The Identical Boy

by Matthew Stott

  Or else what? What if they could smell the change on him too? Taste it in the air. Maybe they’d drop him. Kath would be the new leader. They’d come after him next. Sick in the head ex-bully Mark. It would be him on his knees in the woods as the others circled and jeered and thought of new things they could make him do.

  Someone entered the toilets. Mark kept quiet. Footsteps on tiles, click-clack over to the sink. The water ran. A paper towel was pulled and then disposed of. Then the footsteps passed by once again. Stopped. Walked back a step or two, then turned to face the door of Mark’s cubicle.

  Mark held his breath. Two scuffed shoes stepped into view in the gap between the door and the floor. Mark’s lungs burned as he denied them breath.

  ‘Knock knock.’ Sam’s voice.

  Mark said nothing, his back pressing against the cistern.

  The feet turned, click-clacked across the tiles, then left the bathroom.

  Mark realised he was trembling.

  He waited for almost seventeen minutes, then slid the lock aside as slowly and quietly as he could and crept out.

  ~Chapter Fourteen~

  Mark was still five minutes from home when he realised that someone was following him.

  He didn’t hear anything, or really even see anything, but the hairs on the back of his neck? They knew.

  He stopped and looked around.

  The street was empty but for a cat asleep under a car.

  Mark carried on, turning into the park to take the shortcut home. The park where he’d gobbed in Sam’s face. The last place he’d felt completely whole and himself. Then that mad Ally had booted him in the side. It had all been downhill since then. The world had tilted and gone strange. He strode swiftly through the deserted park; the wind pulled at his coat.

  A squeak as the swing to Mark’s left began to move back and forth, but there was nobody on it. The wind?

  Maybe.

  Hopefully.

  Mark passed where he had sat atop a terrified Sam, where he had spat in his face; he increased his pace towards the exit.

  Down one street and the next he went, his pulse thump-thumping in his ears. Every few seconds he looked back, only to see nothing. As soon as he turned away again, he would feel his pursuer. They were keeping pace with him. In no hurry.

  Mark wasn’t sure when he’d started to run, but by the time he reached the field he was sweating and gasping for breath.

  He leaned on the fence that enclosed the field with the tall, thick, overgrown grasses, and sucked in oxygen. It was the field where he’d run from Sam. From both Sams.

  Mark knew he was in terrible danger out in the open, could feel it deep in the pit of his stomach. He desperately needed to get off the streets and into the safety of his home. Door locked, deadbolted, safe and sound. Cutting across this field achieved that quicker than going the longer route. In fact, it would shave almost four minutes off his journey.

  But still. It felt like a risk. Like tempting fate somehow. Last time he climbed into this field he’d stepped into another world. Maybe he should just go the long way.

  Feet shuffled sharply behind him and the decision was made. Mark grabbed the fence and swung himself over and into the field.

  The grasses and weeds danced back and forth before him, buffeted by the breeze. The noise sounded like a multitude of whispers swirling around him. Indecipherable, insistent, sinister. Mark kept his eyes on his destination, on the fence on the far side of the field, and fought his way through the thick obstruction.

  He would make it. He would make it. The far fence, up and over, then a short run to his house and safety.

  He would make it.

  A little over halfway across, he realised it was a mistake.

  Something moved behind him. Mark looked back over one shoulder, but didn’t stop. There was no one following him. No one that he could see, at least. The vegetation hid any pursuer.

  He pushed on. Faster now. The whispering grasses swinging back and forth in front of him, almost as though they were trying to shoo him backwards. Like they were in on it.

  A new sound. Low. Guttural. Hungry.

  Mark ran, or tried to run, but the grasses were so tall and thick it was like running through water. Worse than that. Every step threatened to halt his progress, to pull him to the ground. Finally, the grasses had their way, and Mark tumbled forward, the ground coming up to meet him. The grasses swallowed him, hiding the sky, hiding the fence. Hiding escape.

  Mark gasped as he hit dirt, the air knocked from his chest, the world spinning. He curled up for a moment, listened, tried to peer into the darkened, alien world he now found himself in. He could see no sign of the thing following him, no further guttural sounds. Pulling a lungful of air, Mark pushed at the Earth to try and get back to his feet.

  A hand caught hold of his ankle.

  Mark screamed.

  It was a mad scream. Panic embraced him as he wiggled and kicked back again and again until finally his ankle came free and he ran for the fence as though his very life depended upon it.

  He knew that it did.

  A few minutes later, and Mark’s trembling hand tried once, twice, a third time to insert the key into his front door, his eyes darting over each shoulder in turn as the everyday became suddenly impossible and terrible. The key struck wood once again and tumbled to the front doorstep. Cursing, Mark grabbed for it, finally managing to slot it home. He turned the key and almost fell across the threshold, throwing the door closed and sliding the deadbolt home.

  He was inside. He was safe.

  Mark staggered back, breath ragged, and looked at the closed and barred front door, at the thick, opaque glass panel set into the door’s top third, looking for any sign of his stalker stepping into view. Seconds that felt like minutes crept past, the world a noisy pounding in his ears.

  Nothing.

  Mark turned and made his way to the kitchen, to the back door. He tried the handle; it was locked. Good. He peered through the glass into the back garden; it was empty.

  He sat for a second to catch his breath, to slow down his racing heart. He was alone in the house, would be for hours. His Mum was on the late shift at the pub where she worked. It would be after three by the time she got home. Mark’s sister was at her Dad’s for the rest of the week.

  So Mark sat in the silence of his house, and he listened.

  It was irrational now, surely? To be scared. He was inside. The doors locked. No way in. He was safe.

  The hairs on the back of his neck didn’t seem to believe that.

  Mark scraped back the chair he was sat on and went through to the front room. He grabbed the remote and turned on the television—anything to break up the oppressive silence, to interrupt his whirling imagination.

  What was it that had been following him? Sam, he assumed—no, he knew. He hadn’t seen Sam, hadn’t seen anything at all, but he knew. But what did that make Sam? He was no ordinary boy; that was obvious. Mark didn’t believe in monsters, but—

  Metal screeched. Mark’s heart missed a beat.

  He stood. In the background people were discussing houses they were doing up to sell on. Probably only need to sink a couple of grand into refurbishment, they thought.

  screeeech

  Mark stepped into the corridor, towards the front door. There was a shadow across the glass panel. Shoulders. A head.

  screeeech

  The letter box squeaked again, metal-sharp, running a fingernail down Mark’s spine. A small hand slid through the letter box and into the corridor, fingers wiggling.

  ‘Go away, or else! Or else … I’ll—’

  A finger crooked, beckoned Mark forward. He grabbed an umbrella from its place propped against the wall and swung at the hand again and again until it retreated, sliding back out of the letterbox, the flap screeching again as it swung shut.

  Mark tossed the umbrella aside and grabbed the cabinet from beside the door, whose only purpose was to hold a dish into which his Mum dropped her front
door keys. He dragged it towards the door, barring the letterbox. The metal flap screeched and tap-tap-tapped against the wood of the cabinet. Mark stepped back.

  He grabbed the landline. This was too much; he had to call someone, had to call the police. He dialled and held the receiver to his ear.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  Mark dropped the receiver; it clattered against the wooden floor.

  ‘Can I come in please?’

  Mark yanked the phone line from the wall.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  The cabinet in front of the door swung aside, as though yanked away by an invisible line. The letterbox screeched open and the hand reached through once again. Then the wrist. Then the arm. It kept sliding through towards a horrified Mark, stretching impossibly, fingers eager to sink into him.

  It was going to get in! Mark knew it. He couldn’t stay, had to go, had to run. He had to get out, out, out—

  Mark turned and ran for the back door; he reached for the key to unlock as a figure stepped into view through the glass panel.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  It was Sam.

  Mark stopped and looked again. No, that wasn’t Sam at all. Now he looked at him again, it seemed to look nothing like Sam. How could he have ever thought that it was? Oh, it looked like him, sort of, but it was like a copy that couldn’t quite hide the fact that that’s all it was. The eyes were the main giveaway. There was nothing human about those eyes.

  And then there were the teeth.

  The boy who looked nothing like Sam tapped slowly at the glass with a single, sharp fingernail and tried the door handle.

  ‘Mark. Can I come in?’

  ‘Please, leave me alone! Just go away, please! I won’t tell anyone or do anything; please!’

  The boy who wasn’t Sam smiled, a smile that now seemed too large for his face, displaying teeth that ground and dripped and hungered.

  The key turned in the lock. Mark looked in disbelief. It was turning, yet no one was touching it.

  ‘Can I come in now, Mark?’

  The door swung open, Mark fell back against the table, his heart screaming its complaint as it beat faster and faster and faster still.

  The boy stepped inside and closed the door behind him, turning the key in the lock.

  ‘Now, then. What shall we do first, you and I?’

  Mark the bully wanted to scream, but as he opened his mouth wide the boy reached down into his throat and stole the sound.

  ~Part Three~

  Sam & the blood oath

  ~Chapter Fifteen~

  It was announced in school assembly that morning.

  Mark hadn't been in school the day before. Nothing unusual about that—he skipped classes all the time. Fake sickness, walk right out of the building on a whim, never come in to school in the first place. Par for the course. It was Mark. So none of the kids gave it a second thought, nor most of the teachers, or his gang. Not even Sam.

  Since the prank Sam and his best friend had played on Mark in the field, Sam had grown to appreciate the moments he and Mark shared the same space. The yard, the dinner hall, the corridors. Feeling the bully shrink as he passed, avoid his gaze, slink away, not daring to look in his direction, made Sam feel … powerful. Sam had never felt powerful before. He found he quite liked it. Wanted it. Wanted more.

  The Headmaster, Mr Tarren, coughed as he stepped up to the lectern, silencing the multiple conversations that were reverberating around the hall.

  'You're going to hear about it sooner or later, so we thought it best I stand up and say a few words to you all now. Stop the gossip or any of you stumbling over the news on the TV or on your phones.' Mr Tarren shifted stiffly on the low stage at the front of the hall, every child in school sat in neat rows before him.

  'Now many of you will be … aware of Mark Carter.' Sam's ears pricked up.

  'I'm afraid I received some bad news this morning.' Mr Tarren swallowed and adjusted his stance. 'There, well, it seems there was a break-in of some sort at Mark’s house, whilst he was home alone. And…something happened to him. It seems he was taken. The Police believe it may have been assault and kidnap, or, well…worse. That’s all the details I have right now.'

  An explosion of voices blasted out around Sam. He sat quietly at the centre, stunned.

  'Okay, quiet down, please, quiet down.' After a few seconds, the roar of children dulled and silence fell.

  'The police are investigating the circumstances. Please do not talk to any journalists. If any approach you, please tell myself or the nearest teacher that you can find. Anyone who feels…upset, or…sad, please approach your form teacher and they will arrange for you to speak to someone qualified.'

  Mr Tarren nodded and stepped down from the stage to talk to some of the other teachers gathered in front.

  Was Mark dead? Sam suddenly felt very sure that’s what the teachers thought. That Mark had been taken. Murdered. Sam felt a hollow thud in his stomach.

  The voices began to surge again around him, whirling, but soon they became a distant rumble and Sam was somewhere else. He was in a kitchen that he didn't recognise. Mark was there. He was on the floor, mouth wide in a silent scream. So scared, so scared, waiting for the end. A hand was reaching towards him. Sam’s hand? So very scared, eyes wide. Death was moments away, death was—

  'Sam?'

  He jerked out of his dream and blinked back into the present. He was now the only child left in the hall, Mr Tarren stood over him.

  'You were staring off into nothing there. You feeling okay? You and Mark aren't friends, are you?'

  Sam's jaw worked silently for a second, before some words dragged dryly from his throat. 'No. No, we’re not friends. Weren’t friends. Not at all.'

  ‘Right. So. Did you want to talk to anyone about this whole … situation, or…?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Okay, it just looked like the news knocked you back a little. There’s no shame in having a chat about it, you know.’

  ‘No. I don’t need to.’

  Sam stood and left the hall, trying to keep hold of some memory of the place he'd just been to, but it faded and was gone by the time he'd made it to the corridor.

  ~Chapter Sixteen~

  'Apparently his Mum found the kitchen a mess, blood everywhere,' said Dad over tea.

  Mum lowered her fork. 'And? Go on, what next?' She was salivating, but it had nothing to do with food.

  Sam ate his tea quietly. Ever since the news of Mark's disappearance had broken, it was all anyone talked about—from the kids at school, to the teachers, and now Sam's parents. Everyone seemed to relish the story. They pored over every made up fact, telling tall tales about what they’d heard from a friend of a friend. Lies becoming truths, twisted and handed on.

  Dad continued: 'I heard she went up to his bedroom next, pulled back the covers and, well. A mess. Like he'd been pulled apart, or chewed up and spat back out again. Course, the police are keeping that bit all under wraps whilst the investigation is ongoing. Calling it a ‘disappearance’. Must think we’re daft.'

  'Bloody hell….' Mum raised the fork to her mouth and proceeded to chew thoughtfully upon a hunk of pork. 'How many bits was he in? Arms and legs?'

  'Yeah. I think so. He definitely had a leg off, anyway. And his head! Head was found under the bed, both eyes wide open still.'

  'Blimey….' Chew, chew, swallow.

  Sam hadn't been able to stop thinking about Mark since the announcement in assembly. He'd even gone the long way home to pass by Mark’s house. A police car had been parked outside, an officer half-asleep in the driver’s seat. The truth was that no details had been released by the police. Not yet. But still people revelled in imagined horror.

  'He was a bully,' said Sam.

  Dad turned to him in surprise. 'What's that?'

  'A bully. Mark was a bully. Every single day of his life, that’s all he did. He punched. He spat. He prodded. He hurt. He humiliated. Every single day.’ Sam shrugge
d. ‘Maybe he just finally bullied the wrong person. Got what was coming to him. I don’t think anyone will miss him all that much. His Mum maybe. Maybe not. Probably not.'

  Sam’s parents looked at him, wide-eyed; Mum even paused mid-chew.

  'That is a disgusting thing to say, Sam!' said Mum. 'He's been brutally murdered and you sound like you're glad he's dead!'

  Sam didn’t say anything, just reached for the salt and sprinkled it liberally over his food.

  'Disgusting,' agreed Dad. ‘Show a little respect for the dead, boy.’

  Mum shook her head and turned back to Dad. 'So his head was completely off?'

  'Completely off. Good night, Vienna.'

  'Bloody hell….'

  ***

  Sam sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor; his friend sat opposite. It was almost as though Sam was sat before a mirror, so perfectly did the two seem to match.

  'I think Mark was killed,' said Sam.

  ‘What’s that?’ replied the boy.

  ‘Mark. The bully. I think something terrible happened to him.’

  The boy nodded. 'I heard,’ he replied. ‘'Do you feel sad? It seems like you feel sad. Why?'

  Sam thought about this. Did he feel sad? No. Perhaps that made him a bad person. But no, it wasn't sadness he was feeling, it was uncertainty. Like his stomach was constantly churning since hearing the news, and he wasn't quite sure why. Like he should know. Like it was being hidden from him.

  'No,' said Sam. 'I dunno. He was horrible, but…. wait, how do you know about what’s happened to Mark?’ asked Sam.

  ‘You know, don’t you? How could you know something that I didn’t? Aren’t we best of friends? Better than best?’

  ‘Better than best,’ agreed Sam, and his heart felt like it grew half a size as he said the words. Better than best friends.

  'You know, I think I had a weird daydream about Mark’s house after being told,' said Sam. 'I think I did. I've never actually been in his house though, so I don't know.'