Chapter Two

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I awoke to the sound of birds singing. A lifting of the gloom in the hallway indicated it was day rather than night, but I had no idea of the time. I stared at the ceiling, listening to them, enjoying the freshness of it but wishing it would cease and let my headache ease. The birds, of course, ignored my silent pleas and sang. Any other day I'd be willing them on, thankful of the morning chorus or the evensong. Now, I'd take up a broom and chase them, scattering their refrain onto the beats of their wings. Even though it was the animal kingdom's version of a baby's laugh...

A baby's laugh...

I sat up sharply, my head swimming and vomit threatening to rise as quickly as I had. I looked up at the door to the attic, expecting the darkness which had taunted me inside to be leering at me. It was closed. An ordinary door in an ordinary doorway. The stairs were just steps to take you up or down, depending on your preference or kinship to a Grand Ol' Duke. I touched my head and felt a lump which throbbed as if the pressure from my fingertip had somehow activated it.

"Ow!"

My moan fell flat against the walls of the hall. The echo was as dull as the inside of my head, woolly and thick with a cloying, rhythmic pulse. I returned my attention to the area I was sitting and saw the photograph and the now broken candle, extinguished. I picked the picture up and studied it. The Denholms were unmistakeable and the boy's resemblance to Albert was too close to be coincidental. It wasn't simply his clothes. The hair, too, and even the eyes, as much as porcelain and membranes and cells can look alike. I shook my head, instantly regretting it as a wave of nausea hit me. I gulped air, resisting the urge to become reacquainted with whatever had yet to be digested from my Carbonara of the previous night.

I turned slightly, preparing to push myself up and froze. Albert was sitting next to me. I was unsure how I'd missed his presence though he was quite the quietest child I'd ever looked after. But... how had he come to be beside me? He should have been in still in the room, behind the locked door. Once my head had cleared and I'd managed to stand, I would have had to figure out how I'd find my way back inside and continue to look after my charge. I must have managed to do so last night, with the blow to my head preventing the memory from rising through the fog which persisted behind my eyes. Why I'd brought him here, to the foot of the stairs, I couldn't imagine. At least I had the foresight, in hindsight, to resume my duties.

I pushed myself up, gingerly, and swept up the doll.

"You didn't get into any trouble last night, did you?" I asked, smiling. It was always a good idea to be jovial around children. They responded to the moods they encountered and happy begat happy. "No wild parties or anything?"

I took Albert's silence to be a negative.

"Good boy," I said. "I think you deserve some breakfast."

Breakfast could have been supper for all I knew, but the light of the hallway felt new rather than hours old, so I assumed it was still before noon. Any meal, to my mind, before 12:00pm counted as breakfast. 'Brunch' was a posh name for those who didn't like to admit they'd slept in and were eating too close to lunch time. When I finally managed to reach the kitchen, my unsteady gait becoming steadier as I walked, I found my assumption to be accurate. It was barely 9:00am, the day still crawling into the eyes of those who walked upon the Earth. This side of it, at least. Breakfast was still a viable option. An inspection of the refrigerator prompted me to make a pair of omelettes, something quick yet filling. I had something I planned to do and thought both Albert and myself needed something to keep us going.

After clearing up and freezing the remains of Albert meal - effectively all of it - I took the doll up to my room and dressed. My hand was sore from the burn, so I applied some salve and a bandage to ease, if not stop, the pain. I was unsure of how to tell Albert of my plan, knowing he wouldn't like it. His parents definitely wouldn't approve. What else could I do? In the photograph, the way they were standing with the boy... It was too close. Too familiar. Too familial! Bizarre thoughts were running through my head, skating in a frantic figure eight which was preventing me from collecting them into something resembling sense. I needed to pen them in somehow, and I could think of only one way to do so.

"Now, Albert," I said, kneeling before him. "I know I've broken the rules once already, and I apologise for that. But I have to find out about this photograph."

I held it out for him to see. His blank eyes didn't look. He probably already knew about it.

"Is this you?" I asked. Of course, he wouldn't answer. He never did. "Did your mummy and daddy have a real son once? Is that why they have you? I need to find out. I won't be gone for long, I promise, then we can play or watch a movie. Would you like that?"

I took him through to the sitting room and switched on the television, finding a channel with more cartoons than toy advertisements. If he was anything like other children (which, of course, he wasn't), he'd be asking for every toy which came on screen. Christmas wasn't too far away, in that we were over half way there. He could wait. But, avoiding the temptation was always a good idea, even with inanimate ceramics.

"You watch television and I'll be back before you know it, Albert." I smiled and patted his hand. "Then I'm all yours, okay?"

I stood, watching the television for a long moment, lost in the hectic racing of the characters onscreen. What was I doing? It was nothing to do with me. I had my job and my instructions. Albert, though he was a lifeless vessel for his parents' love, still needed me. I felt as if I was abandoning him. I was, in a way. He was my surrogate son whilst his pseudo mother and father were away. If he was real, I'd never contemplate leaving him in front of the television.

He wasn't, however. It was the fact I was going against the wishes of my employers. I was personalising the ire I felt by passing it onto Albert. I had no choice. I needed to know. Now I'd seen the photograph, I couldn't simply return it to the attic and carry on as if I'd never laid eyes on it.

I turned, with a quick 'bye' to the boy, and left.

###

The library was unexpectedly large for such a small village. Perhaps the remoteness of the place prompted an increase in the size of the library. Before the days of the internet and the world shrinking to the head of a pin, books and encyclopaedia were all that connected villages to the towns and cities beyond their borders. The library would be the font of all knowledge and would grow in proportion to its need. In another place, it would have been a town hall or court, the heavy stone structure, high ceilings and sash windows lending an authoritative flavour to the building.

I climbed the steps quickly and entered the cool, too-air conditioned interior. As with many libraries, it felt as if a blanket had been draped over the noise of the world. Everything became hushed, with both footsteps and voices tip-toeing to your ears. Close to the entrance was a large set of long drawers, an old card based index system. It was quaint and raised a slight smile, but I needed the speed of an electronic method. The only computer screen I could see was on the empty desk in the centre of the book lined room. I looked around for someone to help me but couldn't see anyone.

Great. The card index it was, then.

Not knowing what I wanted to look for, I was unsure where to begin. Pulling out the first few trays of cards proved to be a waste of time, as did randomly opening drawers and dipping into their contents. It was a frustrating way of finding out nothing and I stepped back, stamping my feet, knowing I must have appeared petulant to an onlooker but not caring as there were none.

"Can I help you?"

I gasped and spun around. The trepidation from the night before must still have been present in my bloodstream as I felt the tingle of fear prickle the back of my neck.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Libraries are meant to be quiet and I guess I'm so used to it now I assume everyone can hear everything."

"No, no," I stammered. "It's fine. I was miles away."

"I'm Tom," the man said, holding out his hand. A name badge pinned to the breast pocket of his shirt confirmed his name. "I'm the librarian."

Ah, someone who could help me.

"Tom," I said. "I'm Yvonne."

"A pleasure," he said, smiling.

The tickle left my neck and fluttered briefly to other parts of my anatomy. His smile was warm and my life had been lacking in any heat for some time. He was handsome, with a manner of someone brought up in a small community who's rarely visited anywhere larger. His welcome easily brushed aside the lingering apprehension and I felt myself relax.

"So," he said. "May I help you?"

"I hope so. I'm looking for information."

"Well," said Tom, "if you were looking for milk, you'd be in the wrong place."

I laughed, a genuine response to his joke rather than a polite nod to misplaced humour. His smile widened and my own reciprocated.

"Indeed," I said. "I'm actually looking for info on Mr. and Mrs. Denholm, if at all possible. They own the big house..."

I stopped speaking as his smile faded and any semblance of wit left his features.

"I know the Denholms," he said, his voice low and even. "Everyone around here knows them."

"Oh," I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say. I was expecting a brighter response to the name of a family who, with such financial and industrial strength behind them, must have contributed a great deal to the surrounding area.

"What do you want to know?"

His tone was no longer personable, the warmth being replaced by the chill hue of a frosty facade. I could tell my employers were not as well liked as I'd supposed. I pulled the photo from my pocket and handed it to him.

"I'm after some information on the boy in this photograph."

Tom looked at the photo for a long moment, one where I had the chance to see his eyes cloud and his teeth clench. He looked back up at me and the tension in his face diminished, making him look tired rather than suddenly angry.

"Why?"

I didn't really have an answer for this question. I couldn't really open up to a man I'd just met, potentially breaking confidences my contract with the Denholms implied. I couldn't tell him I was spooked by strange noises and slamming doors. I couldn't say I wondered if the doll I was looking after was actually a model of their deceased son. I'd sound strange, insane or deranged. I wanted to come across as sensible and nice, not odd.

"I'm... I'm their nanny," I said finally. What was the point in lying? Perhaps the Denholms were private people and those in the village wouldn't necessarily know whether or not they had a child.

"Oh," said Tom. "I see."

He turned and walked to the desk, slumping in the chair. I followed, assuming that wasn't an abrupt end to our conversation. Tom was still holding the photograph, but wasn't looking at it. Instead he was staring at the bouncing library logo on the computer monitor.

"Sit down," he said without turning his head. It was more of a request than an instruction.

I pulled up the swivel chair which I assumed was for visitors and sat. If either one of us was acting oddly, I was pleased it was him rather than me.

"You're their nanny?" he asked, his attention moving to me.

"I am," I said.

"I didn't realise they had another child."

Another child? So the boy in the photo was theirs! Why had they never spoken about him? And, why replace him with a doll?

"So the boy in the picture...?"

"Albert. His name was Albert."

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