Bullets, Teeth, & Fists 2

by Jason Beech

  “Dad –”

  “Never mind ‘dad’. You know computers, Sultana, and I know boys. Don't let me hear this door close. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.” Dean’s head stayed in nod mode.

  Sultana rolled her eyes, huffed, and muttered. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Her dad slammed the door shut and pounded down the hallway. He stamped his heavy feet back and reopened the door. Kept his eyes on the floor. Headed back to the stairs. Dean’s left eye twitched at the man’s every creak down the steps.

  “Wow.” Sultana pinched him. “I reckon you gained my dad’s respect.”

  “He doesn't give it out easily?”

  “He doesn't give it out at all. He's a lion in his own mind, and we're all his underlings.”

  She grabbed his hand and pulled him to the edge of the bed. She parked herself on the swivel chair by the computer and turned this way and that. Those little touches sent electric shocks through Dean. He jumped off the bed, confused, and peeked out the window. Her bedroom window overlooked the neighbours’ equally large house, made from red brick unlike the Lego-like new builds which pocked the city. The drive had three cars, two of which Dean could live within. He craned his neck to see if he could clock the men. He couldn't see them – their car would have attracted unwanted attention in a place like this.

  “You have hidden depths, Dean. You're not quite the invisible man.”

  “You haven't thought me that for a while.” He refused to engage her face-to-face. Those brown eyes circled too big, too Disney. They pulled at him. He didn't trust himself. He'd never felt this weird. He didn't trust Sultana. She’s never serious. She used him as her toy.

  He scanned the walls. Checked the bearded men in ornate frames which hung on the wall opposite her bed. Could he sit on the beams which criss-crossed her ceiling? “This is some place.”

  “It's just my room.” She spun to face the screen. Shook her head at him.

  “You don't know what you have.”

  “Take the suit out and let's get on with it, superhero.”

  He shrugged the rucksack from his shoulders and opened the bag. The zip’s rip made him eye the doorway for Mr Singh-Cheema. He shook the embarrassment away. Why did his hands shake? The men outside had sent enough tremors through him to make his muscles ache, but they had slouched away to the back of his mind now. His spine danced the Tango with every movement from Sultana.

  He laid the suit across her bed. The thin fabric rustled and glistened in the spare light from the lamp. He clicked the little black button on the sleeve, which caused a camera-style flash to erupt from the garment.

  “See, I get this, then nothing.”

  She yawned. “Plug the bugger in, let me see.”

  She inserted one end of the USB lead into the computer and he did the same into the suit with the other. She booted up the program and squeezed her eyes at the reams of data.

  He scratched the back of his neck. “I'm sure the fabric is right. The chemical mix is all good. It just needs the right programming.”

  “I'm not sure I like this new you.” She blew her fringe out of her eyes. “You should make yourself comfortable – this might take a few hours.”

  “I don't have a few hours.”

  “Whoa, horsey, slow down. Pull the reins in. Why the rush all of a sudden?”

  “The horse doesn't pull the reins in. That's the rider. Let's just get it done.”

  He didn’t like his mum sat all alone with just a cup of tea and Coronation Street for company. He rubbed at his arms at the possibility of those two men parked outside his house. Sultana banged away at the keyboard. Dean stood behind her, which elicited a few tuts. He sat on the bed again. Her finger movements mesmerised him for a while. The back of her neck caught his eye and he almost lost balance at the dizziness it brought him. He paced from the window to the open doorway, drew with his finger-tip the outline of the shadow her dad cast on the wall downstairs. The man had listened to everything they said. They hadn't said anything in much detail, but this project had shed any fun and morphed into urgency.

  He cracked his fingers, rubbed his palms together, and attempted to squeeze a shiver away at how those two men might harm Sultana now they knew of their association. He shrugged his shoulders at any hurt they might inflict on Mr Singh-Cheema. Those eyes Sultana’s dad gave him quickened his pace back to the window where he met the gaze of an older woman in the window of the house opposite. Her eyebrows surfed on the waves her forehead made in her surprise. Dean offered an embarrassed smile, though he couldn't figure why. He glanced back at Sultana. Her eyelids had become ladles he could scoop soup with. He laid a feather-light finger on her shoulder. It seemed to trigger her into sleep and she slumped into her seat. Her chin rested on her chest and a snort calmed into a snore.

  “Nice one, Sultana.”

  He thumbed the suit. Felt like silk, but looked like gauze. He unplugged the USB and pressed the little black button. Again, a flash and nothing more. He grabbed its shoulders and pulled it to his chest. He glanced down his body, shook his head, and snorted that it wouldn't even look good as a lounging-about suit. He toed off his shoes and socks, tucked them under the bed, and pulled the suit over his clothes. He checked himself in Sultana’s full-length mirror.

  “I look like a muppet.”

  The stairs creaked, which made his heart bolt round his chest. His daughter lied asleep in the chair and Dean faced the mirror in this weird suit. It would appear more than odd. Dean had an idea of Mr Singh-Cheema as the kind of man to drag him down the stairs feet first, maybe hair first, at any hint of strange in his girl’s presence. Why did Mrs Singh-Cheema not introduce herself? Dean flapped his hands, rubbed at his fingers, and ducked to the side of her bed. He pressed at the button in his stress and lied still on his back as the suit flashed. Stupid, because if her dad stepped round the bed, this would appear even worse. Even on carpet, the man’s footsteps crackled like the first rumble of a thunderstorm.

  Dean lied still and stared at the beams above. His teeth hurt as he gritted them. The room temperature drooped, the man’s freeze in embrace with warm air.

  “Sultana? Sultana? My girl, what happened?” Dean heard the chair on which she had slumped creak as he swivelled it. “Oh my God, where is that boy? What did he do to you?”

  She oinked a sleepy-pig noise. Mumbled. “Always … always. Always what you want. Always …”

  “Oh, thank God, thank God. For a moment …”

  The snooker ball-sized gob of air which sat in Dean’s throat readied for the largest gulp. He fought it. Steadied his breathing. Should I stand up now, while the man cooled in his relief? Should I stay, just because this is the most awkward thing I have ever done?

  “Boy? Boy?”

  Had he forgotten his name already? It felt an opportunity to stand up and expand a sheepish grin, act like he had fallen asleep on the floor. Better than falling asleep on Sultana’s bed. Her dad’s feet shuffled about. He opened her wardrobe on the other side of the room. He thought I’d hide in a wardrobe? He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut as the man made his way round the bed – as if Mr Singh-Cheema couldn't possibly see him if Dean couldn't in turn see Mr Singh-Cheema.

  “What kind of school project is this?” Sultana’s dad fingered the suit round Dean’s ankles. Almost made the boy laugh. The man huffed, grunted a little as if he lifted a heavy object, dropped something on the bed, and exited the room.

  Dean opened his eyes. Stayed still for maybe a minute or more. Sultana’s hand dangled over the bed’s side. He touched her fingertips through the suit’s silky gauze. He crouched on his feet and made slow progress to his feet. Her dad … what had he thought of him lying there like that? The man opened and shut his front door a couple of times. Maybe he had had a few beers.

  Dean almost fell backwards onto the bed and Sultana as he turned and caught his ghost in the mirror. His clothes shifted about in the reflection, but he had no head, no hands, no feet. Dead. Mr Singh-C
heema had killed him. How? He'd only rubbed the suit between finger and thumb. Had it caused a chemical reaction which had dissolved his head? He rubbed at his hands through the suit’s gloves. He could feel them. They existed, though he couldn't see them. He rubbed at the suit, at the black button. He pressed it without meaning to. His body came back into view. His head emerged from the ether. He smacked his mouth with a palm. His eyes bulged. The suit sort of worked. It needed a tweak, definitely, but they had made progress. Sultana stirred and he laid a hand on her ankle. He pulled away from the electric shock at Mr Singh-Cheema’s fear that he had done her some harm. He scrabbled beneath her bed for his shoes and socks as alarm hit him that those men might have made their way to his house.

  “Mum.” He dragged off the suit, stuffed it in his rucksack, dressed his feet for outside, and sneaked out the house.

  5.

  On a normal day Dean could run a mile or two without much cost to his lungs. Today it seemed a giant stone pressed against his chest. He wheezed and coughed as if he'd forgotten how to pace his breathing. Rain spattered across his face and his feet slapped the drenched pavement. He paused and grabbed a gate post to prevent a death fall into any cracks in the pavement which might have opened up. Mr Singh-Cheema had not seen him. Just the suit, or the part which covered his legs and torso. Her dad must have guessed Dean’s body one of those CPR dummies.

  “Bloody hell.”

  His run slowed to a walk. He edged out of view of the old man in the window, who peeked through his curtains, fearful Dean might rob his house. Dean’s shoulders slumped and straightened, drooped again. His mum would never believe he'd invented such a thing. “People like us didn't do such things,” she’d say. Fancy types invented fancy things. Dean lived on a council estate. He had no business changing the world. He scratched an itch that ran across his chest and tensed his muscles to squeeze this other person back into the depths. Don’t come out here.

  “Sod that.” He trotted home. Stuck his chest out. Didn’t shift his eyes to the floor as he passed strangers. Stared straight ahead. He'd invented something here, and it just might lead to the sort of house Sultana lived in. Maybe he could get a TV slot and help make science as entertaining as Barcelona v Bayern Munich.

  He hid behind a bush at the end of his street. He knew most of the cars on this road and he couldn't spot the one the two men had driven earlier. He squeezed the bag into his side and flinched. All those people silent behind their windows who watched his progress down the street – did they question what he had in his bag to hold it so tight? Greedy eyes everywhere. Maybe the fat-eye moon, which bulged above the cardboard box houses, tracked him.

  Crisp wrappers floated on the wind. A plastic bag swirled. Rested against a lamppost and flapped. This place lacked magic. Sultana’s house, street, dripped in luxuries he'd never imagined possible. He sneaked into his square house, with its square roof and square windows, and breathed in relief that the place hadn't been invaded by strange men. His mum’s mouth had fallen open, but she breathed through her nose. The telly blared. He worried for her hearing. He pointed the remote at the telly, but laid it back on the settee. He stood above her. His eyebrows scrunched as he examined. A little sneer escaped his lips as he let her stay in la-la land. He tip-toed upstairs to his room and shut the door behind him.

  Dean threw the bag on his bed and examined the suit under his bare bulb. Sultana’s dad could only see his body. Why? What had Mr Breckin suggested he add to the material? What had Sultana programmed into the little chips embedded in the material? He stuffed himself back into the suit, drew the face-cover across his face, and planted himself in front of the square mirror, large enough to show his face and a stretch of neck. He clicked the button, blinked the flash that orbed in his eyes away, and shook as his head disappeared. He lifted his hands before his face – he couldn’t see even an outline. His clothes still showed. He waved his arms about and checked how he shifted around – a headless, handless, horseman. His heart must have beat with the steps of his mum, because he'd heard nothing. When he turned, there she stood, framed by the doorway, a hand over her mouth, which must have formed the perfect O.

  “Mum.”

  Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but nothing engaged upstairs to fire signals to her tongue.

  “Mum, it’s not …” Not what? Not what it looks like? What does it look like?

  “What … What have they done to you? My God …” She backed away, slow steps, made slower by her palms puckered against the walls for balance. He stepped towards her, his arms up and down, an attempt to calm her - which failed. She gulped masses of air and little whiney noises strung out her nose – a little rev in a build up to some scream which would have the neighbours round in a moment.

  “Mum, calm down, it’s nothing …”

  Too late. She didn't check that last step. Her foot swivelled for footing, but the floor had dropped a step, the first of many down the stairs. She tumbled like a ball and bounced off the carpet at the bottom.

  He planted heavy feet at the top of the stairs. He could only muster a wide-eyed stare. She didn't move, which made him as still as Sultana’s sturdy bedroom beams. If he stayed still he hoped reality wouldn't hit, and she would push herself off the floor. Shake her head. Pull him in for a big hug.

  Oh God, what would he do without her? He jumped down three steps at a time and kneeled beside his mum.

  “Mum, wake up. Wake up.”

  He checked her pulse. It beat. He angled his ear close to her mouth. Her warm breath wrapped his relief. She groaned, squeezed her eyes – they remained closed. His eyes watered. The suit’s face screen prevented him from wiping. He pushed the black button, wriggled the suit off his body, folded it, pushed it beneath his bed, and rushed back to his mum. He poked at her arms and legs, rolled her head a little by thumbing her chin this way and that. She didn't groan, so he lifted her off the carpet and carried her upstairs. He had to stop halfway up to grab his breath. He shouldered her bedroom door open and placed her on the bed. He arced his back to release the strain, and vowed never to buy her chocolates again.

  Her eyes flickered open. The Martian landscape erupted on her forehead. “Son … What happened?” She shot a hand to his face and ran her fingers across his skin to check his reality. Her bedside lamp’s dim light made hollows of her eye sockets, but he could see the shine burn from within.

  “You fell down the stairs, mum. Slipped and rolled down like a hedgehog.”

  “I thought … I thought you … You didn't have a …”

  “You hit your head.” He held her hand, which remained on his face. “I need to take you to the hospital.”

  “Why? I'm fine, love. I'm perfectly alright.”

  “You hit your head.” He shook his own. “I need to get you checked out. Can you get up?”

  “You didn't have a head. You … your head wasn't on your shoulders.”

  “Mum.” He squeezed her fingers, moulded the best concern he could muster, and smiled some pity from his bloodless lips. “You hit your head hard. Here's my head. You're feeling it now.”

  “I am, aren't I?”

  “You are. You definitely are.”

  “Those men, they must be making me stressed. Making me do stupid things. I saw them again, earlier.”

  “Did yer?”

  She nodded.

  “Let me make you a cup of tea.” He squeezed her hand and rested it gently on her chest.

  “I'd like that.”

  She pulled him in for a kiss. He let her hold his head to her lips, before he pulled away as gentle as he could without a hit to her feelings. He peered out the window as he made the tea. Feinted this way and that when he feared they might have a gun aimed at his head. He closed the blinds and curtains in the kitchen and living room, and questioned why he hadn't told his mum about the suit. He imagined her pride, how she'd tell the extended family about his genius, and let other parents at school nights know she was his mum. He imagined it, but he knew the rea
lity would involve tuts and cringes. She’d make him crawl back in his box and pull the flaps over his ears.

  He stared at his hands and rubbed his cheek. Finger-combed his hair. Ran hands across his flesh as if every ripple and the odd zit could inform him of the suit’s missing ingredient, until he knew he had it. He bolted back upstairs to his bedroom and pulled the suit to his chest. The kettle whistled the soundtrack to his eureka.

  6.

  His old flip-phone buzzed and fell off the chest-of-drawers. Sultana’s name pulsed from the screen. He bit his lip and threw it on the bed. He stripped down to his undercrackers and inserted himself into the suit. Covered his face, patted himself down, and pressed the button. Didn't notice the flash anymore. The suit shimmered before it disappeared, along with his arms, his legs, his feet, hands, body. He shivered at the excitement. Wrapped his arms round his body to induce some warmth. He had left his comfort zone – it cheered him up. Until he noticed his underpants bobbing about as if by themselves.

  “Oh, come on.”

  A murmur sprang into the air and travelled the small hallway and through his door. “Dean?”

  “Shit.”

  He hit the button, ripped the suit from his body, and stood almost naked beneath the bulb. His mum stuck her head round the door, checked him up and down.

  “Mum.” He turned sideways and covered himself.

  “I thought I heard you, love. I thought you had a problem. I'm sorry, I'm just nervous.”

  “I'm okay. You can leave now.”

  “I've seen it all, you know. It's nothing new to me.”

  “Can you leave, please?”

  “Sure. Don't know why you're making such a fuss.”

  Guilt scratched at his conscience once he heard her shuffle back to her room. He wanted to ask how her head held up, but he let her climb into bed without another word. Once he’d ensured he wouldn't suffer further interruption, he stepped out of his underwear and slipped into the suit again. Everything disappeared this time. Everything. He turned off the light and popped his head under the curtain.