Sam burst into his room, 'Hello? Where are you?'
Sam stopped and blinked twice.
There was an egg on his pillow.
Not like a chicken egg, or a snake egg, or any sort of egg he'd ever seen before, but an egg nonetheless. It was about the size of a bowling ball. Rather than brittle shell, it looked to be fashioned from an ancient, dark green leather.
'What can be remembered can be made alive,' said Sam. 'Well I remember! I remember you.'
The egg lurched, rolling off the pillow and coming to a stop on Sam's duvet. It began to rock and jump as if something inside fought to escape its bonds. A split appeared and tore the egg in two, and out of it crawled the most extraordinary thing. It was like a baby, but also not at all like a baby. Small and sharp and grey and mewling. It flexed its twisted limbs straight, snapping bones into joints, and then opened eyes that were too large for its misshapen head. Arching its back, it thrust its face towards the ceiling and let out a piercing scream from a mouth that ripped its way into raw reality across its face.
The creature sagged and panted, breathing air for the first time, gulping it down in a greedy rush.
Sam approached the creature, reaching out a hand to brush away the last remnants of the leathery egg that clung sticky to its sickly-hued skin.
'Hello, friend. I remembered you.'
The creature at last brought its breathing under control and curled into a foetal position, a satisfied smile on its face.
‘I remembered you, at last.’
The creature moved, turning its head to look up at Sam. 'Awake,' it said, with a voice that seemed to scrape its way uncomfortably out of its throat. 'Awake.'
~Chapter Seven~
'You've got nothing to say for yourself, then? Typical, absolutely typical.'
Sam sat, quite calm and content, as his parents paced before him, red-faced and spittle-flecked. The school had, of course, informed them about his escape and failure to return.
Sam didn’t care.
He had a friend.
'What did you get up to, that's what I want to know,' said Dad. 'Stealing was it? Or just laying about the house like you usually do?'
Sam didn't mind the anger, the shouting, the accusations, because everything was different now.
Before he was a small boy alone. At school and at home. Alone and small and empty and sad. But now friendship and wonder and hope reached across the formerly dark sky like the most colourful rainbow you ever did see.
It hadn't been exactly as he’d expected of course. As soon as he'd remembered the boy he'd expected to race home to find him standing there, in his bedroom, just like he had Between. Same age as him. Same.
He thought of the small, odd creature that was curled atop a towel in a box under the bed. In the few hours since it had hatched, it had already grown noticeably larger, perhaps by an inch or three, and its eyes had become more in proportion to its gradually less-misshapen head.
None of this struck Sam as odd. Which he was aware enough to think was odd in and of itself. But he shrugged it off. His friend was finally Awake. He knew without knowing why that shortly he would become a boy too, the same age as him, and then they would share secrets and hoot and laugh and run.
'Are you even listening to us, boy?' screamed Mum, snapping Sam out of his mind and into the scene.
'Sorry? Did you say something?' asked Sam, genuinely. Dad's heavy hand struck Sam across the face, sending him tumbling to the floor.
Sam did not yelp or cry or scream. He lay on his side, slightly dazed, and turned his head to his parents, who loomed large and violent before him. 'Sorry about school, won’t happen again.'
Mum and Dad looked at each other with mute surprise.
Sam pushed himself to his feet. 'Can I go to my room now?'
One blink. Two blink.
'Yes,' said Mum. 'Yes, off you go. And … and you just think about … everything.'
'Yes, everything,' Sam agreed, as he walked out of the room, up the stairs, and into his bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him.
***
It was dark.
Night.
Scary late. The sort of hour during which even the most determined of young boys feels worry for being awake. But Sam didn't feel worried. Sam was curled in bed, eyes wide and unseeing, alive alive-oh.
'Awake,' came a scratchy voice from under his bed. Scratchy but much clearer than earlier.
'Awake,' said Sam.
'Friend,' said the voice.
Sam nodded. He knew the creature would feel his agreement.
'Dream now.'
Sam nodded again and his eyelids fluttered. They shut once. Then again. Then for the night.
And now Sam dreamt. For the first time in so long, no hand reached out to guide him Between, and he dove deep into the dream.
In his dream, he ran and he laughed. He held a sword and he was chasing something, his friend beside him. Ally, too.
'Get the creeps!' Ally shouted, and the boy and Sam laughed as they ran Sam's parents to ground.
They wept then, the parents, and begged and wheedled and whimpered, but the decision had already been made. The boy nodded and Sam pushed his sword through his mother’s neck. The look of surprise on her face made the boy snigger, and that made Sam laugh too.
He pulled the sword clear of Mum's neck and she collapsed. Turning to wet paper, she sagged and tore and was washed away.
Sam turned to Dad, but Dad would beg no more. Dad shouted and swore and spat.
'Look at him,' said the boy. 'Look how he curses and screams and threatens. What do we even need him for, really? We have each other, don't we?'
'And Ally,' said Sam.
'But she's a girl. That won't really do.'
Sam chopped off his Dad's head with one swipe of his sword and watched as it rolled away and away, still cursing all the while, until it was just a dot, and then nothing at all. A red slug slime was left in its wake.
He turned to see what Ally made of the whole thing, but she wasn't there anymore.
The boy was laughing again. 'Let's go find Dad's head. We could kick it, or pull out its tongue. Something fun, anyway.' The boy ran off ahead, following the blood ribbon.
~Chapter Eight~
Within a day, the creature could stand on two feet and shuffle weakly across the floor under its own steam. Sam stole biscuits and bread from the cupboard, even a few slices of ham from the fridge, and fed it by hand, allowing it a few mouthfuls of milk to wash the food down.
Soon enough the creature was too large to fit in the box under the bed and so Sam made a nest for it inside the trunk at the end of the bed that housed his toys. He cleared out the plastic figures and replaced them with a few hand towels, t-shirts, and an old Christmas jumper. He lifted the creature, which weighed very little, and placed it in its bed.
'Have you been sneaking food again? This ham’s halfway gone,' said Mum.
'I told you, I haven't touched your bloody ham, woman!' replied Dad.
'I don't even like ham,' said Sam, truthfully.
'Oh, well, I suppose it was ghosts then, was it? Okay, then. Fine!'
At night Sam would tell stories from his imagination to the creature. It would peer at him over the end of the bed from the trunk, its large eyes wide.
At first the creature spoke very little, only uttering single words, such as 'Awake', 'Hello', and 'Friend'. It was on its fourth day, as Sam was almost asleep, that it spoke its first full sentence: 'I am happy to be here.'
Sam sat up and looked into the dark. 'I'm happy you're here, too. It's good to have a best friend.'
Before the week was done, the creature had transformed completely from the bony grey thing that had hatched from its leathery egg. It wasn't a 'creature' at all anymore. It stood as tall as Sam did, skin a healthy pink, its misshapen head now normal with eyes in perfect proportion. Its previously bald skull was now carpeted in thick brown hair that hung straight and in need of a trim, just like Sam's.
In fact, a lot of him (for it was most assuredly a ‘him’) was just like Sam. Their faces were identical. Same arms that seemed that little bit too long for the body. Same scar on the right knee from when Sam tripped whilst running along a gravel path. The two boys looked like twins.
Two identical boys.
Sam hadn't noticed at first, but now delighted in the similarity.
'Aren't we a handsome pair,' said the boy, and Sam nodded in agreement.
'Did you make yourself look like me?'
'No. But who else should I look like? We are friends, after all. Best friends.'
'I never realised before you were Awake how much we were the same. But we were, weren't we? Even then? Same face, same everything. It's funny the things you don't notice or just forget sometimes.'
'Funny,' agreed the boy.
'Who are you talking to in there?' called Mum.
'Just talking—' said Sam.
'—to myself,' finished the boy.
And they covered their mouths to stifle the giggles.
~Part Two~
Mark, the bully
~Chapter Nine~
Mark the bully lived at number 21 Keys Avenue. There was a crack in one window and weeds thrust from the broken concrete in front. The house to the left was empty, and for the last few months squirrels and rats had made it their home. To the right lived an old man who was often heard to hoot like an owl during a full moon.
Mark the bully was square and heavy and squat, his nose a splat through which it was difficult to breath. If he slept with his mouth closed, the air would force its way up and down his nostrils with a sharp whistle, like a kettle brought to the boil.
Mark had a Mum, who regretted many of her life choices, and a younger sister whom he tormented daily. He would break her toys and spit inside of her best books so that the pages stuck together.
His Dad hadn't been seen since before Mark could talk. They'd received an envelope full of five pound notes, but that was the end of it. Mark's Mum had been able to stock up on a month’s worth of nappies and a rattle. In actual fact, Mark had indeed met his absent Dad since then, a little over a year before; not that either of them was aware of the importance of the meeting. Mark had stopped a man with greased-back hair and a beer belly outside the shops, and asked if he would buy cigarettes for him. The man had agreed. However, upon exiting the shop, the man had kept the cigarettes for himself, Mark swearing at him as he walked away chuckling.
It was Tuesday morning and Mark left his house, heading for school
'Don’t get into any trouble!' Mum called out from behind the ironing board.
'Course I won’t, promise,' Mark replied, not altogether truthfully.
Mark had been a bully for as long as he could remember, and was more than happy with his position as such. It was actually a family tradition, passed down from his father, and his father before him. Not that Mark knew this, he was just instinctively aware that the creation of fear in others made him happy. Made him feel strong and special and good.
He could not be the smartest at school, or even the most competent, but he could be the most feared. That was something.
As he made his way through the streets and towards school, one boy after another joined him, as if pulled in by his gravity, until a small gaggle of chattering, messy-haired acolytes orbited around him.
Unwashed in the main. A torn shirt here or there. Socks with holes. Knuckles with scabs.
Mark was the bully and they were his gang. His expectant, bated-breath audience. He never sent them home without putting on a show.
Mark the bully, and his gang of seedy boys and girls, passed through the open iron gates of the school with easy confidence. The children, who ran and gossiped and laughed, parted out of fearful respect to allow them easy access to wherever they chose to go.
Mark spat at the feet of a boy half his size and it splashed against the unfortunate target’s ankle. The gang laughed and Mark stared at the boy as he passed, daring him to complain, to shout out in annoyance, to even twitch his eyes in a way that suggested anger.
The boy knew better. He did not twitch, he just looked down at his feet and held his breath until the gang was past him and he was forgotten. Every day was someone’s special day. You did whatever it took to make sure it wasn’t yours. The last thing you wanted was to be on Mark’s mind, because when you were on Mark’s mind, you often ended up on Marks’s fists, shoes, and knees.
Mark reached the school wall and leaned against it, surveying his kingdom. His court.
‘You really gobbed on that idiot,’ laughed Finney. Mark nodded and smiled. Finney was tall and thin, dark red hair a mess on his head.
‘There he goes,’ said Mark to Finney, nodding at Sam Ward’s arrival through the gates. They watched Sam as he wandered, oblivious, through the throng towards the school entrance, in a world of his own. Completely apart.
‘When’s it his day, d’you think?’ said Mark.
Finney squirmed. ‘Oh, he’s nothing. Not worth it.’
Mark snorted, his nose whistling sharply, and he watched as Sam disappeared from view into the school.
~Chapter Ten~
Mark often thought that school would be great, if it wasn’t for all the classes. They really bit heavily into his menacing time. He did what he could, though, in the corridors between classes, during toilet breaks, and of course whenever let loose to prowl the schoolyard. Not a chance was wasted. Mark was not a lazy bully—oh no, no, no. He put the hours in.
Mark had two main accomplices. The first was Varinder, a pudgy boy with a faded turban and a quick giggle. Varinder was Mark’s biggest fan. The second was Kath—a girl, for sure, but she could beat any of the boys when fists were raised. Apart from Mark, of course. No one dared stand up to Mark.
The boy by the urinal emptied his pockets as Mark glowered at him. The boy did not know what might happen to him if he argued. A fist to the face? Dunked in the urinal itself? Kicked to the floor? All three? He handed over what little money he had.
‘That it?’ said Kath. She grabbed the boy by the hair, then shoved him back so that his hand dunked into the urinal as he steadied himself. Varinder giggled.
Mark twitched his head towards the door and the boy scampered out, probably relieved that, all in all, things had played out less painfully than they could have. A urine drenched hand was better than a bloodied nose or a broken front tooth.
‘Just less than a quid,’ said Kath. She pocketed the money as the three made their way from the boy’s toilet and out into the corridor. Outside, more of the gang were waiting: leaning against a wall, play-fighting, swearing. With them was Finney. Finney, the newest recruit to the gang, had proved himself by punching John Little so hard he broke his own hand. He hadn’t always been bad; once he’d been one of those who would have feared crossing paths with Mark the bully, but that was before his little sister had died. A lot had been different for Finney before his little sister had died.
Mark the bully walked past them all, and without a word or gesture to instruct them, the others gathered up their bags and followed on after. He was the Pied Piper; they were his rats, happy to follow him anywhere as long as he kept up his violent tune.
‘I’m telling you!’ said Varinder, his high giggle barely under control, ‘right in the urinal it went! Splosh! Oh, man…Gross, right? His hand’ll stink for weeks!’
For a few moments, Mark was lost in his thoughts as he walked, not really watching where he was going. He knew others would get out of the way; there was no need to be cautious. Out into the yard they went, the gang eager for further fun.
‘What about him, then?’ Mark followed Kath’s finger to the object of its selection.
It was Sam.
‘Oh, nah, not worth it,’ said Finney, sniffing as nonchalantly as he could. ‘Waste of time, him.’
‘I didn’t realise you still had the hots for him,’ said Mark. Varinder broke down in a fit of giggles. Finney shrank back, looking at his fe
et.
Mark turned his attention back to Sam.
'Oi, weirdo!'
Laughter. Cackles. Cruel anticipation like electricity coiled around the children in the playground. Mark could feel it. It made his skin tingle and his hair stand on end.
Sam didn’t pause. Perhaps he hadn’t heard.
'Oi, you; hey, weirdo, I heard that you like kissing boys. That true, then, or what?'
Sam looked over now, his attention caught, before quickly looking away.
'How rude!' said Mark, mock-indignant.
'Finney, your mate’s ignoring Mark!' said Varinder, a girlish, high giggle like razor wire coiling around Finney and causing him to wince.
Finney rounded on him, eyes sharp, fists clenched and ready. 'I told you, he's not my friend. Never was! Never!'
'I asked you a question,' said Mark, now blocking Sam’s progress. A huge grin stretched across Mark’s mud-flecked face, mixing with the rash of freckles across the nose and cheeks.
'Can. You. Talk?' asked Mark.
'He's a moron, Mark. Told you,’ said Varinder
'That's why I stopped being friends with him,’ said Finney.
'I just want to go inside,' said Sam.
'Who’s stopping you?' asked Mark. ‘On you go, just push past me, push me out of the way, and on you go inside. I won’t touch you. Promise.’
Silence.
Every child in the playground now had their eyes focused upon Mark and Sam. It energised Mark, made him feel bigger and stronger and so very important. Would there be a fight? Mark knew most hoped there would be. Nothing personal against Sam. They just wanted the sudden excitement of necks squeezed between forearm and bicep; of torn shirts and bloodied noses. One man down, another stood over.
The silence hung heavy and fierce.
Mark licked one finger, slowly, a string of spittle pulling taught then breaking as he finally pulled the finger from his mouth. He moved the wet finger towards Sam, touching the fingertip to his forehead, then running it down, across the eyes and over the lips, before lowering his hand and admiring his handiwork.
The Identical Boy Page 3