“What are you doing here?” asked the boy. His face was paler than Chris remembered it, and he seemed as surprised by this meeting as Chris was.
“You’re Dulcia’s son.”
“I was Dulcia’s son,” said the boy, without expression.
“What’s your name?” asked Chris.
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “My name is Ernest, and you—you are Christopher Lane—my brother, Mortimer’s, killer.”
It was Chris’s turn to look shocked. “How do you know my name?”
“I have the Ability too. Remember?”
Chris nodded, his mind swimming with a hundred different thoughts. He tried to remember the speech that he had rehearsed in his mind so many times in case they should ever meet, but now that he was here, face-to-face with the boy—Ernest—Chris couldn’t remember a single word of it.
“Where are you? Are you at the concert?” asked Ernest.
Chris nodded slowly, not sure if this was information he should be giving out. “Are you?”
Ernest nodded also.
“Why?” asked Chris.
“I needed the noise to get in here, obviously. Why are you here? Were you looking for me?”
Finally, here was the opportunity he had been waiting for, but for some reason, his mouth was dry and he couldn’t speak. Ernest stared at him until, eventually, Chris found his voice.
“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”
The boy stared at Chris in silence.
“For what happened to your brother,” Chris continued.
“Sorry?” hissed Ernest. “That’s it? You think that’s enough—that you can just tell me you’re sorry and I’ll forgive you?”
“I don’t know what else to say,” said Chris. “It was an accident.”
“It was no accident,” said Ernest, stepping forward to face him. “I saw what you did. You murdered my brother, and nothing you say will ever change that.”
“He was trying to hurt people—I had to do something.”
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
Chris had no response. He couldn’t argue with that—after all, he had thought the same himself.
“Don’t you have anything else to say?” asked Ernest as Chris stood silently in front of him with his head bowed. He wondered how he could have been so foolish as to think that saying sorry would make anything better.
“What can I do to show you how sorry I am?”
Ernest looked straight into Chris’s eyes, and with no hesitation he answered him. “I want you to die too. An eye for an eye.”
Chris’s eyes widened as he took in what Ernest was saying.
“It hasn’t been easy,” said Ernest, taking a slow step forward. “But, finally, I worked it out.”
“What do you mean?” asked Chris.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Ernest, continuing to inch closer. “As it turns out, you’ve made things very simple by showing up tonight.”
With that, Ernest rushed toward Chris. Chris jumped out of the way and prepared to defend himself—forgetting that you couldn’t get hurt inside somebody’s mind—but, to his surprise, Ernest ran straight past him and out the door. Chris was about to turn and run after him when he noticed that the memory Ernest had been accessing was still open, a single image hovering in the air. Chris, momentarily distracted, looked at the paper and felt himself go weak. There, perfectly in focus, was a page from the school files about him, giving his age, his mum’s name, his address, his previous school, and his friends, as well as more personal information, about his mother’s depression, his father’s death. It was everything that Ernest could ever possibly need to know to get to Chris if he wanted to.
Chris didn’t stop to think. He turned, running as fast as he could out the doorway and over the drawbridge.
“STOP!” he shouted, his voice echoing out over the city as Ernest, now a tiny figure in the distance, sprinted down Language Lane.
Ernest looked back but didn’t stop running as he turned the corner onto Science Road, disappearing from view.
Chris, panicking, began to run as fast as he could after him, but as he turned the corner himself he saw Ernest already at the door leading back into Ms. Lamb’s Reception.
“ERNEST—STOP! I WANT TO TALK TO YOU!”
Ernest placed his hand on the handle of the door and paused briefly. He stopped, then turned to face Chris, who was running as fast as he could to reach him.
“Good-bye, Christopher.”
With that, Ernest turned and ran out.
Chris ran up to the door, a few seconds behind him, and jumped back into Ms. Lamb’s current thoughts, where the sound of the band suddenly reappeared, screaming in his ears.
“THE GRIM REAPER! THE GRIM REAPER! YOUR SOUL’S KEEPER, YOUR SOUL’S . . .”
Chris looked around desperately but saw no sign of Ernest—he must have already left Ms. Lamb’s mind. Chris ran through Ms. Lamb’s Reception, determined to get back into the real world as fast as he could. Ignoring the music and the thoughts swirling about him, Chris kept his eyes straight ahead, and when the door to the outside was finally within reach, he lunged forward.
• • •
“HE WON’T APOLOGIZE . . . FOR HIS BLOODSTAINED LIES! THE GRIM REAPER, THE GRIM REAPER! WAAAAHHH!”
Chris’s head was spinning as he felt himself return to the club, the deafening sound pressing in around him as he tried to focus on his surroundings. His heart was beating, and the fear and adrenaline from using the Ability, combined with the intense heat of the room, had him dripping with sweat. He wiped his forehead quickly with the back of his hand and lifted himself up unsteadily to his feet.
Chris looked around as the lights from the stage began to flash, sending the audience into darkness and back again, over and over, faster and faster. Although it felt like he had been gone for hours, the floor was just as packed, the bodies all jumping with the same, if not more, intensity than they had before he had entered Ms. Lamb’s mind. Chris, however, was not looking at them or even at Ms. Lamb or Charles, though he spotted them briefly from the corner of his eye, standing in the same place as he had left them. All Chris was interested in, at this moment in time, was finding Ernest, no matter who saw him. His life, he knew, depended on it.
Chris stood up and, leaning over the railing, looked out over the gallery below him, trying to find Ernest amidst the pulsating lights and the tightly packed mob. His eyes darted about—around the audience, along the back wall, and across the stage. Chris gasped as he spotted him—he was standing behind a security barrier next to the stage.
And Ernest was staring directly at him.
Chris didn’t have a chance to think, let alone use his Ability. Suddenly, he was lifted off the ground with a violent force, as if an invisible rope had been tied around him and suddenly yanked forward. Chris felt himself falling.
Chris landed on his back, in the middle of the crowd.
“YEAHHH!!!”
Chris looked down, panicked, as the people beneath him, their arms high in the air, began to push him from person to person, away from the stage. Chris struggled to lift his head as he was jostled clumsily over the heads of the audience, trying desperately to keep his eyes on Ernest, who was now fighting his way through the jumping mass of bodies toward him.
“LET ME DOWN!” screamed Chris but nobody heard him as the hands below him bounced him from person to person. The band wailed and screamed, and the crowd began to chant. “DEATH SCREAMERS! DEATH SCREAMERS!”
Chris turned his head and saw Ernest nearing the edge of the crowd, not far from where he was being carried. Suddenly, the guitars stopped and the drummer on the stage began to pound out a heavy beat. The crowd beneath him began to jump higher, and he felt himself being thrown up over and over. Chris flailed about uselessly like a rag doll until, at last, he reached the edge of the crowd and was hurled backward. He landed on the black floor with a loud thud and looked up.
This time, it was his turn to take Ernest by s
urprise. He saw Ernest pushing himself out from the crowd, and before he had a chance to look for Chris, Chris let his eyes glaze over.
Chris watched as Ernest was thrown backward but just as he was about to hit the wall, his body came to a sudden stop and Chris felt Ernest’s Ability come into force. Chris looked at Ernest, his eyes as intent as Chris’s own, and the two of them began to try to push the other away, their Abilities wrestling against each other so that they were locked in a standstill.
And then, from somewhere deep inside him, Chris found his strength. He closed his eyes, let his mind go clear, and felt an overwhelming surge of power rush forward with such intensity that Chris could have done nothing to stop it, even if he had wanted to. He opened his eyes and saw Ernest flying back in the air, his eyes full of fear and then a look of defeat as he smashed into the wall and dropped to the ground.
Not again, thought Chris, suddenly feeling sick. He looked at Ernest lying still on the floor and struggled between wanting to check he was okay and running away. Then, just as he had decided that he had to check, Ernest dragged his arms forward and pushed himself up onto his knees.
He looked up at Chris, his eyes wide and angry, but he didn’t attempt to fight back. In that split second, both boys knew whose Ability was stronger, and Chris could tell, from the look on Ernest’s face, that it was over. Chris had won.
Chris turned away and began to walk toward the entrance, leaving Ernest staring at him from the ground when, suddenly, he heard the sound of ringing in his ears. He turned and saw Ernest, his eyes closed, facing him.
“I will get my revenge, Christopher Lane. When you least expect it.”
Chris watched Ernest’s eyes open, and then, suddenly, he felt himself jerked backward, as if a hand had grabbed the back of his collar.
“What are you doing here?”
Chris looked up to see Ms. Lamb’s furious face looking down at him. He saw a blur rush past him and snapped his head round to see the back of Ernest running out the doors into the black night.
Chris looked up at Ms. Lamb, who still had him by the scruff of the neck.
“The boy!” he said, pointing in the direction of the doors. “Dulcia’s son—he’s here.”
Chris looked over at Charles, who was staring at him strangely.
“Ask him. Charles—tell her. Tell her about the boy!”
“How do you know his name?” interrupted Ms. Lamb, “Have you been spying on me?”
“Charles!” shouted Chris, begging him to tell the truth.
Charles hesitated, clearly not sure what was happening. Finally, he seemed to arrive at a decision.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve made a mistake. Gertrude—I’m leaving.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.
For a moment, Ms. Lamb looked torn between following Charles or staying with Chris. Finally, with an angry huff, she grabbed onto Chris’s sleeve and pulled him toward the exit.
“You are going to regret this, Christopher Lane,” she said, ignoring Chris’s desperate pleas.
• CHAPTER TWENTY •
As Chris sat in the back of the taxi, exhausted and defeated, while Ms. Lamb screamed relentlessly at him, Ernest was limping down a dead-end road with Charles toward a parked limousine.
Ernest knocked on the window, and the chauffeur jumped up.
“Unlock the doors,” he said as Charles stood silently next to him.
The chauffeur nodded and leaned over.
Click.
Ernest limped over to the door and opened it. He reached inside and pulled out a black leather briefcase.
“Your money,” he said, handing the briefcase over to Charles.
Charles looked confused. “That’s it? It’s over?”
Ernest nodded. “Yes, that’s it. You’ve done everything that I needed—the money is yours.”
“So . . . I don’t have to see that woman again?”
Ernest shook his head. “No. You don’t have to have anything more to do with her. I got all the information I needed from her.”
“What do you mean?” asked Charles.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Ernest. “I needed to find out something, and I could only do it by getting her somewhere loud enough where she wouldn’t hear me.”
“I don’t understand,” said Charles, opening up the briefcase.
“You don’t need to. You did everything I asked, and now the money is yours. It’s all there—you can count it.”
Charles reached in and leafed through one of the many wads of notes to check that they were real. And then he paused, as if something had occurred to him. When he looked up, he had the same hard look on his face as when Ernest had first approached him, a homeless petty criminal sleeping rough in a doorway.
Charles snapped the briefcase closed and stared down at Ernest with dark eyes. “You never told me how awful that woman was. I had to put up with being called Chucklebunny, for Pete’s sake. I reckon that’s worth more than what you’ve paid me.”
Ernest looked up, and his eyes narrowed.
“I gave you new clothes, a haircut, and a briefcase full of money. What more do you want?”
“Double what we agreed, and we’ll call it quits.”
“And if I say no?” asked Ernest.
Charles slowly leaned forward as he cracked the knuckles on his hand. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”
Ernest held Charles’s stare as he replied in a slow, cold voice. “Are you threatening me? Because I’m fairly certain the police would be very interested to hear about a certain night in Kensington three years ago.”
Charles’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Not to mention,” continued Ernest, “some useful information relating to a recent string of robberies in Hampstead.”
“How . . . ?”
“Be very careful, Charles. You don’t know who you’re messing with.”
Charles opened his mouth to speak.
“There’s nothing more to say,” interrupted Ernest. “You’ve got your money—enough to live on for the rest of your sorry life. Now get out of here.”
Charles looked at the twelve-year-old boy standing in front of him, and suddenly looking very nervous, he turned, briefcase in hand, and ran off into the night.
• CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE •
Chris, as he soon found out when he returned to Myers Holt, wasn’t the only one in trouble. Ms. Lamb had already phoned Sir Bentley from the taxi, and he had summoned Daisy, Ron, and John to the office also. Chris looked over at Daisy, who was sitting in an armchair sobbing.
“It’s not Daisy’s fault!” he said. He thought quickly as Sir Bentley raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “I made her do it—I put the suggestion in her mind.”
Daisy snapped her head round in his direction. Chris looked down at his feet and let his eyes glaze over so that everybody standing round him wouldn’t see as he sent a message into Daisy’s mind.
“There’s no point in both of us getting into trouble—I feel bad enough as it is. Please say I did it.”
“Is this true?” asked Sir Bentley.
Daisy seemed to think about it for a second. Chris held his breath until, finally, she nodded her head.
“And I did it to Ron and John, too—they couldn’t have known about me turning the cameras off.”
Ron and John looked at each other in shock.
“But I didn’t hear any ringing in my ears,” said John to Sir Bentley.
Sir Bentley sighed. “No, the boy’s very quick—you wouldn’t have heard it. So,” he said, looking over at Chris, “you did this all on your own?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Daisy, Ron, John—you can all leave. Ms. Lamb and I will deal with this.”
• • •
“The boy, his name is Ernest—Dulcia’s son,” said Chris as the door closed behind him.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” screeched Ms. Lamb, “the boy is a
figment of your imagination. Just admit it—you were spying on me.”
“Only because I wanted to find out why you were meeting up with Charles. I saw him with the boy, Ernest, last Friday.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!” said Ms. Lamb.
“IT’S TRUE!” shouted Chris, his anger getting the better of him.
Sir Bentley stood up suddenly and glared at Chris. “Stop!”
Both Ms. Lamb and Chris immediately went silent.
“Now, let’s be calm about this. Christopher—I want to know exactly what happened.”
Chris, wishing that Ms. Lamb weren’t sitting next to him, decided to tell the whole truth.
“I know it was wrong, but Ms. Lamb was acting strange,” he started, trying to ignore Ms. Lamb glaring at him, “and we wanted to find out why. So I entered her mind . . .”
“You did what?!”
Sir Bentley raised his hand to silence Ms. Lamb. “Let the boy finish—we have to get to the bottom of this.”
Ms. Lamb didn’t say anything else, but Chris could hear her seething beside him as he explained how he had recognized Charles.
“It was too much of a coincidence—I’d only just seen him with Ernest. I thought maybe they were trying to recruit Ms. Lamb to get back at me.”
“Get back at you? For what?” asked Sir Bentley as he raised his hand to Ms. Lamb once more. Ms. Lamb, who was on the edge of her seat and seemed on the verge of exploding, sat down.
“For killing his brother.”
“And was she?” asked Sir Bentley. “Was she involved?”
“Sort of,” Chris said.
“Liar!”
“Gertrude, please! If you prefer, I can do this alone.”
Ms. Lamb humphed. “No—I want to hear these lies.”
“Ernest went into Ms. Lamb’s mind too,” continued Chris, “to get information about me. That’s where I met him. He wants to kill me!”
“So you actually spoke to him?” asked Sir Bentley.
“Yes.”
“Nonsense,” said Ms. Lamb.
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