Bullets, Teeth, & Fists 2

by Jason Beech

  ***

  Dean knew he had to work on the suit’s see-through material. If he pressed the sleeve’s little black button by accident then coppers would arrest him for exposing himself – though he had confidence he could make his escape.

  Dean made light steps down the street under the torchlight moon. He had the urgent need to take more care in his invisible state than if visible – people might examine their surrounds harder to identify the source of his movement. He invited investigation with every false step. A sadness rested on his spirit. When he had made the suit with Mr Breckin and Sultana, the idea pumped fun into his veins – an emotion that had bled out of him from school bullies, joyless teaching, and his mum’s worries. The pranks he could pursue in such a suit. The secrets he could discover.

  The men who fried Mr Craig’s arm had changed all that. They infected his decisions like some mental disease. The suit took on deeper meaning. How could he use it for justice? He walked the streets invisible as when he wore regular clothes. It was ten at night and people flitted about the streets like shadows. Everyone stalked the streets to and from their demons. That man over there held some dark secret beneath his flappy coat and that woman’s smile covered her foul thoughts, even as joyful words left her lips into the phone she pressed against her ear.

  Dean itched, like tendrils from the suit plugged into his skin to power him. He found himself in front of the chippy. A sign in the window told the world it had closed until further notice. A man’s living and health destroyed by those two men. What did they want with him? PC Roberts and the robot detective – he still couldn't remember his name – explained how they wanted money and Mr Craig refused to hand any over. But how much could he have had? He ran a chippy, not a jewellery shop.

  Dean screwed his eyes at the strange lights which bobbed around the shop window. He'd never noticed them before, though he didn't come here often. If Dean shifted this way, the lights would follow. If he shifted that way, the lights did the same. He stepped closer to check the phenomenon as if he inspected what kind of animal Mr Craig’s family had moved in to discourage intruders. He froze as a troop of teenagers approached. They swung their arms like chopping knives, shouted stupid comments and crap jokes. Some carried paper bags wrapped round hidden bottles. They halted outside the chippy, right behind Dean. He couldn't help lower his eyes, though he knew they couldn't see him. One stepped next to him. Dean pulled a shoulder away to avoid contact.

  “I could eat a bag o’chips.” The kid looked about fifteen, despite the bum-fluff on his chin which flickered in the wind like grass on a meadow. He wore one of those t-shirts that clung to his well-built body, and a low neck to show off his upper chest. He banged the window, though no lights illuminated the inside.

  A taller kid joined him and banged the window harder. Had to show his authority and how much brighter his chest shone. An older kid said, “This is the chippy the gangsters hit, right?”

  “Aye,” said another. “The coppers are looking for them. Whoever that kid is who ratted on them – he's fucked.”

  “They'll skin him alive.”

  “They'll fry him first.”

  Their laughter rang louder than needed. Street lamps cast dim yellow light upon them. Made their reflection like a faded photograph of a boy band.

  “What the fook is that?”

  They all shuffled, nervous, toward the window. “Some kind of animal. Can you see the eyes?”

  “I can. But where's its body?”

  They shifted closer and edged sideways to follow the animal. Forced Dean against the wall to the shop’s side to avoid contact with these boys. He could see the eyes, too, and the closer he examined the more goosebumps popped from his skin. He closed his eyes.

  “Where'd it go?”

  “It must have got scared. Creepy beast, that. Its eyes looked like a bloke’s.”

  “You think it was a man in there, staring at us?”

  “Who knows? Let's get away from here. That’s made my arse flitter all over the place.”

  They headed down the street much quieter than before. Dean watched them merge into the night’s vague shapes. He turned to his reflection. His orbs bobbed around as if controlled by puppet strings. He swivelled sideways, but he could only see the fronts of his eyes, not the full balls. Made him sweat at the idea more people might catch a sight of them. His neck and forehead became sticky and as the sweat mingled with the suit’s fabric, patches of skin emerged from invisibility.

  “Oh God, oh God. What do I do?”

  He backed into the wall in compensation for the suit failing him. Beads popped everywhere until sweat surfaced across his body. He didn't dare check his reflection, but he knew he must. He turned his head, slow.

  There.

  His head framed his eyes. His chin jutted. Part of his chest appeared like a Polaroid. Little men shovelled coal into his lungs as he scanned the street. He peeked round the wall to scan the empty road. Crouched to the nearest gennel and ferreted down it as if a terrier snapped at his heels. He paused to fuel more air and pat himself down in search of flesh. Invisible patches made his visible skin appear ravaged by disease. This bloody suit demanded nakedness, but couldn't handle sweat? He would have yelled his frustration, but nearby footsteps set his jaw tight. A meowing cat slid round his ankles and made his heart take a breather. He bent over and shook his head at his swinging junk.

  He removed the suit and let cold air hit his flesh. Controlled his lungs. Kept his feet still to avoid slime and dog shit in this dark strip of land between long rows of houses. Leaned back to avoid the moon’s glare. The cat calmed him, though he wished it would stop its insistent mewls. It would invite some soppy cat-lover down this dark path.

  “Hello, young man.”

  Dean’s eyes bulged as round as the moon’s. The man jerked his Scottish Terrier from the cat it wanted to paw. The dog’s low growl made the cat still for just a moment before it purred round his ankles some more, almost as a taunt. The man’s eyes toured Dean’s body, a switch for the boy to pound his feet across scraps of grass, broken twigs, greasy moss, and God-knows what else. He tucked the suit beneath an armpit and planned how he'd get home without any more chaos.

  7.

  Dean snuck over garden fences, rustled through privets, and made simian shapes across rooftops, a Quasimodo without gargoyles to swing from. He rubbed at his spine, nervous that this night might have curved it enough that his knuckles could drag the ground. He rested on the slopes of the nearby church roof, a naked Saint. His feet tingled with the burn of bare use. The cool breeze dried his flesh and he tested the suit again. His skin seemed to dissolve into the supernatural world around the graveyard. He made ghost-steps across the church tiles. The ancient building withstood his light weight, apart from one tile which shifted, slid, and shattered against the old gravestone below. The vicar emerged from his residence across the grass stretch and knelt by the stone. He fingered the tile and craned his neck to the roof. Dean watched him between his fingers so the man didn't see his eyes and mistake them for a beast, the Devil, maybe God.

  He hoisted himself up and down drainpipes, attempted to ride the roof of a single-decker bus after a jump from a bridge. Jumped off at the next stop after he barely kept balance. He spent a half-hour staring at Sultana through her bedroom window – she read some book on her bed. Guilt, and a little shame, moved him on.

  He snaked back through his bedroom window, stripped, slipped into his boxers, and slumped on his bed. He flipped the phone Sultana always “pttthed” at, and called her.

  “What you reading?”

  ***

  A slit through the doorway allowed Dean to bulge an eye through the gap. His senses had heightened and the green-painted landing hurt his eyes. The front door opened. His mum’s expectant silence filled the air. He shivered at the cold response to the request to see him.

  “Who are you?” His mum’s voice had a little tremor at the affront. He knew she'd have folded her arms by now and wou
ld have a shoulder on the doorframe.

  “Sultana, Mrs North.”

  Mum ignored the Mrs title. “You know my boy?”

  “I certainly do. We're very close.”

  “Are you now? Well, he's in his bedroom – acting very strange. You can go up and see if you can make any sense of him.”

  Dean rolled his eyes at them as he backed away from the door. His heart pumped away at each step and stopped at the knock on his door.

  “Come in.” His voice came out reedy. He cleared his throat.

  Her head scouted the area first to check if her body should follow inside this den. Dean watched her through his fingers, as he had the vicar the night before, and fought the embarrassment which crept up his neck. Grey skirting boards framed his clinic-white walls. He didn't have any beams stretch across his ceiling, and the only wood he had rested in his boxers.

  “Dean?” A smile twitched like he played a game. She inched inside and headed for his wardrobe. Suspected he would jump out any moment.

  “Dean? Where are you?” She sputtered a laugh.

  He arced a pillow behind his back and slammed it to the side of her head. She stumbled sideways and threw out her hand to protect herself from the next assault. It came from the other side and she nearly piled through his window. He grabbed her round the waist and hoisted her into the air to throw on the bed.

  Her face was a plastic mask licked by flames. She whimpered a pilot light for the scream he knew would come. He planted his hand over her mouth and opened his eyes wide. Her words hit his palm and suffocated away.

  “Shhh. It's me, Sultana, it's me.”

  He let his hand fall away. Watched her eyes roll this way and that like the marbles he once played with. Her forehead’s lines lost their depth with the exhalation which would make her pass out if she delayed any longer.

  “The suit. The suit. It works. Oh my God … it works.”

  His eyes shifted shape and she bounced herself off his bed to run her fingers across his face. He backed away. Almost fell over the jeans lying on the floor. He snatched them up and pulled them on.

  “You're naked?”

  “Aha.”

  She attempted to poke him. “What would Mr Singh-Cheema think of that?”

  Once he had his jeans zipped, he pressed the little black button and let himself become flesh. He wished he'd wriggled into his t-shirt too, once he caught her staring at his skinny chest.

  She grasped his hands and pulled him to the door. “We have to tell Mr Breckin.”

  ***

  Mr Breckin tapped a pencil across his desk, like he did every Saturday morning during extra-curricular science classes, as if each beat made the day’s seconds advance that much faster. He leapt from his seat to open the door when he noticed Dean and Sultana squish their faces to the glass. Dean scanned the class. Five faces he barely knew in normal class wore resentment against their parents.

  “A bit of enthusiasm at last. This thing needs livening up.” His smile offered more hopeful expectation than conviction.

  “No, sir, we can't –”

  “Can't, Sultana? Can't? Then why step to my threshold and tease me this way?”

  “We've had a breakthrough.” Dean’s hand snatched at Mr Breckin’s sleeve. “A major breakthrough.” He patted his bag, all careful in case he let the genie escape.

  “What kind of breakthrough?” Mr Breckin’s eyebrows crawled to his hairline. “You cannot mean …”

  Sultana nodded, her lips all curved and red. Dean’s head tilted like a drawbridge, and his mouth pressed thin.

  Mr Breckin pinched his nose. Ran a finger up and down its length. Shifted his hand to perform a chin stroke. Absorbed Sultana’s enthusiasm. Studied Dean’s wariness. He spun his neck to the class. They sensed importance. They shifted in their seats. Mr Breckin met their expectations: “Take a break. Make it thirty minutes.”

  Dean, Sultana and their teacher had to pull away from the tide as they swept out the room.

  ***

  “Do you know what we've done?” Mr Breckin slammed a palm on his desk. Five years ago, when Dean had his first class with this man, he almost fell off his chair at these shows of emotion. He only taught science, for crying out loud. Who cared about that? Now his outbursts made him smile. Not this time, however. Sir’s eyebrows rustled as if a storm did its best to pull their roots out.

  “I have an inkling.” Sultana laughed, but cut it short at the knives Sir made from those eyebrows. “We can become invisible.”

  Sir so wanted to smack his desk again, but he refrained, as if instinct told him its effect would diminish the second time.

  “This was all meant as hypothetical. I didn't expect either of you to go through with it. You're my favourite pupils, both of you, but I didn't expect you capable of such a feat.”

  “Well, here it is.” Dean patted the suit, which he'd laid across one of the desks. “It only makes skin invisible, not clothes. It doesn’t cover my eyes, and it exposes my skin if I sweat. What do we do with it?”

  Mr Breckin pulled at his lip, a lever which sparked ideas and decisions. He stared past them out the window into the sky’s grey curtain.

  “The prizes which should have been mine. The money …” He transported back to the present, away from a future which made Dean grasp the suit tight. “You should leave it with me.”

  Dean sensed Sir had just thrown a veil across something primal. “No.” He pulled it to his chest. “I invented the thing, I should look after it.”

  Sultana play-pushed him in the chest. “Excuse me, Da Vinci, I think all three of us had a hand in it.”

  Dean reddened. The sweat he knew he must control popped. He bit the back of his bottom lip and pulled his anger down. “Sure, I mean, we all did that, but … I'm the only one who can control it.”

  “Nonsense.” Sir’s bottom lip quivered. “This is not a toy, Dean. It is of the highest importance. It gets into the wrong hands and … I dread to think, I really do.”

  Dean glanced between Mr Breckin and Sultana with letterbox eyes and held the suit so tight he might have gelled it to his body as an extra layer of skin. Mr Breckin stepped towards him, blind to how Dean leaned away. He held the boy’s forearm tight. He relaxed his grip as he must have sensed how Dean’s muscles hardened and retreated from him.

  “Dean, you have responsibilities. If this invention gets out, you will have all sorts of people chasing you. Gangsters. Terrorists. Foreign governments. Murderers, thugs and thieves, Dean. Imagine that. Let me look after it. We can continue to work on its imperfections, and then … who knows?”

  The possibilities brewed and blew Mr Breckin’s eyes forward from his skull. Dean could never have done it without him, or Sultana. But he bristled, all territorial. His sweat had already seeped into the suit and it marked it as his.

  “Where would you keep it, sir?”

  “In my science room, where else?” He removed his hold on Dean’s forearm and planted his hands on his hips.

  Dean frowned at how the principal in assembly that morning slammed the scoundrels who had broken into the computer room to steal a couple of laptops, and the assembly before that where he evoked God’s wrath at the boys who climbed through the gym windows and smashed the library into a jumble of broken words.

  “It's been safe with me so far, I think I should keep it.” Dean turned the door handle and readied himself.

  “Dean, lad, this is not a game. This is a collaborative science project we have, all three of us, had a hand in.” He appealed to Sultana for moral support. Unusual for her, she kept her thoughts caged.

  Mr Breckin perched on the edge of his desk and folded his arms. Conceded defeat. “Take it home, Dean, take it away. Just realise what you have.”

  “I do. I do. It just needs a little adjustment.”

  “Try contact lenses for the eyes. Your eyes are moist – lenses might hide that a little.”

  Dean thrust a hand forward. Mr Breckin’s frown smoothed into acceptance. He
shook the young man’s hand and told him to take care.

  ***

  “You know, I like this new, assertive Dean.” Sultana jumped the last few steps in a twirl to face him. She pressed a flat hand to his chest and pushed.

  Dean let a grin slip. He hoped it didn't come out all shy, like it always did. He wanted to exude this confidence she praised him for.

  She stabbed him with her fingertips and turned away. “It means we're almost equals.”

  His mind followed those wooden beams which laced her bedroom ceiling and doubted how he and Sultana could ever meet at the equality crossing. He viewed her so far above him that even this suit, in which she'd played a huge part, couldn't reach her heights. Look how she walked, how she trampled the ground as if she owned it all. If doubt ever flickered across that face, she kept it hidden from him.

  “We should go shopping. I got my allowance today.”

  He jogged to get in line with her shoulder. “You mean pocket money?”

  She ran ahead again and left him with only the sound of her laughter for company.

  8.

  Sultana ushered him to the Primark changing room and pulled the curtain across to cover him. She checked her shoulder and slipped in alongside him. “You cold?”

  He rubbed at his arms and shook his head. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to see it work.” She rubbed his arm. “Come on, get invisible.”

  He dipped a hand into the bag and took care as he pulled it out. Mr Breckin’s words put a spotlight on every touch.

  “Errr, you have to get out of here.”

  She questioned him with those Malteser eyes.