I am not a sodding iguana. But I might as well be since all I've done so far is run. And, like the poor scaly bastard on the TV, I had avoided the predators. Up to now, at least. If I had to be an iguana, I wouldn't be just any iguana. I'd be superiguana, a reptile with...okay, maybe I was stretching the analogy a little too far.
It crystallised a decision that's been lurking in my brain for the past few weeks. I've run for long enough. I don't have to be the prey. I don't have to be the predator, either. I can live without fear, without violence.
Police tape marked out a perimeter by the time I got back to the site of the explosion. It wasn't yet dawn, and only a handful of onlookers were there being discouraged by the authorities from getting too close.
I carried a tea urn George had left for me in the hotel room. It was unwieldy and, with my broken wrist, hard to manage, but she hadn't known how big a container I'd need, so had plumped for a twenty-litre version.
I ducked under the tape and made my way to where I last saw Abos.
The piece of masonry was large enough for me to squat behind, hidden from the uniforms swarming ant-like over the pile of rubble where Station's entrance had once stood.
I took the lid off the urn, and placed it on its side, as close to the huge chunk of concrete as I could. Then I lay on my back and got both feet against the massive block that had crushed Abos.
At first, when I began pushing, it seemed like nothing was happening. I had eaten all the food George had ordered and had even managed three hours sleep. Her letter had insisted I would need it.
I grunted with effort, sweat stinging my eyes. Just as I felt I could push no harder, I thought of George lying there, dying alone so that this could happen, and I found an extra reserve somewhere.
Something shifted. There was the sound of smaller stones falling as the concrete lifted. I took a breath, held it, then hissed an exhalation while channelling all my strength into my legs, the muscles screaming. The concrete lifted more, inch by inch, until, finally, I locked my legs underneath it.
I looked at the patch of ground I had exposed. It was dark, my eyes were struggling to adapt, but, as the first grey hint of the day to come brightened the scene, I saw it.
It was just as Cress's diary had described, a kind of blue-green slime.
I found myself thinking back to the moment, just hours before, when I had walked into George's bedroom. In the same way that I had immediately felt her absence, I now felt a presence. The slime was unmistakably alive.
"I came back," I whispered.
I tried to reach it, but my fingers could only get within about two feet of the edge of the puddle of living soup. I stretched, tried twisting my upper body a little to get closer, but nothing worked.
I couldn't help myself. I started to laugh. It was a giggle at first, then it got louder, and I slapped a hand over my mouth. There was a tinge of hysteria to it that threatened to take over. If I allowed that to happen, I would howl with laughter until everyone within earshot came to take a look.
Just as I was biting my hand to stop this happening, I thought I saw the slime move. I choked back the next gulp of laughter and looked more closely.
It was definitely moving. The Amorphous Blob Of Slime was sliding across the rubble, picking its way through the concrete, stones, and twisted metal. When it reached the edge of the urn, it slid inside.
Praying that I wouldn't let it drop too heavily, I lowered the huge block back to the ground, put the lid back on the urn and, crouching, ran back the way I had come, crossing the police line.
"Oi, what are you up to?"
I froze. Turning, I saw an army officer approaching, a further half a dozen soldiers a few paces behind him. There were more of them in a camouflaged transport vehicle parked another twenty yards along the perimeter.
"Me?"
"Yes, you, the suspicious looking giant with a battered face and a tea urn. Come here."
I walked towards him, forcing a smile onto my face.
"Can't help me face, mate. Got into a minor disagreement in the pub last night."
The army guy looked me up and down.
"Really? Care to explain why you're sneaking around the scene of a massive gas explosion at six in the morning carrying a tea urn?"
I kept the smile on my face and put the urn on the floor before giving it a little tap.
"Soup," I said, "for the homeless. On my way to Liverpool Street now. We set up every morning there. St Crispy's soup kitchen."
"St Crispy?"
"Crispin. Um, don't mean to be rude, but I'll be in trouble if I'm late. I'll leave you to do your army stuff, all right?"
"No," said the officer, "that's not all right," and I wondered what my chances would be like if I decked him and ran. Not good, I suspected.
"No?" I said.
"We're hungry," he said, jerking his thumb back at the soldiers behind him. "Let's have some of your soup."
"Oh. You wouldn't like it. It's cold."
"I don't think we're that fussy." He turned to the nearest soldier. "Davis? Are we that fussy?"
"No, sir. Not fussy at all."
"There you are, then." He called to the soldiers in the parked vehicle behind. "Anyone got a mug? Chuck it up here. Pronto."
A few seconds later, he was handing me a chipped enamel mug. "Fill 'er up, pretty boy."
Shit.
I held the mug under the tap and turned it. A splash of slime came out, followed by another. I stopped when the mug was half-full. The officer took it from me held it up to his face and inhaled.
"Jesus!" He whipped his head away, angling his chin up in an effort to get as far from the offending liquid as possible. "That is absolutely foul. Rank. Disgusting. How can you even—?"
He went to throw the mug's contents onto the ground. I stepped forward and grabbed his wrist.
"What's your game?" he said, but let me take the mug and tip its contents back into the urn.
"There are homeless people out there who need this, sir." I handed back the mug.
"Well, they're bloody welcome to it, the poor bastards." The men behind him chuckled as he shook his head. I breathed again.
"I told you it wasn't nice cold," I said.
"On your way," he said, dismissing me, "and don't let me catch you hanging around again.
"No, sir," I said, cradling the urn under my good arm. "No sir, I won't."
I climbed the crumbling steps up the rock face and sat near the edge of the cliff. Turning away from the water, I looked back at the cottage, clearly visible on a slight rise.
Just when I was beginning to think I was wrong, that it wouldn't happen today, a figure walked through the open door.
I got to my feet, raised both arms in the air and waved.
The figure waved back and began to walk towards me.
She walked slowly, cautiously, picking her way across the open field leading to the cliff path.
I remembered the moment I opened the medical package and saw what it contained. George's blood, drawn from her veins the same night Abos and I destroyed Station. Kept refrigerated since then in a private medical facility, waiting for my call. Then the motorcycle ride from South London, the container plugged into a USB port on the bike, keeping the temperature constant.
Abos needed blood. George could provide it. Maybe, in some sense, she could live on.
I had poured the blood on top of the blue-green slime, which floated on a decaying, stinking mass of rotting fruit and vegetables.
I had felt faintly ridiculous as I stood there. I had thought of the moment in Frankenstein, when Victor grabs a sceptical fellow scientist with a fervour bordering on the demented, saying, "It's alive...it's alive!" as thunder roars and lightning flashes around the lab. Somehow, pouring blood into a bath full of slime didn't have the same drama.
But it had worked.
She climbed over the stile and made her way along the path towards me.
She was wearing the trainers, jeans, and jumper I had bo
ught for her. The jeans were too short. I had guessed her height at about five-foot-eight, but this woman was closer to six-foot, leaving a fair amount of skin exposed at the ends of her trouser legs.
She stopped when we were about two feet from each other.
I was looking at George, her brown skin as unblemished as that of a baby's, her smile broad, her eyes the deep gold of liquidambar in autumn.
"Geo—," I began, then stopped myself. "Abos."
"Hello, Daniel. Thank you. For coming back."
We walked together and sat at the cliff's edge.
"Thank George," I said. "She saw all of it."
There was a long silence. As well as her physical body, Abos seemed to have changed in her mannerisms. As we talked, I noticed that even her speech patterns were different. There was no Welsh accent. Abos now spoke with George's voice.
"She was a remarkable person," said Abos.
"She was."
"What now? Do you have places to be? Things to do? Super stuff?"
I mimed a flying superhero taking to the sky. Abos laughed.
"No. Well. I don't know. There's so much I don't know. About myself. About you."
"Tell me about it."
Abos put a soft hand on my cheek.
"What I do have is time I can spend with you. If you'd like that?"
I nodded.
"Yes. I would like that."
She got up, stripped off her clothes, and stood at the very edge of the land, toes curled on the precipice.
46
I'm standing on a cliff edge, watching a woman fall. She falls backwards away from me, her eyes never leaving mine. There is very little wind, but as she spreads her arms, it's as if a breeze has caught her, twisting her body around like a leaf in autumn.
She's naked, her dark skin silhouetting her against the turquoise waves.
I think of my father, and of my dead friend. I think of the future and wonder, for the first time, if it might be utterly unlike my expectations. I wonder what this feeling is, this feeling that has crept up on me and finally surfaced; fresh, unknown, and impossible to ignore.
As she drops towards the rocks, I start smiling.
I name this new feeling and wonder where it might lead.
It's hope.
I watch George's doppelgänger wait until her body almost touches the tips of the waves. She must be able to taste the salt water as she turns the momentum of her fall into a horizontal glide a few feet above the surface. Her speed increases smoothly, and within a few seconds, she is a black speck, rising from the sea and heading towards the clouds.
She vanishes, then the speck reappears in the distance, and, in seconds, she's back over my head, waving before turning and rocketing away once more. A few seconds later, I hear the sonic boom.
I stand there for a few more minutes, then pick up the pile of clothes she left and walk along the cliff path back to the cottage.
Author’s Note
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Well.
I wrote the words THE END Thursday, 9th November 2017. The last month has been a blur, writing six days a week, between 2,500-5,500 words a day. For me, that's fast. As I got into the final third of the book, it was as if I was trying to write it as quickly as I wanted to read it.
As I type this, I'm about twenty percent through the editing process. The manuscript goes to a pro first (thank you Phil Owens), then gets proofed and cheekily (and very usefully) criticised by the talented Mrs S. Next, beta readers get their hands on an unedited copy and come back with their comments. At that point, I re-read and start cutting, fixing and polishing, then the whole thing goes off for another paid proof before publication. All this happens while the book is available for pre-order. That focusses the mind. Nothing like a deadline to force me into this chair every day.
Superheroes. I've always liked their stories. Modern myths, often morality tales, our superfolk bound over tall buildings, catch bullets, pick up buses, outrun express trains, and fly about the place wearing outfits they surely bought online while drunk. They're fascinating creatures. I love the origin stories best of all. Bitten by spiders, subject of a dangerous experiment, an orphaned alien, a rich psychopath, a mutant, the list goes on.
I had an idea for a flawed superhero who was as much a mystery to himself as he was to others. Then I wondered what his children might look like, what challenges they might face. After that, things fell into place and, about halfway through writing Children Of The Deterrent, I realised I knew where Abos had come from, and what might be waiting for him along the road (that's part of the next book.)
I had originally been considering writing a different book, with a gender-fluid main character, but found it too hard to get started. When I got to the end of Children Of The Deterrent, I found I had done it after all. Abos is not male or female. That gives her, um, him, er, herm (someone suggested ze as a pronoun - I like that) a unique perspective. If a person is without gender, then the whole idea of gender-bias is moot. It also brings its own problems. Even if you have superpowers. And it shines a light on some of the unconscious attitudes we're gradually growing out of as a species. I read The Hobbit to my youngest daughter last year. She loved it, but when we got to the end, she said, "Where were all the girls?" Fair point. We're reading Skulduggery Pleasant by Derek Landy now. Feisty female protagonist and a smart-mouthed wizard skeleton detective. We're both happy.
Halfhero Book Two is in the percolation stage. There are lots of ideas sitting in the coffee grinder of inspiration, waiting to be placed in the filter paper of possibility, awaiting the hot water of graft. Or something. What I'm saying is, I'm thinking, I'm daydreaming, and I'm waiting for the right moment to sketch out the next book.
And, obviously, I need more coffee.
Now, I know I've said this before, but I used to read Stephen King's author notes and feel a spark of kinship, a feeling he was part of a club to which I might one day belong. Now, I accept that he's president of the club and I'm outside parking everyone's cars for them, but I'm finally in the neighbourhood. I know there are readers who want to write, who feel that same spark reading this. To you, I say this: I'm no different to you, I just got down to writing. It's a crazy thing to do, 100,000 words take a while to produce. There's no way around it, there are no shortcuts. But if you don't write that first book, you'll never know if you have it in you to write a second, or a third. And writing a book will teach you so much. It could teach you that you don't want to be a writer. Or it might open a door you half-remember seeing in a dusty attic in your childhood, a door you once believed led to a different world.
There's a dash of magic involved in writing. I'm hesitant to admit that, but all five of my books have been helped by a strange, hidden process that works alongside my conscious, planning mind. Oh, bugger. This is a fine line I'm walking. Writing about this kind of stuff can be useful, interesting, and revealing, but I do risk sounding like a pretentious twat. All I can say is, some powerful weirdness occurs that I am unaware of until the whole book is done. Right, I'll shut up about that.
Where was I? I was about to thank you. I've been a reader all my life, from the battered copy of Little Plum I remember my mum reading aloud, to the heaving bookshelves and fully loaded Kindle I have now. I remember a hospital stay when I was nine. My parents brought me The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe on my first day, then the next book in the series the next day, and so on. All I could do in hospital was read. Bliss! Then I discovered A Wizard Of Earthsea, Asimov's Robot stories, Heinlein, Mervyn Peake, Dickens, John Irving. My early teenage years were full of Philip José Farmer and Ray Bradbury.
I remember a kid at school sneering at me. "You don't understa
nd anything. Everything you know comes out of books."
He intended it as an insult. That's not the way I took it. That was thirty-three years ago. I haven't changed much. I'd say I now understand virtually nothing, and almost everything I know comes out of books.
I want a story to sweep me up, show me worlds I could never have seen without the magic of fiction. There are readers who live, breath, inhale stories and, while immersed in a book, live a divided life. Part of them is always waiting in that fictional world for the story to continue, suspended at the moment the page was last bookmarked. That's who I write for, that's the prize. I hope I've got close to reaching you with this book and, trust me, I will keep trying.
A quick appeal for your help if you’ve enjoyed the book. Please review Children Of The Deterrent on Amazon - reviews help level the playing field for independent authors. Link here: Children Of The Deterrent
More stories to come. That's a promise.
Ian Sainsbury
Norwich
November 15th, 2017
Also by Ian W. Sainsbury
The World Walker (The World Walker Series 1)
The Unmaking Engine (The World Walker Series 2)
The Seventeenth Year (The World Walker Series 3)
The Unnamed Way (The World Walker Series 4)
Children Of The Deterrent (Halfhero Book 1) Page 27