The League of Sharks

by David Logan

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  JANSIAN GLOSSARY

  H’RTU GLOSSARY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  THE LEAGUE OF SHARKS

  DAVID LOGAN

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  55 Baker Street

  7th Floor, South Block

  London

  W1U 8EW

  Copyright © David Logan, 2014

  The moral right of David Logan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN 978 1 78087 578 1

  Print ISBN 978 1 78087 577 4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  You can find this and many other great books at:

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Also by David Logan

  Lost Christmas

  For Lisa, Joseph, Grace and Gabriel.

  For my best friend’s brood:

  Marley, my godson, who was born while I was writing this,

  his big sisters, Naomi and Emma, and big brother, Josh.

  There are glossaries in this ebook for Jansian and H’rtu.

  1

  Junk Doyle was twelve years old when his mother stopped loving him.

  That wasn’t supposed to happen. Not ever. It did, of course. All the time, all over the world. Some kids weren’t lucky enough to be loved in the first place. Junk was. Very much so. For twelve years anyway. He had a mother and father, Janice and Dominic, and he was the apple of their eye. A chip off the old block. A mummy’s boy. A daddy’s boy.

  He was big for his age. Took after his dad. Dominic Doyle was a carpenter and a good one. He was an artist. He married an American, Janice Truszewski. She had been travelling around Europe with her friend, Esther Creigh. Both from Milwaukee. Nineteen years old. Their first time out of the state of Wisconsin, let alone outside of the continental United States.

  Esther wanted to trace her roots. Americans love to trace their roots. Their ancestors struggled to escape only for the offspring of their offspring of their offspring to come back again. Esther and Janice arrived in Ireland and Esther instantly understood why her great-grandfather had decided to leave. Janice, however, fell in love. First with Ireland and shortly after with Dominic. While Esther went back home and married a humourless orthodontist called Steven, Janice stayed and married Dominic. They lived in a tiny village called Murroughtoohy, on top of a cliff looking out over the Atlantic, in a grand old house that Dominic had inherited from his grandmother and spent the next several years rebuilding.

  A little over a year after they married, they had a son. Junk. Of course his name wasn’t really Junk. It was Colin. Colin Itzhak Eugene Doyle. However, from a very early age, before he could even walk, he had a habit of grabbing anything and everything within his grasp and hoarding it. When he was a toddler he was like a little waddling tramp. His pockets were always bulging with twigs and buttons and biros and springs and toys and stickers and sweet wrappers and all forms of … junk. The nickname started off as a joke. It was just a joke that never ended and at some point it became his name. When he started school, he was Colin for less than a week. By the first Thursday, even the teachers addressed him as Junk. He had long outgrown his habit of hoarding, but the name never went away.

  And Junk was a happy boy. Why shouldn’t he be? He lived on the beautiful west coast of Ireland with lots of room to run around inside and out. And he had loving, doting parents. Everything was perfect until he was six years old. Then, she came.

  Ambeline.

  Born in the middle of a storm-ravaged night, she was a squalling bundle of wrinkled pink skin. And the noise. The noises she made were the first thing Junk didn’t like about her. He woke to hear his mother screaming in pain. He leaped out of bed, stumbling as he raced out of the room to see what was wrong.

  His mother, father and two women, a midwife and a doula, were in the living room. His mother was naked, leaning against the sofa, the floor underneath her plastered with layers of newspaper, bin bags, sheets and finally towels. No one noticed Junk hidden in the shadows by the doorway, watching as that creature forced its way out from between his mother’s legs. Junk’s eyes were wide, tears sputtering in the corners as he saw the blood smeared down his mother’s thighs. His precious mother. She screamed. The pain was too much for her to take. Junk could see that. No one could go through such an ordeal and survive. The slowly emerging parasite was killing her.

  Junk covered his ears and closed his eyes tightly as his mother screamed again. Junk knew he had to do something. It was up to him. Everyone else, his father included, was just standing around and letting this horror transpire. His father was rubbing the base of his mother’s back, trying to convince her it would all be OK for God’s sake. How could this torment ever be OK? His mother was small, that monster was huge. Junk looked around. His eyes settled on a doorstop by his foot. It was in the shape of a rearing elephant and heavy, made from cast iron. He picked it up; it wasn’t easy, it took both hands, and he was all ready to run in and batter that creature into oblivion when his mother started laughing. Everyone was laughing. His father was kissing his mother and saying, ‘That’s my girl, Janey, that’s my girl.’

  Junk craned his head and saw that the creature was out. It had burrowed its way out. Still attached by a long, white vein. It was not too late to smash its head in.

  ‘Junk.’

  Junk looked up as he heard his name. His father was coming towards him.

  ‘How long have you been standing there?’ Junk could only shrug and shake his head. Words were still a way off. He put the elephant-shaped doorstop down and his big father knelt in front of him and ran his vast, plate-sized hand through Junk’s mane of dark hair. ‘Come on. There’s someone you should meet.’

  His father stood up. It was like that old TV footage of the Apollo 11 rocket taking off. When his father stood, he just kept going up and up. He took Junk by the hand and led him over to where his mother was now lying on her back, covered with her favourite quilt. The creature was lying on her belly, snuffling. Junk was wary, knowing this demon could attack at any second. He was ready for it though.

  ‘Hey, Poodle.’ His mother often called him that.

  ‘Ma!’ Junk let out a half-hearted protest, mostly out of habit. He hated it when she called him that, especially in front of other people.

  ‘Meet your little si
ster. This is Ambeline.’ His mother rotated her body slightly so that the small, brown-stained goblin was looking at Junk. It was twisted and grotesque.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Junk.

  ‘Nothing.’ His mother laughed. He looked up and his father and the midwife and the doula were all laughing too. ‘That’s what babies look like. You looked like that once.’ Junk frowned. He doubted that very much. ‘Now you’re a big brother, Junk, it’s your job to look after her, make sure no harm ever comes to her. You’re her knight.’

  *

  As the years passed, Junk proved himself to be a poor knight. His jealousy towards Ambeline was plain for all to see. His perfect little world had been changed, ruined in his mind. Barely a day went by when his father or his mother didn’t have to reprimand him for shouting at his little sister, or pushing her, or punching her, if he thought he could get away with it. He blamed her for everything that went wrong. A toy got broken or lost: Ambeline broke it or hid it somewhere on purpose just to spite him. He was constantly trying to get her into trouble.

  One grey, wet morning in the third October of Ambeline’s young life, Junk was sitting on a window seat in their shared playroom, staring out at the clamorous drizzle that was peppering the glass and making it rattle in its frame. Beyond, the Atlantic fumed, almost black, complementing Junk’s mood perfectly.

  The door behind him opened and Ambeline slunk in dragging Hup, a tattered old blanket that went everywhere with her.

  ‘What you doin’, Jungy?’ asked Ambeline, her voice muffled from behind the yellow blanket.

  Junk wanted to be left alone. A hot breath of anger flashed through him. His ears darkened to a snarling maroon. ‘Go away,’ he grumbled, hardly bothering to open his lips.

  ‘Why? What you doin’?’ She gazed up at her big brother with huge blue eyes that seduced everyone she met. Everyone but Junk.

  Why won’t she just go away? thought Junk.

  ‘You wanna play with me?’ she asked.

  Both of Junk’s fists shrank slowly into a tight clench. The sound was like leather being twisted and then one curled hand shot out and struck. Ambeline gasped in surprise, but not pain, for it wasn’t her who was hit. It was Junk. He had hit himself across his right cheekbone and dragged his nails down towards his mouth. He screamed at the top of his lungs and fell to the floor, clutching his face. Footsteps came pounding up the staircase and the door flew open. His mother exploded into the room.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘What’s happened?’ She saw Junk cowering on the floor, a little blood glistening under his eye. ‘Oh my God! What happened?’ She dropped to his side.

  ‘She hit me!’ cried Junk, forcing little anguished sobs between the words.

  ‘Ambeline! You horrible girl! That’s very bad!’

  Ambeline didn’t respond. She just looked at her mother and brother, frowning, a little bemused. She wasn’t sure if this was a game. If it was, it wasn’t much fun. She would rather play shops.

  Janice snaked her arms around Junk and held him lovingly, shaking her head at Ambeline.

  That time it worked just the way Junk wanted it to. Ambeline was kept away from him for the rest of the day and even put to bed earlier than usual. Every few weeks after that Junk would try it on again, but soon his parents grew wise to this pantomime and eventually Junk would get punished for trying to get his sister into trouble.

  Then, one day, when Ambeline was a little older, some synapses in her brain joined together and she realized, with relish, that she had great power over her brother. She took to walking past him and slapping him or kicking him or poking him, causing him to cry out. Then she would sit by, looking innocent, while her parents reprimanded Junk for yet another ruse. Junk’s resentment towards his little sister grew and grew.

  This is not an unusual situation. For centuries siblings have been warring with one another as they grow up. What makes it unusual and warrants this story being told is what happened next. What happened in the early hours of a stormy December night.

  *

  By this time Ambeline was six years old and had blossomed into a beautiful little girl with huge almond-shaped blue eyes and long fair hair. Junk was twelve and, though handsome, with dark green eyes and a mop of chaotic black hair, was just not cute any more. Friends and relatives and people in the street would always comment on Ambeline’s angelic beauty, and mention would be made of how she was the absolute spitting image of her mother at that age. Usually as an afterthought they would say something about how big Junk was getting.

  On 14 December, hailstones pelted the walls and windows, thunder roared across the heavens and lightning lit up the ocean, which could be seen from the Doyle house perched, as it was, on a high cliff looking westward.

  Despite their hostile relationship, Ambeline was still just a little girl and looked to her parents and her big brother for comfort and protection. For some reason, that night, it was Junk’s bed she crawled into when the storm scared her. Junk half woke as Ambeline shook his shoulder.

  ‘Can I get in your bed?’ she asked in a jittery little voice. Junk didn’t answer. He just moved a few inches to the left, giving her room to climb in next to him. Ambeline fidgeted and turned as she snuggled in next to her brother and went back to sleep. She could feel his warm breath on the back of her head and it made her feel safe.

  *

  Some hours later, Junk was woken by a draught. His nose and ears were icy cold. He glanced up, eyes fighting not to open but being forced to give in. He saw that his window was wide open. The storm had eased some, but it was still raining hard and water was coming in. His plum-coloured curtains were drenched, making them look black. Junk looked down at Ambeline, fast asleep next to him, clutching Hup with a thumb in her mouth. He climbed over her and padded to the window. The wind was strong and it took all his strength to force it closed.

  As he turned to get back into bed, he registered a movement out of the corner of his eye. His brain was still computing the information, only just managing to reach the conclusion that someone else was in the room, when he was hit from behind and went down hard, striking his head on the wooden corner of his bed. A cut opened up and blood haemorrhaged into his eyes. He pressed his hand against his eyebrow, stemming the flow. The room was moving, spinning. Someone stepped over him. Someone big. Very, very big.

  It was a man, but he was an unusual shape. His head almost reached the ceiling. That meant he was nearly three metres tall. His shoulders were massively broad. In fact, it was hard to say where his shoulders ended and his neck began. His body was top-heavy. His legs were skinny in comparison. As he stood over the bed, looking down at Ambeline, lying there, still asleep and oblivious, a prolonged burst of lightning flashed outside and Junk saw the man in fleshed-out detail. Man might have been the wrong word. His mouth was wide and thin: a red slit stretching around the bottom part of his smooth face. His brow ran into his wide nose. His eyes were very large and set further back than was normal. The one on the left was milky and useless. A deep, jagged X-shaped scar criss-crossed it. His skin had a silver hue, though possibly that was from the lightning. There wasn’t one hair visible on his body and he was soaking wet, presumably from the storm outside. Rivulets of water ran down his smooth skin.

  His clothes seemed to be fashioned from a farrago of threadbare animal skins held in place by leather straps. It made Junk think of a Viking.

  The man’s arms were just a little too short for his huge body. His hands were wide and flat. He had five fingers and a thumb on each and when he stretched them out they slotted together leaving almost no gaps.

  His chest was covered but his arms were bare. There were tattoos all over his skin and one in particular caught Junk’s eye. It was on the upper portion of his left arm. It was black and stood out in relief: five stars circling a shark’s fin cutting through the sea.

  The man turned his head to look at Junk with his good eye, which was black and reflective like polished onyx. He grinned. H
is wide mouth curled into an unnerving rictus and he hissed. Junk’s head cleared and he pulled back. He wanted to cry out but his vocal cords weren’t working.

  The man turned his attention to Ambeline. He scooped her up in one of his paddle-like hands. This wrenched her from sleep and she looked around, getting her bearings. Her gaze settled on the stranger holding her and she screamed.

  *

  Dominic Doyle was awake in a second and out of bed. He raced out of his room and hurried to his daughter’s room. He expected to have to soothe his young child back to sleep after a bad dream. He entered Ambeline’s princess-themed boudoir and sat on the bed, moving stuffed toys and dolls. It took him a moment to realize that his daughter was not in her bed.

  *

  In Junk’s room the giant silver man reached the window in three large ungainly strides. Ambeline was struggling in his grasp. With his free hand he slammed the window open.

  Junk struggled to his feet and ran at the intruder. The giant batted him away with a flick of his wrist. His very touch opened up a series of small cuts on Junk’s cheek. He watched as the stranger jumped from the window.

  Not thinking, just moving on instinct, Junk pulled himself up and followed. The thing, the creature, the giant with Ambeline in its grasp was running towards the cliff-top. Without hesitation, Junk threw himself out of the window.

  His bedroom was on the second floor. He landed on a small pitched roof, which was wet from the rain, and slid down it, picking up speed until he was spat off the edge, landing hard on the waterlogged ground below. Immediately he was on his feet, staggering and slipping but in pursuit.

  *

  Half a minute after Junk went out of the window, the door to his bedroom burst open and Dominic charged in. He saw instantly that the room was empty. He rushed to the open window in time to catch a shadowy glimpse of Junk rushing away.

  ‘JUNK!’ Dominic yelled at the top of his lungs. The storm was too dense for him to see the giant carrying Ambeline. He turned just as Janice entered the room.