By the time I was old enough to understand it, the joke that went, "Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me," was already so clichéd, it was practically meaningless. It popped into my mind a couple of hours later when I opened my eyes, my head resting on a solid cement bag.
I had heard a noise. Nothing loud, nothing obvious. Something so subtle, it might have gone unnoticed. But it had woken me. I knew every sound in Tilkley Park by then. The scurrying of rats, the creak of door frames expanding and contracting, the almost musical note of the wind finding gaps in boarded-up windows.
This sound was new. I waited to hear it again, keeping perfectly still, my breathing as calm as I could make it.
Finally, as I was beginning to suspect I had been dreaming, it came again. It was the sound of footsteps, but there was something unusual about it, something that made me doubt I'd heard it at all.
It was as if dozens of people moved at once, in a kind of light-footed run lasting about four or five seconds. Then it stopped for half a minute before being repeated. It was getting closer.
I got up slowly, first rolling away from the cement bag, then rising to my feet. My knees cracked and I froze for a second. I stretched my arms and legs, feeling like I'd aged twenty years while sleeping on the hard floor. My bladder was killing me. I tried to think about something else. I thought about the footsteps and imagined a platoon of highly trained armed soldiers convening on my position, surrounding me. That didn't help my bladder at all.
I moved as slowly as I could towards a window with a knothole in its wooden board, all the while berating myself for imagining something as ridiculous as a platoon of soldiers surrounding me.
I looked out of the knothole, blinking against the sudden daylight. There was no sign of anything different at first, then the noise came again, and I saw them. A platoon of highly trained armed soldiers was convening on my position, surrounding me.
"Oh, bollocks," I whispered.
I looked around. There was a door at the front. A second door behind me, padlocked like the first, led to a small courtyard. There were windows on either side. I crept to one of them and found a gap to peer through.
I saw no soldiers at first. Then a weak burst of early morning sun broke through the clouds, and something flashed on the roof of the building opposite. I looked up and saw the top of a green helmet, visible over the barrel and sights of a long, lethal-looking rifle.
I backed away. The mind of an experienced fighter automatically clicks into a rarified state of high alert in a crisis. It processes strategies, assesses three or four escape options, chooses one that might work, then takes action.
My mind, on the other hand, doesn't work that way at all. I've improved since, but I still remember precisely how I reacted at that moment. Two distinct mental events occurred simultaneously. The first was me wondering why the manufacturers of rifles hadn't yet come up with a way to stop sunlight glinting off the scope, giving away the sniper's position. I'd seen it happen in a few films over the years, and here it was in real life. It was a basic design flaw. Embarrassing.
The second mental event was the onset of an ear worm. Don't Worry, Be Happy, by Bobby McFerrin started playing in my head. Before I could stop myself, I was whistling along. And I couldn't stop.
All in all, my response to a life-threatening situation was less than optimal.
I had no idea who these people were, don't worry, but, given the otherwise shoddy security arrangements at Tilkley Park, I was sure they weren't the twenty-four-hour security firm mentioned on the rusting signs, be happy.
When I'm anxious, I eat. To be fair, when I'm unhappy, tense, excited, nervous, happy, tired or bored, I eat. I had left a bunch of bananas to ripen in the office as I had read that they were an excellent source of slow-releasing carbohydrates. I started un-peeling and eating them as I paced, opening a couple of packets of malt loaf and adding them to my unconventional breakfast. I might need all the energy I could get.
The truth of what was happening, obvious as it was in hindsight, hit me as I chewed. If Mum had kept demanding The Deterrent admit he was my father, perhaps the government or the army would have kept tabs on her. Maybe even gone as far as tapping her phone. In which case, they would have known about the reporter coming to interview her. They would have heard whatever she'd told him that made him so keen. They might have been watching the house ever since. In which case, I'd led them to a secluded spot miles from any witnesses. And I'd gone to sleep there, giving them plenty of time to call in as many soldiers as they thought it might take to capture someone with enhanced physical abilities.
No one could know what I was capable of. I didn't even know that myself yet. But they would be crazy not to err on the side of caution. They now suspected Mum's claim was true, which meant they were dealing with the son of a bona fide superhero. For all they knew, I might be able to fly.
I heard the distant sound of rotor blades.
They obviously wanted me pretty badly. Whoever they were. I knew what happened when government departments got hold of people with strange powers. I'd read the comics and books. I'd seen the films. They experimented on them. And, given that whoever was out there had turned up en masse, heavily armed and with helicopters, I had no reason to believe their intentions were benign.
I came up with a plan. It was a completely crap plan. I looked at the boarded-up window I used as my entrance. Two nails held it in place. If I hit it at speed, the board would give easily, and I'd be outside. I'd have the element of surprise. I picked up two cement bags. I could lob them at the first soldiers to show themselves. Then I could sprint for the fence, jump it and run like hell.
Like I said, it was a crap plan. It also relied on the fact that I hoped they wanted to take me alive. A superpowered corpse wouldn't be much good to them.
There was the possibility that I was wrong, and they were willing to shoot me. Skewers, electric carving knives and drills were one thing, but bullets were another. I didn't know if my skin could repel bullets, and—since the only way of finding out was to have someone shoot me—I was in no hurry to put it to the test.
I stuffed the last banana in my mouth and paced back from the window until my back was against the wall. I started whistling the Bobby McFerrin tune again, which sounded even worse around the banana. I gave myself a countdown.
"Three."
I braced one leg on the wall behind me.
"Two."
I stopped whistling and tensed my body.
"One."
I stared at the spot on the board I was aiming to smash through. My heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
There was a knock on the door. A brisk tap tap tap. Businesslike, no nonsense. I stayed where I was, my eyes flicking to the door, then back to the window.
"Good morning, Daniel."
The voice was upper-class, clipped. Military sounding. I imagined a moustache.
"My name is Colonel Hopkins. I was your father's commanding officer. May I come in?"
13
Cressida
September 4th, 1978
What an afternoon. I'm still struggling to take it in.
I attended the meeting of the scientific team, convened to discuss and compare their reports from the past few days. Father wasn't at the meeting. One member of the team stays close to Abos at all times.
They are finding out more and more about Abos's capabilities day by day. The evidence suggests these abilities are still developing as was demonstrated by video footage Mike showed at the beginning of the meeting.
The footage was filmed in the lab. Abos was sitting in front of the metal table. That was my first shock - he was wearing clothes. Not just any clothes, but a British army uniform. I asked about it, but Roger cut me off.
"It's tailor-made. Hopkins gave us no choice about his outfit, and Abos showed no particular interest. Now watch."
On the projector screen, Abos was picking up objects as they were placed on the tab
le. A two by four plank of wood was first. I heard McKean's voice off camera.
"This is pine, Abos. Can you try to break it? We'd like to test your strength today."
So they'd decided to keep calling him Abos. I suppose the habit was too hard to break. I wonder what we'll say if Abos ever asks what his name means?
He picked up the plank, studied it, then snapped it between his hands, seemingly with no effort.
The next item was also a plank, thicker this time, made of oak. It gave Abos no more trouble than the pine.
A selection of progressively stronger materials was brought in by the soldiers on duty and, one at a time, placed on the table before Abos bent, or snapped, them. Plastics, composites, glass, metal, alloys, steel. He showed no signs of physical strain.
The final item was so small, I had trouble making it out. As I fumbled for my glasses, the camera zoomed in to show a diamond on a black mat. Abos picked it up between finger and thumb, looked at it with little curiosity, then squeezed. I saw his thumb and finger meet. A trickle of fine dust fell back to the table as he rubbed what remained of the diamond from his skin.
"Oh my goodness," I said, looking at Roger. I couldn't help comparing the original Roger with the man on screen who had, somehow, become a close copy. Roger did not fare well in the comparison.
I fancy he had an inkling about what I was thinking because he scowled and pointed at the screen.
"Pay attention. This is what we wanted you to see. We filmed this two days ago. It was the first time he did it."
"Did what?" I said as I turned back to the screen. One soldier was bending over the table to remove the diamond dust. As he brushed the dust into his hand, Abos made a small gesture towards him. There was a loud crack. The soldier yelped in surprise and jumped back from the table. Instinctively, he went to lift his weapon. It fell apart in his hands.
I stared at the screen in disbelief. Without turning, I said. "Can you wind that—"
Roger was already doing it. I watched the same few moments over and over again until there could be no doubt about what had happened. When the soldier stepped forwards, his gun looked normal. The loud crack occurred at the precise moment Abos made his gesture, which—once I had watched it a few times—looked like he had taken hold of an invisible key and was turning it in a lock. When the soldier grabbed his weapon, it fell away into its individual parts. I started to ask a question, but Roger again anticipated my thoughts.
"They took it away and screwed it all together again. It worked. It's as if it were stripped back to its pre-assembly state. But he's done it three times since when someone with a weapon has been close to him. Hopkins has ordered his men to maintain a distance of at least six feet from Abos at all times."
I gaped at him, considering the implications.
"So Abos can...influence matter without touching it?"
In answer, Mike loaded another film and let it play.
"We filmed this yesterday."
I recognised the dining hall. It's called the mess hall, but as I have joined none of my country's armed forces, I refuse to adopt all of their silly jargon. Father was there this time, as was Roger and Hopkins. There were two soldiers at the door, four more in the room, all armed. It didn't seem to worry Abos, who, as usual, appeared oblivious to his surroundings. There's a placid, passive quality about him which intrigues me. Physically, he is, literally, head and shoulders above anyone else, and he has a powerful impact on anyone who sees him. But he doesn't seem to notice this. Or much else, for that matter.
"This was his first meal outside of the lab," said Roger. "We wanted to know how he would react to a change of scene."
On the screen, Abos, Father, Roger, and Hopkins had taken a seat at one of the tables and were eating. It looked like Irish stew. It had been filmed yesterday - Saturday. Definitely Irish stew, then. Poor Abos. Station's culinary offerings were poor at the best of times, but their attempt at Irish stew was an insult to the palate. Again, it didn't appear to affect Abos, who ate it without enthusiasm or disgust.
Another thought crossed my mind and wouldn't go away.
"Um," I began, "does Abos ever, er, what I mean to say is, does he need to, ah, well,"
"Take a crap?" Americans do have a way of cutting to the heart of things, don't they, although Roger can be a little crude.
"Well, yes. Does he?"
"He does. Once a day. He sleeps from two till six, then uses the john. Takes a pee that lasts the best part of a minute, then follows it with a crap. We showed him how to use the bathroom after the first time when he did it in his clothes."
"Oh." I'm rather glad I wasn't around to see that. Might have tarnished the Adonis-like image somewhat.
"We've tested his stools and his urine. All normal. Like his blood. Which is impossible, of course, as we know he's not human. Oh, here we go. Watch this."
On screen, Hopkins was saying something to Abos, who was looking at him with that same inscrutable expression. For an inappropriate moment, he reminded me of Lucky, the Labrador I'd had as a child. Sometimes I'd look at Lucky, and he'd look back at me, and—as much as I adored him—I could feel a gulf between us, an untraversable distance hinted at by the expression in those eyes. I was a girl, and he was a dog. Now I was a woman. What was Abos?
Hopkins was waving a hand towards the adjoining tables. The solid oak tables could seat eight people on the benches each side. Abos turned his head towards the table. Almost immediately, the whole thing rose into the air as if it had been a plastic toy tied to a bunch of helium balloons. About six feet up, it stopped, hovering.
Hopkins glanced at the table before returning his focus to Abos, his expression intense. Abos was taking another mouthful of gristly stew. I couldn't hear what Hopkins was saying as the film had no sound, but as Abos stuck a fork into a dumpling (which, if you'd ever tried Station's dumplings, you'd accept as another demonstration of his inhuman strength), every other table apart from their own flew upwards to the same level as the first.
The soldiers positioned around the room reacted by moving forwards, taking their rifles from their shoulders and holding them in a ready position.
Abos looked up from his stew. He stood up. Hopkins said something to the soldiers, and they lowered their weapons. I saw Father and Roger watching Abos intently as he approached the nearest soldier, who was doing his best not to be terrified. Abos held his hand out as if to take the gun. The soldier took half a step backwards, then—at a command from Hopkins—handed the rifle to Abos.
The next few moments were fascinating but must have been incredibly tense. Abos studied the weapon in his hands, turning it first this way, then that. He examined the trigger mechanism before doing something I couldn't see as he had turned away from the camera.
"He checked the chamber." Roger's voice had a slight tremor. I felt a flicker of trepidation. What was I about to watch?
Abos turned back and was holding the gun by the barrel, looking into it. There was a sick look on the young soldier's face. No doubt it had been drummed into him by years of training that it was a bad idea to stare down the barrel of a loaded weapon. Then Abos placed his other hand on the trigger.
The horror of that moment was so palpable that I felt like I was in the dining hall with them. A huge figure, the rifle looking small in his hands, surrounded by shocked and helpless men as nineteen solid oak tables floated above them.
When the small puff of smoke emerged from the barrel, and Abos's head jerked back, I clapped a hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming. Then every table fell out of the sky, hitting the floor at the same moment. One of them hit a soldier, and I saw him spin away as the camera fell, knocked by the impact.
I realised I had looked away from the screen. I forced myself to look back. There was little to see as the camera had ended up on its side. Broken tables, feet rushing backwards and forwards. One pair of feet moved more slowly, with no indication of panic. No shoes. I realised it could only be Abos, as his feet were probably too b
ig to fit into the largest army boot. (I found out later that they are having some made for him.)
I looked away from the screen. Roger was shaking his head slowly.
"I've watched it a dozen times, but I can still hardly believe it, although I was there."
"Is he okay?" My voice was probably a little shrill, but I had just seen Abos shoot himself in the throat, and, despite the film of his feet, I could only assume he was horribly injured. "How badly was he hurt?"
Roger shrugged in an unconvincing display of nonchalance. "Oh, he's fine. Keep watching, you will want to see the last part. By the way, the soldier who was hit by the table? Broke his arm in two places, but he'll be okay. Just in case you were worried at all."
I barely heard him. On screen, the camera moved again as someone picked it up and steadied the tripod. I was looking at Roger's face, sweaty and scared. He stared into the lens for a second, then held his hand up. On his palm, there was a small metal disc, about the size of a halfpenny.
The film stopped, and Roger flicked on the lights.
"Well?"
"Well what?" I said. "Am I supposed to know what that means? Just tell me if he's okay. What was that in your hand? A coin?"
He laughed. He actually sounded a little scared.
"That was the bullet. It hit him in the neck at point-blank range, and that was the result. Abos doesn't even have a bruise."
14
Daniel
Colonel Hopkins had a moustache, just as I'd suspected.
I waited while one of his men used bolt cutters to on the padlock on the door, then Hopkins walked calmly in, his cap under his arm, a briefcase in his hand. He indicated an empty holster at his side.
"I'm unarmed, Mr Harbin. I am not here to hurt you." He looked up at me, at the cement bags in my hands. "Not that I imagine I could."
He waited and, after a few seconds, I dropped the bags. There was a loud bang as they hit the floor, and Hopkins barked an order over his shoulder.
Children Of The Deterrent Page 8