‘You saw him, though,’ I said. ‘When he brought me?’
‘Sort of,’ said Tara. ‘When I heard him coming back I put the blindfold back on . . . but I peeked a little bit, over the top. I still couldn’t see very well, though . . . his head didn’t seem that big.’
Well, that’s a relief, I guess. Or possibly not at all. I tried to smile comfortingly. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about him any more?
‘Do you know what he is?’ Tara said.
‘I don’t much care,’ I said. ‘All I know is that he’s been killing innocent people for too long and he needs to be stopped.’
‘Can you stop him?’
‘I can have a damn good crack at it.’
Tara nodded seriously. ‘I think it’s probably OK to kill monsters. Isn’t it?’
There was something disturbing about this little girl talking so casually about killing things. In fact her entire manner was pretty strange, but all the same I felt an instant affection for her. You know how with some people you know instantly whether you like them or not? This was like that. It was strange, something in me knew, just knew that it was my duty to protect her, and it wasn’t just that she was young and I was older. There was something else. Something bigger, although I had no idea what it could be. ‘Maybe,’ I said. And I hugged her, and we waited for the monster to return.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘IT DOESN’T MAKE sense,’ said Tara, after a while.
‘What doesn’t?’
‘Why would Smiley Joe leave us here. Where would he go?’
‘Haven’t heard many more stories about him,’ I said. ‘Or seen anything on the news . . . he must be hungry. Maybe he’s gone to get more food.’ Wow. That’s such a great thing to have realised. I’m so glad I thought of that. What a lovely thought.
Shut up.
‘Children,’ corrected Tara. ‘Not food.’
‘Sorry.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘You’re not a child.’
I laughed. ‘That’s what I thought. I imagine I’m at the upper end of his . . . menu spectrum.’ She’s like nine years old, remember? Maybe try and moderate the bad taste gallows humour. ‘How old are you?’
‘Nine.’Good guess. ‘Nearly ten, though.’
‘Aha. And you’ve lived with Mr and Mrs Rogers all your life?’
She nodded, and her hair bounced. ‘Yes. They don’t know who my real parents were. I didn’t even have a birth certificate or anything. I’m a complete mystery.’ She said the last four words proudly. It made me laugh. ‘So,’ she asked. ‘What’s your story?’
‘Not much to tell,’ I said.
‘Everyone’s got a story,’ said Tara. ‘You seem like you must have a long one, with your powers and stuff.’
I laughed again. ‘Long-ish . . .’
Tell her. Tell her everything.
Really? Everything?
Yes. I think she can handle it. She seems weirdly strong. Something about being a child, maybe.
OK. Deep breath.
And I told her my whole story, starting from levitating above my bed for the first time on Friday, September the twenty-third, all the way up to the catastrophic gun battle at Blue Harvest. She didn’t say anything for the duration of the tale, which took a long time to tell. By now it was approaching half past one, but I wasn’t tiring. Nor was Tara, by the looks of things. She still cuddled up against me and I still had my arm around her, but neither of our voices betrayed tiredness; there was no yawning, no sleepy blinking. I felt strangely proud of her.
You barely know her.
I feel like a big brother.
The last time I felt like that was with the lil’ cousins. They’d come visiting from America, and I’d been in charge of them while the grown-ups had talked about boring stuff. Big cousin Stanly in charge of the little ones. I’d liked the feeling. The only time I minded being an only child was when I met young children with whom I got on well. Those were always the moments when I thought why can’t I have someone to look after?
Now I do.
‘So you can properly fly,’ said Tara. ‘Wow. That’s amazing. What’s it like?’
‘It’s kind of difficult to describe.’ Bollocks. It’s easy to describe. ‘It’s . . . it’s like total freedom. Escaping from everything. When I’m in the air it feels like I can do anything I want. Nothing’s a challenge anymore. And you’d think that would make things boring, if everything felt easy, but it doesn’t, it’s just . . . one of the few times I feel properly at peace.’
‘Even when you nearly got struck by lightning?’
‘Especially when I nearly got struck by lightning.’ That was bollocks too, but it sounded good.
Tara laughed. ‘That’s so cool.’
I looked down at her. ‘OK then. I’ve told you my life story, which I seem to be telling to everyone all the time lately, so how about you? What’s your epic mythological saga?’
‘Nothing,’ said Tara. ‘Tonight is the first time I ever did anything bad. Sneaking out of the house. I’ve always been the best possible daughter.’
‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘Gotta start somewhere. What about your . . . interests and stuff? What kind of music do you like?’
‘Beyoncé,’ said Tara, immediately. ‘I think she’s great. I saw her in New York.’
‘Really?’ I was genuinely impressed.
‘Yes! Jacqueline and Oliver’s niece lives there, she’s called Monica and I really like her. We visited them and she and her boyfriend took me to the concert.’
‘And was she good?’
‘She was amazing! She’s just so cool! She’s got so much attitude and she’s so gorgeous and such an amazing singer. Some of the sexy sort of stuff she does is a bit yuck, but oh my God, the show was so, so, so good.’
‘So you enjoyed it, then?’
Tara laughed. ‘I get babbly.’
‘Well it could be worse,’ I said. ‘You could be into McFly or something.’ Is that what young girls like these days?
‘McWho?’ she asked.
Obviously not.
I laughed. ‘Never mind.’ Tara laughed too, and the laugh became a sneeze. ‘Bless you,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘So what were you like before you got your powers?’
‘What?’
‘I mean, what sort of person were you?’
The question took me totally by surprise. ‘I . . . um . . . well . . .’
‘You said you didn’t have many friends.’
‘I was pretty antisocial,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘I liked my own company. Plus I was kind of grumpy. I dunno . . . to be honest, I never really felt like I had much in common with anyone. Getting involved seemed to involve so much effort, and like I would have had to explain myself. My thought processes, and stuff.’ I shrugged. ‘Seemed easier to just be a loner. Plus I did kind of like being enigmatic. The weird one.’
Tara laughed. ‘That’s strange. You don’t seem like that at all.’
‘I think that I’ve grown as a person.’ My backside was getting numb and I shifted position. My mouth was dry from all this talking and the lack of anything to drink, but I wanted to say as much as possible in case we didn’t get out alive. Nice. Maybe don’t mention that particular morbid gem. ‘Before I got my powers I was kind of suffering from this . . . like a sort of insomnia. Nothing seemed really real or important and it all just drifted meaninglessly by. Apathy, I suppose. Very 21st century.’
‘What’s apathy? Like . . . boredom?’
‘Kind of. Not caring. Disaffected, disillusioned, detached. Like, what’s the point.’ I could see her repeating these new words to herself and committing them to memory. ‘I just didn’t have anything to focus on. I briefly considered p
ursuing a career as a hitman.’
‘What’s a hitman?’ asked Tara.
‘Someone who kills people for money,’ I said. It sounded a lot worse put like that, and Tara’s eyes widened. ‘I was always watching films about them,’ I explained. ‘They kind of glamourised the job . . . to be honest, the lifestyle appealed to me more than the killing. The loner thing. Wearing cool clothes and being cool.’
‘But not the killing?’
‘I never really thought about that side of it,’ I said. ‘I never understood what killing meant until tonight.’ I tried to moisten my mouth. ‘When I got the powers something in me changed. I just . . . I felt this . . . cathartic thing. I was free suddenly. And I started making friends. Or at least, I started talking to some people. And I got involved with Romeo and Juliet, and . . . and I got together with Kloe.’
Kloe’s face in the rain.
And in Blue Harvest, telling me to go.
‘Are you worried about her?’ asked Tara. I must have been silent for a while.
‘Mm? Oh. No . . . Eddie and Connor’ll look after her. And her aunt.’ She leaves today. ‘She’s going home today. I . . . I hope I get to see her.’
‘You will,’ said Tara. ‘You’ll see her again.’ Unless her parents doubleplus forbid her from seeing me again ’cos I nearly got her shot.
Or maybe she won’t want to see me again ’cos it’ll remind her . . .
I shouldn’t have left her . . .
But then Tara would have been alone . . .
‘She told me to go,’ I said. ‘She told me to go after the guy. And if she hadn’t . . . I don’t think I would have gone. I’d have stayed and let him get away.’
‘And I’d be in trouble,’ said Tara. ‘Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?’
Not for the first time I wondered if she was really that young. I laughed. ‘Yeah. Funny.’
She didn’t say anything, just shifted slightly. ‘Do you know what Mr and Mrs Rogers were arguing about?’ I asked, out of nowhere. None of your business, Stanly, is what they were arguing about.
Tara shrugged. ‘I didn’t really listen. I just heard.’
‘I know what you mean.’ I really did, and she knew I did. Now she yawned, and I stroked her hair a little, hoping it was comforting.
‘I’m scared,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘As long as I’m here nothing’s going to happen to you.’
‘What if —’
‘Stop that right now,’ I said, mock sternly. ‘We’ll have no more of that talk, soldier.’
‘OK,’ she said, giggling slightly. ‘No more.’ She sat up and rested her head against my shoulder. ‘Do you like Beyoncé?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Although I liked her Destiny’s Child tunes better.’ One other unexpected thing I have in common with Daryl.
‘I haven’t really heard much of them,’ said Tara. ‘But Beyoncé really speaks to me.’
‘I wouldn’t say I find her stuff particularly meaningful,’ I said, ‘but she knows how to put a decent song together. And helluva voice, definitely.’
‘What kind of music do you like?’
‘All sorts. Chili Peppers, Coldplay, Beatles, Sinatra.’ My dad likes Sinatra.
‘Oliver likes this guy called Paul Robeson,’ said Tara. ‘Jacqueline doesn’t, she’s all into classical music. It’s funny, sometimes I’ll be at home and Mr Rogers will be doing his writing and humming along to ‘Old Man River’, and then some other time Mrs Rogers’ll be cleaning the sink or cooking and listening to La Bohème.’
‘La Bohème?’
‘Opera,’ said Tara.
‘Oh. I don’t know much about opera.’
Tara yawned widely. ‘I’m tired. But I don’t think I can sleep.’
I hugged her a little tighter and after a minute or so of silence I started to sing. It was a song that my dad used to sing to me when I was very young. He’d had a good voice then. ‘There must be some kinda way out of here, said the joker to the thief. There’s too much confusion, I can’t get no release . . .’ Tara’s eyes closed and she smiled. I continued, softly, gently. By the time I had finished the song the little girl was breathing regularly, drifting in peace, and a torrent of forgotten images were pouring into my head. I had learned about sense memory – you smell a pine tree and a whole lifetime’s worth of happy Christmases flood your head, even if in reality they were all miserable. The song made me long for home so much that my chest burned. I had never felt so far away. I wanted to see my parents again, walk in the wood, sleep in my own bed.
Stop that. You have to be strong now.
Yeah, ya pansy. Be strong.
Be strong for Tara and Kloe.
OK?
OK.
Good.
I must have nodded off because suddenly Tara was shaking me. ‘Stanly!’ she whispered. ‘Wake up! Stanly! Please, wake up!’
I was groggy for a few seconds before everything came back to me. The room, the kidnap, the door, my young charge. I snapped awake and leapt to my feet. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I can hear him,’ she whispered. ‘I think he’s coming back.’
‘OK,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level. ‘Stay behind me. As far away from the door as possible.’ She did as she was told and I stood, facing the door. Mustn’t tremble. I’d thought that being shot at was the scariest thing ever, but this . . . this was on another level. This was true nightmare fear. No, worse than that . . . but I had to be strong. I was the grown-up. I couldn’t lose face. Couldn’t freeze like I had at Blue Harvest. If I was going to be a superhero, I had to be a bloody superhero.
Strength, strength, strength.
I tried to psyche myself up the way I had backstage months ago, thinking of Bogart and Jack Bauer and the rest of that hard-as-nails crowd. I was just another addition to their ranks. I was —
But, oh God, I can hear him too. Unhurried footsteps closing in. Footsteps on metal and concrete, getting closer.
Tara was shaking behind me. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. It’ll all be fine. Just stay behind me.’
He was nearly here. The monster was nearly here.
‘Stanly —’
A rusty-sounding click. The damn thing had a lock after all. Shit. Nice one.
‘Stanly, you’re gonna win. You’re gonna get him.’
‘Shiny,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘I mean . . . yeah.’
The door opened.
Chapter Twenty-Six
SOMETHING WAS STANDING there. Was it Smiley Joe? Was it looking at us? I couldn’t come to a definite conclusion, partly because of the silent scream of ohnononononononono that was filling my brain, and partly because the thing had no face. It was human-shaped, definitely, with a heavily-built body in a brown suit and faded yellow tie, hands hidden within white surgical gloves, but the head was just . . . blank. A white orb, as white as the lightning on the night I touched the sky, utterly featureless, and no bigger than a normal head, although oddly enough this last fact didn’t really comfort me. He – it? – stood there, motionless, taking us in – is he? Is it? – his – its? Oh God – intimidating bulk filling the doorway. He didn’t seem to be breathing, there was no movement whatsoever . . .
And then there was. Three slits appeared in the face, two where eyes should have been and one where the mouth should have been, as though someone were cutting shapes with an invisible knife, and as I watched, my skin crawling so intensely I felt as though I was going to shed it like a cartoon, they expanded slowly, making a weird soft sluicing sound.
Oh God.
It is him.
Smiley Joe stared at us with his brand new eyes, enormous dead scarlet plates, pupiless and perfectly round, the lower half of his face now dominated by a dark crescent moon mouth locked in a
hideous grin. No lips, no teeth or tongue, just the smile, huge, twitching disgustingly at the corners, a smile that could swallow joy. A black hole of a smile. I wondered if the bastard had smiled when Louise burned him. My mind warped back to my brief conversation with Mr Freeman, his idea that this thing had chosen a shape it thought would appeal to children.
Well, Jesus. I wouldn’t want to meet the kid who’d want this fucker for a friend.
Tara whimpered behind me. I stood firm, trying to be galvanised and steadfast while my body did its best to collapse into a twitching puddle of ruined nerves, and still Smiley Joe didn’t move or speak, he just stood, blocking our escape route, grinning a grin of sleepless, haunted nights. Did his heart beat? Did he have one?
‘Stanly —’ whispered Tara, her voice shaking with terror.
‘Don’t worry, kiddo,’ I said. Being tough was the only way to to avoid pissing myself and dying. ‘I’m going to put this son of a bitch in the ground.’ I flexed my brain and threw a psychic punch, channelling all of the energy that had begun to bubble like a spicy stew when the door had opened. It would have dented a human’s face.
It had no effect on Smiley Joe. He just stood there, taking us in with his infinite eyes. I flexed again. Still nothing. I tried again, and again, and again, each time harder than the last. Absolutely nothing. The monster just stared at me. ‘D’oh,’ I said.
Then he lunged. The movement was fast and jerky and wrong, like a spider, like he was suddenly occupying a space he shouldn’t have been able to reach in such a short time, and ripples spread out across his face as though things were moving around beneath the skin. He reached for my neck, his arms seeming to extend, or maybe it was just my perception, except no, now he moved his head and it expanded, becoming twice, three times, four times as big as it had been – oh shit oh God he can grow – and I cried out and flew to one side of the room, psychically yanking Tara out of the way of his charge, keeping her behind me. The monster stopped and turned in our direction and his head briefly shrank again, contracting with a movement that reminded me of breathing, and then he was coming at us again, still terrifyingly silent, head growing, mouth widening, big enough to swallow a child in one bite, moving with that awful speed, like stop motion that had been completed in a hurry. Tara was screaming and I used my brain to push her towards the doorway, dodging in the other direction, hoping to confuse him. ‘Run!’ I yelled. ‘Get out!’
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