Bitter Sixteen

by Stefan Mohamed

  And how much I wanted to be out using my powers.

  ‘A girl?’ said Skank, suddenly.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A girl. That’s what’s wrong.’

  I frowned. ‘Yeah. How did you —’

  Skank waved his hand dismissively. ‘Not hard to deduce. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  He nodded. ‘Well . . . if you want to speak. I’m . . . you know. Here.’ He turned back to the computer.

  I smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  Lunchtime rolled around and I said I was popping out. Connor and I usually ate lunch together, but I wasn’t feeling particularly hungry or sociable and knew that I’d need to feel both of those things this evening. At least he and Skank were both aware of my girl-related issues. Good enough cover.

  I left the shop and walked up the road, through Camden and down the first random, nondescript street that I saw. I knew vaguely where I was going, I was sure it was around here somewhere . . .

  A fifteen-minute walk later, I’d found it. An old building site, fenced off with chains, padlocks and razor wire, with various red and orange signs forbidding entry. I checked that nobody was around, then quickly rose up and over the fence and walked across the dusty courtyard towards the great unfinished building, hollow and crumbling and littered with skips, stacks of boards and old bricks. I stared at a big pile of plastic cylinders and moved my hand, even though it wasn’t necessary, and the cylinders jerked up and flew into a pile of bricks with a crash. Sounded good. Looked good. Felt good. I let everything come up, everything I’d forced back down into my belly this morning, all of the frustration and the rage and the sadness, and channelled it, hurling bricks against columns, shattering sheets of plastic, overturning skips and sending barrels bouncing over mounds of rubble. Some things were slightly more difficult to move than others, but none of it was hard. More importantly, it felt really satisfying.

  Have a bit of that, Kloe’s mum.

  Eat those, Ben King.

  Cheerio school, no-one gives a frack about ya.

  I thought of everyone on the school field, signing shirts, hurling flour, dancing and running and shouting and horsing about, and blasted a stack of old wood into a wall, splintering the rotten planks. They made a great sound.

  ‘Impressive.’

  I jumped, whirling around on the spot. There was a man standing there with his hands in his pockets, smiling. My immediate reaction, stupidly, was embarrassment, deflation. I’d basically been caught having a massive strop. But then I realised something.

  I knew this guy.

  ‘Hello, Stanly,’ he said. His voice was smooth, almost metallic, and it matched his appearance pretty much exactly – skinny and pale, marginally taller than me, wearing an expensive-looking grey suit with a blue tie. His face was pinched and lined and he had small eyes, a slightly hooked nose and a mouth so thin it seemed on the verge of disappearing. His black hair, greying at the temples, looked like it had been styled with a spirit level, and his smile was about the most sinister smile I’d ever seen on a real person.

  ‘I know you,’ I said. ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘You were in the woods. Months ago. You came past when I was in the tree.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘Pretty much what I’m doing now,’ he smiled. ‘Spying on you. Seeing what you can do. You’ve certainly improved since then.’

  ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘So you know that I can defend myself.’

  He laughed an utterly tuneless noise. ‘I’m not here to hurt you.’

  ‘Jolly good. Now . . .’ I stopped, because something else had occurred to me. I’d dreamed about this guy. Recently.

  That’s strange.

  Well, this whole thing’s strange.

  But that’s strange-er.

  I decided not to mention this point. ‘So,’ I said, conversationally, even though I was more than a bit freaked out by what was going on. ‘Do you . . . live nearby?’

  That laugh again. ‘Aren’t you going to ask who I am, Stanly?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘And aren’t you going to ask how I know your name?’

  I shrugged again.

  ‘And I’m sure you’re dying to know how I came to be here, spying on you.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Mr Freeman.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘I know all about you.’

  ‘How did you come to —’

  ‘See above.’

  So basically, he’s not answering questions. I nodded. ‘OK. So what do you want?’

  ‘I want to help you.’ Mr Freeman took his hands out of his pockets and laced his fingers together. ‘You are fairly unique, Stanly.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Oh yes. You may in fact be one of the most unique people in the entire world, what with your . . . enhanced abilities.’

  ‘That’s nice to know.’

  Freeman smiled. ‘I’m sure it is.’

  Might as well try another question. ‘Do you know why I have these powers?’

  ‘There are many theories,’ said Mr Freeman. ‘A colleague of mine is convinced that you’re descended from extraterrestrials. We try not to talk about him.’

  ‘You don’t actually know, then?’

  ‘Definitively? No. As I say, there are various hypotheses, some satisfactory, some not.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me about them?’

  ‘All in good time.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘The purpose of this meeting, Stanly, is for you to realise that there are people in the world who know about you. Who wish to help you, and to make your existence less painful.’

  ‘My existence isn’t painful,’ I said. ‘Pain-free, really.’

  ‘For now,’ said Mr Freeman, inhaling. ‘But nothing lasts forever.’ He blew out smoke. ‘And pardon me for saying so, but furiously hurling rubbish around in an empty construction site is not one of the hallmarks of a pain-free existence, in my book.’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe we read different books.’

  ‘I’m sure we do.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s getting to you, isn’t it? Hiding? Not using your powers?’

  I said nothing. I don’t like this conversation.

  ‘Understandable,’ said Mr Freeman. ‘I’m sure you came to London thinking that everything would fall into place, that your story would truly begin, that you would find your calling.’

  ‘That’s not how things work in the real world.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ said Freeman, exhaling smoke.

  I stared at him. I had a feeling that even Sharon wouldn’t have been able to read this guy. ‘How did you know about me?’ I asked. ‘How were you in Tref-y-Celwyn?’

  ‘I keep tabs on special people,’ said Freeman. ‘It’s my job.’ He finished his cigarette and immediately lit another one. ‘The other thing that you must realise,’ he said, ‘besides the fact that there are people out there who wish to help you, is that there are people out there who definitely do not wish to help you. This is equally – if not more – important.’

  ‘Cheers for that. Now are you going to tell me who you actually are? Your name and the vaguest job description ever aren’t really enough.’

  ‘I’m a friend,’ said Mr Freeman. ‘And I think as time goes on you’re going to need as many friends as you can get your hands on.’

  ‘I have friends,’ I said.

  ‘Connor and Eddie and Sharon?’ asked Mr Freeman. ‘Daryl? Miss Stevenson? Tybalt himself, Mark Topp? Or perhaps fair Juliet, the lovely Kloe?’ He sighed. ‘They may well be your friends, but you’re going to need a lot more than that when the shit starts to hit the proverbial fan.’

&
nbsp; He is starting to damage my calm. ‘How do you know all this?’ My voice shook a little.

  ‘I told you,’ said Mr Freeman. ‘I know all about you. I know about Benedict King. I know about Mr Dylan, your pathologically useless headmaster. I know about your parents. I know that you have a rather unique dog, and that you enjoy watching Casablanca together. I know you. And I know where you’re going. Or where you might be going, at least.’

  ‘And where might I be going?’ I asked, trying to restrain myself from psychically bringing the ceiling down on this twat.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Freeman, ‘if you’ll let me indulge in a terrible cliché: there are some things you’re not yet meant to know.’ He reached into his jacket, pulled out a white business card and offered it to me. ‘If you need a friend, or if your resources run dry, then use this.’ I stared at the card.

  Don’t take it.

  Take it.

  Don’t.

  I took it, and Freeman smiled. ‘You could be very useful, Stanly. You could be powerful. You could be where the action is, finally. Part of the story.’

  ‘Well, gosh,’ I said. ‘That’s lovely. But I should really be getting back to work. Bye now.’ I walked past him, back out into the light.

  ‘Be seeing you,’ he called after me.

  I stopped, because yet another thing had occurred to me. You need to start carrying a lightbulb around for these moments. A memory, buried deep, old and irrelevant until this moment. Daryl and I in my bedroom, just before Christmas, standing by the phone.

  ‘Mystery caller,’ I said. ‘Didn’t leave a number.’

  ‘Ooooh. I bet it was Kloe.’

  ‘I doubt it. She hasn’t got our number.’

  ‘Could have looked it up in the phone book,’ said Daryl, as if I were a dunce.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Who else could it have been?’

  ‘Eddie, maybe?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It was you,’ I said, turning around. ‘You called my house. Before Christmas.’

  Freeman nodded. ‘Yes. But something came up, and I’m glad it did. You weren’t ready then.’

  ‘And I am now?’

  ‘Almost.’

  I stood there for a moment, looking down at the card in my hand. It was blank on one side and had a phone number written in small black letters on the other. ‘My powers,’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are they . . . evil?’

  He laughed. ‘Evil? Don’t be silly.’

  ‘So they’re good then?’

  He laughed again. ‘Stanly, you have so much to learn. Gifts as powerful as yours cannot be compartmentalised in such a way. Good and evil are safety nets, simplistic, prosaic categories that people have created to make sense of the senseless. Out here in the real world, on the real playing field, they are essentially meaningless. You will become whatever you’re going to become. And I for one can’t wait to see it.’

  I stared at him for a moment, then shook my head. ‘Jesus, you’re annoying.’ And I pocketed the card and walked away.

  ‘Probably best not to tell your friends about our meeting,’ he called after me. ‘They might not understand.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, not breaking stride. ‘Whatevz.’

  Back at the shop, Connor looked up from the baguette he was eating. ‘Nice walk?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Head feels clearer now.’

  Clearer.

  Chance would be a fine thing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘OK,’ SAID SKANK, on the dot of six. ‘Closing time. Everybody out. Lock S-foils in leaving the shop positions.’ The single customer, a short, balding middle-aged man who was scrutinising action figures, looked up hurriedly and scuttled out without saying anything. Skank shut the till and called Connor in from the back. ‘Come on, ramblers,’ he said. ‘Let’s get rambling.’

  Connor and I waited on the street while Skank closed up. He had changed out of his shorts and into jeans, and replaced his Neon Genesis Evangelion T-shirt with a long-sleeved red silk shirt, although he hadn’t changed his sandals and his beard was still a chaotic explosion.

  The restaurant that Connor knew was south, and we took the Tube. I’d half expected Skank to inspire peculiar looks, but nobody batted an eyelid. Of course they didn’t. If you batted an eyelid every time you saw an odd-looking individual in London, you’d end up with repetitive eyelid strain. Skank, for his part, barely seemed aware of anybody around him. Even when we got off the train and left the station, diving into the melee of people, he moved as if they weren’t there. I was still enjoying the novelty of such immense crowds, such variety. Dreadlocked skaters, smartly-dressed business people, old people wrangling hyperactive children, people speaking English, people speaking Chinese, people speaking French, people speaking God-knows what, happy couples, grumpy couples, blondes, brunettes, redheads, bald men, bald women, a blue-haired girl with an electric violin doing a pretty impressive cover of ‘Billie Jean’ – Skank gave her a fiver – and so many others that you barely had a chance to register before they vanished forever.

  As we walked, I wondered if Mr Freeman was still watching me.

  The day had aged, and a ribbon of pink now curled lazily across the sky as its blueness dimmed and the clouds filed themselves away to be relieved by the stars. The air, despite the car fumes, was thick with a golden duskiness that always felt uniquely British to me. I looked at Skank and asked him if he knew where we were going. He shook his head.

  Connor laughed. ‘We’re nearly there.’ We turned down a narrow alley lined with red brick buildings, walked to the end and took another left, emerging in a small courtyard full of bright, exotic plants in terracotta pots. A green door was set into one wall, with tall windows on either side through which I could see a small restaurant with a tasteful crème and green colour scheme. There were only seven tables and only two were occupied: one by a young couple and the other by Sharon, Eddie and Daryl. Daryl actually had a seat to himself and the couple at the other table kept eyeing him with interest, but as the waiter brought a tray of drinks to the table he barely acknowledged the presence of my dog. This city just gets stranger and stranger.

  We entered the restaurant and the waiter stopped on his way back to the kitchen, swivelled smoothly on the balls of his feet and grinned widely, exposing shark-like rows of disconcertingly white teeth. He was about twenty and looked vaguely Italian American. ‘Connor!’ he said, in a New York drawl. ‘My man!’ The two of them shook hands.

  ‘Ray,’ smiled Connor. ‘Good to see you. How’s Bonnie?’

  Ray shrugged. ‘Same old, same old. Baby this, baby that. I’m lucky I can make a badass tomato sauce otherwise she’d have no more use for me. I’d be working, sleeping and eating here.’ I had to stop my eyes from widening. Comin’ straight outta Goodfellas, y’all better make way.

  ‘Ray,’ said Connor. ‘This is Skank, My boss.’

  Skank and Ray shook hands. ‘Good evening, Mr Skank,’ said Ray.

  Skank nodded. ‘It is.’

  Ray raised an eyebrow and turned to me. ‘This is Stanly,’ said Connor. ‘New recruit.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, kid.’ Ray held out his hand and grinned. ‘How’s it going?’

  I grinned back and shook his hand. ‘I’m good, thanks.’

  ‘Good. It’s good that you’re good.’ Ray handed Connor a menu and hurried off towards a steamy adjoining room, and we sat down.

  ‘Yo,’ said Daryl.

  ‘S’up,’ I said. ‘How’s sitting with the big people?’

  Daryl looked around and sniffed. ‘Well. Y’all will do, I suppose.’

  ‘Is that waiter for real?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m never sure,’ said Connor. ‘Chico Marx via Scorsese, right? He’s a good guy, though.’

  ‘He called me “pal”,’ sai
d Daryl. ‘He can stay.’

  The food came promptly, and was exceptionally tasty. I had a well-done steak in some sort of garlic butter sauce with sautéed potatoes, and it might have been the best steak I’d ever had. I’d only had about three, so the competition wasn’t exactly stiff, but it was one of those meals where you can’t quite believe what a great time your mouth is having.

  We didn’t touch on the subject of school for the first hour. In fact, it was mainly Skank who spoke, which surprised me. He was absolutely full of anecdotes and amusing stories and the best part was that I was certain they were all true. They had to be; I don’t think the guy was capable of embroidering a story. There was one about a full-moon party in Finland that involved strange injections and magic mushrooms, but Skank was at pains to point out that he and his then-girlfriend hadn’t been involved in anything unsavoury. ‘Of course, we weren’t raving,’ he said, as he tucked into his chicken, ‘we were just having a quiet time in the bungalow.’

  School finally came up during dessert. Skank had asked whether this dinner was marking some special occasion, and Sharon had exchanged Meaningful Looks with Eddie and Connor, and a reassuring one with me. ‘We don’t have to talk about it.’

  I shrugged and took a sip of my beer. ‘It’s fine.’

  Eddie didn’t know all the details of my little episode that morning – he had the footnotes, but that was about it – and leaned forwards. ‘Go on then,’ he said, ‘spin the yarn.’

  I rolled my eyes in a here-we-go-again – more for my benefit than theirs. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. It’s pretty boring.’

  ‘Boring sounds good to me,’ said Daryl. ‘I’ve overloaded on Skank’s interesting stories, need something dull to take the edge off.’