by T C Shelley
‘We will always take your wishes into consideration.’
Sam exhaled. It didn’t matter what this man said – he could convince everyone else that he was Sam’s dad, but that didn’t mean anything if Sam didn’t want to live with him.
‘Even if he were my father, I still don’t have to go with him if I don’t want to, right?’ Sam asked. ‘I’m not saying he is, I just want to know what I’m allowed to do.’
‘You are likely to change your mind, Sam.’
Michelle and Richard looked grey as gargoyles.
‘The service recommended that your father give you time to adapt to the news, or maybe remember …’ Again, the sentence ended with a questioning note.
Michelle and Richard stared at the coffee table, waiting for it to contribute something to the conversation. The light outside on the street got dark as the talking stuttered and stalled. No one got up to turn on the light. Sam looked outside to see the sky had grown heavy and grey.
Richard said, ‘They can’t just take him away from us?’
Michelle turned her head back and forth. ‘No. She said Sam has a say, and we have adopted him.’
‘That’s right, we do only what Sam wants and at Sam’s pace. His father promises to take it gently, meet with Sam in your company. Maybe see if anything jogs his memory. We’ve explained the sensitive nature of Sam’s condition.’ Mrs Petersen turned to Sam. ‘Your dad asked lots of questions about what you said about yourself.’
‘I bet he did,’ Sam said.
Mrs Petersen turned to Richard and Michelle. ‘You might be able to argue for shared custody. The court would take Sam’s wishes into account,’ Mrs Petersen said.
Beatrice writhed in Michelle’s grip and reached for Sam. Michelle handed the baby to him. She settled against his chest, all her sparkles covering him, wrapping around him in a shiny blanket. She knew something was wrong with Sam.
‘You have no memory of your life before, do you, Sam?’ Mrs Petersen asked.
Sam opened his mouth and no words would come. When he told them the truth, that he was monster born, that he was about four months old, not one of them believed him. Even the Kavanaghs saw it as his coping mechanism. Mrs Petersen knew what he would say already; it was in a notebook somewhere in one of the offices, probably entitled ‘Why Sam Won’t Ever Fit In’.
He decided on: ‘I don’t want to go.’
Mrs Petersen didn’t leave without fixing an appointment with Woermann. At Sam’s leisure, she had said, although, when Sam stated ‘Never’, she had answered, ‘Tomorrow, then?’ Michelle had suggested a place, and all Sam could think was that it was a cafe he liked and he didn’t want this strange man knowing where he went with his family.
Around three thirty, he heard Nick’s shuffling feet stagger up the steps. Sam raced down the stairs to meet him. Nick dumped his bag and, with a high cry, grabbed Sam and shook him back and forth.
At bedtime, each one of them came in kissed him and hugged him, kissed him and hugged him again. Nick rocked him in his arms as if Sam were Beatrice and needed extra soothing after a fit of crying. Sam did not cry; he was sure it would be OK. He had the final say.
The paper church angels covered his walls. He was watched over. Daniel would be back sometime.
Sam hoped it would all be OK.
CHAPTER 10
When the phone rang, it was Mrs Petersen setting up details about how to ruin their lives, so though everyone was trying to be nice and loving, every action felt soured. Every moment they had together was sucked of pleasure and conversation and energy.
Sam felt doubly lousy. He was so distracted by the impending, implacable arrival of ‘Dad’ that he found it hard to focus on the other problem: how to find Wilfred, Amira and Hazel. He didn’t even know how to start doing anything. ‘East’ was vague information, and he couldn’t ask Michelle to drive him and three gargoyles in some random direction looking for bewitched dogs.
Sam sat on the rooftop watching his street. He had rubbed Daniel’s sigils for luck before he hit the tiles, reminding himself that it would work out. He kept coming back to Maggie, her red hair, her pale skin, wishing he could see her, wishing he never had to see her again. The light dust smell on Mrs Petersen might have meant Maggie was behind it all, but he had smelt a lot of fairy dust lately.
Wheedle put his head on Sam’s lap. ‘It’ll be OK, kid, it will.’
‘I just don’t have time for this. I should be at school. I should be figuring out where Wilfred, Amira and Hazel have been taken.’
‘Enough time for that later,’ Bladder said, swishing his grey lion tail and making a nasty noise on the tiles.
Someone was having a barbecue, despite the overcast day, a brave soul taking an opportunity to enjoy the last rain-free weather.
‘I like it when they eat outside, it smells nice,’ Wheedle said.
‘You know they’re eating cow, don’t you?’ Bladder asked. ‘Steak, rump, diced, a nice bit of roast.’ He prodded Wheedle’s shoulder. ‘From about here.’
‘I like the smell of the pudding too.’
‘Come on, Sam, give us a happy face,’ Bladder said. ‘Whoever he is, he can’t take you, you know. I will pummel anyone, then I’ll bite them, then I’ll …’ Bladder stopped. ‘It can’t be Maggie – she can be a crone, she can be beautiful, but she can’t be a man. And she wouldn’t send anyone else. It’s not like her.’
Wheedle winced. ‘You don’t think it’s that man she was with the other day?’
‘Nope. Nope. Definitely not. It don’t make sense, her doing that. He’s human, for goodness sake,’ Bladder said. ‘But even if it is, what can he do against Wing-Nut’s sigils, hey? She’s panicking, I say. It’s a last-ditch effort.’
Wheedle nodded his head with enthusiasm as Sam hung his. ‘It’ll blow over and you’ll be back to normal,’ Wheedle added. ‘I think you’re right, it’s definitely that big man and Maggie up to something, but don’t you worry, everyone’s got you covered.’
‘We will always be here for you, you know?’ Bladder said.
Sam gave his best smile, but it felt crooked. Then he climbed down the building face first.
He flipped off the wall; one twist over and his feet landed on the floor of his bedroom.
‘Sam?’ a voice called. Sam looked out of his window. Nick stood on the footpath, his mouth so open Sam could throw a ball into it.
‘How … ?’ Nick said. ‘I was looking for you.’ He screwed up his eyes, rubbed them and stared again. ‘You were climbing. On the wall. Upside down.’
Sam nodded.
‘Are you some kind of circus performer?’
‘No.’
Nick had gone an awful colour.
‘Please, don’t tell Michelle and Richard.’
Nick’s expression cleared. ‘You know, it wouldn’t matter to them, Sam. Mum and Dad are always gonna want you with us, no matter what. I know you’re really different, but you’re really great too.’ Nick stuck out his chin. ‘And I want you to stay too. Me too.’
* * *
A trollish wind bit deeper as the Kavanaghs trudged to the cafe door. Sam normally loved the seaside, but not today. The wind moaned and whipped past them, circling Nick, who gazed out to the broken remnants of the rusted West Pier. Sam looked up to encouraging grey gargoyle faces peering over the balustrade above the shopfront.
Nick struggled behind Sam; he hadn’t spoken for hours. He looked like someone had pinched his nose, making his eyes water and his face pale. Sam smiled at him and Nick strained out a smile in return. Thin-lipped, Sam thought, watch those thin lips. They meant the smile wasn’t a happy one. Nick kept opening his mouth, as if to ask a question. It never came out. Michelle and Richard stared at both quiet boys, patting and grabbing their shoulders to comfort them.
‘I’m going crazy,’ Nick said outside the cafe.
‘Aren’t we all?’ Richard agreed. He opened the cafe door.
‘Two more minutes,’ Sam said to them.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ Michelle replied.
Sam moved to the corner of the building, his back to the window so that they could all see him through the glass front. His three grey friends scurried down the side of the building and huddled in the tight alley. Spigot moved to a post on the fence next door, guarding them, upright and motionless. Bladder and Wheedle grinned at him.
‘I’m glad you made it,’ Sam said.
‘Wouldn’t miss it, lovely boy,’ Wheedle said. ‘Like I’ve said before, “pack looks after pack”.’
Spigot shrieked from his post.
‘So true,’ Bladder said. ‘I can smell your family’s misery for miles. Tell ’em, don’t worry, we’re here.’
Spigot shrieked again.
‘Yeah, agreed. Maybe not.’
‘Incoming,’ hissed Wheedle. Sam leaned on the wall and they solidified as a couple with a slick metallic pram walked by talking in low, angry voices. They turned on to the next street.
Richard tapped on the window. Sam looked over his shoulder. All four Kavanaghs watched him. Nick pointed to a blue mug and a plate with something brown on it. ‘I better go in,’ Sam said to the gargoyles.
‘We’ll be watching,’ Bladder said.
Wheedle winked at him and the gargoyles clambered back to the roof.
Sam turned to the cafe door and sighed again.
The Kavanaghs huddled over the table and waited behind a window laced with salt residue.
Sam sat down and watched the marshmallows in his hot chocolate rock back and forth. They made him seasick and the hot chocolate wasn’t as good as Richard’s.
The Kavanaghs had a stilted conversation about biscuits and coffee, about school and holidays, about everything except why they were in the cafe. Richard watched the street more than his family’s faces, and often gave the wrong answers to questions.
Michelle patted Richard’s arm.
Sam smelt a familiar stink of animal overconfidence even the sea breeze couldn’t smother. Another smell floated in with it, a sour, frightened scent. Then something that tickled his nose, just under the smell of perfume. He recognised the first and last scents and narrowed his eyes as Mrs Petersen and a man entered the cafe.
Sam felt a burning in his throat as the hot chocolate and the muffin clogged his mouth. Every part of his body wanted to run, wanted to flee the cafe. He could not believe it, but here was Maggie’s henchman sent to get him.
As if she read his mind, Michelle reached for his hand under the table.
The big man was still wearing the bulky coat. This time it looked right, with the bitter wind trying to freeze everyone. He had a plaster over a lump on his head. Wheedle had certainly given him a nasty bump, but his lumbering arrogance had not diminished. His gaze darted around the room, probably looking for gargoyles.
‘Edward Woermann,’ Mrs Petersen said. ‘These are the Kavanaghs. You know Samuel.’
Woermann slumped his shoulders. He studied the mottled brown carpet beneath the cafe tables, and his glance darted to Sam and then went back to his concerted analysis of the pattern under his feet. Sam wanted to be sick. Woermann was pretending to be shy and nervous. He rubbed one dry eye with hairy knuckles. Mrs Petersen patted his arm and Sam smelt more stinking arrogance come off him.
The big man licked his flubbery lips and put a hand on his chest under his furry chin. ‘There you are, my son. You’ve got no idea how I missed you,’ he said, then dabbed again at his left eye. He reached his dirty hand towards Sam.
Sam shook his head. ‘I’m not your son.’
‘Hush, hush,’ Mrs Petersen said as she pulled a chair up at the table, forcing the Kavanaghs to form an even tighter knot. Sam peered at Mrs Petersen. Her eyes focused beyond them and she smelt of fairy dust. ‘Edward knows an awful lot about you, Sam,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Even down to your active imagination. He said you’ve been like it all your life. It’s so wonderful that you’re finally back together. You know, he even described the stories you two used to make up. They’re all in your folder. He discussed Maggie and Thunderguts too. It was a book he read to you when you were little.’
Sam felt cold. Who could have told him about Thunderguts except Maggie?
‘He’s not my father.’
Mrs Petersen nodded and sighed. ‘Oh, Sam, you must admit this is a good thing.’
Michelle’s hand tightened, squeezing Sam’s.
‘I have been looking for you for ages, Sam,’ Woermann said. ‘Please.’ He reached out his huge arms. Sam recoiled and noticed hair pushing out from the cuffs of Woermann’s coat. ‘I won’t make you come and live with me, if you don’t want to.’ He smiled warmly at Richard. ‘But maybe you would visit my house. I rented nearby, so if it is too difficult for you right now, I’ll be close by. We’ll do everything the way you want.’ His voice was soft and purring. Greasy. Sam remembered his brutish yells in The Lanes.
What did Woermann think he could get Sam to do?
Michelle nodded. She seemed to believe Woermann. ‘We just want to be able to see him. If you don’t take him too far away …’
‘Of course, dear lady.’ He grabbed her hand in both of his, dwarfing her delicate fingers in his filthy paws. He smiled at Sam, arrogance stinking off him. Sam stared at their hands together and hated that the brute was touching her.
‘What happened?’ Richard asked. Sam turned to look at Richard; his voice had taken on a nasally quality and sounded deeper than normal. He didn’t normally speak like that. Nick sneezed.
‘His mother took him to see his grandparents for a couple of weeks. A surprise visit.’ Woermann stared out at the wind blowing a paper past the window and wiped at his eyes. Was no one else seeing how dry they were? ‘She just packed Sam and herself into the Mini Minor and disappeared. I was out fishing. I got no phone calls for a couple of days, I thought she was busy. No answer, I called my in-laws, but it was a surprise visit so they weren’t expecting her and … I’d heard nothing from her. I hired private detectives.’ Woermann looked at his hands, his knuckles cracking as he rubbed them. He pulled his mouth down into a frown, but Sam saw a smirk. He was a moment from laughing at them all. ‘We found Grace a week later, she had been signed in to the hospital, but there had been no sign of Sam when paramedics got to the car. She’d lasted thirty-six hours all alone, none of us to hold her hand as she slipped away. I’m lost without her, and I’m half a man without my son.’
Woermann faked a sob and reached across the table. Sam managed to move his hand out of the way, knocking over the remnants of his hot chocolate and painting the front of Michelle’s coat and sweater. She jumped up and patted herself with a disintegrating napkin.
‘Please.’ Woermann caught Sam’s arm. Sam looked down to see the hairy arm and the long, scraggly nails holding him in a rocky grip. He remembered the ogre’s arm reaching through the church door with the same look of Stone Age strength. ‘Look, please, just give me five minutes of your time. I can see you still don’t remember me, but if we talk I think you’ll recall something. Maybe not me. Maybe your mother?’ Woermann put his head into his hairy hands and fake-sobbed again. Mrs Petersen patted his back. Even Richard and Michelle looked teary. Sam rolled his eyes and realised Nick was watching him. Nick gave a questioning frown. Sam shook his head.
‘Just listen to the man, Sam,’ Mrs Petersen said. ‘Maybe spending time with your father will bring back those memories.’
Sam shook his head. ‘Nope. You said I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.’
‘That’s right, Sam,’ Mrs Petersen said. ‘But talking shouldn’t hurt …’
‘Maybe seeing me … maybe I remind you of your mother too much, what happened to her. The doctors said that’s why you might refuse to remember me, but what about your dogs? You loved your dogs. And they love you. I don’t know how much longer they can live without you.’
‘My dogs?’ Sam asked.
‘I didn’t know you liked dogs,’ Richard said. Michelle stared at him. Richard’s
sob did not sound faked. Nick glared at Woermann across the table.
‘Here.’ Woermann pulled out a photograph and handed it to Sam.
Sam didn’t want to take it, the edges might be poisonous, but he looked at the picture anyway. In the photo, Woermann had one burly arm around three dogs. Two miserable soft-furred pups lying prone on a rug, one beige, one black. They were listless and close mouthed. The lankier dog sat up, misery all over the love-heart face.
‘It’s them! You’ve got them all!’ Sam said. He realised his mistake too late.
‘Yes! Yes!’ Woermann said. ‘Purebred pups. I brought them with me. They’re just waiting at the house. For you.’
‘You recognise your dogs, then?’ Mrs Petersen said.
Nick yelled something incomprehensible.
‘I need time with you by myself. Just five minutes,’ Woermann said.
Sam folded his arms. ‘No.’
‘Just give me five minutes to explain, please. Michelle and Richard will understand. A father will do anything to be with his son.’
Richard nodded. ‘You don’t have to be so loyal to us; you need to spend some time with your … Mr Woermann.’ He grimaced.
‘Go on,’ Michelle said. She must have splashed coffee on her face; she dabbed at her cheeks with her napkin. As they got up, she grabbed Sam’s arm. ‘It doesn’t matter what you choose, I love you. But if he is your real family …’ She dabbed her eyes again.
Woermann opened the door and wrapped his own scarf around Sam’s neck. It smelt vile. He steered Sam back out into the grey day.
Woermann’s stifling breath swirled over his shoulder. Sam turned and looked back inside. Each Kavanagh face peered through the window at him. Muscles in their faces pulled at their eyes and mouths. His heart felt as cold as the wind off the Channel. His own face had looked similar in the mirror that morning. Then Michelle smiled, a thin toothless smile. Woermann smiled back at them all and Nick flinched.