don’t have, but there’s nothing here, just darkness and the silent menace of the woods.

‘Don’t worry, we’ve come back to find the truth, and the Dark Watcher, he’s part of that. We’ll lay our hands on him one way or another.’ Billy takes one last look at the dead man.

‘You know him?’

He shakes his head and rolls his shoulders, something I can’t read passing over his face. ‘Let’s skirt around these woods and go the long way to St. Merryn.’

We retrace our steps, Billy finding the path, me hunting for movement amongst the trees. The crack of a branch has me ducking for cover. Just an animal. Easy to forget this isn’t bloody Spain, where I’ve hunted and been hunted through woods just like these.

Once out of the forest, we head for a five-bar gate leading to a field bound on all sides by a high hedge. A flock of geese squawks, wings spread in protest as they scatter before us. The grass here is short, eaten down to nothing. Even so, I trip, only some fancy footwork saving me from falling flat on my face.

Billy glances over his shoulder. ‘You alright there?’

‘Fine, I’m fine.’

Grinning, he strides ahead. This is how we march. Him in front, me behind. Always have. Billy leads, I follow. Simple as that. Keeping up would be easy if I wasn’t weighed down with worry.

He spins around, finger to his lips. ‘Shh. You hear that?’

We cock our heads.

‘Ruuun,’ we yell together, bolting for the far hedge.

I’m not as fast as Billy, but I’m not slow. Still, a damn dog bounds behind me, jaws snapping at my ankles. If I can just reach the hedge... I risk a glance behind. It’s more of a rat catcher than snarling beast. Ridiculous little thing. Laughing, I lunge into the hedge, rolling through thorns and brambles, crashing out the other side. The dog tries to squirm through, snarling and barking.

‘Have you seen what we’ve run from?’

We laugh so hard we can’t speak. Feels damn good to shake the creeps off.

‘How is it we charge towards an enemy on a bloody battlefield but run from a scrawny dog hardly bigger than a... a rabbit?’

Billy throws his head back and roars. ‘Of all the things we’ve fled from, that dog’s got to be the smallest.’ He stares at it through the bramble hedge. ‘Reminds me of another, back when I lived around here.’ He clicks his tongue. ‘Here, boy, here.’

Ears flat against its head, the dog whines and flees.

‘Dogs don’t like me,’ he says, ‘not these days. Hey, you look like you’ve sprung from the hedge, covered in leaves and twigs. And you’ve ripped your jacket. Again.’

‘Three days of walking through fields and woods, sleeping under hedgerows... I’m not too bad, considering.’ I brush myself off. ‘But if we find a barn tonight, I’ll have a chance to clean myself up.’

‘It’s still light. We might make it to St. Merryn before dark.’

‘Best to arrive in time for breakfast.’

Truth is, my stomach flips every time I think about what comes next. I need the night to gather my courage, practice my lies. The scar on my head itches; scratching it an old habit. But hell, this isn’t about me. It’s about a promise I made to Billy.

‘Fair enough.’ Billy marches across the grass and slips through an opening in the opposite hedgerow.

I scramble to my feet and follow, emerging onto a drover’s road. A turnpike stands nearby, leading to a cluster of cob cottages on a village green, with a row of shops at the far end. The buildings lean towards each other as if their thatch roofs are too heavy. They slump against one another for support, much like soldiers after a long march.

‘Hungry?’

‘Always.’ Bending from my waist, arms hanging loose as if I have no insides to hold me up, I pluck a long stem of grass and roll it under my tongue.

‘There’s dried biscuits and water in the knapsack.’

I pull a face.

‘Or there’s this village with shops. Cobblers, chandlers, bakers... I’ll wager they’ve got food.’

‘Like as not.’

‘And we have money.’

I shake my head. No, no, no. My redcoat’s patched with so much coarse cloth I look like a beggar. I haven’t washed for weeks or changed my clothes—don’t have any clothes to change into. I’ve grown used to the smell of stale sweat, don’t even notice it anymore, but others will.

‘Looking like this?’

‘They won’t care, not if you pay and don’t pilfer.’

‘It’s been too long since I’ve done this.’

‘Hmm, let’s see.’ He taps his chin. ‘You walk in, ask for bread and cheese, pay and leave. Simple. I’ll be with you.’

‘Ah, umm, nno nneed.’ My tongue stumbles over the words.

‘Well, I’ll be hanged. You’re scared of the daftest things. Dogs... shops... wom—’

‘No.’ I draw out the no like he’s being stupid. ‘Not scared, just not hungry anymore.’

‘Oh Lord, this plan of mine is going to be harder than I thought.’

‘Ours. Plan of ours.’

His eyes narrow as if something’s going on in that head of his I won’t like. Ignoring him, I walk over to a fingerpost and point. ‘What’s this say?’

‘St. Merryn, that way. If you won’t go to the shop, let’s move on.’

We follow the wide, grassy drover’s road, the walking easy. Even my old boots find their rhythm as my thoughts drift to the dead man and the boy. Ahead, a lonely spiral of smoke catches my eye. Could be something, could be nothing, but we follow the wisps anyway, through a field of stubble dotted with hand-mows, the sweet scent of wild thyme scattering perfume as we walk. So different from Portugal and Spain, littered with burnt buildings and destroyed crops. Bodies, too, sometimes.

Leaving the field, we follow a dirt track overgrown with weeds and grass, winding between hunks of granite and yellow heather. A turn in the track reveals a barn set apart from a limewashed farmhouse. Our bed for the night.

No one stops us when we push through the slatted wooden doors and enter. I climb a ladder to the hayloft and settle down, using my backpack as a pillow, my redcoat as a blanket.

‘So, tomorrow we’ll be home.’

Home. The word sounds wrong on my tongue, like it knows I’m not made to stay in one place.

‘Yup.’

I fiddle with the buttons on my jacket, wishing my stomach would stop clawing its way up my throat.

‘Are crimes forgotten after fifteen years, d’you think?’

Unlikely. Not when there was a body. Not when it was murder.

He raises an eyebrow; I raise him two.

‘Shh, sleep. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ve got your back. Always.’

It should be the other way around. After what happened in Spain, I owe him more than I can ever repay. Damn my broken heart, my broken head. I’m not the man I was since Galicia. Never will be.

‘Billy... sorry for letting you down, for—’

‘Hey, don’t start that again. There was nothing you could do. Bloody stupid way to die. Rather have died on the battlefield, but there you are. None of it your fault. Anyway, I’m still here for you. Not going anywhere, me.’

He can say what he likes, but I know the truth. He’s saved me more times than I can count, but when it came to it, what did I do? I let him down, let him die. He can’t be real. I buried him myself and yet... I am so messed up, talking to my dead friend.

‘Well, I am sorry. Will be to the end of days. If I could only make amends, swap places, I would.’

‘Ah.’ He drops his head and plays with the skin around his nails. ‘Hmm, swap places. Listen, I’ve had a thought. What if, when we get to my home, you say you’re me? You tell them you’re their son.’

Silence stretches between us while his words sink into my brain. They don’t make sense.

He lifts his eyes to meet mine. ‘The villagers here will not speak to a stranger called Tommy about what happened that night. You’ll get nothing from them. But as Billy Bray, the boy returned, the soldier... You will.’