by Paul Collins
‘Oh, but you've already done –’
‘I did nothing, I was just there at the right time,’ she said in a sort of dreamy voice like Peter's mother reading a fairy story to his sister when she was very young. ‘Barry and his boys are frightened of me, so they ran off. Are you frightened of me?’
‘Well …’
Peter thought quickly about what she might do to him if he said no. Was she an alien, disguised as a girl? That would explain why everyone found her so unsettling.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘I guess so.’
‘Very silly of you.’ She giggled. ‘Why?’
‘Like, you're weird.’
There was another uncomfortable pause. Lyndel did not look annoyed, she looked more like she was trying to think of a way to explain something incredibly complicated to someone really thick.
‘I am a scientist, Peter,’ she said at last. ‘I might be a very young and peculiar scientist who studies seriously batty things, but I am still a scientist. Do you know what that means?’
‘Ah, you've got a white coat and test tubes?’
‘A white coat? I'd not be seen dead in anything but black.’
Lyndel released Peter's hand, stood up, and put on a knee-length black leather coat.
‘Like my lab coat?’ she asked, striking a pose for Peter's benefit.
‘Cool.’
‘Actually it's a bit hot. Peter, being a scientist means that I understand weird stuff. That means that sometimes when I experiment, it works. What do you want most? People who get bullied usually want revenge, they want to strike fear into those who bully them. Do you want that?’
Nobody ever crowded Lyndel. People were scared of her, they left her alone. Peter wondered if she could teach him her secret.
‘Yeah, I want Barry and his gang to be afraid of me,’ he declared.
‘You mean you want to beat them up?’
‘No, that would make me like them.’
‘Not a pretty sight,’ she agreed.
‘I just want them to be frightened of me.’
‘What you want is extreme, and extreme things cost lots and lots.’
‘You mean money?’ Peter asked.
‘Oh no, I never charge. You will just pay a price, but you are brave, and in some ways strong, too. You will need to be strong.’
‘Is someone watching us?’ Peter now asked, glancing about.
‘No, why?’
‘I've got a bad feeling.’
‘I see. Perhaps you should go home. Will your mother be annoyed when you get home late?’
He thought of his mother. She was okay about him being late, but somehow too nice. He pictured her in his mind. She was cold and hard.
‘Yeah, Mum will be annoyed,’ he said, now dreading the thought of going home.
Lyndel grasped his hand again.
‘How will the rest of the family feel?’
Peter's sister Angie had a spaniel named Charles. When Charles and Angie got back from their walk each evening, Charles would come running up the stairs, dash into his room, jump onto his lap and try to lick his face. It was as familiar to Peter as having breakfast, but now the images in his mind were out of control. In his mind, Charles kept rushing in, barking and growling, then biting him on the ankle. Angie would then run in and whip him with the dog leash. He could see his dad, standing in the doorway, calling the police on his phone, telling them that Peter had gone crazy and tried to kill Angie, and that her dog had saved her.
‘They hate me, I never want to go home,’ he said miserably.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Feel? I feel really feral. Everything frightens me. Everything! Especially Barry Panner's gang!’
‘What can they do?’ asked Lyndel, purring like a mother cat with her kitten.
‘Hurt me.’
‘They do that anyway. Why not give them a taste of what they do to you?’
‘They'll hurt me even more – but I don't care. I'm so afraid I'm angry.’
Lyndel nodded, as if she were reading Peter's thoughts.
‘The more fearful you become, the less you have to lose,’ she said softly. ‘That means you can become angry. Fear and anger are very similar. Why I do believe a black belt in jiu jitsu would be afraid of you, now.’
‘Yeah, I'll show them!’ shouted Peter, then the part of him that was desperately trying to stay rational got control of his tongue. ‘But you aren't afraid,’ he exclaimed.
‘Ah, but that is because I am a scientist.’
‘Oh yeah, a batty scientist, nothing scares scientists.’
Lyndel's face softened. ‘A batty scientist? Oh yes, huge, black, silken wings, flying about at night, carrying off people to experiment on. Very cool, I like it. How do you feel about Barry Panner now?’
‘Where is he? I want to take a piece out of him!’ shouted Peter, jumping to his feet.
‘Well then, let us go to the gym.’
It was truly, seriously, strange outside. A jogger came running towards Peter, then suddenly looked as if he thought the youth was a Rottweiler. He turned to cross the street, and ran straight into a lamppost. A family a few houses down the street from Lyndel's place took one look at Peter and scrambled into their house, abandoning their drinks and dips on the veranda. A boy and his girlfriend who had been holding hands at the corner suddenly tried to hide behind each other, like they were acting in some comedy movie.
They reached the gym. It was the first time anyone had ever marched right into a jiu jitsu class without bowing.
‘Hey, just what do you think you're …’ That was as far as the instructor got before whatever Peter was radiating kicked in. He backed away. An entire class of people in white uniforms backed away as well.
‘Just what do you think you are doing,’ Peter screamed, ‘teaching that animal Barry Panner and his gang how to torture people? Chicken wing, that's the name of the wristlock you teach him, isn't it?’
‘Chicken wing, yes,’ the man replied nervously, ‘but it's defensive –’
‘Defensive? Hey, look outside, there's pigs flying past. They use it on kids like me! They used it on me on the way here! Your cruddy arm locks and wristlocks put kids like me in agony, yet leave no blood or bruises.’
Peter strode over to a table and picked up a clipboard and pen. The instructor trailed after him. Lyndel stood in the doorway, recording the scene with her phone camera.
‘That's the class roll, you can't –’
‘Take these and write!’ Peter shouted. The instructor took them. ‘My name is Peter Taylor, I'm at Greenbank High School. Mine is the first of a couple of dozen names of kids who Panner and his psychos beat up on after they leave here. You phone up the school tomorrow and talk to the kids with those names, then do some real hard thinking about teaching these feral retards any more martial arts.’
Peter called out the names, and there were a lot of them. The instructor wrote. The entire class looked on.
Having finished, Peter walked straight for Barry. Perhaps it was the fact that Peter had his instructor taking orders, but Barry seemed even more rattled than all the others. Barry tried to kick at Peter, but it was a kick that was way out of range. Because he had kicked so hard, he lost his footing and came down roughly on one knee. There was a sickening snap. Barry screamed with pain, then started to crawl away across the floor.
‘You saw it, he put a spell on me, that Lyndel witch taught him magic!’ cried Barry.
Peter looked at the others. They backed away. Nobody tried to help Barry. Peter turned back to the instructor, who was still holding the clipboard.
‘You, black belt!’ Peter called. ‘You think you're doing good by teaching self-defence. Well phone the kids on that list, then think again!’
‘Peter, my my, what a scene,’ Lyndel said with something that could have almost been concern. ‘Do come along before you hurt anyone else.’
Once they hit the cold night air, Peter suddenly began to think clearly again.
For a moment he reeled, and nearly fell. Lyndel grasped his arm to steady him.
‘It's wearing off,’ she explained. ‘You will feel a bit weak.’
‘Weak?’ gasped Peter. ‘Why?’
‘In the past thirty minutes your fear and anger have burned up enough energy for a ten-kilometre race. Come along, I shall explain at home.’
‘No! No, no, no, not your room again. I'm slow but I'm not stupid. You – you did something to me in there.’
‘True, but I could have done that anywhere. There's a deli with coffee tables. Sit down, it's my treat. I shall give you a little science lecture.’
Peter and Lyndel sat in silence until their coffees arrived.
‘You were not afraid,’ he said. ‘Everyone else was, but not you.’
‘People are afraid every time they get into a roller coaster, but that does not mean they can't cope. I have trained myself to control its effects, and even make it work for me.’
‘You did something to me!’ Peter said angrily.
‘Oh yes, and congratulations. Quite apart from that snapped ligament in his knee, Barry is now up to his earlobes in doggy poo.’
‘Don't change the subject. What did you do to me? You said it. What is it?’
‘My father is a biochemist. He works in non-lethal riot control. His team was working on a chemical that induces fear called amygdolon. Seriously panicky, irrational, industrial-strength fear. Mix a bit in with tear gas, and rioters will break Olympic sprint records to get away. I, well, liberated some during a visit to his lab. It fools with the amygdala in your brain.’
‘How did you give it to me?’
‘It was on my fingers, mixed with moisturising cream. Every time I touched your hand it was absorbed through your skin.’
‘But that means you should have been afraid, too.’
‘Oh no, that is why Dad abandoned the discovery. People can train themselves to resist it. With enough exposure to amygdolon, some can even produce enough amygdolon with their own bodies to frighten other people. I can. I can do it at will.’
‘So, that's why everyone is frightened of you.’
Lyndel nodded. ‘It took most of what I stole to train myself. There was a tiny bit left, so I thought I would donate it to a worthy charity.’
‘Me?’
‘You. You wanted people to fear you.’
She held up her phone camera. Peter's tirade at the gym had been real, and she had recorded the lot. Peter had to force himself to watch the playback.
‘That was so embarrassing, so totally uncool,’ he moaned as the picture winked out. ‘I can't believe I did it. You aren't going to post that on the Internet, are you?’
‘Tempting, but no.’
‘Now what?’
‘That is up to you. Tonight you learned that you can shame a black belt instructor and his entire class into doing whatever you want. Next time you need to stand up to a bully, teacher, boss or politician, you will know it can be done. You will not need amygdolon. Come on, I'll walk you home.’
‘You are going to walk me home?’ Peter exclaimed, feeling vaguely ashamed.
‘Peter, Peter, what person in his right mind would attack me?’
That night Peter lay in bed with his arm hanging out over the edge for the very first time. For all his life he had slept with his arms up, frightened of some vague menace, some ghost or monster that lurked under the bed. Now … any ghost or monster under his bed was in deep trouble.
‘I gots this lot from a Princeling,’ said the boy as he emptied a small pouch of gold and silver coins into a wooden box, already part filled. His lilac eyes gleamed as he watched each coin fall. In all his sixteen years, he had never had this much money at any one time.
He tossed the empty pouch to one side. ‘I also tooks this ’ere weapon.’ He pulled back his tattered cloak to reveal a sheathed sword.
‘Big deal,’ huffed the girl, exerting her superiority. She was an inch taller and a year older than the boy. ‘Ya gots yaself a sword.’
‘Oh, Zyra,’ grinned the boy, rubbing at the scar that cut a path through the dark stubble on his head. ‘This ’ere ain't no normal sword. It's a sword o’ light.’
The girl's green eyes narrowed to cat-slits and her numerous piercings glinted around them. ‘What's some snivelling Princeling doin’ with one of ’em?’
‘Dunno.’ The boy shrugged. ‘Probably nicked it. Don't care. He don't care no more neither.’ The boy laughed. ‘Course ya know what this means?’
‘The big bag?’
‘Yep!’ He patted the sword hilt. ‘With one of these babies I'll be able to go a dragon and win its stash.’
‘Well I gots news too,’ said the girl, barely able to contain her excitement. She reached into a pocket of her worn leather coat and pulled out a plastic card. It was the size and shape of a standard credit card. Metallic blue with an embedded microchip, it shone gently as if it had its own power source.
‘A key!’ gasped the boy. ‘You gots a key already! How'd ya do that?’
‘I liberated it from The Cracker right after he liberated it from that skinny rich dude who lives up The Hill.’
‘They're all rich dudes up there,’ said the boy. ‘And The Cracker's dangerous. Ya shouldn't be messin’ with ’im.’
‘Yeah, well I'm dangerous too,’ snarled the girl, baring her metal studded teeth. Suddenly she had a knife in each hand. She spun one of the knives between her fingers and then threw it. It thudded into the floor at the boy's feet. As he looked down at it, she sprang. In seconds, he was pinned up against the wall with a knife to his throat.
‘Ya've made ya point,’ he gulped.
‘I loves ya, Tark,’ she growled. She stepped back, and within seconds the knives were concealed again. ‘I also gots some info from The Cracker.’
Tark raised an eyebrow.
‘It tooks a bit of convincing.’ Zyra smiled, tugging at her earrings. ‘But I now knows where to gets us another key.’
Tark suddenly rushed forward and grabbed Zyra, running a hand through her spiky black Mohawk. ‘I loves ya too. Let's get to it, then.’
Tark peered through the undergrowth at the cave. All seemed peaceful and quiet. He had never taken on a dragon before – he'd never even seen one. He was just a common thief and dragons were well out of his league. No one below a knight, second class, would attempt such an encounter. And yet here he was.
‘Oi!’ Tark shouted as he approached the cave. ‘Dragon! Ya in there?’
Silence.
‘Bring outs ya gold. I is ’ere to takes it from ya.’
A deep rumble came from the cave. Suddenly Tark wasn't so sure about what he was doing. A wisp of grey smoke smothered him. Tark quickly drew his cloak up around himself. A small burst of flame shot right at him. Tattered though it was, his cloak had enough power to protect him from the heat.
As Tark peered out from behind his cloak, the dragon emerged. It was a lot smaller than he had expected. He had imagined a gargantuan beast with smouldering eyes, smoking nostrils and enormous bursts of fire spewing from its mouth.
But this dragon was only about twice Tark's size, and Tark was not all that large. Its eyes were round and blue; its scales, azure and shimmering; its snout, short and somewhat squishy-looking. It was hardly what he would call fierce. ‘Cute’ seemed a more apt description.
‘What kind of a dragon is ya?’ asked a puzzled Tark, lowering his cloak.
‘What kind of a knight are you?’ retorted the dragon.
‘I'm not … I is a thief.’
‘Lords of Fire preserve us,’ sighed the dragon, rolling his eyes. ‘What has our little forest world come to, when a common cutpurse with delusions of grandeur comes to steal from a mighty dragon?’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Tark, hand taking hold of the sword's hilt under his cloak. ‘Ya don't looks too mighty from where I is standin’.’
‘You're not standing, you're cowering,’ declared the dragon. ‘There is a difference.’
&
nbsp; ‘Where's your bag o’ gold?’ demanded Tark, straightening and trying to stand taller.
‘Where do you think it is, you moron? It's in my cave.’
The dragon shook his head and swung back onto his hind legs. He suddenly looked a lot larger. He raised his front paw and flexed it. Three razor-sharp talons popped out like cat claws. The dragon grinned widely, revealing a double row of yellowed, pointy teeth.
‘I'm bored now,’ he growled.
Tark flung back his cloak and drew his sword. Dazzling light erupted from the blade. Half-blinded he tried desperately to hold on, but it was as if the sword o’ light had a mind of its own and a pre-planned destination.
‘Hang on,’ yelled the dragon. ‘You're not meant to have one of those. They're …’
But the blade, with Tark in tow, had found its target, embedding itself deep in the dragon's chest. Engulfed in light, the dragon burned away from the inside till only a few charred scales remained.
It took every reserve of strength and determination Tark had to sheath the sword o’ light.
‘Now who's cowerin’, ya snotrag,’ spat Tark before running into the cave to retrieve his prize.
Zyra removed her red leather jacket – her pride and joy; her signature piece – carefully folded it and placed it under the covering leaves of a bush. Her remaining clothes were black, sleek and skin-tight – much more appropriate for what she was about to do.
With seemingly little effort, Zyra scaled the brick wall, back-flipped over the razor wire that topped it, and landed cat-like on the lawn. With barely a pause for breath, she sprinted to the first of the topiary gargoyles that dotted the grounds. From there, she slowly made her way to the mansion, gargoyle by gargoyle, making sure to avoid the ground-level triplasers that criss-crossed the lawn. One false step and she could lose a foot.
Zyra used her shuriken throwing stars to dispatch the three guards who patrolled the exterior of the mansion. Then with two pieces of wire she picked the lock on the servants’ entrance and slipped inside. A heavy saucepan made short work of the cook and butler, and her beloved knives took care of the interior guards.
She tiptoed up the stairs and snuck into the museum room. Zyra gazed around at the artefacts displayed in glass cases, each with its own specially designed security system. The challenge of stealing each and every piece in the room held a great deal of appeal for Zyra. Lots of very valuable stuff – but much too difficult to fence. And the challenge in itself was not enough of a drawcard.