CHARLOTTE FINISHED READING THE PAGES THEN PASSED THEM BACK TO HER HUSBAND. There wasn’t a great deal to glean from them, other than a possible explanation as to why Ben Fields had been pulled into the story.
‘I think at least he’s got a chance now,’ she said to Alex. She was referring to the fact that this Mr Kildare character had pulled out a knife and rammed it into Ben’s stomach. He seemed to be fully recovered just before they disappeared.
Alex said: ‘A chance of what? I don’t like how this bit ends. Helplessly on the floor?’
‘Oh, I was talking about Ben.’
‘And I was talking about our son.’
‘Don’t try to make me feel any worse, Alex. It’s just that that man got stabbed trying to help us!’
Alex nodded a response, but he had become transfixed by the darkened grass and the pink dusty circle across the lawn and pavement. ‘You think it should have been me that confronted him? That got stabbed? That got pulled into the story?’
‘No, Alex; that’s not what I meant. You’ve done all that you could-’
He turned and led her back to the house. ‘I think that’s it,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
He looked down at the pages in his hands. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else I can do.’ He looked at Charlotte. ‘We can do. We can’t get to Tom or my mother; look how close we just were and he got ripped away from us. We can’t apprehend Kildare; he’s something else entirely, and were we to catch up with him again, we’d clearly have no chance.’
Charlotte pulled out the suited man’s business card from her pocket. ‘It might be that he catches up with us. He came to us, remember.’
‘Then all we can do is be ready.’ They stepped back into the house. Alex went into the dining room and arranged all the story pieces in order across the table. ‘All we can do is look at these, and see if there’s anything else we can find to help the situation.’
‘Like what?’ she asked.
Alex shrugged as he placed the last story sheet down. ‘I don’t know, love. I don’t know.’
She looked at his tired and drawn face. She knew he hated it when things were out of his control. He found it very difficult to handle helpless situations. But they had nothing else they could do, no one they could call, nowhere to go to get help.
They sat at opposite ends of the dining table, staring at each other across the torn out pages of a young boy’s story that had somehow come to life.
‘Your mother will watch out for him,’ she said. ‘Ben too.’ She got no response from her husband. ‘You couldn’t have done anything else, Alex. This isn’t your fault.’
Alex didn’t agree with her or even acknowledge the comment; instead he picked up a random page of story and started reading.
Bring him home, Patty, Charlotte thought. See this thing through then bring him home.
*
Daniel Fields was sat at his desk playing a fantasy strategy game on his lap-top called Dragons of Destiny. It was an online game and he was in conversation with eleven other players from his tribe that were also currently logged on. They were preparing for a battle against another strong tribe; the victors would be in an almost unassailable position for the end game of this round in two days’ time. This particular battle was likely to happen in the next hour, and there were still fighters to deploy, weaponry to distribute, tactics to decide. There was some disagreement, as there always was when more than five of them were online at once, and if they weren’t careful they’d still be bickering when the next attack commenced. He read through the comments that were scrolling on the left side of his screen, and contemplated how best to express his own view for the tenth time in a way that would make a couple of the others see sense.
He was just about to type his comment when his name popped up on the left hand side.
Daniel.
Nothing unusual about that, apart from the fact it wasn’t preceded by a game player’s name. Above it were lines of text like Gator98: where are we going to put the dragons? and RU4real: we need to generate another 100 men at least bro.
But it just said Daniel.
It wasn’t even the start of his own message line, as his log-in name differed from his christian one. And once you put in a message it automatically brought the log-in name up. He typed and hit enter. His text came up. DF1onfire: who wants me?
It just came up again. Daniel.
DF1onfire: stop messin about who is this?
Daniel
DF1onfire: too funny…not
Daniel. Dan The Man.
Daniel felt a flutter in his gut as a sense of alarm took hold. Why would that appear? Only his dad ever called him that.
Daniel. Dan The Man. Danny-Boy.
This was becoming too weird. He tried to type in another comment, but before he could, the conversation bar filled up completely.
Daniel. Dan The Man. Danny-Boy. Daniel. Dan The Man. Danny-Boy. Daniel. Dan The Man. Danny-Boy. Daniel. Dan The Man. Danny-Boy. Daniel. Dan The Man. Danny-Boy. Daniel. Dan The Man. Danny-Boy. Daniel. Dan The Man. Danny-Boy. Daniel. Dan The Man. Danny-Boy.
Instinctively, he logged off then pushed away from the computer desk on his wheeled office chair. He stared at his home screen. The wall paper was a picture of him and his dad with Christmas hats on, pulling stupid faces. He’d meant to change it, but he’d left it because he knew his dad liked it.
Dad?
He rolled over to his bed to retrieve his mobile phone. He would text Matt to let him know why he suddenly bailed from the game, but he thought that he might just call his dad too.
He’d had a text. Again, no sender’s name.
Daniel. Dan The Man. Danny-Boy.
He tried to ring his dad but it went straight to voicemail. ‘Hi Dad. Just trying to get hold of you. My computer’s gone a bit random. And my phone. I’ll…I’ll see you later?’ He hung up, feeling foolish.
He started to text Matt, but no matter what letters he pressed, they came up with the same message: d…a…n…i…. He tried deleting and starting again, but he wasn’t able to write anything else. He pulled up the anonymous message again and tried to reply, but now no letters came up when he pressed the buttons
He threw his phone back onto his bed.
He went back to his computer. His email account was flooded with the same message, sent from nobody. Same on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter.
There was no rational explanation for it. Dan tried to work out what it could mean, but could only come to the conclusion that somehow his dad might be in trouble and that he needed his son’s help.
Since when does that ever happen?
And then he remembered the case his dad was working on, and how he had pointed him in the unlikely direction of lastbreath.com and a theory of untapped power. He liked to believe in all these kind of things – it had to be better than a regular mundane existence – but he never thought it would actually lead to something. Had his dad gotten himself into some supernatural trouble?
He laughed at himself for even thinking that was possible.
Dan went into his father’s room and sat down at his desk. All the notes for the case were there, including the copies of the story pages, and what he assumed was the family’s address.
The phone rang, making Dan jump. The landline handset was in the edge of his dad’s desk. Dan picked up. ‘Dad?’
‘Is that Daniel? No, it’s not your dad, it’s your grandad, Jimmy.’
‘Oh hi, Grandad. Do you know where Dad is?’
‘Ah, that’s why I was ringing. I was hoping he’d be there.’
‘I’ve not seen him for hours.’
‘Is he okay, your dad? I just had a weird feeling about him.’
Dan looked down at all the notes about the case. ‘I’ve had a weird…feeling too. I think I’m going to go out and try to find him.’
‘You’ll be careful, won’t you, Daniel? You and your Dad…well, you know.’
‘I’ll be careful, Gran
dad. Leave me your number and I’ll call you back later.’ If I can get my phone to work. Otherwise I’ll have to come back here. He took down the number. ‘By the way, what was your weird feeling, Grandad?’
‘It was really odd. I felt a burning pain in my stomach, and then it turning and tightening, as if someone had plunged a knife in there and was giving it a good twist. Never felt anything like it, and couldn’t help but think of your father. Then, within about two minutes, it was gone. I’m still worried about him though.’
‘Yeah, me too.’ It sounded like only Dan had had the message. That’s what he thought about it now: that it was a message. His dad trying to get his attention. Somehow.
‘I’ll call you, Grandad. I’m going to get out there and try to find him.’
‘Well, if you can wait awhile, I’ll come and join you.’ They made arrangements. It wasn’t something that Dan had ever done with his grandad, but these seemed as good an occasion as any.
After he hung up, Dan looked over his dad’s notes again, just to see if there was something else of use. He couldn’t be sure where it came from, but he had a thought that just wouldn’t leave him.
My dad needs me.
Kildark pulled over a couple of streets away from the Holliday residence. He could sense that the chase was nearly done, and before too long all the players would confront each other. Again though, he wondered who or what exactly was moving the pieces. He looked down at the dagger in his jacket. It had been an impulsive decision to stab the detective, so surely that decision had been his and his alone. Wasn’t it?
He had lived in many worlds, in many planes of existence, had fought many battles and won most of them. He had also encountered many powerful objects, items that provided magic and mystery. He had hoped that the ruby necklace had been the game changer in this particular battle, or perhaps the dagger, but now he knew neither was. His instinct told him that the boy had the item, whatever it was (a book?), and if he controlled that he would control the puppet strings that were orchestrating this adventure.
The boy seemed particularly animated about a story he’d written. Kildark had felt that strongly too. Perhaps…
He’d spent time in this world before, and knew there was nobody here like him. If he could find the means to stay he could be unstoppable. He felt that there was a definite timeframe to this particular cycle, and that the natural order of things would involve him leaving here before too long. That meant he had to be in control of all the disorder if he wanted to implement a change. Yes, go along with how he felt the events should unfold, run with that weight of expectation, but ultimately be the one to decide his own fate. They could have the boy – in one piece or otherwise. They could have the necklace, if that was what was expected. But he would get his hands on the object that controlled this game, no matter what. If that meant that there had to be casualties then so be it.
So what was next? He closed his eyes and cleared his mind. Then he waited for an idea to fill it.
There’s somebody near that wants to help. Somebody that hates the boy. An ally. He thought about that a minute. Having someone else with him, to distract the growing band of meddlers, to allow him to bring disorder on his terms, might just be what he needed. Okay, so in some respects this person was being brought into the game by the controlling force, but he knew he shouldn’t resist every impulse. He had to play along, up to a point.
So where is she? he thought, and then smirked that it was only at that moment that he knew it would be a woman. He got a sense of where he had to go, and headed off again along eerily deserted streets. He took that as a sign that he had to move on; the game had relocated and he should go with it. Here he was neither in the game, nor in the regular plain of existence for this world.
Two minutes later he pulled up alongside the only person he had seen on his short journey. She was stood at a post box, her hand resting in the slot, as if she had just been out to post a letter and then something had pressed pause on her day. Kildark rolled down his window so that he could press play.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ he asked, smiling.
She wore a large mac, out of keeping with the brightness of the day. Her grey hair matched the rim of her spectacles. She stared back at Kildark, stony-faced. ‘I don’t know why, but I brought these out with me.’
She opened the mac, showing Kildark what she had hidden underneath.
He grinned a pointed, toothy grin. ‘Well, isn’t that marvellous! Come and have a seat and I’ll explain what it is that I’d like you to do.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BEN LED THEM AROUND THE CORNER TO HIS CAR. ‘It’s just here. If we-‘
He stopped dead as he looked at the state of his Ford. Patty whistled. “Sweet paintjob!” she said.
Roaring flames had been painted along the sides of the car and a giant spearhead adorned the entire bonnet space. Ben looked around to see if there was any other beat up vehicles that could have been his. No, this had to be it. ‘I don’t understand…’
‘I do,’ said Tom. ‘Flaming arrows. Spears. This is the war-carriage from my story. You’re meant to be here, Ben. You’re Meddo!’
‘Then I suggest we all get in and Ben takes the wheel,’ said Patty.
Once in and buckled up, Ben asked: ‘Where to?’
Patty and Tom were in the back seat. They looked at each other, slightly bemused. ‘What do you think, Tom? Any ideas about a stage? A hall? A show? How could your story be reflected in this world?’
Ben hadn’t read the pages but Tom had briefly summarised as they had walked to the car. ‘I take it you don’t know anyone called Marissa?’
‘Mariza,’ corrected Tom. ‘No, I don’t. The only show I can think of is the talent show at my school at the end of term. It was in our school hall.’
‘Would this be the talent show you told me about yesterday? The one where you got in a bit of trouble?’ Tom nodded. Patty smiled. ‘Could be.’
‘Well, I think that will have to do for now,’ said Ben. ‘We certainly can’t stay here.’ Outside the windows all the world around them had turned grey. ‘I’m not sure what happens to us if we fall off the page, but I don’t want to wait here and find out.’
Tom shared the school’s address and Ben started the car.
They reached Bolton Road Primary inside fifteen minutes. Surprisingly for a midweek day in the middle of the summer, the gate was open. The driveway extended around the side of the school building, which seemed locked and unlit. ‘Car park’s at the back,’ said Tom. Ben slowly guided the car around the outside of the block.
There was one vehicle in the car park. A black Alfa Romeo Spider. Ben pulled into a spot, as far from Kildark’s ride as possible.
‘Looks like you got it right, Tom,’ said Patty. ‘Just because the talent left at the end of term, doesn’t mean that the show’s over.’
‘Do you think he’s waiting for us in the school hall?’ asked Ben.
Tom pointed to a fire door that was slightly ajar. ‘That’s one of the ways into the hall. It’s the school gym as well. We’d use that exit if we had outside PE.’
Ben played his fingers through the knife hole in his shirt, and then buttoned up his jacket over it decisively. ‘Let’s go.’
Once the three of them were out they ventured a little closer to the parked car. It was unremarkable apart from the fact it was completely empty – not so much as an air freshener or a water bottle. Ben wondered whether there’d even be a hair or a fingerprint in there.
‘I’ll lead the way,’ said Patty, heading for the fire exit.
‘It’s okay, I should go first,’ said Ben, moving away from the black car.
Patty laughed. ‘Why’s that? Because you’re a policeman? I’m the one who’s armed!’ she said, waving her walking stick. ‘He’ll feel it if I give him a whack with this!’
‘All the same, I-’
But Patty had walked off, and was almost at the door. There was a tall pallet of bricks against the wall; she t
apped a rhythm on it with her stick as she passed. Tom shrugged. ‘That’s just what she’s like. Come on, let’s have a look. I think I can hear music.’
In the end they walked through the door in single file, in age order.
There was music. On the far wall was a fixed projector screen, and in the gloom, images were being projected on it, and sound could be heard. There was a trolley in the centre of the small hall that housed the equipment that beamed the image.
Tom recognised it immediately. It was the video recording of the talent show last month. A brace of year four girls were singing a medley of Disney hits. They were stood on the temporary staging that normally would be set up exactly where the screen was. One of them giggled as she got a bit of feedback from the microphone.
As Patty, Ben and Tom reached the projector the song ended and an enthusiastic audience applauded. ‘Shall I turn it off?’ asked Ben, following the power cable into the unit.
‘No, wait,’ said Patty. ‘Look who it is!’ On the screen Tom Holliday wheeled Dodge over to the centre of the stage. He had his own microphone as he was too low in his chair to reach the mics on the stands. Video Tom thanked the singers and got ready to introduce the next act.
‘It’s embarrassing,’ said Tom.
‘It certainly is!’ said a voice behind them, a female voice. The hall lights came on and they all turned to the hall double doors to find the person who had flicked the switches.
It was a tall lady in a straight mac. Her face was gaunt and her grey hair was scraped back into a tight bun. She looked down her nose at them disgustedly.
‘Mrs Aziram,’ said Tom.
‘Come to make more jokes at my expense, Mr Holliday? Think you can ruin another one of my shows?’ She shuffled forward, one hand tucked under her mac.
‘Miss, I don’t know why you’re so upset with me, but it’s old news.’
‘All those wheelchair jokes! Making people feel bad – feel sorry for you. It wasn’t your show!’ She didn’t comment on the fact that he was without Dodge now. In fact, when you looked closely at her eyes they seemed glazed over. He wondered if she was seeing him at all. She kept coming towards him though.
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