Department 19 d1-1

by William Hill

“That’s what you always say.”

  “Maybe you should start to listen then.”

  His mother’s eyes narrowed.

  That hurt, didn’t it? Good. Now you can shout at me, and I can go upstairs, and we don’t have to say anything else to each other tonight.

  “I miss him, too, Jamie,” his mother said, and Jamie recoiled as if he’d been stung. “I miss him every day.”

  Jamie spit his reply around a huge lump in his throat. “Good for you,” he said. “I don’t. Ever.”

  His mother looked at him, and tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Believe me, I do. He was a traitor and a criminal, and he ruined both our lives.”

  “Our lives aren’t ruined. We’ve still got each other.”

  Jamie laughed. “Yeah. Look how well that’s working out for us both.”

  The tears spilled from his mother’s eyes, and she lowered her head as they ran down her cheeks and fell gently to the floor. Jamie looked at her, helplessly.

  Go to her. Go and hug her and tell her it’s going to be all right.

  Jamie wanted to, wanted nothing more than to kneel beside his mother and bridge the gap that had been growing steadily between them since the night his father had died. But he couldn’t. Instead he stood, frozen to the spot, and watched his mother cry.

  2

  SINS OF THE FATHER

  Jamie woke up late the next morning, showered and dressed, and slipped out of the front door without seeing his mother. He walked his usual route through the estate, but when he reached the turn that led to his school, he carried straight on, through the little retail park with its McDonald’s and its DVD rental shop, across the graffiti-covered railway bridge, strewn with broken glass and flattened discs of chewing gum, past the station and the bike racks, down toward the canal. He wasn’t going to school today. Not a chance.

  Why the hell did she get so upset? Because I don’t miss Dad? He was a loser. Can’t she see that?

  Jamie clenched his fists tightly as he walked down the concrete steps to the towpath. This section of canal was perfectly straight for more than a mile, meaning Jamie could see danger approaching from a safe distance. But although he kept his eyes peeled, the only people he saw were dog walkers and the occasional homeless person, sheltering under the low road bridges that crossed the narrow canal, and he gradually began to let his mind wander.

  He could never have articulated to anyone, least of all his mother, the hole his father’s death had left in his life. Jamie loved his mother, loved her so much that he hated himself for the way he treated her, for pushing her away when it was obvious that she needed him, when he knew he was all she had left. But he couldn’t help it; the anger that churned inside him screamed for release, and his mom was the only target he had.

  The person it deserved to be aimed at was gone.

  His dad, his cowardly loser of a dad, had taken him to London to watch Arsenal, bought him the Swiss Army knife he could no longer bear to carry in his pocket, let him fire his air rifle in the fields behind their old house, helped him build his tree house, and watched cartoons with him on Saturday mornings. Things his mom would never do, and he would never want her to. Things he missed more than he would ever have admitted.

  He was furious with his father for leaving him and his mom, for making them leave the old house he had loved and move to this awful place, leaving his friends behind.

  Furious for the glee he saw in the faces of bullies at every school where he was forced to start anew, when the whispers began and they realized they had been presented with the perfect victim: a skinny new kid whose father had tried to help terrorists attack his own country.

  Furious with his mom, for her refusal to see the truth about her husband, furious with the teachers who tried to understand him and asked him to talk about his dad and his feelings.

  Furious.

  Jamie emerged from his thoughts and saw the sun high in the sky, struggling to push its pale light through the gray cloud cover. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and saw that it was nearly midday. Ahead of him, a flattened trail led up the embankment into a small park, surrounded by tall birch trees. The park was always empty; it was one of his favorite places.

  He sat down in the middle of the grass, away from the trees and the short shadows they were casting in the early afternoon sun. He hadn’t picked up his packed lunch because he would have had to go into the kitchen and deal with his mother, so he had filled his backpack with a can of Coke and some chocolate and sweets. The Coke was warm, and the chocolate was half melted, but Jamie didn’t care.

  He finished eating, tucked his bag under his head, and lay down and closed his eyes. He was suddenly exhausted, and he didn’t want to think anymore.

  Fifteen minutes. Just a nap. Half an hour at the most.

  “Jamie.”

  His eyes flew open and he saw black night sky above him. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and looked around at the dark park. He trembled in the cold of the evening, and his skin began to crawl as he realized he was sitting at the point where the shadows cast by the trees met one another.

  “Jamie.”

  He whirled around. “Who’s there?” he shouted.

  A giggle rang through the park.

  “Jamie.” The voice was lilting, like his name was being sung and allowed to echo through the trees. It was a girl’s voice.

  “Where are you? This isn’t funny!”

  The giggle again.

  Jamie stood up and did a slow turn. He couldn’t see anyone, but beyond the first ring of trees, the park was pitch-black, and the trees themselves were wide and gnarled.

  Plenty of room for someone to hide behind.

  Something was tapping at the back of his mind, something to do with a girl and a window, but he couldn’t remember.

  Something crunched underfoot, behind him.

  He spun around, heart pounding.

  Nothing.

  “Jamie.”

  The voice was closer this time, he knew it was.

  “Show yourself!” he yelled.

  “OK,” said a voice right beside his ear, and he screamed and turned, fists flailing. He felt his right hand connect solidly with something, and adrenaline roared in his veins, then he froze.

  On the ground in front of him was a girl, about his own age, holding her nose. A thin stream of blood was running onto her lip, and he saw her tongue flick out and lick it away.

  “Oh God,” Jamie said. “I’m so, so sorry. Are you OK?”

  “You dick,” the girl sniffled from behind her hand. “What did you do that for?”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Why did you creep up on me?”

  “I was just trying to scare you,” she said, sulkily.

  “Why?”

  “For fun. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Something else was rattling around Jamie’s mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “Well, you did scare me. So, congratulations, I guess.”

  “Thanks,” snorted the girl. She held out her hand. “Help me up?”

  “Oh, sorry, of course,” Jamie replied, and reached down and pulled her to her feet. She brushed herself down, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and stood in front of him.

  Jamie looked at her. She was very, very pretty, dark hair tumbling down her shoulders, pale skin and dark brown eyes. She saw him looking and smiled, and he blushed.

  “See anything you like?” she asked.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t staring, I was just, er…”

  “Yes, you were. It’s OK. I’m Larissa.”

  “I’m…”

  Tumblers fell into place in Jamie’s mind and fear overwhelmed him.

  “You used my name,” he said, taking a step backward. “How do you know my name?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Jamie,” she said, and then her beautiful brown eyes turned a dark, terrible red. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  She mo
ved like liquid, covering the distance between them in an instant. She took his face in her hands, with a grip that felt horribly, immovably strong.

  “Nothing matters anymore,” she whispered, and he looked into her red eyes and was lost.

  3

  ATTACK ON SUBURBIA

  “ I can’t do it.”

  The voice sounded like it was coming from a hundred miles away. Jamie struggled to open his eyes. He was lying on the grass, the girl called Larissa sitting next to him. He tried to crawl away but couldn’t move. His limbs ached, and his head was full of cotton wool.

  “Damn it, I just can’t,” she said, apparently to herself. “What’s wrong with me?”

  He forced his eyes open and looked at her. Her eyes were brown again, and she was looking down at him, a gentle expression on her face.

  “Who… are… you?” he managed. “What did you do to me?”

  She lowered her head.

  “You were supposed to be mine,” she said. “He said so. But I couldn’t do it.”

  “Your… what?”

  “Mine. In every way.”

  With a huge effort Jamie forced himself up to a sitting position.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She looked up at the sky. “You should go,” she said, looking back at him with sadness in her face. “They’ll be there by now.”

  A tidal wave of adrenaline crashed into Jamie’s system. “Who? Where?” he demanded.

  “My friends. You know where.” Jamie leapt to his feet and looked down at Larissa.

  “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” he asked, his voice trembling. In his mind’s eye he saw a face at a window.

  She nodded her head.

  Jamie turned and sprinted out of the park, running as though his life depended on it.

  Please not my mom. Please don’t let them hurt my mom.

  When Jamie reached the end of his road, his heart was pounding so loudly in his chest he thought it might explode. His vision was graying, the muscles in his legs screaming, but he pushed through the pain and sprinted the last fifty yards to his house and pulled himself round the gate post and toward the front door.

  It was wide open.

  He ran into the hallway. “Mom!” he yelled. “Are you here? Mom!”

  No answer.

  He ran into the living room. Empty. Through into the kitchen. Empty.

  No sign of her.

  He ran up the stairs and pushed open the door to her bedroom. The window above her bed was open to the dark sky, the curtains fluttering in the evening breeze. Jamie ran across the room and put his head out the window.

  “Mom!” he screamed into the inky blackness. His right hand slipped on something on the ledge, and he looked down and pulled it away. Red liquid dripped down his wrist.

  He looked at the windowsill. There were two small pools of blood on the white surface and more smeared across the glass of the open window.

  Jamie stared in horror at his hand, then something came loose in his head as he realized that his mother was gone, and he put back his head and wailed at the sky.

  And miles away, high in the dark clouds, something heard his cry and turned back.

  Time passed. Jamie had no idea how long.

  He couldn’t stay in his mother’s room, couldn’t look at the blood, horribly bright against the white paint and the clear glass. Somehow he made it downstairs to the living room. He was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the wall, when he heard something come through the front door and close it softly behind them.

  He was beyond fear now. He was numb. So he just watched as the tall, thin man in the gray suit walked into the room and smiled at him with teeth like razorblades, his dark red eyes shining in the gloom.

  “Jamie Carpenter,” the man said. His voice was like treacle. “It is a supreme pleasure to finally meet you.”

  The man bared his teeth and took a step toward Jamie, and then the front door exploded into sawdust and an enormous figure, holding what looked like a huge pipe, stepped into the living room doorway.

  “Get away from him, Alexandru,” the massive newcomer said, in a voice that shook the entire house.

  The man in the gray suit hissed and arched its back. “This is not your concern, monster,” he spit. “There is unfinished business here.”

  “It will stay unfinished,” the figure replied, then pulled the trigger hanging below the pipe. There was an enormous bang, like a giant balloon being burst, and something sharp exploded out of the weapon and flew across the room so fast it was a blur, trailing a metal cord behind it. Alexandru leapt into the air, impossibly quickly. The projectile smashed a hole in the wall of the living room, before retracting as rapidly as it had been fired, spiraling back into the end of the pipe.

  The creature in the gray suit hung in the air, its eyes blazing with anger. It snarled at the figure in the doorway, then smashed through the big window at the front of the house and accelerated into the sky.

  Jamie hadn’t moved.

  The giant darted to the window and craned its enormous neck in the direction the thing called Alexandru had disappeared.

  “He’s gone,” the figure said. “For now.”

  It turned to Jamie, and in the light of the living room, he got his first look at his savior and cried out.

  The huge figure was a man, at least seven and a half feet tall and almost as wide. He had mottled grayish-green skin, a high, wide forehead, and a shock of black hair above it. He was wearing a dark suit and a long gray overcoat. A wire ran up his sleeve from the end of the pipe he was holding and disappeared somewhere over his shoulders.

  He walked forward, and as fear and loss started to shut down Jamie’s mind, he saw two wide metal bolts sticking out of the sides of his neck. The man extended his hand toward him.

  “Jamie Carpenter,” he said. “My name is Frankenstein. I’m here to help you.”

  Jamie’s eyes rolled back white, and he fainted into sweet, empty darkness.

  4

  SEARCH AND RESCUE

  Staveley, North Derbyshire

  Fifty-six minutes earlier

  M att Browning was sitting at his computer when it happened.

  He was working on an essay for his English literature class, a comparison of the speeches by Brutus and Mark Antony in Julius Caesar , typing quickly into his aging laptop, when something thundered out of the sky and crashed into the small garden behind the terraced house he shared with his sister and his parents, throwing dirt and brown grass into the evening air.

  Downstairs he heard his mother shriek and his father slur at her to shut up. In the bedroom next door, his little sister Laura started to cry, a high wail full of confusion and determination.

  Matt saved his work and got up from his desk. He was small for his sixteen years, and skinny, his brown hair flopping across his high forehead and resting against the tops of his glasses. His face was pale and close to feminine, his features fine and soft around the edges, as though he were slightly out of focus. He was wearing his favorite crimson Harvard T-shirt and dark brown cords, and he slid his feet into a pair of navy Vans before walking quickly across the small landing and into his sister’s bedroom.

  Laura was lying in her crib, her face a deep, outraged red, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth a perfect circle. Matt reached into the crib and picked her up, resting her against his shoulder and quietly shushing her, bouncing her gently in his arms. There was a glorious moment’s silence as she took a deep breath, then the cries began again. Matt crossed the tiny room, pulled the door open, and headed downstairs.

  In the kitchen at the back of the house, his mother was frantic. She was wearing her cream dressing gown and a pair of pale blue slippers and flitting back and forth beneath the two windows above the sink, peering into the dark garden and telling her husband over and over to call the police. Greg Browning stood unsteadily in the middle of the room, one hand pressed against his forehead, a can of lager in the o
ther. He looked around as Matt walked into the kitchen.

  “Shut your sister up, would you?” he grunted. “She’s giving me a headache.” Then he turned back to his wife. “Will you stop flapping and take the damn baby?” he said, his voice starting to rise.

  Matt’s mother quickly took Laura from Matt and sat down with her at the table.

  “Get the phone for your mother.”

  Matt lifted the phone from its cradle on the wall next to the door and passed it to his mom. She took it with a confused look on her face.

  “Now you can call the police while me and Matt go and take a look in the garden.”

  “No, Greg, you shouldn’t…”

  “Shouldn’t?”

  Matt’s mother swallowed hard.

  “I mean, don’t go out there. Please?”

  “Just shut the hell up, OK, Lynne? Matt, let’s go.”

  Greg Browning opened the door to the back garden and stopped in the doorway, listening. Matt walked over and stood behind him, looking over his father’s shoulder into the darkening sky.

  The garden was silent; nothing moved in the cool evening air.

  Matt’s father took a flashlight from the shelf beside the back door, turned it on, and stepped out onto the narrow strip of patio that ran below the kitchen windows. Matt followed, scanning the dark garden for whatever had fallen past his window. Behind him in the kitchen, he could hear his mother trying to explain what had happened to the police.

  His dad shone the flashlight in a wide arc across the flowerbeds that bordered the narrow strip of lawn. At the edge of the grass, the beam picked out a flash of white.

  “Over there,” said Matt. “In the flowerbed.”

  “Stay here.”

  Matt stood on the patio as his father walked slowly across the threadbare lawn. He inhaled sharply as he reached the edge of the grass.

  “What is it?” Matt asked.

  No reply. His father just kept staring down into the dark flowerbed.

  “Dad? What is it?”

  Finally, his father turned toward him. His eyes were wide.