“Right. Of course. For a second there, I thought you were crying,” said Ron, shaking his head.
Chris smiled, and then he walked back over to his friends to join them for a final good-bye to Myers Holt.
• CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX •
Friday, October 31
Chris hung up his red cape on the back of his bedroom door and placed the bucket of sweets on his bed. It was Halloween, and nearly the end of the first midterm break from his new school. It had been Rex’s idea for them all to dress as superheroes, though Chris was the only person left to turn thirteen and therefore the only true, if only for one more day, superhero amongst them. It had been a good night, and he would have been tempted to join them for the sleepover at Philip’s house if he had not had something much more important to do at home. And anyway, he thought as he waved good-bye to them all, he would be seeing them the following day for his birthday party—the first birthday party he had ever had.
In fact, he had seen plenty of them all since they had left Myers Holt. They had spent the summer at the commissioner’s villa, swimming in the pool and competing against each other to make the most elaborate sandcastles on the beach (which Philip had won easily with his carefully engineered replica of the Antarctic Ball ice palace). Initially, despite them knowing that Ernest had changed, it had been strange for all of them to have a new member join the group, particularly one who had not so long ago tried to kill another member. However, of all of them, it was Ernest who found it the hardest and he tried desperately to make it up to the others by insisting on carrying everything, getting up early to make everybody breakfast, and jumping on any opportunity to help out. The more he did it, the more sorry they all felt for him until, finally, after much convincing and the whole group threatening to throw him into the pool if he didn’t stop running around after them, Ernest began to relax. It was only then that Chris and the other Myers Holt pupils really got to know him, finding him to be quiet, sweet, and sensitive but yet, perhaps from years of practice of taking it from his brother, quite capable of handling Rex’s teasing. He fit in well, and the others were all in agreement when, on the last day of their seaside holiday, they had officially named Ernest the seventh member of their Myers Holt team.
Only two weeks later, Chris, Philip, and Ernest had arrived at their new school, where they had all enjoyed watching the shock on their teachers’ faces as they revealed their extraordinary academic abilities. In the short time the three boys had been there, in fact, they had made such an impression that they had already been invited onto the senior math team, where they had led their school to an outstanding victory in the nationwide Math Olympiad. Chris had returned home to his mother for his week-long midterm break full of smiles, stories to tell, and an armful of trophies to put on his once-bare shelf.
Chris looked at the clock. It was ten past nine in the evening. His mother had told him that he had been born at three in the morning, which meant that he had just under six hours before his Ability disappeared. It was strange, Chris thought as he entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him, how much it had once scared him to think that his Ability was only temporary. But, although he was in the habit of using it for the most mundane of tasks without giving it, literally, a second thought, he felt so content with the rest of his life that he was sure it wouldn’t take long for him to readjust to normal life. It helped also that his friends had already lost theirs, and though they seemed to find it frustrating every once in a while, they all appeared quite happy without it. On their advice, Chris had spent the last few weeks making sure he read through every book he could get his hands on. He now spoke twelve languages fluently, had memorized every single line of Shakespeare’s works, could solve the most complicated of mathematical equations, and so much more. With one final exception, Chris was ready to say good-bye to his Ability.
Chris turned to the bathroom mirror and looked at himself. Suddenly, he felt quite nervous. He hadn’t seen his father in nearly eight years, and he just hoped that somewhere deep in his mind he still held the memories of him. He took a deep breath and let his eyes glaze over.
At first, Chris wasn’t sure if it was working. He hadn’t spoken about his plan to enter his own mind with anybody, and he had certainly never seen anything about it in any one of the few books on the Ability at Myers Holt, so he had no idea whether it was even possible. He focused his eyes harder at his reflection, then waited and waited until, finally, a familiar white light began to appear.
Chris smiled. It’s working, he thought with excitement as the light grew in intensity and then suddenly disappeared, revealing a vast room with a single image floating at its center—a picture of Chris’s reflection in the mirror. Chris couldn’t believe it—he was inside his own mind! He looked around at the room, slightly disappointed that it didn’t look any different from any other Reception he had entered, and then walked across to the wooden door on the other side and turned the handle.
Chris had never given any thought to how, exactly, his Ability would disappear. Had he done so, he would have guessed that it was like a light switch being turned off at the exact moment that he turned thirteen. As soon as he stepped out into his mind, however, he realized that it was a far more complicated process than that, a process that—judging by the fact that all the buildings in his mind were already partially submerged in concrete—was already well under way.
Chris stood still, rooted to the spot, as he watched the wet concrete creep slowly upward. Then, thinking that he might already be too late, he put one foot out in front of him. His foot sank straight down. Chris leaned back to wrench it free and then stepped back into the doorway. He looked across the moat of concrete, at the Family building in front of him, which was already submerged to the line of the second-floor windowsills, and he kicked himself for not having tried this sooner.
I’m so close, he thought as he tried once more, without success, to step out onto the road. He looked down at his sodden foot and took a deep breath. Not knowing what else to try, he stared down at the concrete directly in front of him and willed it to move.
Chris watched as the floor slowly began to bubble, gently at first and then faster until the patch of wet concrete between him and the top of the Family building was bursting with bubbles. Then, all of a sudden, the whole of the section in front of him exploded into a cloud of fine gray sand that flew up and evaporated into the air. Chris looked down at the narrow path that he had created between the two towering walls of concrete and saw that the door of the tall red brick house was now reachable. He had begun to run down the hill toward the Family building when, with horror, he saw that the wet concrete on either side of him was caving in. He had no option but to turn back and run to the safety of his own mind’s exit.
“Argh,” he shouted in frustration as the wet concrete pushed itself back together and the pathway disappeared.
He looked back down and tried again, and once more, the concrete bubbled and exploded, then pushed itself back together. Chris kept trying, again and again, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the concrete to stay apart long enough to let him through. Finally, with his head hung down in defeat, Chris gave up. He looked out at the rapidly disappearing city of his mind and was about to turn back when something caught his eye and he stopped. He leaned forward and squinted as he took a hard look at the Family building. There was no doubt about it: The level of the concrete was lower. It had been at the height of the second-floor windowsill when he had entered his mind—he was sure of it—and now it was at least four inches lower. There was a long way to go, he thought as he let his eyes lose focus once more, but he had nearly six hours left and the determination to keep going right up to the end.
With renewed energy, Chris stood in the doorway as he blasted the wet concrete into almost invisible particles over and over again with grim determination. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard his mother wish him good night, but he never lost his focus and kept going, watching the level of
the concrete slowly get lower and lower until, after what seemed like hours, the cobbled stones of his mind finally revealed themselves.
Chris took a deep breath and looked around, surveying his work. The whole of his mind’s city was now completely clear of the concrete, and its buildings, extending far beyond those of any mind he had ever visited, revealed their sheer size. Chris’s head pounded with exhaustion as he ran down the slope and straight through the doorway, eager to do what he had set out to do before the concrete returned to start closing his mind off again.
Chris already knew, from the many times that he had tried in vain to access them by normal means, that any memories of his dad had to be stored up on the third floor. He climbed the spiral staircase as quickly as he could and rushed over to the wooden filing cabinets, uncertain as to how long he had before he found himself trapped. As it turned out, having only ever known a handful of relatives, finding the file on his father was not difficult. Chris opened the drawer marked D and pulled out that large file. Then, with his heart thumping loudly, Chris opened it and watched the files fly up into a hovering line as the rest of the room disappeared into darkness. Chris walked up to the end and touched the last memory, then watched as his living room suddenly appeared before him.
“Chris, come here.”
Chris heard the sound of his own, five-year-old voice. “I’m playing trains, Daddy.”
All Chris could see was his train set as he heard footsteps approaching.
“You can play in a moment. I want to talk to you.”
Chris watched as his younger self turned round and looked up at his father, dressed in his army uniform. His father was smiling, but Chris could see that it was a sad smile.
“I’m going away now. I’m going to be gone for a while.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to work—remember we talked about it?”
“You’re going to be a soldier?”
“That’s right,” said his father, smiling. Chris saw the tears in his father’s eyes, and he felt a lump come to his throat. “Are you going to look after your mummy for me?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Good, because you’re the man of the house now until I come back.”
“Okay, Daddy. I’ll look after Mummy. I promise.”
“Good. Now give me a big hug—the biggest hug you’ve ever given me.”
Chris saw his father open his arms as he rushed into them, and for a while, there they stayed, holding each other tight as the young Chris began to cry.
“I love you, son,” said his dad, finally letting go of him and standing up. “I’ll see you soon.”
Chris heard the sound of his own crying as he watched his father walk over to his mother, red-eyed by the door, and gave her a hug. Then he kissed her, picked up his bag, looked back at his wife and son, and, finally, disappeared.
Chris sniffed and wiped the tears from his eyes and walked over to the next memory in the line where he was playing in the garden with his father. That one finished, and he went on to the next until, finally, after what must have been at least an hour, he reached the last one and watched his father laughing as he threw him up in the air. It was a good memory to end on. Sad and exhausted but happy for all the good memories, Chris finally closed up the file, comforted at the thought that these memories were now fresh and he would be able to access them in his mind even after his Ability was gone. He climbed back down the stairs, ran across the ground floor, and then out of the Family building. When he stepped outside, he realized there was still no sign of the concrete that had been filling the streets earlier. He had done a good job clearing it, he thought, but he knew he had been very lucky; the cement could have returned at any time to close off his mind, and he could easily have found himself trapped. Casting aside the thoughts of what might have happened, and eager to get out before the concrete returned, Chris broke into a run up the hill, stopping only when he reached the door. He took one look back behind him, then turned the handle of the door and walked out of his own mind.
• • •
Chris woke up in his bedroom on the morning of his thirteenth birthday with a smile on his face. He had slept well, dreaming happy dreams of him and his father, and he walked down the stairs, excited at the thought of his first-ever birthday party later that day. He walked into the living room and looked around, still surprised by how much had changed in the last few months. The curtains were open, the television was off, and the surfaces on the table were cleared. And he had done none of this himself.
CRASH!
Chris jumped when he heard his mother’s voice.
“Oh, drats!”
Chris turned and hurried down to the kitchen to find his mother leaning over the cluttered counter, her hair, matted with flour, hanging over her face.
“Is everything okay?”
Chris’s mum turned, and on seeing him, her face broke into a smile. She stepped over to him, put her arms around him, and started to sing, “ ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you . . .’ ”
“Okay, okay, Mum,” said Chris, smiling as he pulled himself away. He looked over at the floor and saw the upturned bowl there. “What happened?”
Chris’s mother sighed. “I had a surprise for you, but it didn’t go very well. I’m not much good at all of this—I’m so sorry.” Then she took him by the hand and pulled him over to the dining room table.
Chris looked at the collapsed cake at the center of the table and smiled. Watery purple icing had been poured over it, and what he guessed was the number thirteen—though the three looked more like an eight—had been iced on top in white.
“It’s a disaster,” said his mum, “we can go out and buy one from the shop.”
Chris laughed. “I love it. Thanks, Mum.”
“Really? Well, good—great! In that case, I’ll make some, cupcakes too—I’m on a roll. I’ve just got to go to the shop and pick up some more eggs. Do you want anything?”
Chris shook his head as he sat down at the table.
“Okay, back in a moment. I made you a cup of tea,” she said as she walked out of the room.
“Thanks,” said Chris. Without thinking, he let his eyes glaze over as he focused on the mug sitting on the counter on the other side of the room, and began willing it to come toward him.
It was only when the mug was halfway across the room, floating in the air, that Chris realized what was happening. His mind lost focus, and Chris watched, shocked, as the mug wobbled and then fell crashing down to the floor.
Smash!
Chris heard his mother’s footsteps running back to the kitchen.
“What happened?”
Chris looked down at the spilled tea and the broken mug, and he looked up at his mother.
“Is today really my birthday?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“Of course it is,” she said. “I’m afraid you get your clumsiness from me,” she said laughing, as she stooped down to pick up the pieces and wipe up the tea.
“Are you absolutely sure it’s my birthday today?”
Chris’s mum looked up at him, confused. “Chris—I think I know when your birthday is. I did give birth to you, after all—that’s not something you forget in a hurry.”
“But it was definitely the first of November—you’re sure about that?”
“What do you mean? Of course it was. You arrived at three in the morning on the first of November. You dad and I were at a Halloween party when I went into labor. I was dressed as a ghost, a sheet was the only thing that would fit over my enormous bump. Why do you ask?” She put the pieces of the mug into the bin and rinsed out the cloth in the sink.
“It’s nothing,” said Chris. “Just checking.”
“You are funny,” said his mother, smiling. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Chris didn’t say anything as his mum picked up her keys and walked out of the kitchen again. He waited until he heard the front door shut, and then he stood up.
; He turned in the direction of the living room and closed his eyes. Immediately, the living room appeared in his mind—the curtains open, the television off, just as he had seen it only a few minutes earlier. He let his mind wander over to the bookshelf and focused on each book in turn, watching as, one at a time, they hovered through the air, until every single one of them had landed gently on the coffee table in the center of the room. Chris opened his eyes and broke into a run—across the kitchen, up the small flight of stairs, down the corridor, and through the living room door. He stopped dead in his tracks and then looked slowly up at the tower of books, his heart pounding furiously. Every single thing that he had ever learned about the Ability ran through his mind, but there was not one good reason that he could think of to explain what had just happened.
And then the memory of the previous night came back to him. Chris thought about the wet concrete rising up in the city of his own mind. He thought about how long he had spent clearing it from the streets and of his surprise at finding that the streets were still clear when he had left. Perhaps the concrete hadn’t returned because he had already gotten rid of it all.
Chris thought about what this all meant, and the more he did so, the more he realized what it was that he had done. Not quite able to believe it, he looked over at the line of balloons hanging from the curtain rod and closed his eyes. No sooner had he done so than the balloons began to pop, one by one. Chris opened his eyes and stared at the line of dangling ribbons and the scattered remains of the thirteen balloons on the floor. He gasped.
The daughter of South American parents, MONICA MEIRA VAUGHAN lived in Spain before moving to London at the age of five, where she learned English by watching Sesame Street and reading every Roald Dahl book she could get her hands on. On leaving school, Monica trained as a teacher, working mostly with children with emotional and behavioral difficulties. She is also the author of The Ability.
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