by Damien Love
In a humdrum park in a humdrum town, small children in bright winter clothes squeal happily as they slip and slide. Old people stand around telling one another they remember how it always used to snow like this.
Out of their sight, away in a lonely corner of this park, a boy of around fifteen lies on his back in the snow, breathing hard, holding his jaw.
A circle of other, older boys looms over him. The boy on the ground has been hit and is about to be hit again. Were anyone to ask, none of them could give a reason for it. It is just how it is.
Another boy, younger, thirteen perhaps, stands outside the park railings, watching. After a moment, he climbs the fence, drops down on the other side, and begins walking toward them, leaving fresh tracks in the snow.
As he walks, he hunches against the cold, tugs up his hood, sticks his hands deep into his jacket pockets. Approaching the circle of boys, he speaks quietly.
“Leave him alone.”
The teenagers turn. One steps toward him:
“And what—” he begins. But he doesn’t finish.
“Just leave him alone. Go home.”
The older boy’s face falls. He looks around in sudden confusion. His friends, too, seem stricken, sadness passing over them like a wave. They stare at one another, looking lost. Then, without speaking, they drift away, drift apart, eager to be home.
The boy on the ground looks after them in puzzlement, then stares up at the hooded boy. “Thanks,” he says. His face clouds.
“Go home, Kenzie,” Alex says.
Kenzie scrambles up, begins walking fast, actually runs.
Alex watches him go, turns away. He stands alone, looking up at the trees. He has spent a lot of time these past few days thinking of his father. He thinks about him again now, uncertain as to what it is he thinks.
Bare black branches rattle against low gray clouds. The sky hangs heavy, as though something were pressing behind it. Soon it will be dark.
His hand closes again around the old toy robot he carries in his pocket. His thumb rubs softly over its jagged little head.
It feels good.
Acknowledgments
THIS BOOK WOULD not have existed as this book without the faith, vision, and energy of Catherine Drayton, whom I’m lucky to have as an agent, and in whose debt I will always remain. Equally, this book wouldn’t be this book had it not been for the belief, encouragement, hard work, and seemingly unshakable cheerfulness of Alex Ulyett at Viking, an editor with a sharp eye and an unfailing ability to ask the right questions in a nice way.
My thanks to Ken Wright and the entire extraordinary team at Viking who had a hand in making Monstrous Devices, not least Janet Pascal and Jody Corbett at the copyediting stage. I’m especially indebted to Sam LeDoyen, who provided the kind of cover that can set you dreaming and an illustration with the hint of nightmare, and to Jim Hoover, whose beautiful design makes you want to spend time inside the pages. My thanks, too, to Catherine’s colleagues at Inkwell Management for all their work, and to Mary Pender at UTA.
A lot of friends and family provided support, encouragement, and general comradeship along the way: Thank you. And a particular thanks to Peter and James Ross, who were among the first readers, and the best kind. Alison, again. All these people made things better. The bad stuff is mine alone.
Damien Love was born in Scotland and lives in the city of Glasgow, where, even as you read these words, it is raining. He has worked as a journalist for many years, writing about movies, music, TV, and other things for a variety of publications. He has the ability to talk to cats, but there is no evidence that they understand him. Monstrous Devices is his first novel. Learn more at damienlove.com.
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