by David Owen
Luke and Justin shook their head like chastised choir boys.
‘We can follow her every move – attention whore makes it too easy.’ He waved his phone at them. ‘It’s our duty to take action.’
Whatever they were planning, it was more than a prank. Kat had heard this kind of rhetoric before, though usually hidden behind anonymous Twitter accounts. If it spilled into the real world, there was no telling the damage it could do.
‘I don’t need to worry about your mate, do I?’ said Tru, locking up the car.
‘No, no, definitely not,’ said Luke, a little too quickly. ‘He’s not our mate. And he’s too much of a pussy to tell anybody. He doesn’t even know anything, anyway!’
Kat watched Tru lean down to hide the car keys inside the front wheel arch. Then he opened the garage door again. ‘I’ll be in touch tonight,’ he said.
Luke and Justin hurried away down the gravel track, while Tru carefully locked up the garage before returning to the road. Kat lingered until he was gone.
The promise of an attack on Tinker felt like another attack against her. She hadn’t fought back before, but she could now.
She laughed. It was almost perverse that the fade was allowing her to be more herself than she ever had been before it. She had always wanted to make a difference, to stand up for what she believed in, but never had the confidence. The fade gave her that.
‘I won’t let you get away with this,’ she said, scooping up a handful of the sand-coloured gravel and dropping it into her pocket. Although she deepened her voice like a wannabe hero, she knew in her heart that it was true.
15
Always Punch Nazis
There was still some time to kill before Kat was due to meet Safa, so she went home to do a little research.
First, she emptied the gravel from her pocket onto the desk, scooping it into a neat heap that would be difficult for anybody to miss. Then she dialled 999.
‘Which service do you require?’
‘Police,’ she said.
Silence, and then again. ‘Which service do you require?’
‘They’re turning my car into Swiss cheese!’ Kat shouted. ‘I need back up, now goddammit now!’
The call disconnected. As she had suspected, the automatic operator, like everybody else on this stupid planet, couldn’t hear her. She’d have to figure this one out by herself.
Next, she went online and looked up TrumourPixel. His Twitter account came up first, and Kat couldn’t help but laugh. His profile picture was him drawn as an anime character, muscles bulging out of a vest, wielding an axe bigger than his body. It was a well-worn tradition in troll accounts: anime avatars, or failing that no image at all. Certainly few of them were brave enough to reveal their true face.
She had seen his profile before, when he released the attack video against her. It had seemed innocent enough, as it did now – mostly links to his videos, screenshots from games, updates on what he was eating. There were only a few telltale signs: retweets from gaming outlets owned by right-wing media; an article about it being hypocritical to punch Nazis; frequent use of the green frog emoji.
‘Pepe the fucking Frog,’ Kat muttered to herself. It was hard to think of anything she hated more than the cartoon frog appropriated as a meme for Internet trolls and bigots.
She decided to delve deeper and check who he was following. Straight away she found more extreme accounts. Some were the usual suspects: prominent personalities who peddled hate while posing as film reviewers or video game streamers, always studiously avoiding saying anything too inflammatory. Others had blatant fascist imagery as profile pictures.
‘Nazis,’ Kat muttered. ‘I hate those guys.’
She clicked one and read its profile.
Fighting for the #truth against #whitegenocide. #AllLivesMatter #FeminismIsCancer #IslamIsCancer #Brexit #StandUpandFight. Finished with raised fist and English flag emojis. The account reposted news from thoroughly disreputable sources about anti-fascist protests turning violent, Muslim terror suspects being released from custody early, feminist critics rallying against a movie about zombie strippers.
Of course, TrumourPixel was also following Niko Denton. She clicked through to his profile and read his latest tweet. It was quoting a question somebody had asked him.
Should we take action against the women’s march in London tomorrow?
Niko’s response read: I don’t know, what do you think? It was finished with an emoji of somebody painting their nails.
It was a simple but effective trick: incite hatred and violence, but always in a way that would allow you to wash your hands of it.
This was who TrumourPixel was trying to impress with whatever he was planning. These were the people Kat had always wanted to fight. Maybe the fade meant she could.
Wesley knew he shouldn’t feel proud about his ability to wax cars, but he was definitely getting better at it. Every time Dave walked past and offered an impressed nod he couldn’t deny the surge of pleasure it gave him.
‘You’re a loser,’ he whispered to himself as he circled away the last smear of wax from his third car of the afternoon. The pleasure always quickly caved into shame.
At least it took his mind off what had happened earlier. The looks on their faces as he had run from the garage. Whether they were going to come after him or not. The fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about the reasons Tru had given him for everything in his life going wrong.
‘Take a break,’ said Dave, emerging from the back office to hand him a mug of tea. They leaned against one of the unwashed cars and sipped their drinks – not half enough sugar for Wesley’s taste – in silence for a few moments.
Dave sighed with pleasure and held his mug against his chest. ‘You’re a natural at this.’
‘It’s not exactly rocket science.’
‘Rocket scientists are too smug to polish their rockets.’
Wesley looked at him sideways. ‘I bet you’d never stop polishing your rocket if you had the chance.’
Dave lifted his mug, oblivious. ‘You’re not wrong.’
They both took a long draught of tea, Wesley using it to stifle his laughter, before exhaling contentedly together.
‘Was everything all right with your brother the other night?’
Wesley stiffened, defences automatically coming awake. ‘Yeah, nothing to worry about.’
‘That’s good.’ Dave turned to face him in a movement that was meant to be casual, but was clearly anything but. ‘I don’t need to worry about him, right?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe it’s not my place to judge because I wasn’t around before, but from what your mum’s told me . . . I need to know Jordan can be trusted.’
Wesley put his mug on the roof of the car and turned to face him. ‘Or you’ll do what?’
Dave smiled unconvincingly. ‘It’s not like that. It’s my job to look after you both.’
‘It’s not your job. We were fine before you showed up.’
‘Hey, Wes, I didn’t mean—’
Wesley turned away and made for the office, satisfied that his shift was over. All at once he was desperate to be home. If there was any problem with Jordan, he would deal with it himself.
16
People Like Us
The fountain sent three perfect jets of water arcing up and up, where they seemed to hang suspended for a long moment, glistening in the lights of the surrounding bars and restaurants, before they dropped into the pool below where crisp packets floated like lily pads. Specks of water darkened the paving stones at Safa’s feet as she spotted Kat’s approach, pushing herself up from the edge of the concrete bowl.
Their condition should have made it impossible to be brazen, but Safa had managed it; she wore jean shorts cut off high up her thighs, white frays dancing against her skin as she walked, and a sleeveless top left her arms bare. The nesting doll locket rested on her collar bone. The fade was visible even in the dying light, the balletics of the fountain shimmerin
g through her skin like shooting stars across a night sky. It was oddly mesmerising, and Kat’s doubts about the evening seemed to melt away as she sped up to reach her.
‘Whoa, careful!’ shouted Safa.
There was a screech of wheels. Kat jumped out of the path of the mobility train, an electronic cart that towed people up and down the slope of the high street. The driver glared at his feet, searching for some technical problem to blame, and then swerved around her to resume his rounds.
‘You’re invisible, not invincible,’ chastised Safa, pulling Kat into a hug that made her tingle from head to toe. The fade seemed to have set her nerve endings alight, like flowers opening to drink the sun, and any physical contact was the sweetest pleasure.
‘That explains why the invisible man went extinct,’ said Kat. She immediately winced at her own joke.
‘You’re such a dork.’ Safa said it with a grin. ‘I’m glad you came.’
Kat smiled, realising just how glad she was too. ‘How could I resist a night on the town?’
Safa looked the length of the high street and shrugged with her mouth, lips twisting. ‘I remember when you couldn’t walk down here at night without being stabbed, or worse.’
It had been rough there, years ago, though not quite as rough as that. There had been empty shops, the occasional drunk man shouting from a doorway. The pervasive smell of urine. Gentrification had stripped most of that away and turned those empty shops into artisan cafes and pop-up restaurants, classy boutiques and shiny estate agencies. The high street had been pedestrianised, the area at the top developed into a wider square with bars and restaurants on all sides, tables and terraces spilling onto the street. It had, in short, lost all its character. The fountain, Kat had always thought, was a touch too far.
‘There was a time when the pavements were nothing but broken glass,’ said Kat. ‘You’re probably too young to remember.’
‘You’d never know if a sniper would just pop! Burst your head like a melon.’
‘And of course the flashers, lining the road to salute you with their—’
‘Okay, stop you win!’ said Safa, skipping away from the fountain and across the square. ‘Geez, potty mouth, I think you have a problem.’
Kat laughed, and followed her towards a wide seating area where outdoor heaters were beginning to glow. It was too early to be busy, straggling shoppers not yet giving way to the vanguard of a big night out. Safa led her to Cluckers, a chicken place that was comfortably the least classy choice on the square, which meant it was always crowded. A queue of people waited to be seated, but Safa waltzed past them and promptly found a small table pushed against the far wall.
‘Shouldn’t we . . .?’ said Kat.
Safa dropped into her seat and spread her arms wide. ‘Who’s going to stop us?’
Before Kat could even sit a waiter weaved through the tables towards them, leading a young couple after him. When he reached their table he frowned like he had forgotten something, glanced at them for the briefest moment, before turning back to his customers apologetically and taking them elsewhere.
Kat took a seat. ‘Have you done this before?’
‘No, I was worried they might end up sitting in our laps.’ She had surprisingly dark eyes that nevertheless seemed to glow with good humour.
‘I still don’t understand how you’re not scared about this.’
‘I am scared.’ Safa leaned forwards on her elbows. ‘Because I’ve just realised we’re not going to get served, and I am – literally – wasting away.’ She peered hungrily at the food on other tables, licking her lips.
‘Can you be serious for long enough to give me a straight answer?’
Safa sighed theatrically. ‘Fine. What are you scared about?’
‘Uh, well, let’s start with the fact that I’m disappearing,’ said Kat. ‘As far as the rest of the world is concerned I don’t exist any more.’
Safa slammed her palms on the table, cutlery and condiments rattling. ‘Of course you’re scared if you’re thinking about it like that! Let me rearrange your world view a little.’ She swept a hand across the restaurant. ‘What if it was everybody else in the world who had disappeared, and there was nobody else here – just me and you?’
‘That doesn’t make—’
Safa held up a faded finger to silence her. ‘That’s how it might as well be. If we don’t exist to any of them, they don’t have to exist to us.’
Slowly, she scraped back her seat and leaned across to the next table, plucking a limp chip from a plate. The woman it belonged to looked puzzled, almost aware that something was amiss, before the moment passed and she returned to her meal. Safa chomped the chip triumphantly.
‘You really shouldn’t do that,’ said Kat, but she couldn’t keep a smile from her lips.
‘Gotta steal to eat, gotta eat to live.’
Hesitantly, Kat stood and surveyed what the woman’s dining companion had in front of him. His half chicken had already been reduced to greasy bones, but a bowl of mashed potato sat neglected. Before she could lose her nerve, Kat scooped up a glob with her finger and pressed it to her tongue.
‘Yes!’ said Safa, punching the air. ‘Does danger make it taste sweeter?’
Kat grimaced. ‘Not really.’
‘What do you expect? We’re in Cluckers.’
Safa danced away, pirouetting between tables. She plucked a chicken wing as she went, gripping it between her teeth like a rose. Although Kat had little appetite, she grabbed at somebody’s plate as she followed towards the door, and ended up liberating almost a full chicken.
‘Should we leave a tip?’ said Safa, and they burst laughing back onto the square.
The high street was busier than before, people migrating to the pubs and restaurants now night had fallen. Safa was in full flow, discarding the chicken wing and grabbing the cap of a passing student to frisbee it onto the handles of a nearby pram. Its owner fumbled after it, all apologies, while the girls cackled.
‘We might as well enjoy ourselves,’ said Safa, already scanning the street for more potential mischief. ‘Are you telling me you’ve never thought about what you’d do if you turned invisible?’
She would never admit it, but Kat had a plan of action for the sudden onset of all garden-variety superpowers (and a few niche ones too). This was different. A superpower could be called upon at will, switched off or disguised. The fade didn’t feel like a superpower. It felt like a failing.
Safa had approached a group of schoolboys who were passing a football between them in a ragged circle. As it bobbled over the paving stones she intercepted and rolled it to Kat. One of the boys ran after it, prompting her to panic and punt it away down the street. The schoolboys watched after it helplessly.
There wasn’t time to feel bad. They ran along the high street, launching off benches and whooping at the tops of their voices. Nobody paid them any mind unless there was no choice, and even then little more than a cursory glance, a resigned sidestep. It made Kat want to push harder, push as far as she could to find their breaking point and force them to acknowledge her existence.
A middle-aged woman was moving leisurely between shops, watching lights flick off and shutters come down. In full view, Kat reached into her handbag and took her purse. The woman didn’t see, even as Kat lifted a twenty-pound note.
‘Now you’re getting the hang of it!’ said Safa, before snatching the money and setting off at a run.
‘Hey!’ said Kat, smothering her guilt and giving chase.
It might not have been a superpower, but she would never have believed it could be so much fun.
There was wax in his mouth, and Wesley wasn’t sure he would ever get it out. His arms ached, and his hands felt wrinkled and tight from all the water. If there was more than £10 from his mum’s boyfriend in his pocket, he might have felt proud.
‘The men have returned from work,’ announced Dave.
‘Oh yeah, I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ Mum called from th
e kitchen, ‘having spent the afternoon cleaning up diarrhoea from a bingo hall.’
‘All right, you win.’ They met in the kitchen doorway and Dave pulled her into a hug, kissing the top of her head. Despite the diarrhoea, she looked happier than Wesley could remember in a long time. He felt a pang of jealousy, almost like a stitch in his side.
There was no sign of Jordan, which meant he’d decided to stay away for now. Wesley’s place here was already slipping. It would go completely if his brother got his way. Wesley took out his phone and sent him a message.
We need to talk.
At almost the same moment a message arrived from Aoife. We’ve found Lukundo. He’s in the choir at Aaron’s old church. Should we go see him?
Wesley replied immediately. Do you want to?
I think we all do. You?
Almost nothing else in his life seemed more important. Meet tomorrow morning at school.
He paused in his bedroom doorway to hug Evie, and then went to the bathroom to scrub his hands and wash out his mouth.
The phone vibrated, and as he dried his hands he tried to guess who had replied. He guessed wrong – the message was from Jordan.
Where?
Wesley thought quickly. Garden Hill in half an hour.
It was somewhere they had gone together as kids, when things were different. It seemed fitting now he wanted things to change.
A slushie stall was open late, wringing the dregs of summer business, and Safa stepped past the attendant to slap the twenty-pound note on the counter and poured them both tall cups of bright red ice. Before Kat could take a sip the mobility train stopped behind them to pick up an elderly couple and their shopping.
‘Come on,’ said Safa.
In one smooth motion she leaped onto the luggage platform at the back of the train and deftly kicked herself up onto the roof of the rear cart. Significantly less confident in her climbing ability, especially while clutching a slushie, Kat wedged a foot into the rack. Before she could heave up her weight the train began to move, leaving her skipping one-legged behind it.
‘This is an embarrassing moment you’ll remember for ever,’ called Safa, reaching down a helping hand.