The Ability (Ability, The)

by M. M. Vaughan

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, lie back down in your bed, and I want the two of you to listen to me carefully. I have told you the story of what happened to me every night for the last seven years, and I’ve trusted that you will sense the fear and suffering I endured from when I was twelve years old and still known as Anna Willows. However, I know that to fully understand what happened to me, you must experience the night those traitors abandoned me, so that you can truly understand why I want them to suffer. Do you understand?”

  The boys looked at each other and, reassured by the look of confusion on the other’s face, shook their heads.

  “Tonight I will allow you both to use your Ability to see for yourselves what happened that night.”

  The look on the faces of Ernest and Mortimer made it clear that they were none the wiser.

  “I’m going to let you read my mind.”

  “Oh,” gasped Ernest in surprise.

  “However, there are some rules, and I expect you to abide by them or there will be serious consequences. Understood?”

  Ernest and Mortimer nodded solemnly.

  “I am going to think about the incidents that I want you to witness. If it is something I am thinking about, then where will you have to go to access the memory?” Dulcia looked over at Mortimer.

  “In Reception, the first room you enter in the mind, where current thoughts are stored.”

  “Good. That means you must go no farther. Remember, I know how far you have gone by how loud the ringing in my ears is. If you attempt to go any further than Reception, I will know, we will stop immediately, and you will be punished. Do you understand?”

  Both boys nodded solemnly.

  “Well, then, you may begin.”

  Ernest sat up as Mortimer did the same, and he turned to his mother. He focused on her eyes, black and still, and felt himself drawn into her mind until he was standing in a vast room filled with a single dark image that slowly surrounded him as he traveled back to the memory of a night thirty years earlier—a memory that started with his mother as a twelve-year-old child sitting with a group of other children in the back of a van.

  • • •

  The last thing Ernest and Mortimer saw, before their mother instructed them to stop, was Anna Willows looking in a mirror hanging in the cold, gray cellar that was to become her bedroom for the next six years, tears streaming down from her brilliant emerald-green eyes, calling for her parents.

  Although the boys had heard the story of their mother’s kidnapping every night for many years, the reality of the scene, the fear in the girl’s face, had left them both shaken.

  “But why did they leave you behind?” asked Mortimer after they finished.

  “Because their lives were worth more than mine, in their eyes, and for that they should all suffer. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mother,” the boys replied in unison.

  “You . . . you . . . looked so different,” said Ernest, turning to face his mother. Dulcia looked back at her adopted son, and there was a sadness in her face that softened the piercing black stare of her eyes.

  “The day they left me to work for those cruel and greedy people was the day I could no longer be Anna Willows. On the day of my twenty-first birthday, I killed them, and all this became mine. But I would give back all the money in the world for one more day as Anna Willows.”

  “But I don’t understand. Why are your eyes black now—was that really you?” asked Ernest, confused.

  “Nobody can know who I really am if I’m to succeed in my plan. Time makes many changes to a person’s appearance, with the exception of their eyes—so I decided to mask mine behind these,” said Dulcia, lifting her hands to her eyes. She opened them wide and removed the contact lenses.

  The boys gasped as Dulcia turned to face them, the emerald-green eyes they had just seen appearing before them, and with them a sadness that Ernest had never seen.

  “I have spent many years planning my revenge carefully and waiting until the two of you reached your twelfth birthday. Now, finally, my plan is coming together. You, my sons, are the key to my revenge, and so, finally, they will suffer as I did. That is why I don’t want them to die—I want them to suffer for the rest of their lives, just as I’ve had to do. So now you know everything, and now, Ernest, I hope you understand why I need you both so much.”

  “Yes, Mother, I do.”

  “Good. Cecil Humphries will know what it is like to live in terror, just as I had to do, and now it is time for the rest of them to suffer, and the more you can hurt them, the prouder I will be of you. Learn from what your brother did so well. Do you see how he used the Ability to hurt both Humphries’s mind and his body? It was more than I asked of him, and it was . . . perfect. And you know I don’t use that word very often.”

  Mortimer puffed up with pride.

  “I want to do it again. When will we use Inferno on the others?” asked Mortimer.

  “Soon, my child, very soon. Our preparations will begin tomorrow for Richard Baxter. In a few months’ time, every one of those Myers Holt traitors will rue the day they left Anna Willows behind.”

  • CHAPTER SEVEN •

  Tuesday, November 20

  Chris sat down at an empty table with his lunch tray and picked up his knife and fork.

  “This seat taken?”

  Chris ignored the familiar voice of Kevin Blunt and started to eat.

  “I said . . . is this seat taken?”

  Chris continued to ignore him and stared down at his food. He took another mouthful, then felt a hand land hard on his back, causing him to jerk forward, and the food in his mouth spat out in surprise.

  Behind him Kevin and his gang laughed. Slowly, Chris wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, picked up the fork he had dropped on the table, and went back to eating his food.

  “Deaf and dumb,” he heard Kevin say. Christopher felt him take a seat next to him, and, taking that as their cue, the other four boys standing with him also sat down.

  “So, Twist,” said Kevin, knowing how much Christopher hated that nickname, “if you’re deaf and you’re dumb, that means we can say anything and you wouldn’t hear.”

  “Yeah, huh, like that he’s stupid and poor, huh, huh,” said Arch, with the deep voice of a grown man. Christopher glanced over briefly and saw Arch stuff a whole piece of pizza into his oversized mouth in one go. The tomato sauce spilled out around his mouth, but he didn’t bother to wipe it.

  “He’s so poor, beggars give him money,” said one of the boys. The gang all laughed except for Arch, who took a moment to work it out and then let out a loud guffaw, spitting out what remained of the food in his mouth back onto his plate. He picked up the chewed-up bit of pizza and stuffed it back into his mouth.

  “Why ain’t you laughin’, Twist? Don’t you think that’s funny?” asked Kevin, the table falling into silence.

  Chris took another mouthful and chewed silently.

  “Too busy eating, I guess,” shrugged Kevin, and for a moment Chris thought Kevin might leave it at that, but it seemed he was only just starting.

  “Only meal he’ll get all day,” continued Kevin, to quiet giggles from the others.

  “Yeah, his mum is probably too busy begging tonight to get him dinner.”

  Chris stiffened only slightly, but it was enough for Kevin to notice.

  “Oh, don’t like us talking about your mum? Why, does your mum live in a cardboard box or something?” he said, a wide smirk across his face.

  Chris put his fork down and turned to face Kevin.

  “Say another word about my mum and—”

  “And what?” asked Kevin.

  “And you’ll be sorry.”

  “Oooooh,” said all the other boys in unison.

  “ ‘Sorry’?” said Kevin, standing up. Chris stood up too and faced him square on.

  “You are going to make me sorry? If I remember right, you were the one on the toilets’ floor last week. You were the one who went
down after only a few punches. Sorry? Don’t make me laugh,” said Kevin, leaning forward so that his face was less than an inch from Chris’s.

  Chris stood motionless, his eyes fixed on Kevin’s.

  “I just got one more thing to say,” whispered Kevin. “Your mum is a thief and a beggar, and your dad wanted to die ’cause he hated you so much.”

  “Aaaargh!” exploded Chris. He pulled back his right arm with a clenched fist and drew forward to punch Kevin, but before he had a chance to make contact, Kevin suddenly staggered backward.

  Chris watched Kevin’s eyes widen in shock as his body was lifted up into the air. He didn’t so much as fall back but fly back, as if he were a ball of paper that Chris had thrown across the room. The boys around him, and the rest of the students and staff, watched as Kevin flew up in an arc toward the line of students waiting for their lunch. He crashed faceup onto the food counter, sending trays, food, glass, and students flying about him. There was a silence as everybody tried to process what had just happened.

  “Help me . . . ,” came a voice from the counter. Everybody looked over at Kevin, firmly lodged in a deep tray of custard, a soggy piece of lettuce on his head, and started laughing. Chris looked around him and saw the rest of Kevin’s group staring at him, their mouths hanging open in shock and their eyes full of fear. Chris turned to them to explain that he hadn’t even touched Kevin, but before he had a chance to say anything, they all turned and ran from him, leaving Chris staring down at his hands and wondering what on earth had just happened.

  • • •

  Chris sat quietly in the seat next to Mrs. Tanner and watched Mr. Tuckdown pace the room back and forth. He had been in his office for an hour now and had listened to Mr. Tuckdown’s outrage turn to delight as he realized that this might mean a lengthy suspension.

  “One month at least, don’t you think, Mrs. Tanner?”

  “One month at the very least, Mr. Tuckdown,” said Mrs. Tanner. “Maybe two months? After all, let’s not forget the trauma and suffering he caused to poor Kevin.”

  “Yes, indeed, maybe two months. After all, this might cost us the rugby trophy, if Kevin’s too upset to play in next week’s tournament.”

  Chris rolled his eyes but said nothing.

  In the last hour, between Mrs. Tanner and Mr. Tuckdown they had managed to justify increasing his suspension from one week upward, and Chris was starting to lose patience.

  “Why don’t you just expel me?” he asked, finally.

  Mr. Tuckdown stopped in his tracks and turned to face Chris.

  “Why don’t we? Well, I can tell you now that it’s not through any lack of wanting to. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy to do these days,” he said, almost sadly. Then he sighed and started pacing again, and with it Chris knew that another lecture was about to begin.

  “You are a stupid, stupid boy, Christopher. A useless, scruffy, good-for-nothing boy who steals and lies and fights. A sneaky little thief who keeps interrupting my tea breaks. A man can’t work without his tea breaks, do you understand?”

  “He said stuff about my dad!” shouted Chris, his usual self-restraint finally broken after the events of the day.

  Mr. Tuckdown took a deep breath and held it until he started to turn red, and finally he exploded.

  “How dare you shout at me! It’s not my problem if your dad died in a war we can hardly remember now, it’s not my problem if your mother can’t pull herself together, it’s not my problem that you can’t take a joke with your classmates, and yet, and yet, you insist on making it my problem. Well, to hell with the rules,” he said to Mrs. Tanner. “We’ll just say that he attacked a teacher.” He turned to face Chris.

  “Christopher Lane . . . you are expelled!” he shouted, and slammed his hand on the table. The sheer weight behind it caused the desk to shake, and his now-cold cup of tea toppled over onto his desk and over the plate of biscuits.

  “Bravo!” said Mrs. Tanner rapturously, clapping her bony, wrinkly hands in delight.

  Mr. Tuckdown smiled and took a soggy biscuit from his desk.

  There was a knock on the door, and Mr. Tuckdown stopped mid-bite.

  “Yes?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Tuckdown, but we have Sir Bentley and Miss Sonata from Myers Holt here to see you. They’ve been waiting a while, and”—Margaret lowered her voice theatrically—“I think they can hear everything you’re saying.”

  “Oh, right, um, well . . . yes, well. Hmmmm. Best let them in.” He turned to face Chris. “Get out, Christopher, and don’t bother ever coming back.”

  Chris didn’t need to be asked twice. He stood up, and—shoulders hunched, head down—he walked over toward the door.

  “Christopher!”

  Chris looked up and saw Miss Sonata standing before him, and an older, suited gentleman by her side.

  “Hi, Miss Sonata,” said Chris, turning red. He wondered exactly how much of the conversation she had already heard.

  “Mr. Tuckdown, there’s no need for the boy to leave—we won’t take up much of your time,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulder and turning him back into the room.

  Chris was about to protest, but Miss Sonata and the man had already walked past him. Chris wondered whether he should just leave anyway and then decided he didn’t want to make a scene in front of Miss Sonata. He looked over at Mr. Tuckdown, who shot him a glowering look before turning to his guests and replacing the frown with a large smile.

  “Sir Bentley, Miss Sonata, how wonderful to see you!” sang Mr. Tuckdown, hand outstretched.

  Sir Bentley shook his hand coldly, followed by Miss Sonata.

  “Please, please, take a seat,” said Mr. Tuckdown, pointing to the two empty chairs beside Mrs. Tanner. “Biscuit?” he asked, offering them a plate of biscuits swimming in cold tea.

  Sir Bentley and Miss Sonata both shook their heads.

  “Mr. Tuckdown, we’d like to just get straight to business,” said Sir Bentley.

  “Of course, of course,” said Mr. Tuckdown, shuffling into his seat. “I assume this must be good news?”

  “Well, yes, we rather think so,” said Sir Bentley without expression. “You’ll be pleased to know that someone here has been selected for entry into the Myers Holt Academy this year.”

  “Wonderful!” said Mr. Tuckdown, rubbing his hands greedily. “We dared not hope, but I must admit I did start to think about how the generous school prize would be used. I have been suffering terribly having to eat these awful school lunches and the money will be used to create a staff dining room with a private chef. It’s not easy for us, having to deal with all this stress,” he said, looking over at Chris. “The remainder of the prize will go a long way toward refurbishing my office. It is, after all, the most important room in the school.”

  “Yes, well, wouldn’t you like to hear which student was accepted?”

  “Of course, of course,” said Mr. Tuckdown, distracted, wondering where his new leather chaise longue would look best. He nodded over by the far bookshelves and then turned back to Sir Bentley and Miss Sonata. “Yes, so who is it? Emma Becksdale? Anthea Sylvester? Lucas Longley? It’s Lucas, isn’t it?” he said eagerly.

  “Actually, no,” replied Miss Sonata. “The pupil accepted into Myers Holt Academy is Christopher Lane.”

  The room fell silent, and all eyes turned to Christopher, standing at the wall and clearly as much in shock as Mrs. Tanner and Mr. Tuckdown.

  “Congratulations, Christopher,” said Sir Bentley, smiling.

  Chris’s mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.

  “But . . . ,” said Mr. Tuckdown, beads of perspiration beginning to form, “but there must be a mistake. This boy is—”

  “Stupid?” interrupted Sir Bentley. “Useless? Good-for-nothing? It may surprise you to know that Christopher’s results were outstanding.”

  “Outstanding?” interrupted Mr. Tuckdown. “If the boy is outstanding at anything, it’s cheating. You might want to check those—”
>
  “Uh, hmmm,” coughed Mrs. Tanner. “Mr. Tuckdown, perhaps we should remember the benefits of Chris being accepted?”

  “Benefits? Oh . . . benefits,” said Mr. Tuckdown, suddenly remembering the chaise longue and the chef. He thought for a moment and came to a decision.

  “Well, then, so be it. Take the stupid boy. He’s not wanted here anyway,” said Mr. Tuckdown, and picked up another soggy biscuit.

  “Yes . . . about that,” said Sir Bentley, standing up. Mr. Tuckdown looked up suspiciously and raised the biscuit to his mouth.

  “We couldn’t help but overhear your earlier conversation with Christopher, which ended with you quite clearly expelling him. Regretfully, as he is no longer of this school, Black Marsh will no longer be eligible to receive the prize.”

  Mr. Tuckdown froze, biscuit poised at his open mouth. His eyes widened in shock, and then he leaped out of his chair, knocking it to the ground behind him.

  “B-b-b-b-but—but—,” he spluttered, but Sir Bentley paid him no heed.

  “Christopher, would you care to follow us out? Good day, Mr. Tuckdown,” said Sir Bentley without looking at the headmaster, who was at this point leaning on the desk, taking frantic deep breaths.

  Chris looked over at Miss Sonata, who grinned and waved him over. He looked over at Mr. Tuckdown and Mrs. Tanner and smiled.

  “Yes, good day to you both!” he said, and walked out of the room for the last time.

  • CHAPTER EIGHT •

  “Well, that was a rather unexpected turn of events,” said Sir Bentley to nobody in particular as they walked down the headmaster’s corridor. Chris, who was still reeling from the news, said nothing. Never in his whole life, he thought, had he been chosen for anything. Well, not anything good. It was a strange feeling, a mixture of pride and worry: worry that at any moment now Sir Bentley and Miss Sonata were going to realize they’d made a terrible mistake. He looked over at Miss Sonata.

  “Are you . . . sure?” he asked.