Bitter Sixteen

by Stefan Mohamed

  ‘Um . . . I’m a bit confused,’ I said. ‘This place looks too small to need more than two people looking after it.’

  Connor nodded. ‘Ah. Thought you’d notice that.’ He gestured at Skank, who was reading a Daredevil comic. ‘Skank is the owner. He oversees stuff. He only talks to customers who he believes are on his level.’

  ‘His level?’

  ‘Knowledge-wise,’ said Connor. ‘The guy is a fountain of trivia. Knows everything about science fiction, horror and fantasy. Everything. He answers people’s questions, but only if they’re either really obscure or really clever. The rest of the time he sits around and reads comics and things.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘General dogsbodying,’ Connor grinned. ‘I tell people where to look for stuff, I take orders, I manage the phones, I offer helpful advice when Skank’s too up himself to make eye contact. There’s online stuff to be done as well, and at the moment I man the till, but I’m guessing that’s something I might pass to you.’

  I nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘You want to take a look around?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Connor left through a door behind the counter. It had a massive banner hanging above it with something written in another language. I think it was Elvish, but I couldn’t be sure.

  I did as Skank said and took a gander. It was a fairly hardcore dungeon of geekery. Where the walls weren’t covered with shelves full of stuff they bore posters of films and TV shows, many of which I’d never heard of, along with collectors’ editions of comics in sealed plastic sleeves, new toys, much older toys (in their original packaging, naturally) and a few glass display cases that contained rarer items. There was a staircase in the corner leading to the second floor, with a sign reading books and more comics upstairs hanging next to it. I wondered how much money this place took, how much Connor was paid, how much I’d get, how Connor and Sharon could afford their house on their income.

  Stop thinking about other people’s finances, said a voice in my head. It’s rude.

  I shrugged. If they could afford it, they could afford it. None of my business. Satisfied that I liked the premises, I walked over to the counter. ‘Um . . . Skank?’

  Skank looked up. ‘You approve?’

  ‘I approve,’ I said. ‘Um . . . this test . . . what —’

  Skank raised his hand. ‘Worry not, young Padawan. Just a few questions, nothing too strenuous.’

  He just called you a Padawan. It’s not too late to run away.

  I don’t think I have the right to run away.

  Why?

  Because I know what a Padawan is.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse the prequel reference,’ sad Skank, sitting back in his chair. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night. Pull up a chair.’

  I grabbed a stool and sat down, resting my elbows on the counter. Skank nodded. ‘Right. Question one of eight. Your favourite episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer?’

  I liked that he assumed I had one. ‘Um . . . that’s really difficult.’

  ‘Good answer. That gets you a pass, but just out of interest? Could you suggest one?’

  ‘Um . . . I like the musical . . . and Conversations with Dead People . . . um . . . Becoming. Definitely.’

  ‘Part One or Part Two?’

  ‘Do I have to choose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Part Two.’

  Skank nodded. ‘A wise choice. Personally I would go with Hush but that’s just me.’ He stroked his beard. ‘Question two. Your favourite genre film?’

  I couldn’t answer that. ‘I can’t answer that.’

  He nodded again. ‘Good. I couldn’t either.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Question three. Best James Bond?’

  ‘Connery.’

  ‘Excellent. Daniel Craig would have got you a pass, but Connery scores higher. Roger Moore would have meant a premature end to this edition of Genre Mastermind. Question four . . . this one’s just off the top of my head . . . best film featuring John Cusack?’

  ‘Grosse Pointe Blank.’

  ‘Intriguing. I like Being John Malkovich, but there you go. Question five. Favourite Doctor?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Doctor.’

  ‘As in . . .’

  ‘Doctor Who.’

  ‘I’ve not really watched Doctor Who.’

  Skank shrugged. ‘Well at least you didn’t say Sylvester McCoy.’ He was twiddling his thumbs. ‘Question six. This is a two-part question. Have you seen Akira?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In English or subtitled?’

  ‘Japanese, with subtitles.’

  Skank seemed impressed. ‘This is going very well. Question seven. Children of the night . . .’

  It took a minute for me to catch on, but I did. ‘What music they make?’ I offered, finishing the quote.

  Skank nodded. ‘By the skin of your teeth, whatever that means. And the final question – this is a three part question, or possibly three separate ones. Can you operate a cash register?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you willing to learn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How soon can you start?’

  ‘Nowish?’

  ‘Consider yourself hired.’ He held out a hand, and I noticed he had the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ logo tattooed on his inner wrist. I liked this guy. We shook, and he said, ‘Welcome to 110th Street. OK. Now. This is how the till works.’

  Connor and I finished for lunch at two o’clock and spent our break in a Chinese eatery around the corner from the shop. I had barbecue spare rib and egg-fried rice and Connor had chicken chow mein. ‘Connor?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know Skank?’

  ‘I’m familiar with his work.’

  ‘Is he . . . a real person?’

  Connor chuckled. ‘Oh, he’s real.’

  ‘Does he have any powers?’ Have I asked this question before?

  ‘To be honest,’ said Connor, ‘I’m not sure. He does have a . . . persuasive aspect that I’ve often thought might be a bit extracurricular. But it’s never really come up. He’s very private. What I can tell you is that he’s extremely generous, very loyal and totally incorruptible.’

  Totally incorruptible, repeated one of the worryingly varied voices in my head. What does that mean?

  It means he can’t be corrupted, said a voice that I had now designated ‘talking to morons’.

  I know what it means, said the first voice. But what does Connor mean by it?

  By now I was realising that Connor’s laid-back exterior hid a rather mysterious interior, and I didn’t press the matter further. We chatted amiably while we ate and then went back to the shop to find Skank arguing heatedly with a couple of teenagers about the Silver Surfer. Connor and I broke it up and the teenagers left without buying anything. ‘Pricks,’ muttered Skank.

  The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, and I successfully rang up several sales. At five thirty Skank cleared his throat and said, ‘OK, travellers. Hop it. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘What time do you want us?’ asked Connor.

  Skank thought for a moment. ‘Um . . . eleven. Give or take.’

  ‘OK,’ said Connor. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I held out my hand. ‘Thanks for the job.’ Skank shook absently and nodded, and as Connor and I opened the door, I heard the mysterious proprietor say, ‘Be seeing you’.

  I definitely liked Skank.

  Chapter Fifteen

  WE RODE HOME on the Tube and I amused myself observing people. I was particularly delighted by a huge black guy in an expensive-looking leather ensemble sitting across from us; he’d barely moved since we’d got on, but now he reached into his bag, withdrew a copy of the first Harry Potter and started
to read, a contented smile spreading across his previously stony face. I shot Connor a sly grin. He was smiling serenely. ‘So,’ I said. ‘What’s Skank’s deal?’

  Connor raised an eyebrow. ‘“Deal”?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s got to be something you haven’t told me.’

  ‘Such as?’

  I hesitated, but he seemed in a good mood so I chanced it. I told him about my . . . what were they? Suspicions? No, they weren’t really suspicious enough to be suspicions. I simply voiced my curiosity about the shop, and about his and Sharon’s financial situation. Far from being angry, he looked relieved. ‘Is that it?’ he asked. ‘I thought you were going to drop some sort of bomb.’ He chuckled softly. ‘Well . . . you’re right. There is something about Skank I’m not telling you. He’s a millionaire.’

  I hadn’t been expecting that. I don’t know why. Now it seemed obvious. ‘Really?’ was all I could come up with.

  ‘His dad was big in advertising,’ said Connor. ‘Did you ever see that advert . . . what was it for . . . it was a beer advert. The one with the panther and the waterfall?’

  ‘Rings a vague bell.’

  ‘Well, his dad came up with that. Then there were loads of others. Mostly cars. He made himself a hell of a lot of cash out of them, and then his wife divorced him, some ridiculous argument about decorating or interior design, wallpaper or something. She went to live with some reggae artist. Didn’t want any money, so he left it all to Skank. When Skank first told me I thought he had to be taking the piss. You’ve seen how deadpan he is; half the time I don’t know if he’s being deadly serious or taking me for a ride, but he swore it was true. Anyway, the upshot was that his dad left him all that money and now he’s loaded. But he’s a bit eccentric, as you might have gleaned, so he spent as much money as he needed on a really nice flat and then decided he wanted to own a comics shop, just on a whim. He bought the shop a few years ago, back when it was a delicatessen owned by some old Jewish couple, converted it and voilà. I’m pretty sure he’s got a few other business ventures going on the side as well, although he keeps them to himself – the shop does well, but not that well. But at any rate, he likes having people around, even if he doesn’t always show it, so he pays me far too much for what I do just because he’s a nice guy, and I’m sure he’ll be equally decent to you. So, there you are.’

  A few people had been listening in, with varying degrees of amusement and disapproval on their faces. A woman in her mid-twenties was smiling broadly, an old man had been looking scandalised since Connor had said ‘piss’, and the guy opposite me was peering interestedly over the top of his book. I couldn’t think of anything to say. The story was so weird it had to be true. It was like finding a little private sitcom in the middle of all the uncertainty and foreboding, and it made me feel a lot better about everything. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Just . . . thanks.’

  We got home to find Sharon and Daryl side-by-side on the couch. Daryl was watching an old black and white film I didn’t recognise, and Sharon was reading. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You guys hungry?’

  ‘Not right now, thanks babe,’ said Connor. ‘Stanly?’

  ‘Not really.’ I patted Daryl. ‘Had a good day?’

  ‘Top notch,’ he said, sounding like he was in as good a mood as me. ‘Did you get the job?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did you think of Skank?’ asked Sharon.

  ‘Odd bird,’ I said.

  Sharon nodded. ‘Yes. That fits.’

  ‘But I do like him,’ I added, hastily. ‘A lot.’

  She smiled. ‘Thought you would.’

  I sat in the armchair and Daryl came and sat on the arm next to me. ‘Eddie called,’ said Sharon.

  ‘Is he OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sharon. ‘Fine. Worried, though.’

  ‘Seriously? Him?’

  ‘I know. By the time I’d regained consciousness he’d put the phone down.’

  Connor came in, bent down and kissed Sharon. ‘Quiet shift?’

  ‘Quietest. I was just telling Stanly that Eddie called.’

  ‘Let me guess. He was worried.’

  ‘Go figure.’

  ‘Go fish. Is he coming over?’

  ‘No, I think he just wanted Stanly to call him when he got in.’ Sharon looked at me. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s fine. Where’s the phone?’

  ‘In the hall.’

  The phone rang about three times before Eddie picked it up. ‘Yeah?’ He sounded a little on edge, amazingly enough.

  ‘Hey, it’s Stanly.’

  ‘Oh! Hi. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. You?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you OK? You sound . . . wired.’

  ‘Oh . . . no, I’m fine. So you got the job?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Great. What did you think of Skank?’

  ‘I liked him.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s a good guy. Listen, um . . . I can’t get over there tonight. Can you put me on to Connor? I need to have a word with him.’

  ‘Sure. So I’ll see you tomorrow?’

  ‘Probably, yeah. Take care.’

  ‘You too. Bye.’

  I held the phone away from my ear and called, ‘Connor! Eddie wants a word!’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Connor. He took the phone. ‘All right, man? What’s up?’

  I returned to the living room and sat back down. Daryl and Sharon were talking about politics and I watched for a minute, bemused and heartened by this exchange between woman and dog. Whenever I used to watch the news Daryl would watch with me and he ate up anything to do with politics just so he could sound off about it. He was very opinionated, for a dog. Politics has always been an area where I switch off, so I drifted into standby mode. After about five minutes Connor poked his head around the door. ‘Something’s come up. I’m going to meet Eddie.’

  Sharon looked straight at Connor and I could tell she was trying to read him. He shook his head. ‘Nothing wrong, babe. Eddie stuff. I’ll be back soon.’ He blew her a kiss, threw on his coat and left the house. I gave Sharon a questioning look. She seemed troubled. ‘I couldn’t read him,’ she said. ‘I try not to anyway, it’s not fair . . . but sometimes . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I thought you said you couldn’t read minds?’

  ‘I can’t. But I can still sense things. Anxiety. Anger. That sort of thing . . . and there was nothing.’ She looked briefly at the floor, then back at me. ‘Anyway.’ She smiled. ‘I seem to remember you wanted to have a chat?’

  I put on my best baffled expression.

  ‘About Smiley Joe?’ she prompted.

  Oh yeah. Him. I nodded. ‘Oh yeah. Him. That. What’s . . . what’s all that about?’

  ‘Well . . . it’s not a nice story,’ said Sharon.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I’ll stop you if it gets too scary.’

  ‘OK.’ Sharon shifted on the sofa. ‘How much do you know about him?’

  ‘Not a lot, to be honest. Bits and pieces, but most of it is pretty contradictory. Some kind of evil creature that does bad things in various cities, that was about the only through-line.’

  Sharon nodded. ‘There are lots of theories. All the usual craziness – demon escaped from Hell, scientific experiment gone wrong, God’s punishment for our permissive, gay-friendly society. Some people think he’s a . . . physical manifestation of the darkness in London. Or in the world. I’m not entirely sure what I believe about his origin, but I believe in him.’

  I nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The first case was back in the Eighties,’ said Sharon. ‘Long before I lived here, but I’ve heard the story from people who were there. Two children went out to a play park near
a derelict block of flats in North London. Lots of people thought they were haunted. I don’t know about that. They’ve been demolished now, anyway. The two children were a brother and a sister. They were last seen buying sweets from a newsagent around the corner from the park. The newsagent knew their family well and they told him where they were going. He was the last person to see them.’

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘At all. They disappeared completely. No witnesses, no evidence, nothing. Not a lot was made of it that first time, but over the course of the next year ten more children disappeared under identical circumstances. Vanished without a trace. There was a panic, a curfew was imposed, children were rarely allowed outside unless it was absolutely necessary, and when they did they were always with their parents. Then, suddenly, the disappearances stopped. For the next two years, nothing happened.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Nineteen eighty-nine,’ said Sharon. ‘A family called Harris. Their neighbours heard smashing and screaming and called the police, but when the police got there they found the parents dead, the front door smashed and the children gone. As before, there were no witnesses and no evidence of any kind. The children were another brother and a sister. Their names were Carl and Louise, eight and eleven. The panic came back and the police combed the city for two days, and after three the children turned up. Carl didn’t speak and he hasn’t since, but Louise told their story. She described their kidnapper, she described them fighting for their lives, she described them pushing the thing into the incinerator in the basement where he had taken them and running away. They became brief celebrities, talk shows and magazines and newspapers all wanted them, but their remaining family refused to let them speak.’

  ‘Are they still alive?’ I asked. My skin was very cold, and I was developing goosebumps. The MO was the same. A house in London. No fingerprints, no skin samples. Just a lot of broken glass, a man and a woman with broken necks and two missing eight-year-olds. An incinerator? What the hell was this?

  ‘Yes,’ said Sharon. ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘The reason it was so huge was the way Louise described the kidnapper. I remember reading the description. I read it again and again – you know the way something is horrifying but you can’t not read or watch? I used to be quite a fan of horror films and stuff . . . anyway. Louise’s exact words were like a man, but not.’