Son of Blood

by Craig Jones

  Out of the corner of his eye, Owen spotted that something was not right.

  No way, he thought.

  Without thinking, he plunged his fist into his trouser pocket, digging around amongst his loose change.

  ‘I’m going to freak out,’ he breathed, drawing strange looks from everyone. ‘No way, no way.’

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Frank.

  ‘I thought I had another twenty Euros. No, I was sure I did. But it’s gone.’

  ‘Is that all?’ moaned Frank. ‘Even if you have lost it, your family’s loaded. Just nick it out of your dad’s wallet. Again.’

  Owen laughed, and he felt the momentary tension in the room drain away. He sensed Christian’s eyes on him for a moment longer, and then they focused back on Frank as he ran through, yet again, his match winning score. Owen concentrated on not allowing any of their plan to surface in his mind. That moment had sealed it; he knew he was doing the right thing. If the boy’s powers were this strong, then he was a danger to the town.

  27

  Half an hour later and Sinead had finally relaxed.

  She loved spending time with Claire, but she had still been wary of Owen and Frank. However, so far she was pleased to have been proven wrong. David had always seemed harmless enough and tonight he really seemed more introverted than usual. She felt incredibly proud of Christian. She had known that his confidence had grown in recent weeks, but the last time they had been at the windmill she had felt she had to emotionally hold his hand the whole way through. Tonight he was bordering on confident. She glanced across at him, watched him deeply engrossed in what David and Frank were saying, what may have been a second can of beer in his hand, just being a normal teenager.

  And why shouldn’t he? she thought.

  He looked over his shoulder at her, his lips together as the words thank you drifted into her thoughts. Her eye widened and he shrugged his shoulders as if what he had just done was the most natural thing in the world.

  The spell was broken when Owen crossed the floor and sat with her and Claire.

  ‘Had Christian seen whole windmill before?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, I brought him here once.’

  ‘So you don’t think he’d like to see it again.’

  ‘I don’t know, not much to see,’ she said, slightly confused, but also concerned. She could smell the alcohol on his breath—maybe this was where he reverted and became an idiot about the whole her-and-Christian thing once again.

  He shook his head. ‘Why don’t I start again? Do you think Christian would like you to take him on another tour? Just the two of you?’

  ‘But we’ve seen it before, Owen.’

  He flashed his most genuine smile.

  ‘Okay. I’m betting you two don’t get much time together, so why don’t you take Christian on a tour and actually get what I’m hinting at here?’

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, with a giggle.

  ‘I can be thoughtful, you know,’ he said.

  ‘I know, I know. We’ve been friends for a long time, Owen, so don’t think I don’t know that. Thanks.’ She nodded towards Christian. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll send him over.’

  He slipped back towards the boys, leant over to tap Christian on the back and directed him to Sinead. He hopped to his feet and came to her.

  ‘Owen says you want me?’

  Sinead pulled a face. ‘How much have you drunk?’ she asked.

  ‘Less than they think,’ he whispered.

  ‘Good. I thought I’d give you a guided tour of the windmill again.’

  ‘But I’ve—’

  ‘I want to be alone with you so I can kiss you. Are you coming with me or not?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  As soon as they exited the room and the steps up to the first floor began to creak, Owen threw his can to the floor, its contents spilling in a wide arc as it rolled. He dashed to his rucksack and pulled out the prongs. He tested the sharpness with the tip of one finger and then turned to Frank.

  ‘Vodka,’ he demanded, but his friend was already by his side with the bottle open. He doused the metal and then took a clean tissue from his back pocket and soaked it in the alcohol.

  David finally pushed himself to his feet. He looked pale and his legs shook as he walked, this jaw was trembling. Claire stood in the doorway to the rear room, acting as lookout in case Sinead and Christian returned earlier than expected. David pulled down the collar of his t-shirt and let Frank swab his neck with the vodka.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked, his breath short.

  ‘Trust me,’ Owen hissed, his eyes narrow and dark, teeth gritted. ‘Frank, hold him steady.’

  ‘Ow,’ David retorted as Frank gripped his shoulders and roughly turned his head to one side.

  ‘Shut it!’ Owen snarled. ‘You want to give us away?’

  David shook his head as best he could with Frank’s forearms wrapped around him.

  ‘Just hold still and this will hardly hurt. And remember, let the blood drip everywhere. We need to make it look like a fight. And as soon as there’s enough blood, Claire, you yell for them to come down and then you get out in the street and scream for help.’

  Owen lifted the prongs to David’s neck.

  ‘Are we ready?’

  Everyone except David nodded. Sweat was beading his brow. He thought he was going to faint, or puke, or both. Everything had happened so quickly, and now the two sharp spikes of metal were right there, and they were coming closer to him, and he wanted to back away but he couldn’t move and he was fading and even though he could hear voices, he could not understand what they were saying.

  ‘Are you sure that’s the place?’ Frank asked, suddenly concerned.

  Owen touched the tips of the prongs to David’s skin.

  ‘You concentrate on holding the little wimp up; I’ll concentrate on the anatomy.’

  ‘I’m just checking,’ Frank responded. ‘Are you sure?’

  Owen pushed a little harder and two tiny blossoms of blood pooled around the metal tips.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. The left side of the neck, it’s safer.’

  He pushed a little harder, widening the incisions.

  ‘But his left or your left?’ Frank implored.

  ‘Oh…’ Owen muttered, his hand suddenly shaking, an extra centimeter of metal sliding into David’s neck, the prongs twisting in his grip, tearing at the skin.

  Owen jerked the prongs away and let them fall to the floor. If Frank had not been holding David up, he would have been sprawled across the concrete. Owen examined the wound. It may be in the wrong place, it may be deeper than he hoped, but it looked just like a scene from a horror movie: two holes in David’s skin with a steady stream of blood flowing from them.

  And then David’s eyes flew open and he took a huge gulp of air. And that was when it happened.

  Blood gushed from the holes in his neck. It spurted out, splashing where it hit the floor, running in rivulets where it splattered against the walls. Frank released David with a disgusted gasp and the smaller boy grabbed at his throat with both hands, which were immediately drenched like macabre bloody gloves. He staggered around the room with Claire, Owen and Frank dancing around him, trying to avoid the blood and trying to avoid his hands as they reached out for help. The room was quickly beginning to resemble a slaughterhouse. David sank to his knees and screamed.

  ‘Claire! Go!’ Owen shouted as loud footsteps could suddenly be heard from the floor above. ‘Go!’

  It broke her spell and she ran for the door, slipping momentarily in David’s blood. Once she was out in the open she began to yell her lungs out. Owen opened his rucksack again and pulled out the towel he had brought. He rushed to David’s side and jammed the fabric in against the wound. Blood continued to pulse out, and within seconds the towel was a sodden mess.

  ‘I don’t feel good,’ whispered David, only his face and hair free of blood, and he slumped against Owen’s shoulder.
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br />   As Sinead and Christian appeared in the doorway, Frank kicked the kitchen prongs out of sight.

  Sinead could not believe the sight that met them. Owen was on the floor, cradling his friend. Frank was stood motionless, a terrified look across his face. And David was clearly in a bad way.

  ‘Christian, help me!’ shouted Owen. ‘You’re the strongest; you have to carry him so we can get him to the hospital.’

  Without question, Christian crossed the room and lifted David up in his arms. The boy’s head flopped back and the towel fell to the floor. A narrow jet of blood erupted from David’s wound, covering Christian’s chin and clothes. He rubbed his face against his shoulder to try to take most of the blood away but only succeeded in smearing it across his mouth. Sinead burst into tears when she saw the wound—she could not understand what could have caused it, what the boys must have been doing.

  Owen rushed to the door. Christian brushed past him, turning sideways to squeeze through. Owen caught sight of David’s pale face as he passed. He could no longer be sure that his friend was even still breathing. He held the door open while Frank and Sinead, both openly weeping, hurried outside.

  What have I done? he thought as he followed them, as the world then went crazy.

  28

  When Christian, with Sinead at his side and David in his arms, rounded the windmill and hastened down the shallow grassy embankment towards the gap in the fence and the road, he was met by dozens of people. Over their heads, Sinead could see that many doors of the houses opposite were open, but it didn’t take a genius to work out that those gathering came from a wider area than the immediate locale.

  ‘There he is!’ Claire screamed, rushing to the front of the gathering crowd, pointing at Christian.

  The mass of people collectively gasped and seemed, as one, to take a step backwards. A few outbursts could be picked up from the general hubbub that ensued.

  ‘It’s like he said.’

  ‘Robinson was right.’

  ‘Who’s going to do something?’

  Christian continued to walk towards the fence, the weight in his arms becoming heavier as his mind was assaulted with the thoughts of so many people. For the first time in weeks, he was filled with fear. It did not matter what skills he had learned or developed; what mattered now was the onrushing hatred of him that he was being buffeted by.

  ‘Somebody help him!’ screamed Sinead, and a few men at the front of the horde rushed forward, ducking through the gap in the fence.

  That was when Owen and Frank ran out from behind the windmill. Both had bruises across their faces and Frank’s nose was bleeding.

  ‘He did it!’ shouted Owen, pointing at Christian. ‘He attacked us and then he bit David.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Sinead

  ‘He punched us first,’ said Frank, ‘And then he ate him. Somebody has to stop him!’

  Owen shot Frank a filthy look that said, Don’t be ridiculous. It had been a good enough idea of Frank’s to make it look as if they had been attacked by the little freak, too, but that was enough. He could not, however, have planned the next moment any better.

  The three men had reached Christian and two took David from him. The third stared at his face. He turned to the crowd.

  ‘He’s got blood on his lips. It’s like Robinson told us!’

  ‘No, I…’ Christian did not have a chance to finish. Owen ran up behind and smashed his fist as hard as he could into the back of Christian’s skull. Christian tumbled forward, crashing face first into the grass, and Owen kicked him in the ribs as he tried to push himself back up. The men who had taken David’s body eased him through the fence and laid him down in the road.

  ‘Does anyone know first aid?’ someone shouted.

  ‘I’ve called an ambulance.’

  ‘I phoned the police.’

  ‘Leave him!’ Sinead shouted, rushing towards Owen, but Frank intercepted her and threw her to the ground.

  ‘You need to keep out of this,’ he said, wiping blood and snot from his flared nostrils. ‘Wouldn’t want you getting hurt too, would we?’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she cried.

  Frank turned and looked at Owen, then back at Sinead. She sighed harshly. So it had been Owen’s plan all along. The tears that fell from her face were of nothing but anger. She tried to get to her feet, wanting to rush at him, punch him and kick him down, but Frank blocked her way. So she waited. It would be better to get at him when the time was right rather than get it wrong now.

  ‘Who’s going to help me?’ Owen yelled as he kicked Christian again. More people tried to clamber through and over the fence. Owen brought his foot back once more, but as he swung it Christian blocked it with his forearm, rolled his hand until he grasped Owen’s ankle, and flicked the boy up into the air, backwards and away. Owen landed in a tangled heap and Frank rushed to help him to his feet. In the distance, the sounds of sirens approaching could be heard, and over the top of all else a single voice howled out into the night.

  ‘He’s dead!’

  The crowd parted and Claire, on her knees next to his body, pushed David’s hair back from his face with her own shaky, bloody hands, leaving streaks of red along his unmoving features. She turned and looked through the fence. She was pointing at Owen but everyone else saw her point at Christian, still bent over on the grass.

  ‘It’s all his fault!’ she said.

  ‘Let’s get him,’ Owen snapped, and the crowd surged. Christian, using all of his strength, flung himself up into the air and hung there, his arms out at his sides to steady himself, his long canines exposed. The sudden forward movement of the mass stopped. Christian looked down at Sinead and nodded. She returned the gesture, and then he was gone, straight up into the clouds as fast as he could force himself to go.

  Then the sirens arrived with the flashing lights of the emergency services, and there was the mind-numbing chatter as everyone wanted to tell the police and the medics what they had seen, what they were sure was the definitive version of events.

  Sinead waited until Frank turned his back on her, his attention drawn away, and then—as she had been taught in her lessons—attacked his weak spot; she drove her leg out, her foot impacting with the back of his knee. He tumbled to the ground with a grunt and she shot off across the field, away from the windmill and away from the crowd. Only Owen saw her leave.

  29

  Martin could sense a deep unease from across the water in Skerries, but as of yet he had been unable to pick up on anything specific. He closed his eyes and searched the town for the thoughts of his son, but there was so much confusion over there that it was like a blanket of static had been tossed over the town. Yes, he could hear voices, but no, he could not discern any single clear voice.

  He stood inside the tower, his hands on either side of the door frame. From the candlelight behind, he could see how tightly he was gripping the wood; not only were his knuckles standing out and glowing white with tension but his fingertips were leaving indentations in the ancient timber. He rocked forward and back as he carefully scanned the beaches, the Head, and deeper into the town itself. There was definitely something not right, but it was beyond his vision to find out just what and, most importantly, if his son was in any danger.

  The moment he saw the blue and red flashing lights, he exited the tower and turned to lock the door, slipped the key inside his jacket pocket, and tested that it was securely shut. He knew Christian had his own key and would be able to enter unhindered should the boy return before Martin. As he strode purposefully towards the edge of the island he noticed, for the first time, that a solitary car was driving through the parking lot on the tip of the Head, its headlights cutting a path through the night. It stopped and he watched the passenger emerge and begin flashing a handheld flashlight in Martin’s direction.

  Connor, thought Martin, and he launched himself forward, battling against the heavy wind that was building as he surged across the gap between the island and the mainland. H
e flew with pace, low to the surface of the sea. It was beginning to cut up rough and the front of his clothes became damp where the waves splashed him, tried to scrape watery fingers across his chest and draw him down into the depths. He did not care. He had only one thought, and that was for the safety of his son.

  If he had listened to the voice screeching from the tiniest space at the back of his mind, he would have realized how fearful he was of what Connor had to tell him. It seemed like only yesterday that the mayor had met him to tell him Fionnuala had died, and now…

  Focus, he thought as the rocks rushed towards him. He approached the path far too quickly and almost fell as he landed, breaking into a run as Mooney began to approach, one hand raised, the other carrying the flashlight at his side. The sky was rapidly beginning to fill with dark, rolling clouds heavy with rain and thunder. The night had taken on a desolate and wintry feel, and Mooney shivered even inside his heavy raincoat.

  ‘Martin, we have a problem,’ he said as his old colleague came within hearing distance.

  ‘Christian? Where is Christian?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it seems he’s hurt one of the local lads.’

  ‘He wouldn’t. He couldn’t…’

  ‘Martin, I said it seems to be the case. I didn’t say I believed it.’

  Mooney looked tired and worn down and he felt more tired and more worn down than ever before in his life. Martin began to walk away from him, heading for the town.

  ‘There’s more,’ he blurted.

  Martin turned, a look of desperation on his face that the mayor had only seen once before.

  ‘It’s Robinson. He’s generated support. Support against you, me, Christian. He’s been provoking people, saying the town doesn’t need… I don’t know how to say this. Saying the town doesn’t need both of you. I think he’s behind whatever’s happened with Christian.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to find your boy and get the hell back to your island. I can sort out the rest of this, but find him and find out what went on. Find out why the kid is injured. And Martin? Make sure it’s the truth. Our future depends on it.’