Tunnels 03, Freefall

right."

    * * * * *

    Ben Wilbrahams lived in an imposing wide-fronted Victorian house. He gave Mrs. Burrows a hand into the hall and from there into the sitting room. He sat her down on the sofa and lit a fire in the hearth. Fetching a towel so she could dry herself off, he went off to make them coffee. Mrs. Burrows limped over to the wide marble fireplace, taking in the old paintings in the room -- mostly landscapes and classically English. With its high ceilings the room was impressively large, running the full length of the house. Still drying her hair, she hobbled a few steps towards the garden end of the room. Even though it was in darkness, she could make out a number of large boards set up on easels.
    She found a light switch and turned it on. There were six boards in total, on which were pinned a mass of maps and countless numbers of small cards covered in neatly written notes. But the farthest board consisted only of photographs, and one of these photographs made her do a double take. She hopped over to it. It was a small black-and-white photograph of Dr. Burrows.
    "That's from the Highfield museum website," Ben said as he entered the room carrying a tray with cups and a cafetiere of fresh coffee on it. "They haven't updated it yet."
    "Did you ever meet him?" Mrs. Burrows asked. "My husband, Roger?"
    "No, never had the pleasure," Ben Wilbrahams replied, noticing Mrs. Burrows' interest in the other photographs pinned around the one of her husband. There was a color photograph of a smiling family on which had been written The Watkins Family .
    "The people in all those other pictures, they all went missing too," Ben Wilbrahams said, setting the tray down.
    "So what is all this? What precisely are you up to here?" Mrs. Burrows asked suspiciously, as she hopped over to another board. She leant on the back of a chair for support as she examined a map of Highfield, which was peppered with red stickers.
    "You're not a journalist or a writer or anything like that?" he asked, narrowing his eyes in a less than serious way.
    "Not yet," Mrs. Burrows replied.
    "Good, because I don't want anyone stealing my ideas," he said. "I came across to England five years ago to write and direct an episode of a new cable TV series called Victorian Gothic . My episode was about London's cemeteries, and when it was finished, I never went home. That's what I do -- I make films, and documentaries."
    "Really," Mrs. Burrows said, impressed. She thought back to her own television career and how much she had given up when she and Dr. Burrows adopted Will.
    Ben Wilbrahams pushed down the plunger on the cafetiere. "At the moment I'm doing some general research on Highfield, and all the crazy -- or maybe not so crazy -- stories that fascinated your husband too."
    "Why don't you tell me about them?" Mrs. Burrows said.

    * * * * *

    Will sat up and rubbed his eyes, convinced he'd heard a bell ringing. If he really had heard one, he could only think it was the bell on the barricade.
    From the chaise longue, where he had been sleeping, he watched Bartleby, who seemed to have been roused too. The cat had been curled up in his favorite place at the fireside, but was now glancing lazily at the garden outside. He let his head sink slowly to the rug again, and promptly went back to sleep. As Bartleby appeared to be so relaxed, Will told himself he must have dreamt it. He lay down again, also intending to go back to sleep.
    Just then Chester, all in a fluster, burst in from the side room, where he'd been watching over Elliott.
    "Well, don't just lie there!" he shouted.
    "Huh?" Will said drowsily.
    "The bell! You must have heard it."
    Will hauled himself from the chaise longue to join Chester at the front door.
    "Are you sure it was the bell?" Will asked, as they both looked down the path towards the barricade.
    "Absolutely."
    "It might be Martha," Will suggested. "Maybe she went outside to check the traps."
    Chester didn't need to reply -- Will's question was answered as, without a word, Martha barged between them and launched herself down the front steps. Still dressed in the ankle-length, dirty white gown she usually slept in, she'd clearly got up in a hurry. But she also had her crossbow in her hands and, as she stormed down the path, she cocked it and drew a bolt from her quiver.
    "Looks like she's expecting trouble," Chester observed.
    Reaching the barricade, she checked through the peephole in the door. With a quick glance in the boys' direction,