The Monster Hunter Read online

  The Garden Orphanage

  As they sailed into Salcombe the town rose up on a majestic hill behind the port, a house-covered crown with every window glistening in the morning sun. It was certainly a busy port but nowhere near as crowded as Colombo. In its heyday talented shipwrights had plied their trade along the banks of the estuary, but with the rise of the steamship most of the skilled workers were now in residence at the country’s dockyards building larger vessels rather than working on the more fiddly sailing ships that appeared to be losing popularity. It was still a good port to put into and a good place to unload and register your journey and ship’s log. A one-stop shop, if you will, and one that Captain Dante obviously felt comfortable using, although he did curse the waterways and shifting sandbanks on his approach. One day, he said, they would be sure to sink him.

  Ben needed to find his land legs again before setting off, so for a couple of days he stayed and helped unload. He knew he would not see the crew of the Hallowe’en again and he wanted the parting to be drawn out. Although he had made no real friends among the rest of the crew, both Dante and Silver would be in his heart for evermore, like surrogate uncles. The farewells when they eventually came were fleeting. Ben handed Gulliver’s Travels back to the Captain, who smiled as he took the heavy book in his now misshapen hands.

  ‘Well, you’ll be going on travels of your own one day, Master Gaul. I hope they are as full of adventure as Mr Gulliver’s were.’

  And with these words they parted, no goodbyes or fare-thee-wells – just a simple nod of the head and on with business.

  Ben walked to the cart, his heart set on the adventure ahead rather than the sadness of departure, and took his place beside the driver. The carter was a ruddy-faced man with big farmer’s hands and a belly to match. All in all, he looked like a giant pear with a perfectly round head perched where the stalk should have been. He greeted Ben with the same nod of the head that Captain Dante had used as a goodbye.

  Ben held out his hand in friendly greeting to the carter but was surprised when it was openly refused.

  ‘I’ll take you there,’ the man said with a thick West Country accent, ‘but I don’t have to like it.’

  Ben was quite taken aback by the open hostility and recalled how Silver had warned him that his looks might raise eyebrows in his new home. They were a strange lot, the people back in Blighty, happy to trade with India and its ilk, but inhospitable to those they traded with if they happened to turn up on their shores.

  The ride was an uncomfortable one, full of awkward silences and grumbling. Matters were only made worse by the events of the first night. When night started to darken the sky and it became obvious that they would soon be stopping at an inn to rest, the carter (who Ben later found out was called Thomas John) became even gruffer and, on arriving at the coaching stop, simply walked off, as if knowing there was only room for him to lay his head in comfort that night. Ben therefore had to find a warm spot in the stable along with a tinker and a homebound soldier.

  Early the next morning Ben was awoken by the tinker, who apologetically pointed out that Ben’s cart had just left.

  Ben frantically gathered his gear, pulled on his boots and had to run for a mile down the road before he caught up with his vehicle again.

  ‘Where are you going? I paid for this ride,’ he scolded, his voice rising in anger for possibly the first time in his life. He could see it took Thomas John by surprise.

  ‘I thought you’d moved on in the night. I don’t know your ways,’ Thomas John retorted, annoyed not to have lost the boy.

  ‘Is it going to be like this all the way to Kent?’ huffed Ben as he climbed quickly back on to the seat beside the oddly shaped man.

  ‘I guess we’ll have to see, won’t we? I reckon we’ve got close on a fortnight to find out,’ Thomas John said with a mocking smirk. ‘You’re only here because the wife said we’d be stupid to miss out on upfront money, just because of where it’s from.’

  ‘I paid with English coin,’ said Ben, surprised at how much the carter’s comments were hurting him. In Ceylon, he had always been seen as British and treated as such. In England, however, it seemed that things would be different.

  The next week was indeed a trial and when Ben realised things weren’t going to improve he moved his possessions and seat to the back of the cart. Thomas John had at first protested, but when he realised that he wouldn’t have to spend his days behind the reins quietly hating someone sitting beside him – which in all honesty he found very tiring – he warmed to the idea and didn’t say another word.

  So it was that by the second week Ben was sitting up high, able to see far across the British countryside. And as his outer eyes gazed across the open fields his inner ones turned to his precious stories and the new books that would undoubtedly be available at the orphanage.

  It was at the end of the second week that the scenery changed as they skirted past London. The traffic on the road became heavier and Ben found himself sharing the journey with not only horse-drawn carts but mail coaches and steam-driven carriages. Often, too, they would be passed by magnificent trains belching smoke into the trees, as the roads and railways seemed to run together in so many places. As they left London behind, trees began to arch over the lanes and Ben found himself plucking leaves to try and identify them. It was only when he fanned out three of the snatched bits of foliage in his palm that his heart raced and he broke into a sweat of fear, for suddenly the trees seemed to be reaching down towards him with wooden arms. As a branch brushed his face, he let out a holler of dismay that had the carter pull the horse to a stop and clamber on to the cargo to see what had gotten into the lad. His angry and unfriendly face was certainly not what Ben wanted to see, and as his anxiety rose he scrambled backwards and fell off the cart with a crash that robbed him of his senses.

  When he groggily opened his eyes again, he heard a deep male voice.

  The figure stood before him was in uniform although it didn’t appear to be that of a military man. The man had a stern face, but his eyes spoke more of a kindness and his bushy brown moustache was similar to the way the men of Ceylon chose to wear their facial hair and so had a friendly familiarity about it.

  ‘You Benjamin Gaul?’ the officer said again, making Ben realise he was repeating the words that had woken him. Ben was also aware he was alone on a grass verge, his kitbag propped against a tree. No sign of Thomas John or his cart.

  ‘Yes, I’m Benjamin Gaul,’ he answered, aware how formal it sounded.

  ‘Well, that clears things up. You’re certainly not the raving foreigner as I was led to expect. It’s just I’ve cycled the entire road and you were the only person lying about, so I thought I best check.’ The policeman smiled. ‘Come on, lad, on your feet. It’s all right – I knew you were coming.’

  Ben must have looked confused.

  ‘Oh us officers are always aware what might be coming. You just took a bit longer than most but you’re here now.’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ said Ben. ‘You have me at a disadvantage… You knew I was coming?’

  ‘Oh yes! The Garden Orphanage has expected you for close on four months now, but what with sea travel as it is you could easily have been late or dead.’ The policeman pointed at Ben’s kitbag and Ben picked it up, realising he was to follow the man. ‘Of course, I didn’t expect to be informed of your arrival by a West Country carter, telling me he’d brought an Indian into our realm and that you were possessed by Lucifer himself.’ The policeman gave Ben a long look. ‘You’re not, are you?’

  ‘I’m neither Indian nor possessed,’ Ben said forcefully. ‘I’m British. I simply woke from a nightmare and fell from the cart.’ Ben felt his annoyance at Thomas John’s prejudice rising in him again and he didn’t want to think it was present in everyone he was to meet.

  ‘Didn’t think so – you look more French to me than Indian.’

  And with this statement the policeman pulled a contraption out of the bushes the likes of which B
en had never seen before. The policeman clearly noticed the questioning expression and there was a look on his own face suggesting he would have been disappointed not to see some level of confusion. Carefully standing the contraption on its two wheels, the policeman proudly announced. ‘It’s my safety bicycle, issued to me by the Robert Peel fund, to help with my upkeep of the law and a lot easier to feed than a horse. I call her Doris.’

  For a few seconds the policeman looked happily at the shining black bicycle with open pride. ‘Of course, Doris only has one seat, so I will push her back to the station house and then we shall walk you up to the orphanage. Possibly best if you don’t just wander up yourself. Mrs Reed doesn’t take to kindly to strangers of a swarthy nature hanging around her premises on account of the Gypsies.’

  Ben walked along with the policeman, happy that somehow he had fallen off the cart almost at his destination. He didn’t say much at all but he was pretty sure the local constable wouldn’t notice as he chatted most of the way himself, mainly about the improvement Doris had made to his life and how much more quickly he could now get around the villages. Most folks still didn’t trust the safety bicycle and were happier to walk or use a penny-farthing, but Robert Bobbins was a forward-thinking chap and he would embrace anything that made life simpler. It took Ben quite a while to work out that the Robert Bobbins of whom the policeman spoke was actually him, and so it was that Constable Bobbins, Doris and Ben turned up at the station house around late noon.

  By this time Ben had already observed the landscape slowly rising and a distinct smell of the sea wafting through the streets, so he wasn’t surprised when they reached a crest and he could see that the whole area sloped down towards a large flat expanse of marshland, then on to a pebbled beach and the sea beyond. The stretch of coastline however did not seem to be fit for a harbour and the town had actually been designed to journey inland towards what at first appeared to be woods but on closer inspection were in fact many orchards.

  ‘Right then!’ said Constable Bobbins, placing Doris against the wall of what was clearly the station house, a small building where he most certainly lived and worked, suggesting the police force of Whitgate was more than likely formed of just the one man. ‘Let’s get you up to the Garden.’

  It was actually a fair trek outside of town to the Garden Orphanage and Ben was impressed at how much into the countryside the house was situated. At one time the house had clearly been part of a farm: it had a high brick wall on three sides but its front was open fully on to the track that ran past its front gardens. The house was a large red-brick rectangle with a decorative entrance porch situated squarely at its most central point protecting a well-maintained and heavy wooden door. At one end of the house a tower had been built. A tower so unusual in its design that you could only imagine that every ounce of the builder’s creativity had gone into its construction. The house was two storeys high but the tower was three and the conical roof clearly hid a fourth level as it had a balcony running around it and a small window set into the tiles. On the front lawn was a dovecot, sturdy looking and painted white. There were, however, no doves, and a large jackdaw sat on its fancy roof, and in doing so, it lost any of the menace that jackdaws usually might have.

  Constable Bobbins did not walk up to the front door but instead approached the foot of the tower, and as Ben followed he could see that the lower floor was in fact a classroom and that currently all the children, no matter what their age or gender, were sitting quietly behind desks looking at a thin elderly man in a grey suit reading aloud from the Bible. Constable Bobbins rapped hard on the window and a sea of faces turned towards the policeman. The elderly man pointed towards the rectangular part of the building and the officer nodded and took Ben to the front door. Ben could feel the eyes of every single child in the class on his back as he walked and he hoped that among them would be a future friend of his own age. Perhaps it was true what Captain Dante had said: Ben wasn’t good with people but that came from growing up with only his mother’s company and that of the British Officers. He had no equals he could just be a child with and therefore grow the social skills of life, he hoped that would all change here.

  They didn’t knock again but waited patiently until the door was opened by the elderly man, and straight away Ben realised the man was a vicar or priest.

  ‘Good afternoon, Constable Bobbins,’ said the vicar in a voice that was so cracked and monotone that Ben instantly thought how dry his readings of the Bible must be.

  ‘And good afternoon to you, too, Reverend,’ said the policeman with a cheery smile. ‘I have for you here a new ward for Mrs Reed, one Benjamin Gaul. He’s been expected for a while now.’

  The elderly vicar reached into his pocket and placed a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles upon his long straight nose and examined the boy as if he would not take delivery if he did not meet with his approval. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben could see children standing at the ground-floor windows of the tower, trying to get a better look at the new arrival while the teacher was away.

  ‘You best let him in then. Mrs Reed is still in town and will not return for an hour, but he can wait in her study until she does… In fact, the lad can come to Bible class – I’m guessing it’s been a while since he’s a heard a Christian reading.’

  And with that Ben was handed over to the elderly Reverend. He was instructed to hang his coat and leave his kitbag in the hall and to follow the elderly man to the classroom.

  ‘Good luck, young Master Gaul. I’m sure you’ll settle in fine with no further nightmare tumbles. I’m also sure I’ll see you around, too, though not because you’ll be in trouble of course,’ said the policeman as he pulled the door closed, sealing Ben inside his new home.

  Ben followed the Reverend along a corridor and into a classroom, which instantly fell silent at his presence.

  ‘Now, children, this is Benjamin Gaul. We have been expecting him for some months, as you know, and he has come from the British colony of Ceylon. When Mrs Reed returns she will get him settled but until then he is going to join our class. Now, Miss Poppy, you have a free seat beside you – could you shuffle along so Master Gaul can sit down?’

  A very young, sharp-faced girl with tight brown ringlets sighed and shuffled along on her desk to make room on the small bench for the new arrival. Ben was instantly aware that, although it was none of his doing, he had somehow not made the right first impression on the class and certainly not on Miss Poppy. The children followed Ben’s progress to the desk, eyes a mixture of indifference, wonder, curiosity, anger and surprise. He had never seen so many children in one place together and he suddenly realised that they were the cause of the unfamiliar smell he had picked up from the moment he had walked in the door – a warm sweet smell with an underlying odour of overcooked vegetables. He sat beside the disgruntled Miss Poppy and saw her nose wrinkle as if he, too, had brought an unknown fragrance into her world.

  ‘Eyes to the front, children,’ the Reverend crackled and slowly the children turned to face the elderly man of the cloth.

  The next hour passed slowly as fidgety children took it in turns to look at the new resident of the Garden Orphanage. Ben tried his best to smile if he met anyone’s gaze but not once was the smile returned. A larger boy with straw-coloured hair didn’t take his eyes off Ben the whole time and it wasn’t long before Ben was reminded of his first meeting with Gator Dawson. Some boys, it seemed, could not help being predators, looking for the weaker ones to subjugate to their cruel whims.

  One of the older girls with a mass of ginger hair was taking an interest in Ben, clearly trying to work out his appearance and what made him tick. He had no idea what conclusion she had come to but it didn’t seem to be a positive one, for when he caught her gaze she tightened her lips and turned swiftly away.

  The whole time the elderly man droned on before them, never once looking up from the book from which he was reading while pacing the room in a very pedestrian manner, as if movement was giving the mo
notone speech the life it so needed. Ben was trying hard to focus on the words. He had heard the Bible read before, as every Sunday the officers at the British hospital attended a Christian service in the tiny chapel. However as it had not been required he should attend, he often took the time to sit and play with his mother or run around the garden unmolested by the questions of the relaxing officers. The Christian book seemed to his untrained ears to be a collection of stories from any country that wasn’t England. He wondered whether this was why the English had tried so hard to spread their empire across the globe, a futile attempt to find their God. The Sinhalese temples told stories of Gods and prophets, more often than not including tasks they had undertaken locally to gain divinity.

  The room was growing hot and Ben could feel his eyes closing as he tried to avoid the stares of his classmates and the hypnotising drawl of the vicar.

  The opening of the classroom door snapped Ben’s eyes open and the reading stopped as a woman entered with all the bustle of one freshly entering a room and not yet acclimatised to its pace.

  She was full of figure in a white, high-necked blouse that strained against her maternal bust and a dark-green skirt that reached to the floor. Her mouth was small with a large bottom lip that gave her the look of a pouting child; her eyes were dark and almost hidden by wrinkles with heavy bags beneath and her expression was one of stern confusion. She brushed stray dark grey hairs from off her face and surveyed the room until her eyes met those of Ben.

  ‘Ah! Mrs Reed. We have a new arrival for you,’ said the Reverend in his crackly voice, as if suddenly remembering why she would be here.

  ‘I can see, Reverend Luck. A little older than I was expecting but then I was expecting him earlier.’ Her voice seemed kinder than her face had suggested it would be, and she appeared to also have another, older accent that was fading against the Kentish one she was acquiring. She held out her hand towards Ben.