Bitter Sixteen

by Stefan Mohamed

  ‘“A man, but not”,’ I said. A shiver was making its way slowly over my whole body, taking its time.

  Sharon nodded. ‘She said that his head was too big. And that he didn’t move like a man – and that he tried to eat them.’

  I sat, letting the story sink in. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I had been feeling good about London, and now my own curiosity had spoiled it. I half wished that Sharon had followed Connor’s advice and not said anything. That there might be something in that stupid story . . .

  ‘Nobody really believed that part,’ said Sharon, ‘as I’m sure you can imagine. Carl never said anything and Louise was badly traumatised anyway. People put it down to that. There were no more kidnappings, so the incinerator story was at least assumed to be true. After that, people kind of forgot about it. Went on to the next thing, the way they do. Once it had stopped there was no reason to care. Louise and Carl went to live with an aunt and uncle and everything seemed to be all right, more or less.’

  ‘But it’s not,’ I said. ‘Because he’s back.’

  ‘I think so,’ said Sharon. ‘I don’t think it’s a copycat, and I don’t think it’s some sick human like Connor does. I think it’s a monster.’

  Daryl nodded solemnly. ‘Right. Well. Thanks for that, Sharon. Now I’ll never sleep again.’

  ‘You and me both,’ I said.

  Sharon smiled sadly. ‘There’s more going on in this city than you might think. Connor would rather pretend it’s nonsense than think about it. Eddie probably thinks about it too much. I just . . . want everyone to be careful. I want you to be careful. To be safe.’

  I tried a smile. ‘I will be,’ I said. ‘And hey – superpowers, remember?’

  She smiled back, but hers looked as convincing as mine felt.

  Smiley Joe. The phantom child-eating monster. It sounded ridiculous. It was ridiculous. A terrible tragedy around which a web of stories had grown, people’s imaginations filling in the blanks, nonsense . . .

  Except that deep down, I knew it was true. I just knew.

  And I’m going to find the bastard.

  Sharon went for a bath about an hour later so I got my notebook and went to the phone. I made sure that Connor and Sharon’s number was withheld before I dialled.

  It rang.

  It rang.

  It rang.

  Click. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Stanly?’ Miss Stevenson had sounded tired when she’d picked up, but now she was wide awake and agitated. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. About the play.’

  ‘Oh, it’s . . . it’s fine. Just so long as you’re OK.’

  ‘No, it’s not fine. I ruined it.’

  ‘You did no such thing.’ She sounded more like a teacher now. ‘You did not ruin the play and don’t you ever tell yourself you did. Now, I don’t completely understand what happened. I’m not sure I even partially understand it. But I know that you were pouring your heart and soul into your performance, and I know that if there’d been anything you could have done you would have done it. Things were out of your control. I don’t blame you. It’s a shame, but I don’t blame you.’

  Relief flooded my mind and my body. Connor’s story about Skank had lifted a weight from inside me, and Sharon’s Smiley Joe tutorial had put some of it back, but now it was at least tempered with relief. Miss Stevenson didn’t hate me. That was something.

  ‘Stanly? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. Um . . . I can’t talk for long. I just wanted to ask a few things.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I can’t say. My parents know. They’re all right.’

  ‘Stanly, I don’t think there’s —’

  ‘Please. I just want to know . . . how’s Kloe?’

  ‘I . . .’ said Miss Stevenson, hesitantly. ‘I think she’s OK. She was . . . well, you can imagine, she wasn’t too good when you left. I had no idea that you two were so close. I mean . . . I could see the chemistry in rehearsals, but I didn’t realise . . . she came into school the next day, came to see me. Managed to smile a few times. You haven’t spoken to her?’

  ‘Not yet, I . . . I mean, I haven’t got her number with me . . .’ Worst. Excuse. Ever.

  ‘You could find it, though? You should definitely phone her! She’s —’

  ‘I can’t. I just . . . it’d be too difficult. I can’t explain. I’m managing to keep things together down here, and if I speak to her I’ll just go to pieces. It would . . .’ Words failed me, and they seemed to fail Miss Stevenson as well. ‘Ben’s been suspended,’ she managed, after an age of silent awkwardness.

  ‘Is that it?’ I had expected expulsion at least. Not that expulsion seemed to mean much now, on a scale of trouble to trouble. Maybe a firing squad?

  ‘His parents are high up locally, and they have influence with the board of governors, so I think suspension is the best we can hope for. Personally, I think it’s disgraceful and, for what it’s worth, I’ve made my feelings known.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘No. But . . . when you next see Kloe could you tell her . . . I’m sorry. And that I miss her.’

  ‘I really don’t think I can —’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Stanly, you’re putting me in a very difficult position. I shouldn’t know where you are. There are legal things to consider, I —’

  ‘You’re the only person.’ I felt bad. I knew we were on thin ice with this. But Kloe had to know, and I couldn’t tell her yet. You’re a coward.

  She sighed. ‘All right. I’ll . . . I’ll tell her. But she’ll want to know where you are.’

  ‘You don’t know where I am. You can tell her that truthfully.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. And like I said, my parents know.’

  ‘Well . . . I’ll give Kloe your message. But I think you should come back.’

  ‘I want to. I have to sort myself out. I don’t know how long it’s going to take. I will be back . . . I just don’t know when.’

  Miss Stevenson sighed again. ‘OK. Well, take care.’

  ‘I won’t call you again unless I really have to. I don’t want you to lose your job over me. That school needs you.’

  She laughed tiredly. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I hung up, feeling better and worse, and later that night I lay on my bed, wide awake, psychically re-arranging the books on the shelves, Daryl snoring at my feet. Too many thoughts whirling around. What to do next. There was cause to be optimistic, of course. I couldn’t really compain about my situation. Well . . . I could. At length. But at the same time, after a few days of being here, I had a bed, and a roof over my head. I had a job. I had people looking after me, possibly the only people in the whole of London who could genuinely understand what I was going through.

  Plus, I had superpowers . . . and aye, there was the rub. Because it seemed like I had to do something about it. Maybe if I was still living it up in Middle-of-Nowheresville, Mid Wales, I could afford to hang with a girl I fancied, and be in plays, and just fly around in the woods. But now, through a shitty set of circumstances, I was somewhere big and scary and new, where there was real, bona fide bad stuff occurring. More than I knew.

  And what do I know?

  I knew about Smiley Joe. The child-eater. I could see a shadow of him in my mind’s eye, an indistinct artist’s impression, and now I could see the faces of my three American cousins as well, so young and innocent and playful. Jacob was nine and obsessed with Star Wars. Annabel was eight and often pretended to be a cat. Little Jade was six and had been missing two of her front teeth, the last time I’d seen her. We’d got on like a house on fire. I’d felt like a big brother when I was with he
r, and it was the only time I had ever wanted any kind of sibling.

  That had been over a year ago. Hadn’t seen them or my aunt and uncle since, hadn’t had any communication apart from the twenty pounds they’d sent me for my birthday. I realised that I missed them. And I realised that those three little kids would probably make an excellent dinner for Smiley Joe. Gourmet cuisine, unless he didn’t like American food. If he met my cousins they wouldn’t stand a chance, he wouldn’t hear their sweet, laughing voices or see their eager faces, he’d just devour them.

  Except he wouldn’t, because I was going to kill him one day, and I was going to enjoy it.

  Monsters.

  Just what you wanted.

  I should be out there, hunting for him. Him, and any others like him.

  Great plan. And where exactly in the million or so square miles of unfamiliar city would you start looking?

  Surely I needed to be doing something, though? Something worthwhile? Or at the very least, something to vent a bit of the frustration I could feel building up inside. I could go to some dodgy estate, the dodgiest, and find a gang of knife-wielding youths and batter the crap out of them with my powers before flying up to the roof of the nearest tower block and standing on the parapet, silhouetted dramatically against the night sky.

  That’s not really helping anyone though, is it?

  Whatever. Biff, pow, ker-plunk. I enjoyed this little mental video and played it over and over again, and gradually it blurred into a dream in which I walked through a huge estate, its decaying buildings looming at odd, impressionistic angles, stepping over the bodies of bad guys I’d taken out. In the distance I could make out a man in a grey suit. I couldn’t see his face, although I could see his smile. ‘Not bad,’ he was saying. ‘Not bad at all.’

  I turned away, and now I was standing alone on the school stage, delivering an oxymoronic speech to an audience of empty seats. ‘Oh heavy lightness! Serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!’ Now I was sitting on the edge of the stage, silhouetted dramatically against nothing much, my legs dangling over clear water. ‘Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!’

  ‘Stanly?’

  I stood up, or was already standing up, and turned on the spot. Kloe was there, in white pyjamas with pictures of fish all over them, holding her ukulele. She put her head on one side. ‘Where’d you go?’

  ‘Away.’ The glass of milk on the low table winked at me.

  ‘Don’t finish it too quickly,’ warned Kloe.

  I hadn’t touched my milk, but I didn’t say so. ‘I haven’t touched my milk.’ Or maybe I did.

  Kloe shrugged and threw the ukulele, and I watched it skim across the lake, spinning and jumping like a strange musical fish. I was sure I could see spiders running around beneath the surface, upside-down, spindly, smoky, shiny. I waited until the rippling had dissipated and the instrument had disappeared, and turned back to Kloe.

  But she wasn’t Kloe. She was a gigantic head, white like nothing can be white, with huge eyes and a mouth that could swallow time. It moved towards me and I stepped backwards, finding myself at the edge of the stage. I’d fall in the lake if I wasn’t careful. ‘Water’s better than gullet,’ said Daryl’s voice from somewhere. I nodded and jumped backwards.

  The water was shallow, only up to my knees, and it was warm and strangely thick. It felt like leek and potato soup. I stared down, wanting to see the distortion, not wanting to see the head, and for a split second I saw someone else’s face staring up at me, a human face, a stranger. Then I looked up and it was on me, the mouth was opening-

  I sat up in bed. It was half past nine, and dull light was leaking through the curtains, and Daryl wasn’t there. I rubbed my eyes, suddenly awake, and felt no desire to go back to sleep again.

  After showering, I went downstairs to find Daryl and Connor chatting over breakfast again. These two were getting quite chummy. It was nice, in a bemusing sort of way. Connor looked up. ‘Morning.’

  ‘Morning.’ I poured myself some coffee.

  ‘Sleep well?’

  No. ‘Yeah, thanks. Was it eleven that Skank wanted us?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Connor finished the glass of milk he was drinking. ‘You hungry?’

  I frowned slightly. ‘No.’ It came out in a slow, surprised tone. Daryl laughed, and Connor raised an eyebrow. ‘You sure?’

  I shook my head, not as a response but so I could clear it. ‘Yeah, thanks. I’ll get something later.’

  ‘Stanly,’ said Daryl, in a terribly serious voice. ‘I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Have you been partaking of the drugs?’

  Connor cracked up. I was pretty close to cracking up too, but fought to keep a straight face. ‘Yes,’ I said, solemnly. ‘I have been partaking of the drugs. All your drug are belong to me.’

  ‘Thought so.’ Daryl shook his head. ‘I’m very disappointed, but also incredibly proud.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m much more proud than I am disappointed.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I think you’re really, really cool. For doing all those drugs.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Are you guys done?’ asked Connor.

  ‘Never,’ said Daryl.

  Chapter Sixteen

  110TH STREET WAS located at the edge of an area filled with myriad delicatessens, bakeries, restaurants, takeaways and fishmongers. I enjoyed the walk from the Tube station, the way the market stalls and funny T-shirts and top hats gradually gave way to a bewildering array of foods, and it was particularly invigorating in the morning, when the fish was fresh and smoky goodness emanated from every window. You could smell curry, fried breakfasts, baking bread, sticky sugar, burgers, chow mein, pretty much everything you could possibly fancy, and today it made for an especially effective wake-up call, washing away the uneasiness left by yet another weird dream.

  I liked the walk back to the station in the evening as well, but for different reasons. By that time, Camden people had started to emerge, strange-looking individuals in odd outfits, sometimes garish and mismatched, sometimes almost painfully co-ordinated. Some of them looked incredibly pretentious. Some of them looked cool. But they all looked simultaneously at home and completely lost, as though they inhabited an entirely different planet from the banker types, and the Big Issue sellers, and the coffee shop intellectuals, and the ragged shop doorway people whose dogs were always much better groomed than they were. Nobody belonged.

  Maybe that was the point of this city.

  Maybe that was why I’d ended up here.

  Connor and I arrived at the shop to find Skank talking in-depth with another guy in his mid-twenties, with blonde hair, a goatee beard and very small ears. They were discussing some limited run of obscure German comics, and Skank didn’t even seem to notice us. Connor went to the back to hang his coat up and I assumed my position behind the counter, ready for another day’s work.

  The blonde guy left about twenty minutes later, and Skank came and sat by me. ‘Artist,’ he said, by way of an explanation. He picked up an old Preacher trade paperback and started to read, and that was the extent of our conversation for the day. I interacted with a few customers, turned the pages of several Batman comics with my mind, and thought about how much I wanted to go out and fly.

  Soon.

  That evening Eddie came round with a big heavy bag, which he deposited proudly in front of me. I looked up at him questioningly, and he grinned. ‘Well, look inside!’

  I opened it with a slight flutter in my stomach that took me back to old Christmases. There was a small amplifier inside, pretty new-looking. I grinned up at Eddie. ‘Wow! Wicked! Thanks!’

  ‘Well. You’ve got a guitar and nothing to plug it into.’

  ‘Where did you get this?’r />
  ‘Borrowed it off a guy at work. He and a couple of his mates had started a band and they did a few gigs, but they were always arguing so they split up. He said he’s got no use for it at the moment, and that I can have it until he wants it back. Which he probably won’t, ever.’ He looked pleased with himself, and I held out my hand and we shook.

  Connor and Sharon came in. Sharon looked tired, but she perked up when she saw the amplifier. ‘Ooh!’ she smiled. ‘Are you going to play?’

  I didn’t say anything. You can’t play, I thought. I can try, I replied. No, I countered. Embarrassed.

  Eddie could tell what I was thinking. ‘Hey,’ he said to Connor. ‘Why don’t you play something?’

  ‘You play?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah!’ said Eddie. ‘He used to be in a band and everything.’

  Connor whistled and shook his head. ‘Years ago.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘What were you called?’

  ‘Doggerel,’ he said, grinning sheepishly. ‘Terrible name. Not my choice. We really weren’t up to much.’

  ‘But you played lead guitar,’ said Eddie.

  ‘He was good, too,’ said Sharon. ‘Still is.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ said Connor. ‘I mean, I’m not.’

  ‘You are, you modest mouse!’

  ‘Good one.’

  ‘Go up and get your guitar, would you Stanly?’ asked Eddie.

  I ran upstairs. The instrument was in its case, leaning against the wall of my room. I hadn’t touched it for days. It reminded me too much of home. This is exactly what you need, I thought. I took it downstairs and handed it to Connor, who unzipped the case, wearing a half-embarrassed, half-excited grin. Eddie and Sharon were sitting side-by-side on the sofa watching, and Daryl was lying on the armchair with one sleepy eye on proceedings.

  Connor hooked it up and twiddled some knobs expertly. Twiddled some knobs expertly, I thought. Hehehe. Oh what is this, I admonished myself, Carry On Stanly? ‘You look like you know what you’re doing,’ I said.