The Medusa Project: The Set-Up

by Sophie McKenzie

  Also by Sophie McKenzie

  GIRL, MISSING

  BLOOD TIES

  SIX STEPS TO A GIRL

  THREE’S A CROWD

  THE ONE AND ONLY

  And, coming soon

  THE MEDUSA PROJECT 2: THE HOSTAGE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to the following writers and readers for their story insights and writing advice, both general and specific: Dana Bate, Melanie Edge, Kate Elliott, Sharon Flockhart, Gaby Halberstam, Caroline Lawrence, Richard Lawrence, Joe McKenzie, Julie Mackenzie, Cliff McNish, Graham Marks, Robert Muchamore, Rose Saliba, Julia Scott, Daisy Startup, Olly Wicken and Moira Young. Particular thanks to Venetia Gosling and Lou and Lily Kuenzler for their invaluable feedback.

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © 2009 Sophie McKenzie

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Sophie McKenzie to be identified as the author of this

  work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77

  and 78 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road, London WC1X 8HB

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places

  and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are

  used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or

  dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781847385253

  eBook ISBN 9781847387110

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed and bound in Great Britain.

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  www.sophiemckenzie.net

  www.bebo.com/themedusaproject

  Contents

  1: Freak storm

  2: Powers

  3: Meeting Jack

  4: Making Money

  5: Goals

  6: Winning

  7: The Deal

  8: Marathon lies

  9: Saving Ed

  10: Quits

  11: An expression of interest

  12: The gamble

  13: The con

  14: All the moves

  15: Argument

  16: Scotland

  17: The break-in

  18: The meeting

  19: The kiss

  20: The disk

  21: In the park

  22: The betrayal

  23: Trapped

  24: Viper

  25: Fire

  26: Helicopter ride

  27: The journey

  28: Penhagen House

  29: The formula

  30: Outside

  31: The phone

  32: Fall and rise

  33: The Medusa Project

  34: The beginning

  For Ciara and Cliona

  ‘So it is not science fiction, it is inevitable that within our children’s lifetimes, molecular biologists will tweak the human genome. If we can re-create existing bacterial genomes, we will be able to create new improved human ones.’

  Terence Kealey, clinical biochemist, writing in

  The Times, Saturday 26 January 2008

  I’m Nico and what I’m about to tell you is Secret and Dangerous and True. It’s also several planetary systems beyond Weird. Here’s how it started . . .

  Picture this . . . Friday morning. A whole-school assembly in the big hall. Rows and rows of teenagers in lines of plastic chairs. I was sitting there, towards the back – dark hair, brown eyes – the guy all the girls wanted to get their hands on.

  Only joking.

  Anyway, there we all were, sunlight blistering in through high windows and the head teacher, Fergus Fox, droning on.

  He’s not just the head teacher. He’s also my stepdad. I’ve lived with him in his boarding school since my mum died of cancer when I was five. We don’t get on, for reasons which will soon become obvious.

  But this isn’t about him.

  If it’s about anyone, it’s about her . . . Ketty.

  She was sitting two rows in front and four seats to the left of me. You’re probably surprised I can remember that little detail. Well, get used to it. When it comes to Ketty, I tend to remember everything.

  That day she had her dark, curly hair in a ponytail, tied back with a piece of string. Very Ketty, that string. She doesn’t go in for girly things like ribbon – she’s practical. Doesn’t wear loads of make-up or jewellery either and I’ve never seen her in a dress.

  My eyes kept sliding over to where she was sitting. Which is when I saw Billy Martin put his arm round her shoulders. My mouth fell open. Everything else dropped away, even the sound of Fergus’s droning voice. I waited for Ketty to push the arm away. But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned in closer.

  No way. But there it was. My best friend . . . with Billy Martin.

  I looked away. Tried to calm myself. But my eyes kept going back to them.

  I couldn’t believe she’d go with Billy. What did he have that I didn’t? Apart from a load of money, of course. But Ketty wouldn’t be interested in that, would she?

  I looked up at the stage and tried to concentrate on what Fergus was talking about. Some long, dull lecture about the appropriate way to wear your school uniform.

  Billy’s hand was on Ketty’s arm now, his fingertips moving slightly up and down.

  I tore my eyes away and felt the fury building in my chest.

  It’s your own fault, said the voice in my head. You’ve been friends for months. You’ve had every chance to ask her out yourself.

  It was true. Worse, I didn’t even know why I hadn’t said anything to Ketty so far.

  Actually, I did.

  It was because I’d been sure Ketty would say no. I mean, we got on really well, but she was so completely into her running it was like there wasn’t room for anything else important.

  I didn’t want to think about that so I tried to focus on Fergus again. But everything about him was annoying me now – his solemn face . . . his serious voice . . . I mean, he was talking about school uniform, for God’s sake, not war or dying babies.

  Billy squeezed Ketty’s arm and smiled. I half thought of jumping up and pointing and shouting for the teachers to stop them. But even I’m not that crazy.

  And then Ketty turned her head to look at him and right there, in front of everyone . . . in front of me . . . she smiled back at him.

  A great, big, loved-up smile.

  My stomach turned over. I could feel my face flooding red. I stared through the nearest window. It was open just a fraction. I imagined storming over to it and slamming it shut. Hard.

  With a sudden swerve, the window swung wide open. I jumped. Before I could even register what was happening, the window slammed shut.

  Several people sitting nearby looked round. I watched as the window opened and slammed shut again, then opened once more.

  I glanced at the curtains beside it. As I did, they lifted away from the wall, like a gust of wind had rippled through them.

  My eyes tore round the room. More curtains moved. Some floated up for a second and dropped again. Others flew high into the air. What was going on? Around me I could hear people gasping. Whimpers and anxious squeals from the younger kids filled the air.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Why’s everything moving?’

  In the background Fergus’s voice was a loud appeal. ‘Be quiet. It’s just a freak gust
of wind. Stay in your seats.’

  My eyes lit on the clock beside the stage – a big, open, white-faced clock with black hands and numbers. The clock hands moved – first slowly, then faster and faster, whizzing until they were a blur.

  I blinked and the hands stopped.

  Which is when it struck me. This was no freak wind.

  It was me.

  I was making everything move.

  My heart hammered like a machine gun. I glanced away from the clock, to a vase that teetered on the table by the stage . . . to the windows on the other side of the room. More curtains flew up. A chair tipped against the wall. The vase smashed.

  Whatever I looked at was moving – violently, angrily. Like I was riding a wave of anger and every time I looked at something that wave crashed down.

  How am I doing this?

  For a second I felt like I was two people: one watching what was going on along with everyone else; the other somehow making it happen.

  My eyes swept back to the clock. As I stared, it fell off the wall and crashed to the floor. Jesus. Screams now around me. A girl sobbing in the row behind.

  ‘Help! Make it stop!’

  My eyes flashed back to the window where the whole thing had started. It was still standing wide open. Mr Rogerson, the maths teacher, was walking towards it, hands outstretched.

  Before he reached the window, I willed it to shut.

  It did. Noisily.

  I closed my eyes. My heart pounded. How was this happening?

  From the stage, Fergus’s voice sounded low and reassuring.

  ‘Calm down, everyone. Like I said, it’s just a freak wind. It’s over.’

  I took a deep breath and looked up, my pulse slowing. It was over at last. People in the hall were glancing round – some nervously, others with wide, wondering eyes. The babble of voices rose.

  ‘Did you see that chair tip up against the wall?’

  ‘And the clock hands going mad?’

  ‘Man, that vase just exploded!’

  I looked over at Ketty. She was gazing round, her golden-brown eyes huge circles. At least Billy didn’t have his arm round her any more. I stared down at my lap. Fergus was still talking over the hubbub.

  ‘Just a freak storm . . .’ he repeated like a mantra. ‘Everyone be quiet . . . Show’s over.’

  Slowly the anxious voices died away.

  ‘Stand and file out from the back, row by row,’ Fergus went on. ‘If you are close to the smashed clock or the broken vase, please be careful.’

  I kept my eyes on the ground as we stood up. At least Fergus had assumed it was a freak storm. Not a freak stepson. My heart was still beating fast. What if I looked up and the whole thing started again? I shot a swift glance sideways, at my vacated chair. No movement. Good.

  My stomach twisted with cramps as we walked out. None of this made sense.

  Everyone around me was still talking about the ‘storm’. And then a large hand clamped down on my shoulder. ‘There you are.’ Fergus spun me round and glared down at me. ‘This way,’ he said.

  Reluctantly, I followed him away from the crowds. As we reached his office Fergus looked round, as if to make sure we couldn’t be overheard.

  ‘What in God’s name did you think you were doing?’ he spat.

  ‘What?’ I said, startled. ‘When?’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Nico. I know it was you causing that mess in assembly.’

  My mouth fell open. How could Fergus possibly know it was me? ‘What?’ I said, weakly.

  Fergus frowned. ‘How long has it been going on?’

  My mouth closed, then opened again. My head felt like it might explode. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I stammered.

  Fergus crossed his arms. ‘Okay, you don’t want to talk to me. So listen.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘The power you have is evil. I don’t ever want you to use it again. Understand?’

  I stared at him.

  Fergus gripped my arm and gave me a little shake. ‘Nico, are you listening to me? This power – moving things . . . telekinesis, whatever you want to call it . . . I’m telling you it’s evil.’

  ‘And I’m telling you I have no idea what you’re on about,’ I said, pulling my arm away. I turned to go.

  ‘Come back here!’ Fergus barked.

  No. I stuck my finger up at him and dived back into the crowd. As I made my way up to my dorm, my heart started pumping hard again.

  How did Fergus know that it had been me moving things with my mind? And why was he saying it was evil?

  An ice-cold shiver circled my throat.

  What on earth was happening to me?

  Fergus didn’t mention me giving him the finger later. Well, he didn’t really have a chance. I arrived at the last minute for his history class and left as soon as the bell rang. As usual he picked on me all through the lesson, asking me the hardest questions, and giving me the least time to answer. Whenever I asked him why he gave me such a hard time in class, he’d say that because I was his stepson, it was important the other students didn’t think he was showing me any favouritism. Like it might hurt their feelings.

  What about my feelings? He never stopped to think how embarrassing his behaviour was for me.

  It didn’t used to be like that. When I was younger, we got on great. Maybe that was the trouble – Fergus still wished I was nine years old, or something. He certainly still treated me like I was.

  After lessons finished, I went to the library and searched the internet. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for exactly, then I clicked through to this psychic phenomenon site and there it was. Telekinesis – that word Fergus had used. Also known as psychokinesis: the power to move objects without touching them.

  Apparently loads of people throughout history have claimed to be able to do this. In the olden days they’d be burned as witches. More recently they were likely to get their own TV show.

  But no one had ever scientifically proven what they could do. And I couldn’t find any records of people unable to control their abilities either, though similar stuff happened quite often in horror movies.

  Not exactly a reassuring discovery.

  It was almost 5 p.m. by then, and the light was fading. I went outside and spent about half an hour trying – and failing – to move a twig on the grass near one of the school benches.

  I didn’t get it. I’d hurled a clock off the wall when I hadn’t been trying . . . but now I couldn’t move a twig? I slumped onto the bench, closed my eyes and tilted my head towards the dying sun.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  I jumped. Ketty was standing over me. She was dressed in her running gear – sweats and trainers. Her curly hair was still scraped back into a string-tied ponytail and her skin was glowing. She smiled, like she was really pleased to see me.

  My heart skipped several beats.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ She paused. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Course I am, babe.’ I stood up, shoving my hands in my pockets so she wouldn’t see they were shaking. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  Ketty’s smile deepened. Her eyes really light up when she grins. And her nose wrinkles. It’s beautiful.

  ‘Whatever. I’ll get on with my run, then.’ She turned to go.

  ‘Wait.’

  She turned back, eyebrows raised. I ransacked my brain for something to say. Part of me wanted to tell her what had happened in assembly, but I was scared she’d think I was a complete freak.

  After all, I thought I was a complete freak.

  ‘Saw you with Billy earlier.’ I smiled. ‘You know he used to bully Curtis to do his homework?’

  This was true, though a secret.

  Ketty shrugged.

  ‘So . . . you going out with him?’ I held my breath.

  Ketty shrugged again. ‘Dunno,’ she said. ‘Maybe.’

  Well that, at least, was hopeful. ‘Hey, d’you wanna see a magic trick?’ I said.

  ‘Okay.’

&
nbsp; I took the twig I’d been practising on and placed it on her hand. ‘Watch,’ I said. ‘I can make this move without touching it.’

  Praying I could make the thing at least twitch across her palm, I focused hard. Nothing happened.

  A strand of Ketty’s hair fell across her face as she watched.

  I tried harder. Still nothing.

  Ketty frowned. ‘What’s supposed to happen?’ she said.

  I could feel the panic rising into my throat. Move. The twig lay resolutely still. And then Ketty’s mobile rang. I stared at it as she answered. It was new . . . and startlingly pink. Sleek, girly and expensive – it was the last phone I’d have expected Ketty to own.

  ‘Hi,’ she said to the caller. ‘Yeah, I’m outside, I’ll come and meet you now.’ Ketty closed her phone and looked up at me. ‘Gotta go.’

  ‘Wait, let me try the twig thing again.’ I laid it on my hand and stared down at it.

  Ketty laughed. ‘You’re bizarre, Nico.’

  ‘Not as bizarre as your new phone, babe,’ I said, pointing to the mobile. ‘I mean, pink?’

  ‘I know.’ Ketty made a face. ‘It’s . . . Billy gave it to me.’

  ‘He got you a phone?’

  How much money did he have?

  ‘Yeah, it’s got a great camera and brilliant sound quality.’

  ‘Cool,’ I said, trying not to sound bitter.

  ‘That was Billy calling, actually,’ Ketty said. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Okay.’ My face burned with humiliation as she turned and walked away. Could I have looked more of an idiot? Trying to move a stupid twig while her actual boyfriend had bought her an ultra-cool phone.

  Furious with myself I chucked the twig on the ground. I felt like punching the bench behind me. As I stared at it, rage pulsing in my chest, the bench fell backwards. It landed with a thud on the ground.

  The rage in my chest vanished and I felt cold with fear. I stared at the bench. My mind had knocked it over. I was sure of it.

  How was that possible?

  I wandered over to a clump of trees. Beyond them the school’s two playing fields stretched away. Most of my year were there. Ketty, of course, slim and scruffy in her running gear, with Billy and a few of his friends. Tom and Curtis were there too – heading for the sports hut, almost certainly to sneak a smoke in before the home room bell. Nearer me a bunch of girls were chatting, giggling over some magazine. All ordinary school stuff. I sighed.