I looked up, looked past her. The moon was a clock as big as the sky, its hands rushing around in blinding circles. ‘I’m going to destroy everything,’ said Tara, ‘and it’s all your fault.’
‘My fault . . .’ Did I say that? I wasn’t even sure. Couldn’t feel. Couldn’t understand . . .
‘You’re my father,’ she said. ‘The power comes from you. And you left me alone with Kloe, alone to kill her, snap her like nothing. Everyone is going to die. Everyone is going to bleed and drown.’ Her eyes were as red as ancient suns, her skin pale, ghostly silk. Far away I could hear fire and drumming.
‘Tara,’ I whispered.
‘You brought me here,’ said Tara. ‘You made me.’
Everything was shifting, as though the world around me were a series of pictures on top of one another; a photograph, and beneath that a watercolour, and beneath that claymation, and beneath that black and white chalk scribbles, and beneath that just crude, awful stick drawings, and someone was ripping bits of each away, exposing all the different layers, a hideous collage . . .
Someone . . .
Tara . . .
‘I’ll destroy it all,’ said Tara. ‘Everything.’ She raised her hand, whatever she was, and I knew it was all over.
Blank.
I awoke in the dark, face down on cold damp ground, and managed to stand, looking around blindly. I was still in the woods, I could tell that much. I wiped leaves and mud from my face and tried to remember.
Tara. Killed . . . Kloe? A weapon. What?
‘No,’ I said out loud. ‘No. Dream.’ I must have tripped . . . banged my head or something . . . or fallen asleep . . . just a dream . . .
‘Dreams sleep,’ said a voice, and I froze, petrified. The voice was scratchy and spidery and seemed to come from everywhere. ‘We do not sleep.’
‘No need for it,’ it said, as though agreeing with itself. The voice was still coming from everywhere, but from a different place . . .
The forest is talking.
I’m dreaming. ‘I’m dreaming,’ I said. ‘This is—’
Light, as bright as a nuclear fire, and for a second I could see Kloe hanging from a tree, one foot twitching obscenely. I screamed, but it was drowned out by thunder. Dark again. I stumbled towards her, holding out my hands in the blackness, trying to find her, cut her down, but she wasn’t there. Where is she?
‘All truth,’ whispered the forest.
‘Your truth.’
‘All the truth you can eat.’
‘Who are you?’ I screamed. ‘What is–’ Another flash of lightning and there was my mother, slumped against a tree trunk, shot in the stomach. I tried to cry out but couldn’t, fell backwards into the shadows again, landing hard on my back. Thunder and more lightning, and there was Eddie, on top of me, his eye sockets empty, his mouth open, fixed in a rictus howl. I rolled away, let his body slump on the floor. More thunder, war drums pounded by psychotic, spitting giants. I got to my feet and staggered, moaning, crying.
‘This does not sleep,’ the forest said. There was nothing in its voice, no delight or hatred or fear, no emotion, nothing human. It was just sound, like a frozen blade, dipped in acid. ‘You will sleep.’
The next flash of lightning was like a streak of fire scorching my eyes, and through it I could see Connor and Sharon side-by-side against the tree, bloody and still. I was on my knees again, although I couldn’t remember falling. The thunder shook me, jolting my bones, and I threw up painfully, gasping. Lightning again, and Daryl, swatted down like a fly, his last whine fading into the thunder . . .
A forest full of dead people, stripped of everything but their shapes . . .
‘All the people who will die,’ said the forest.
‘All of them dead.’
‘Because of you.’
Thorns tearing into my flesh. Nails. Drum beats spelling out deafening rage, and lightning, and howling, and when the rain came it was fire and ice pouring from a sky of blackened crimson, and there stood Tara in the middle of a burning city, buildings gutted like egg shells, people broken and scattered to winds that poured in from another, infinitely more terrible world. All the people I’d failed, friends, family, strangers . . .
And there stood Tara in her red pyjamas . . .
And there stood Tara smiling . . .
And there stood Tara, speaking in the forest’s voice. ‘All gone,’ she said.
No.
‘All dead,’ said the forest, in Tara’s voice.
‘All dead,’ it said, in Kloe’s voice.
All dead in my mother’s voice, in Eddie’s voice, Connor’s, Sharon’s . . .
And there he stood in the middle of a city in flames. He had my face, my body and eyes, and my laugh as if filtered through murder and red ice. ‘All dead,’ he said, his grin hinting at unspeakable perversions.
‘NO!’ I stood up. This was beyond pain; I was willing a defeated shell to stand. Movement was like razors.
Stanly stopped smiling. Cocked his head. My head. ‘All dead,’ he repeated.
My head. All dead.
My head? All . . .
He’s inside.
The voice of an older Stanly, almost silent, but enough for me to hear. ‘Don’t let it get inside your head.’
Inside your head.
‘No,’ I said. I opened my eyes a hundred times, and each time I did I healed a wound. Stanly shook his head, my head.
‘No,’ he said, in my voice.
‘No,’ I said, in his voice. No. My voice.
‘No?’
I concentrated, and Stanly exploded. The world around him flashed and everything came apart at the seams like jigsaw fragments, the pieces whirling and glowing, all those layers, like pages being ripped from a sketchbook, and all the while that terrible drumming, so loud that my ears bled, apocalypse rhythms . . .
Blank.
When the light faded I was lying in the forest with no idea of how long I had been there. Everything rushed back and I rolled over and jumped to my feet with an involuntary cry. Something was lying there on the ground right where my head had been. It was vaguely human-shaped, but it was barely three feet long, its limbs spindly, its light blue skin shimmering like early-morning water. It had no face, but I could tell that it was dead.
I killed it.
As I watched it started to fade, and quickly there was nothing but a vague suggestion, an idea of the shape of a body, visible only to me.
All lies.
A monster.
A . . .
‘A shimmer in the forest,’ I said, and smiled shakily. ‘Thanks, me.’ I dropped to my knees, exhausted, and stared into space for a very long time.
The sky had frosted over when I pulled up outside Mum’s house, day rapidly giving way to twilight. I glanced through the kitchen window and saw her get up from the table, her face full of relief, and the anxious heat in my stomach cooled slightly. I went in and hugged her and showered and ate, and asked if there had been any calls. ‘None,’ said Mum. ‘But, Stanly . . . look.’
She switched on the TV and found the news. London was still reeling from the emergence of the giant dog, as well as explosions and gunfire the following night. The authorities were sticking with the animal-testing facility story, and nobody was confirming or denying that the military had been involved with the action at Freeman’s place. Moreover, it was ‘very possible’ that there were more dangerous animals loose in London, and people were being advised to stay in their homes. The police were on high alert . . . and the army were backing them up.
How did they get all this organised so quickly?
Maybe it was going to happen anyway . . .
‘And police are appealing for information about these five individuals,’ said the newscaster.
‘You’ve gotta be fucking kidding,’ I muttered.<
br />
‘It is believed that they are responsible for the release of the animal,’ continued the man, indicating grainy photographs of myself, Eddie, Sharon, Connor and Skank, ‘and possibly for the explosions that occurred on Monday. Authorities indicate a high probability that they plan to create further chaos. The release of the creature is being treated as an act of terror.’
Great. The T-word.
Just what I need.
‘Stanly,’ said Mum.
‘It’s bollocks,’ I said. ‘OK? Lies. They’re covering up . . . something. Something bad. And they’re blaming us.’ I took out my phone and tried Sharon, then Eddie, then Connor. I even tried Freeman. None of them answered. Not a good sign. My stomach turned and I stared at my hands, trying to think straight. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, did it? They might . . . might what? Have all turned their phones off?
Yeah . . .
If they’d been caught the police wouldn’t be appealing for information. They’re still out there. They’re fine. They have to be.
And I have to go back. Now.
I went out to the porch to grab my coat. Mum ran out after me. ‘What are you doing?’ she said. ‘You’re not going back now?’
‘I have to.’
‘Stanly,’ said Mum, ‘it’s getting dark. It’ll take you, what, a couple of hours at least to fly home?’ She paused and shook her head, as though she couldn’t believe she was actually talking about flying. ‘And by then it’ll be completely dark, and you’ll be exhausted, and you’ll be no help to anyone.’
‘But they’re not answering their phones,’ I said. ‘Something might have happened . . .’
‘And how will getting to London in the dark with no energy help them?’ Her voice was so sensible and calm, the voice of reason. Voice of a mum. Amazing, considering what she was being asked to swallow.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘But I’m going first thing tomorrow.’
There was a question on her face. Why do you have to go back at all? Surely they can look after themselves. I knew she wanted to say it, but she knew what my answer would be, and she knew the truth herself anyway. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Then have an early night, all right?’
I went upstairs, although I didn’t see how I could go to bed. In fact, I felt wired, and not just in a stressed-out what-the-hell-have-I-got-myself-into way. I felt powerful. As though there was electricity tingling under my skin, as though I could throw trucks around as easily as breathing, tear down a building with a snap of my fingers. Right now I felt like I could take on ten of those giant dogs.
Something to do with the shimmer, perhaps? That was the only explanation that made any sense, because I definitely felt odd. Different.
I should go back tonight.
There were too many good reasons. I had no idea what would await me when I returned, how many soldiers, police or whoever else would be after me. Arriving under cover of darkness was a no-brainer. Plus, I didn’t know where Sharon and the others were, where they’d been forced to hide. It felt positively indecent, staying another night in a comfortable bed, safe and familiar.
And I need to get back into it.
I realised that I’d been pacing around my room for nearly ten minutes. I forced myself to sit down and called Kloe. She sounded cheerful. Too cheerful. I could tell that the glow of our time together had already started to fade, that she was angry again, with me, with everything. Once again, all I could do was offer platitudes. Tell her I loved her. She said she loved me too, but I had a feeling that even if I did come back to her in one piece, I’d be paying for this for a while. She told me she’d spoken to her parents, that they’d been freaking out, that she’d had to lie to them. ‘They saw you on TV,’ said Kloe. ‘Your picture, you and Eddie and the others. People are saying you’re a terrorist.’
‘I’m not,’ I said, stupidly.
‘Well, yeah, obviously I know that, you idiot.’
Not cool, whichever way you swing it.
She’s alive, though.
She’ll be safe.
They’ll both be safe.
Eventually I hung up the phone and made to head back downstairs, but caught sight of my reflection and stopped dead. My black outfit definitely looked badass, especially the coat, but if I was going to be heading back to a heavily patrolled city whose authorities and citizens considered me public enemy number one, maybe badass-looking wasn’t the way to go?
I thought my wardrobe open and started yanking out old clothes, throwing certain items into a pile on the floor, holding some up in mid-air to check sizes. Some baggy rugby jersey or other. A lumberjack shirt. Random T-shirts. Torn cargo trousers. A ludicrous-looking hat with woolly earflaps. Thick snot-green fingerless gloves. I swore that I couldn’t remember ever owning half of this stuff, let alone wearing it. Ensemble assembled, I stripped to my underwear and set to the clothes with scissors and a lighter.
When I returned to the kitchen, armed with an old pair of headphones and a rucksack from my GCSE days, my mum was sitting at the table. I had a feeling she’d been waiting for me. I gave her my I-know-I’m-in-trouble smile, and she shook her head. ‘Don’t you try that with me.’
‘Sorry.’
She clocked how I was dressed and did a pretty comical double-take. ‘What . . . what on earth . . . you look like a tramp!’
‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘Mission accomplished. Do you still have that old overcoat of Dad’s? The brown one?’
‘Yes, it’s in the cupboard . . .’
‘Can I take it?’
‘Of course you can,’ she said. ‘But . . .’
‘Also, do you have any whisky?’
‘Yes . . . why?’
I laid a load of newspaper out on the floor, put the heavy brown overcoat down and liberally applied whisky to the front, back and sleeves. ‘I can’t believe this,’ my mum said, pacing up and down. ‘I can’t believe it. They said you’re a terrorist. My son, a terrorist. It’s every mother’s worst nightmare.’
‘At least I don’t vote Tory.’
That got half a laugh. ‘Thank goodness for small mercies.’
‘Mum,’ I said, as I dried the spilled booze with a hairdryer, ‘I know this is all completely insane. And . . . it’s going to get bad. You’ll probably have police round . . . journalists, maybe. You have to know – you have to believe – that I’m doing what has to be done. I’m doing the right thing. Trying to make things better.’
‘You’re my son,’ said Mum. ‘Of course I believe you. But how can I just let you go running off to fight God knows who?’
‘You’re going to have to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because.’
She actually laughed at that. ‘That’s our line. Mine and your father’s. To placate you. Not the other way round.’
I shrugged, donned the stinking coat and pulled the hat’s earflaps down. ‘A boy’s gotta do what a boy’s gotta do.’
‘Oh shut up,’ she said, and gave me a hug. It hurt. ‘Silly boy.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ I whispered.
‘You’d bloody better.’
‘I promise.’ I stuffed my black coat into the rucksack, because at this point it felt like the kind of good luck charm that I wanted to keep with me, and secured the headphones under the hat, ready to pump noise into my ears. We went out onto the patio and hugged tightly, one more time, and I took a last look at her and my old home before kicking off and powering towards the waiting sky. It received me like an empty ocean, infinite and welcoming, washing over my body, invigorating. Embiggening this small man. It felt good. Right. Cromulent. And somehow even easier than before. Something was definitely different. It had to have been the shimmer, it had made me stronger. Handy, considering what unimaginable ridiculousness I was about to face.
Rightio, then.
Let’s get this party started,
shall we?
I made to jet off again, then remembered the one missing ingredient. These old headphones wouldn’t be anywhere near as good as the ones I’d lost, but they were better than nothing. I plugged the jack into my phone and searched through my music. Something light and acoustic, maybe, or soft and ambient? Chilled-out sounds for a meditative flight, enabling me to charge my mental batteries?
Or a playlist starting with ‘Hysteria’ by Muse, followed by ‘Song 2’ by Blur, and continuing along similar lines for about thirty songs?
I smiled and pressed play, ready for a shot of pure, unfiltered grrr, straight to the brain.
OK. NOW let’s get this party started.
Chapter Thirteen
I SCREAMED THROUGH THE air as fast as I could manage without the wind ripping my face clean off, hands buried in the pockets of my coat, pounding drums and end-of-the-world riffs and shrieking falsetto in my ears, assembling and dissecting possible plans in my head as I flew. While I knew it probably wouldn’t be safe – or necessarily productive – to go to any of the obvious places like Sharon and Connor’s or the shop, I did feel that it might be instructive so see what had gone on in my absence. Maybe there would be police or military guards. Would the places have been ransacked? The news report, with our pictures and accusations of terrorism, seemed pretty conclusive in terms of our public enemy status . . .
And when has the news ever exaggerated anything.
I touched down in a wooded area near the outskirts – or near the outskirts of the outskirts of the outskirts. That was one thing I had going for me: the sheer size of London meant that they couldn’t be watching everywhere at once. They couldn’t close every place of business, every school, every shop and every transport link, lock every family in their house, confiscate the keys from every car. They couldn’t station a tank on every street.
I hoped.
There’d be uproar if they did, surely?
Again, I hoped. But I had a nagging feeling, based on my extended wanderings of the city, that until bullets literally started flying people would rather keep their heads down and not think about it. And if they really thought that my friends and I were terrorists, I doubted we’d be seeing any inspirational Spider-Man-style scenes in which the populace rallied behind us – or in front of us – saying that if you messed with one Londoner you messed with all Londoners. London didn’t seem to be like that, at least as far as I’d seen.
Ace of Spiders Page 17