Bitter Sixteen

by Stefan Mohamed

  ‘Was there anything you particularly wanted to talk about?’ asked Mr Freeman. ‘While I’m here?’

  ‘A few things,’ I said. ‘Dreams being one.’

  ‘Dreams?’

  ‘Yes.’ It hadn’t occurred to me until a second ago that this guy might be a good person to talk to about my messy subconscious, but I figured he was a weirdo and might well appreciate my weirdness, so I told him about the dreams, about killing and fire, feeling colder as I remembered them. He listened in silence, and nodded when I’d finished. ‘You enjoyed it.’

  ‘Parts of it, like the power,’ I said, feeling an urge to be truthful. ‘I enjoyed the . . . the clarity? Knowing that I was better, that I was going to win.’

  ‘There you go again,’ said Mr Freeman. ‘Winning. Losing. You’re going to need to think outside the box if you’re going to live in this world, Stanly.’

  ‘I already live in this world,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not talking about this world,’ he said, gesturing at the city around us. ‘Winning, losing, they’re . . . troublesome. Like good and evil. Useful in the short term, perhaps, but in terms of the big picture they’re unhelpful at best. There are no winners and losers in life. People talk about triumph over adversity, but life is adversity. Some things you can shrug off and then you can go about your business once more, other things may grind you down or kill you. It’s all about putting yourself in the best possible position to continue your story. You can win or lose against a speeding train or a bolt of lightning, but you can’t beat existence.’ He tossed away the glowing butt of his cigarette.

  What the hell is this clown babbling about, asked a portion of my brain that spoke in Daryl’s voice. ‘I was talking about dreams,’ I said.

  Freeman laughed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get bogged down in philosophy or semantics . . . I just want you to understand that winning is a relative term.’

  ‘There are no sides then?’

  ‘Oh, there are, most definitely. And it would definitely be better for one to . . . win, to put it in easy-to-swallow terminology.’

  ‘Don’t you want to win?’ I asked.

  ‘Winning, to me, implies finality,’ said Mr Freeman. ‘A definite endgame. I hope to endure, and I hope that events will unfold in a certain way. I hope that you will be a part of those events.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘It’s more about what you want,’ said Freeman. ‘What do you wish to accomplish? What do you want to do with your powers?’

  ‘Help people,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, why? Why do you want to help people?’

  ‘Because . . . because I’m stronger now. And stronger people should protect weaker people. There are too many bullies, too many people in pain.’ It was strange having to vocalise these thoughts. I’d certainly had them, but they’d been so abstract. It was also strange how uncertain I sounded.

  ‘Admirable,’ said Freeman. ‘How do you plan to help these people, may I ask?’

  ‘I . . . don’t know.’

  ‘By fighting? Roaming the world, seeking out evil-doers and striking them down? Laudable, but impractical.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Perhaps you could wander the streets of London, using your powers to solve the homeless crisis. However that might work.’

  ‘You’re hilarious.’

  ‘I’m not necessarily being sarcastic. I’m just trying to help you think practically. Are you going to fly to war-torn countries, seek out troubled villages to protect from mobs and militias? Descend from the sky like an avenging angel, a one-man Magnificent Seven? Could you do that? Are you prepared for what you’d see? Would it help?’ Jesus, it’s like talking to the careers adviser again.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘I think that you should follow your instincts,’ said Freeman. ‘Do what you think is right. You’ll soon find out whether it’s the right course.’ He regarded his cigarette thoughtfully.

  ‘Maybe I’d rather be a bad guy.’

  ‘Meaningless concept,’ said Freeman. ‘But I agree, you could just as easily go the other way. Be stronger. Operate on a different level, a higher level.’

  ‘Why would I want to?’ I said, feeling oddly offended that he was seriously entertaining the idea.

  ‘You asked me to analyse your dreams,’ said Freeman. ‘You said you liked the power.’

  ‘Yes, but —’

  ‘It’s understandable. Power is . . . tasty.’

  ‘I didn’t like what came about as a result, though,’ I said. ‘I didn’t like the killing. I didn’t like the flames.’ I also didn’t like this conversation. ‘And anyway, there’s other stuff. In the dreams. I feel like they’re showing me things that I shouldn’t, couldn’t be seeing. What does it mean?’

  ‘Dreams are equal parts truth and nonsense,’ said Freeman. ‘Some may mean something. Some may seem to mean something. But you take from them what you want. And it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that your powers are having an effect on them. Very little research has been done on the subject, but I would not be surprised if you and those like you are more – how can I put this – attuned to the world, and events, around you. It’s just that you are not yet able to process all of this extra information consciously. Just my little pet theory.’ Freeman smoked for a moment before continuing. ‘Maybe you did enjoy the killing in the context of the dream, because it meant power and control. Someone of your age is a bubbling stew of confusion, and you have the added, highly confusing bonus of supernatural abilities. It follows that you would welcome the feeling that you are the master of your – and maybe everyone else’s – destiny. It doesn’t mean that you’re going to become a mass-murdering supervillain. Unless you want to. Which I wouldn’t advise. There are quite enough nasty people operating as it is. I can safely say that you belong on the side of the angels, so to speak.’

  That was reassuring, even if it was coming from him. ‘Who are these nasty people?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon, I’m sure.’ Freeman looked at his cigarette again. ‘Let’s just say that not everyone I work for has humanity’s best interests at heart.’

  There was an unspoken don’t push at the end of the sentence, so I focused on something else that surprised me. ‘You’re not the boss? You’re just a minion too?’

  He laughed. ‘There’s that word again. I like it. I think I’m going to use it more often.’ He blew out smoke.

  We sat down on a bench and Mr Freeman finished his cigarette and threw it away. He didn’t light another one. ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, Stanly. I am a minion, of sorts. And I have minions of my own. Two of them will shortly be fired because they were so distracted by that trio of mime artists that they temporarily lost sight of us. As far as they know, you could have popped me like old fruit using the powers of your mind by now.’

  ‘Are we talking losing-their-job fired or bang fired?’ I asked, miming a gun.

  Mr Freeman smiled a faintly disturbing smile. ‘I’ll leave that to your imagination.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Your Kloe’s a very pretty girl.’

  My muscles tensed. ‘What does she have to do with you?’

  ‘Nothing whatsoever,’ said Mr Freeman, blowing out smoke. ‘I was just making an observation.’

  ‘Well, don’t,’ I said. ‘Kloe is one topic of conversation that is not open to you.’

  Mr Freeman shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’ We sat in silence for a few minutes while he smoked, and then he said, ‘You know you don’t belong together.’

  I almost hit him. Instead I focused on an empty McDonald’s box and mentally crushed it into dust. ‘Say what?’ I said, in as casual a voice as I could manage.

  ‘I don’t mean that you don’t have feelings for one ano
ther,’ said Mr Freeman, ‘or that those feelings are anything less than genuine. But if you are going to explore the darker side of this world and develop your own powers, how long before she gets hurt?’

  Reasonable question, said a voice in my head. You shut up, said another one.

  ‘I’ll die before I let her get hurt,’ I said.

  ‘That’s exactly the attitude that’s going to totally spoil everything,’ said Mr Freeman. ‘Don’t bother dying for her. Just cut her loose. I’m sure that she’s one in several million, but she’s not a luxury that you can afford. She’s going home on Monday; the best thing that you could do is just let her go and make sure she doesn’t look back.’

  ‘Are you planning something?’ I asked. ‘Because if you hurt her —’

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Mr Freeman, sounding cross for the first time since I’d met him, ‘I have no desire whatsoever to harm a hair on her pretty little head. But just think. She could quite easily get hurt.’

  I didn’t say anything. I hated the fact that he had a point. ‘I suppose it comes down to what we were talking about before,’ said Freeman. ‘What do you want to do? Do you want to help people? Fight “bad guys”? Or have a happy home life with your girlfriend and your buddies and your job in the comics shop?’

  Not talking about this any more.

  Take control again.

  ‘Think I’ll have both, ta,’ I said.

  Freeman shrugged. ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘It is. Anyway. I have more questions.’

  ‘Please, fire away.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  My companion laughed. ‘Complicated question. And probably fairly tedious.’

  ‘Do you have powers?’ The thought had only just occurred to me, but it suddenly seemed obvious. Freeman laughed again, but it was a different laugh this time. It had an edge of . . . was it regret?

  ‘If only,’ he said. ‘That would make things an awful lot easier.’ He stood up, withdrew his wallet and handed me a ten pound note. ‘Go and see Casablanca. There’s a showing at the Old Elizabeth tomorrow. My treat.’

  I pocketed the money. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re quite welcome.’ Freeman looked around, as though checking the coast was clear. ‘Do be careful.’

  ‘One more thing,’ I said. ‘Smiley Joe.’

  Something flashed across his face. It didn’t last long, but it was intriguing: a weird mixture of guilt, loathing and . . . triumph? When it passed he smiled, though it was more of a grimace. ‘A monster that needs annihilating.’ He fixed me with a stare that startled me with its intensity. ‘If only there were people out there capable of completing such a task.’

  ‘If only,’ I said. ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘He is not a he,’ said Freeman, lighting yet another cigarette. ‘And it is not the only abomination to stalk these streets, to lurk in the dark and prey on the weak. Its modus operandi, however, is crueller than most.’

  ‘Children.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’ I asked. ‘I mean . . . it?’

  ‘Truthfully, I don’t know,’ said Freeman. ‘I’m not convinced that the face it shows its prey is its true face. I wonder if it chose a face that it thought would be comforting or amusing to children.’

  ‘The big head?’

  Freeman nodded. I had to stop myself from shuddering. The sounds of the world seemed muffled all of a sudden, the air was cold and dead. ‘Where is it?’ I asked.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ said Freeman. ‘Good luck.’ He turned and walked away, and I sat and absorbed what had been said.

  Great, said Daryl’s voice from the back of my head. Your guardian angel, eh?

  Did he actually tell us anything useful?

  I think he did.

  He’s still irritating.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I GOT HOME JUST after five, irritated but intrigued. Neither were helped by the heat and the headache that had sprung up. Connor was sitting on the sofa with Daryl watching a badly-dubbed kung-fu movie, and the two of them were providing a sarcastic running commentary. ‘Afternoon,’ said Connor.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Sharon about?’

  ‘She’s not going to be back until late tonight. Why?’

  ‘Just wondering.’

  ‘You hungry?’

  ‘No. Completely not. Too hot.’

  ‘Eddie wanted you to give him a call.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Didn’t say.’

  ‘In that case, he can call me.’ The elation of seeing Kloe again had been significantly tempered by what Mr Freeman had said, and I was in no mood for Eddie’s neuroses. I was halfway up the stairs when Connor came out into the hall and called after me.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Five by five,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  At about half past seven the phone rang. I was lying on my bed reading a book of Charlie Brooker’s columns. I really needed to laugh, and it was helping. I heard Connor answer. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Uh . . . who is this? Oh. Oh! Hi. Yeah, I’ll just call him. Stanly!’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Kloe!’

  My heart burst out of my chest and hit the wall, leaving a bright red stain. ‘OK! I’ll be right there!’

  ‘Hi,’ said Kloe when I got to the phone.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good. You?’

  ‘Also . . . good.’ Cringe.

  Kloe giggled. ‘Good. Um . . . do you want to go out again tomorrow?’

  Screw Mr Freeman. ‘Yeah! Yes. A lot.’

  ‘OK. Where?’

  Twilight?

  What’s that?

  Eddie’s club?

  You’re going to take her clubbing?

  We don’t even know if she likes clubs?

  Plus I’m not sure about taking her to a club called Twilight.

  Plus we’re kind of underage.

  What do you suggest then?

  Stop manifesting your internal conflicts!

  ‘Um,’ said Kloe. ‘I was wondering . . . do you think we could go to that jazz bar you were telling me about? What’s it called . . .’

  ‘Blue Harvest?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Could do, yeah. It doesn’t open until late-ish, though.’

  ‘We could do something else first. Go and see a film, maybe?’

  ‘Yeah, great!’

  ‘OK. Well . . . I’ll meet you at Waterloo at twelve, how does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds great . . .’ Oh shit. ‘Hold on.’ I put my hand over the receiver. ‘Connor?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Does Skank want us to work tomorrow?’

  ‘Uh . . . yeah.’

  ‘Do you think he’d mind if I . . . could I take a day off?’

  ‘Why? Oh . . . for . . . yeah, I should think so.’

  I took my hand off the receiver. ‘Yeah, that’s great.’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘OK. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘So,’ said Daryl later on that evening while Connor cooked supper downstairs and I tried to read my book. ‘Date with Juliet.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ he said. ‘Her being here.’

  ‘She’s staying with her aunt.’

  ‘No, I mean you meeting. What are the odds that you’d be at the exact same place at the exact same time? It’s impossible.’

  ‘Improbable,’ I corrected him. ‘Coincidence.’

  ‘I stopped believing in coincidences when you got telekinesis and levitation for your sixteenth,’ said Daryl. ‘Everything happens for a reason.’

  �
��Maybe it was fate, then. Destiny.’

  Daryl snorted. ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘I can fly, for Christ’s sake. I can move things with my mind.’ I swapped several books around on the shelf to illustrate the point. ‘You don’t know what other unbelievable nonsense might be true too. Plus, Mark Topp told me that the first person his sister met when she got off the plane in Thailand was from Tref-y-Celwyn. It’s a small world.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Daryl. ‘Fair points, all well made. But . . .’

  ‘But what?’ I asked. ‘Are you going to tell me that Kloe’s part of some mega conspiracy now?’

  ‘Is it really such a stretch?’

  ‘I think you need to stop this now,’ I said. ‘It’s verging on accusation.’

  ‘Maybe it is,’ said Daryl.

  ‘I think I’ve had enough of this conversation,’ I said, turning back to my book.

  Connor had cooked risotto and I ate in silence while he and Daryl talked about the films of Quentin Tarantino. They were halfway through dissecting exactly what was wrong with Kill Bill Vol. 2 when the doorbell rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ I said.

  It was Eddie. He was wearing black and blue and looked tired. ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Did Connor give you my message?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  I shrugged. ‘Forgot.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  I stood aside. ‘Sure.’ He walked past, hung up his jacket and headed to the kitchen. Connor stood up to greet him while I sat down and carried on eating. Eddie helped himself to a beer from the fridge.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Get up to much today?’

  ‘Went out,’ I said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Into town. To the park.’

  Eddie and Connor exchanged looks. Eddie narrowed his eyes. ‘Did something happen? You seem a bit . . . off.’

  ‘He has been all evening,’ said Connor. ‘Except when he talked to Kloe.’

  I felt myself going red.

  ‘Kloe?’ asked Eddie. ‘Your girl, Kloe?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Met her in St. James Park. She’s down until Monday.’