Chapter Text
Alisdair awoke to a quick bouncing sensation, his stomach lurching as though he had just stepped off a cliff only to jolt awake with the adrenaline roaring in his chest. He lay still a while, forcing his breathing to slow as the room and reality around him gradually returned.
He was home, in bed. In the dark with Rhys next to him, his brother’s foot splayed out across to his side and pressing against his knee. Alisdair shucked the blankets up higher to his chin and let out a long sigh through his nose, slowly moving Rhys’ away to not wake him. Hopefully, there were still enough time left for him to fall back asleep.
Just as he began to drift off the bed dipped again, another bounce of movement that disturbed the covers and caused a gasp of cold air to blow down his neck.
Full awake now, Alisdair groaned and pressed his face into the pillow. He didn’t need any light to figure out who it was.
‘Arthur…’
‘I’m sorry.’
Arthur’s voice sounded muffled. Alisdair gingerly flipped himself over to squint through the darkness. Arthur was curled into a ball, face half hidden in the pillow, and perched as far away from him as was possible without falling off the edge. The bed Alisdair shared with Rhys wasn’t that large or wide, so he hadn’t quite managed to sneak his way in as stealthily as he’d presumably been hoping.
Now that Alisdair was turned towards him, Arthur gave up all pretences and shuffled closer, trying to press himself into his chest. Alisdair held out for a few stubborn seconds, not wanting to encourage this behaviour at all, but he was too tired to summon the mental wherewithal needed to push him away immediately. With a sigh, he lifted up an arm and Arthur burrowed in closer, head coming to rest tucked under Alisdair’s chin. He had brought his teddy in with him, a now very ratty handmade gift from their late mother that no one could bear make him part with, and it pressed awkwardly into Alisdair’s stomach, stuck between them both.
‘You’re cold.’
Arthur didn’t reply. Alisdair guessed he’d likely been standing there for a while debating about what to do- at seven years old Arthur certainly wasn’t shy about being disobedient or causing a nuisance, but after five nights of this in a row he must have known that Alisdair wouldn’t be pleased.
Making sure that Arthur was properly tucked in, Alisdair rubbed roughly at his arms and back under the covers in an attempt to quickly warm him. ‘Where are you not supposed to be?’
‘…out of bed.’
‘And where are you?’
‘Here.’
‘And where’s that?’ Arthur didn’t reply and Alisdair patted him in between his shoulder blades to prompt a response.
He got one, reluctantly, ‘Out of bed,’
‘Hmm.’ Satisfied that Arthur was now warm enough Alisdair relaxed his arm, leaving it to curl over Arthur’s waist.
‘Please let me stay here,’ Arthur’s voice was painfully small and scared, so different to how he usually sounded that, despite himself, Alisdair felt his heart clench, ‘I’ll be quiet and won’t move- you won’t wake up again, I promise.’
‘Arthur-‘
‘Please,’ A fist bunched in Alisdair’s pyjama top, tugging his collar against his neck, ‘please, please please don’t make me go back in there on my own. I don’t like it when Patrick’s not there.’
On the other side of the bed, Rhys gave a grunting snore and kicked out.
Alisdair covered Arthur’s hand with his own and pulled it off, gently but firmly. He pressed a finger to his lips for Arthur to keep his voice down and spoke at a low whisper, ‘You can’t keep doing this.’
‘But-‘
‘You are going to stop doing this. I can’t keep waking up in the night for you and it’s not fair on Rhys either. We’ve both got to get up early.’
Arthur said nothing but Alisdair could sense his refusal anyway. He sighed, Arthur’s hair tickling his chin, ‘You’re too big for this sort of thing.’
Arthur mumbled something unintelligible, unwilling to be insulted but just as unwilling to give Alisdair the privilege of being right.
‘Alright,’ after a moment, Alisdair cautiously sat up and flipped the blankets off and away from them. Arthur curled himself in closer, ‘Come on. You’re going. I’ve got to be up in a few hours and I ain’t faffing about with this again.’
The room was freezing. Alisdair moved over Arthur and forced himself to press his bare feet into the wood, skin crawling at the sudden and unwanted change in temperature. He’d have had a fire going all night, if they could have afforded it. The winter nights were bitter and Arthur and Rhys were often ill, from the chill in the air or the seemingly permanent damp that lingered about the place Alisdair didn’t know but surely a warm room at night would help.
It would help getting up in the morning for work, at any rate.
Arthur, accepting that this wasn’t a fight he was going to win, reluctantly sat up and slid down from the bed to join him, pyjama bottoms puddling at the hem; Rhys’ old things and Patrick’s before that.
He hopped from one foot to the other, floorboards squeaking, and Alisdair picked him up with a huff to keep his feet warm, ‘You’re too heavy,’ he whispered in his hair, hefting him to rest better on his hip and pulling the covers up to keep Rhys from waking, ‘I should stop feeding you.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Arthur whispered back, cheek warm on Alisdair’s shoulder, ‘You’re getting lazy.’
In the corridor it was colder, no living thing to breathe warmth into the spaces. Alisdair knew his childhood home all too well, could see even without candlelight every step and door and turn of the halls with his eyes closed. There was a floorboard by the top step that squealed like a pig, right next to one that was soggy and soft- splinters of wood peeling from a deep crack in the centre. A mirror on the landing wall, dulled but still whole, below which lay a chasm where there had once been a mahogany table that had long since been sold for food money. Ghosts of once fine things being all that remained of an easier life.
Arthur stayed quiet as he was carried back to the room that he and Patrick shared but his unease and reluctance was clear. His arms went tight around Alisdair’s neck as soon as they stepped through the door and he lifted his head only when Alisdair approached the bed to set him down.
Moonlight spilled in through the gap in the curtains caused by a missing hoop, giving shape to the darkness and outlining the double bed pushed against the wall that Arthur and Patrick shared.
‘It’s a nice room, this,’ Alisdair motioned for Arthur to get under the covers, ‘Big bed all to yourself. No Rhys snoring in your ear, thicker blankets; a right bloody palace.’
Arthur didn’t smile. Instead, he looked worried, eyes glancing cautiously to the window and flicking to the corners of the room as if searching for something.
Alisdair nudged him to lay down, handing him his tatty stuffed animal, ‘Go on, get in. We’ll both catch something if you don’t hurry up; my feet are freezing.’
‘You could stay in here with me,’ Arthur’s voice was hopeful, ‘Rhys is already asleep.’
‘And where will Patrick go when he comes in?’
‘With Rhys.’
‘That’s not fair on Rhys, is it? To wake him up that early before work. Or for Patrick when Rhys does have to get going.’
‘Patrick wakes me up when he comes in.’
‘You have the time to go back to sleep again before school.’
‘I could stay with you two and Patrick can stay in here alone.’
‘Arthur…’
‘I don’t mind if you wake me up when you get ready for work, I can help.’
‘You can’t help.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re seven, we don’t want you to work.’ Not if they could help it, not yet.
The idea of Arthur having to work so soon turned Alisdair’s stomach. Their father’s debts, found only after he’d died last year, had changed so much in their lives. From Patrick’s unfinished painting apprenticeship that didn’t pay, to taking quick dock work that did. Or Alisdair’s own free evenings and social life transforming into an evening tutoring job; they’d all lost something and it wasn’t fair for any of them. But at least he, Patrick, and Rhys had all experienced a childhood free from any of this mess, with at least five years of schooling under their belt to set them up on a decent foundation in the future. The three of them had sworn that Arthur would have the same, no matter how hard things became.
The looming threat of the workhouse or losing their home seemed only one wrong move away. One late payment to the debtors, one docked wage. If Alisdair lost his accounting job the bulk of their income went with it. Rhys was being trained as an apprentice; without that he’d have nothing.
Arthur lay small and scowling under the covers, arms crossed atop the blankets.
Alisdair sat on the edge of the bed and tried to remember how their mother might have handled this, ‘Where has all this come from, eh? You used to like it when Patrick left you here by yourself.’
Arthur tried to turn over and face the wall but Alisdair caught his shoulder, holding him back, ‘Come on. Talk.’
Arthur turned his face away, his mouth tight.
Awkwardly, Alisdair brushed Arthur’s hair back from his forehead in the way Rhys somehow always did so naturally but still he wouldn’t look at him. ‘Fine,’ Alisdair said, standing, ‘Have it your way.’
‘Wait!’ Arthur sat up and grabbed at the edge of his sleeve, ‘Please don’t go.’
‘Christ Arthur-‘
‘You need to stay.’
‘Why?’
‘You just have to.’
‘Why.’
Arthur went silent again.
‘I’m not playing around with you all night, you either tell me what’s wrong or you can sit with it and sulk; your choice.’
Arthur pulled at the top cover, twisting the fabric in his fists and pulling it taut between them.
‘Right-‘
‘There’s someone outside,’ Arthur’s spoke in a hurried half whisper, words coming out in a rush as if he had been holding them back, ‘I can hear them walking out on the pantry roof.’
‘Someone outside?’ Alisdair snorted, ‘It’s probably just a cat.’
Even in the dim light, he could see Arthur’s cheeks flush an angry red, ‘I saw them, through the gap in the curtains. It was a man.’
‘A chimney sweep then, might be using our roof to cut across.’
‘It’s not.’ Shockingly, Alisdair realised that Arthur looked as though he were about to cry, ‘He was at the window. He’s been coming since Saturday.’
Thrown more by Arthur’s behaviour than any belief in true danger, Alisdair turned to the window over the bed and pulled the curtain aside.
Under the clear starless sky, roofs fanned out like a patchwork quilt, falling with the slope of a hill before rising again to cut off the horizon. Streets snaking between the jumbled brick houses were empty, not even the drunks from the nearby pub to fall amongst the corners. Alisdair pushed the window up to lean out, ignoring Arthur’s hiss not to, and craned his head either side, squinting at the bite of cold air.
‘There’s no one there now,’ he said as he pulled the pane down. There was no lock on it, just a rusted catch that had fused to the pane and left stains on his fingers when he tried to move it. At least the window itself still opened smoothly, that’d be harder to fix.
Arthur silently watched Alisdair’s hands scatter flakes of old paint across the old crocheted blanket, his eyes sad.
Alisdair ran his tongue over his teeth, conflicted.
‘I’m sure you did see someone,’ he began, sitting on the edge of the bed again. The mattress squeaked in protest, a broken whine of old springs, ‘and I’m sure it was frightening-‘
‘I’m not frightened!’ Arthur tried to shift up onto his knees but Alisdair held him down, ‘I just don’t want to be watched or let him steal anything.’
‘Aye, okay.’ Whether Arthur thought him a fool or was simply unaware of how easy he was to read, Alisdair avoided mentioning, ‘But maybe it could have been a dream.’
He held onto Arthur’s shoulder and squeezed it when he opened his mouth to protest, ‘Maybe. When you’re half asleep your mind plays tricks. I’ve had that a lot of times, thinking something’s real in the moment only to realise that it’s something else in the morning. You probably are seeing someone, but it’ll just be a chimney sweep doing his rounds.’
‘It’s not,’ Arthur’s voice was small, ‘I know it’s not.’
Alisdair sighed. It was late.
‘How about this,’ he said, tugging the curtain across as much as it would go and nudging Arthur to lay back down, ‘If you can stay in here all night for the rest of the week, I’ll take you down to the Prom on Sunday after church.’
Arthur hesitated, ‘Can we get an ice-cream?’
‘If you want to freeze your insides as well as your outsides, you can.’
‘Fine,’ Arthur shifted to regard him more seriously, ‘But if I find proof that someone’s out on our roof, you’ll also get me sherbet lemons.’
‘Cocky little shite, aren’t we?’ Arthur smiled and Alisdair felt his shoulders relax, ‘Alright, it’s a promise. And if you can’t stay here for the rest if the week, you’ll have to clear out the slops with Patrick.’
Arthur made a face and Alisdair laughed, ‘Ah, see? Not all fun and games making bets, is it?’
Arthur grumbled something insulting into his pillow and Alisdair stood, ruffling his hair, ‘Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Morning came far too quickly.
Seemingly seconds after his head hit the pillow there was the tap of the Knocker-Upper (1) at the window, a high crack that made Rhys jolt awake next to him in panic as he did every morning.
The house was still cold and dark, but Patrick’s shoes were by the front door and as they stepped outside to a brightening sky, Alisdair allowed himself to take some joy from the day. The crispness in the air cleansed it, taking London’s filth and burying it under the smell of fallen leaves carried from the parks and for a moment, that first breath in and out, it could have been any day. Any year, at any point in his life. Ageless and timeless, the details of his life cloaked in morning and hard to define with missed milestones.
Alisdair was lucky to have his job. His family could still eat. They still had their house and they were all still together. That was enough.
The day passed quickly and all too soon he was waving Rhys goodbye as he stayed an extra few hours at work, leaving only to start his tutoring position in the West End before finally taking himself home.
He found Patrick there when he pushed opened the door, poking the dying fire in the parlour with his boots half on.
‘You still here?’ Alisdair shucked off his coat to hang on the hallway wall.
‘Late finish.’ Patrick rolled his shoulders and bent down to do up his shoes, ‘Thanks for last night, by the way.’
‘What for?’
‘Taking Arthur. It was nice to have the whole bed for myself, he always ends up squashed against me like a bloody mollusc.’
Alisdair stepped into the living room, ‘Taking Arthur?’
‘Yeah,’ Patrick stood, looking confused, ‘With you and Rhys.’
‘We didn’t have him, I put him back in your room.’
‘What?’
For a moment, they stood looking at each other in silence. Alisdair felt the stirrings of something in his chest, a sensation of things being out of place and about to fall.
‘Is he not here?’
Patrick shook his head, eyes darting to the door as if he expected Arthur to walk through, ‘No, I assumed he was still out with Gilbert or Francis or you’d sent him out for something.’
‘Not this damn late!’
‘I don’t know, I’m not usually here am I? Did you see him in the morning?’ Patrick asked, a sharpness to his voice.
‘Of course I didn’t, I thought he was with you. Didn’t you see him in the morning?’
‘Oi, don’t get all accusatory with me. I woke up and the house was empty, I thought he was at school already.’
‘And breakfast?’
‘He usually sorts himself out.’
‘For fuck’s sake Patrick!’
‘What! Why would I think anything different, the bed was empty when I went up and the curtains were open, I assumed he hadn’t even been in there.’
Something froze in Alisdair’s chest at the mention of the curtains, a cold hollow dread that quickly spread through him and make his stomach twist. Before Patrick could say another word, Alisdair grabbed a nearby candle and bolted up the stairs as fast as he could without losing the flame, skidding on the threadbare rug in the landing in his desperation to disprove the quickly growing fear. He could hear Rhys and Patrick downstairs, a growing frantic murmur of voices that Alisdair ignored to push open the door to Patrick’s room.
It was of course empty. A huddle of blankets on the bed, empty fire in the grate.
Without giving his eyes time to adjust to the dim light, Alisdair pulled the curtain aside and tugged the window up with one hand. As on the previous night the roofs were empty, flat concrete expanses or slants of steep grey slate. But on their roof, slumped as if thrown into the gap between the ventilation pipe and the wall of the house next door, was a small, all too familiar, teddy bear.