Joyride

by Patrick Ness

  ‘In a minute, Mike, Jesus, just get the gear and follow me, would you?’

  ‘Money first.’

  Fletcher swears under his breath and takes out a hundred quid from his wallet. ‘Hundred now, I’ll draw some more out when I get to a cash machine.’

  ‘Typical—you promised me two hundred and you haven’t even got it on you.’

  ‘Take the bloody money, I’ll sort you the rest. Anyway, once you see what’s going on in here you won’t be fussing over a few quid, there’s plenty more where that came from, I’m telling you. I wouldn’t be doing all this otherwise.’

  Mike takes the money and, muttering to himself, opens the back doors of the van. Fletcher winces at the sound of the heavy doors banging open but there’s not much that can be done about it.

  ‘You’ll have to help me,’ Mike tells him. ‘It weighs a tonne and one of the front wheels sticks.’

  Together they sort out a short ramp from the flatbed of the van to the ground and then Mike climbs into the van to guide the generator onto it. It’s a big red-and-black rectangle, three feet or so wide. It has handles on the back and wheels on the front so it can be shifted like a wheelbarrow. Between the two of them, they get it onto the ground.

  ‘There’s spare petrol in the back,’ says Mike. ‘And you’ll owe me for that as well, don’t forget.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah . . .’ Fletcher grabs the extra cans of petrol and leads Mike inside. He’s hoping this thing will do the trick, at least until he can figure out a more permanent solution. Mike uses the generator whenever he does outdoor gigs. Apparently it can kick out about 230 volts going full tilt and a full tank keeps the thing going for hours.

  ‘What is this place anyway?’ Mike asks as Fletcher leads him to the room with the sphere in it.

  ‘Nothing,’ Fletcher tells him. ‘It’s what’s inside that’s interesting.’ He has a sudden thought. ‘You got your phone on you?’

  ‘Course I have, why?’ Mike narrows his eyes. ‘You going to start running up a bill on that now, are you?’

  ‘I wish you’d stop moaning, Mike, I’m doing you a major favour here, you’ll see. Just leave your phone out here, it’ll get drained otherwise.’

  Mike starts muttering again but does as he’s told. That’s the best thing about Mike, Fletcher thinks: he may be a moaner but when it comes down to it, he does what you tell him.

  Leaving the phone on the dusty desk in what used to be the reception area, Mike follows Fletcher. He pushes the generator down the corridor and turns to the sphere room.

  He stops on the threshold. ‘What the hell is that thing, Garry?’ he asks.

  The sphere is barely lit now, and Fletcher knows they need to get moving. Who knows what will happen if the power runs out completely?

  ‘Just get the generator going, quick as you can, you’ll see.’ Mike doesn’t argue, he just keeps staring at the sphere—can’t take his eyes off it in fact—as he cranks the generator up.

  ‘Run it at a low output for now,’ says Fletcher. ‘Whatever the minimum is.’

  Mike nods and then stumbles back as the sphere starts pulsing brighter, feeding off the generator. ‘What’s it doing?’ he asks. ‘It’s not going to blow up or something, is it?’

  Fletcher hasn’t thought about this as a possibility, but can’t see why it would. When you’re clever enough to build a machine like this surely you’re clever enough to make sure it doesn’t explode.

  ‘It’s feeding off the power from the generator,’ he tells Mike.

  ‘Can’t be,’ says Mike. ‘I haven’t plugged it in.’

  ‘Doesn’t need plugging in,’ Fletcher explains, ‘it just drains whatever’s close by, that’s why I told you to leave your phone outside.’

  Mike shakes his head, not able to understand any of this. ‘This some sort of prank thing, Garry? You having a laugh with me or what? ’Cos if you are, I’ll kick your head in, you know that?’

  ‘No prank. You are looking at an alien power device.’

  ‘Alien?’ Fletcher has been prepared for the tedious explanations of this, but it turns out they’re not necessary. ‘That explains it, I suppose,’ says Mike.

  ‘You believe in aliens?’ Fletcher asks. He hears the incredulous tone in his voice and realises he’s being stupid. After all, so does he now.

  ‘Course I do. Who with an ounce of common sense doesn’t?’

  Fletcher laughs; the bit he thought would take major convincing is done in a heartbeat. Not that it would have been difficult. He was going to take Mike down the corridor and let him take a look at the . . . the other aliens! What if the power is waking them up?

  ‘You got your tools in the van, Mike?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah.’ Mike’s voice has gone dreamy, staring at the sphere as it pulses ever brighter, its liquid light splashing all over the walls. ‘Alien power source, can you believe it?’

  Fletcher is already running back out to the van. He pokes around in the back and finds a crowbar and a long-handled lump hammer. Perfect. He runs back inside, dragging Mike out of the sphere room on the way.

  ‘What’s the problem now?’ Mike asks. ‘Something else need fixing?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Fletcher hands him the crowbar. ‘I still haven’t told you how I found this place. I was dragged here by one of these aliens.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’ Fletcher’s thinking on his feet, but that’s OK, he’s good at that. ‘It had changed its shape to look like a human kid.’

  ‘Freaky.’ Mike’s nodding and Fletcher’s loving every minute. As soon as it comes down to aliens, this div is putty in his hands.

  ‘It tried to kill me, wanted to do experiments on me or something.’

  ‘Experiments on you?’ Now Mike sounds incredulous, like it’s fine until Garry Fletcher is chosen as a prime example of the human race.

  ‘Yes, Mike,’ Fletcher replies, grip tightening on the lump hammer. ‘On me, got a problem with that?’

  Mike shrugs. ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Only thing I could do: I killed it.’

  ‘You killed an alien?’ Mike is floundering now and Fletcher knows he has to work to get him back onside.

  ‘Yes I did, because it was it or me. And now we need to protect ourselves again, because there’s a bunch of them on the other side of this door and if they attack we’re screwed. For our sake—no, for everyone’s sake—we need to deal with them, and quick.’

  ‘There are aliens on the other side of this door?’

  ‘Mike, I need you to focus for me here. You trust me, yeah?’

  ‘Not really, mate, no. You’ve never given me any reason to, have you?’

  Fletcher supposes he’s got a point. ‘Doesn’t matter, I mean, thanks a lot, but I need you to help me with this. These things are dangerous and right now it’s down to us to deal with them.’

  ‘Screw that, we could just call the police.’

  ‘No! That’s the last thing we do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because this way we get to save the world and get really, really rich. If we call the police then we walk away with nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean really, really rich?’ Mike’s wavering; he’s not an idiot, he can feel the lure of cash like anyone.

  ‘I mean millionaires, Mike, seriously, there’s stuff here, stuff we can just take, that will mean we are seriously minted for life. Why should the government get it, eh? ’Cos that’s what will happen. The powers that be will just roll in and take everything. Why should we let them have it when we can solve the problem and keep it for ourselves?’

  Fletcher thinks for a minute.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll just do it on my own. I’ll bung you your two hundred quid, I’ll even throw in another hundred for the petrol. You stay out here and I’ll just make this my business, alright? I thought you’d want in, but it doesn’t matter, I can handle it on my own from here so you just wait outside and I�
�ll be with you in a minute.’

  ‘Well, hang on . . .’

  ‘No mate, seriously, you’re obviously not up for it. That’s fine. No skin off my nose. In fact, brilliant, I don’t have to share! I don’t want you involved, get out.’

  ‘That’s typical of you that is,’ says Mike, ‘I’m alright, Jack, sod everyone else. Nah, I’m not being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night then being fobbed off, shoved out of the way.’

  Mike pushes Fletcher to one side and moves to open the door. Fletcher’s enjoying this but he reckons one final nudge is probably best. He grabs Mike and pulls him back.

  ‘Not a chance, I gave you the choice and you made it. This is nothing to do with you now, you can sod off out of it.’

  Mike hauls him up against the wall, sneering face pushed right up into Fletcher’s. ‘I said no, Garry, alright? You’re not cutting me out of this, you get me?’

  Fletcher gives it a moment then nods with feigned reluctance. ‘OK, fine, we’re in this together.’

  They open the door and walk inside. Fletcher has been right to worry: where before there had been darkness, now lights are flowing across the metal frame, the rubber piping flexing of its own accord. The four aliens are clearly showing signs of life, their glistening, tubular limbs slowly flexing and twisting, their ill-formed heads rolling on barely discernible necks.

  ‘Jesus, Garry,’ says Mike, ‘just look at them!’

  ‘I know,’ says Fletcher, ‘disgusting, ain’t they?’

  And he starts swinging with the lump hammer, pounding into them as if they’re nothing but a partition wall they need to clear. Skin bursts. Pale blue, glutinous blood sprays in great arcs across the room. That sweet smell gets stronger by the second. Fletcher stops and stares at Mike. ‘Well?’

  Mike pauses for a moment then joins in, swinging the crowbar. Between the two of them, the place is a charnel house in seconds.

  ‘Job done,’ says Fletcher, pulling Mike out of the room.

  Mike hasn’t noticed the body of the kid because Fletcher was careful to shove it in the furthest corner, beneath the body of the alien. Fletcher thinks that, for now, it’s best to leave it that way. Smashing up weird-looking aliens is easy. Dealing with the sight of a dead kid? That might give Mike cold feet again, and Fletcher’s too tired to be bothered with it.

  They look down at the state of themselves, clothes dripping with that thick, syrupy stuff the aliens have for blood.

  ‘Bit of a state,’ Fletcher says.

  Mike’s face is slightly vacant, he’s retreated inside himself to deal with this. After a few seconds it’s as if he hears what Fletcher has said. ‘Think I’ve got some wet wipes in the van.’

  There’s a pause and then Fletcher starts laughing and, for a while, just can’t stop.

  This is the first day of the rest of his life.

  THIRTEEN

  SCHOOL, FOOTBALL PRACTISE, HOME

  Now that the idea that Ram might be in trouble has taken seed, it’s growing and it’s impossible to concentrate on anything else. After Quill finally manages to dismiss the rest of her class, she lets April tell the others what they talked about in the toilets. It’s vague, it means nothing, but fear for Ram gives it weight.

  ‘We need to try and find him,’ says Charlie.

  ‘You can’t just leave school,’ says Quill, ‘it’s a rule.’ She is immediately furious with herself for saying this. The Warrior Queen is worrying about someone getting detention slips. ‘OK,’ she continues, ‘forget I just said that. This irritating life is obviously getting to me.’

  ‘So what should we do?’ asks Charlie. ‘Where does Ram go?’

  ‘School, football practise, home,’ says Tanya. ‘That’s all I really know.’

  ‘He must do more than that,’ April replies.

  ‘He probably does, but you don’t actually know him that well, do you?’ says Quill. ‘If it wasn’t for the fight with Corakinus, you wouldn’t be talking to him at all.’

  There’s silence at that, because, awkwardly, they know it’s true. Ram wasn’t friends with them before the prom; in fact, nobody’s really sure he’s friends with them now.

  ‘We should check the playing field,’ says Tanya. ‘Just in case.’

  Quill is about to tell her there’s no point. Why would Ram come to school and then just hang around on the playing field? Then she realises she hasn’t a better suggestion of where to look, so keeps her mouth shut.

  ‘Maybe we’ll see someone there that knows him,’ suggests Charlie, ‘or has a better idea of where he might go when he’s not—’

  ‘Hanging around with you lot fighting monsters?’ interrupts Quill. She shrugs. ‘Everyone needs a hobby.’

  ‘And what are you going to do?’ Charlie asks her.

  ‘I could say it’s nothing to do with me,’ says Quill, taking some small pleasure in how Charlie’s face sours, ‘but then I know you’ll only go on. So, I’ll speak to his father.’

  ‘And say what?’ asks April.

  ‘I’m very clever, I’ll think of something.’

  Quill walks into the school office and straight into the path of Veronica Cutler, one of the teaching assistants. Quill does not like Veronica Cutler. Granted, Quill doesn’t like anybody, but she reserves a special quantity of bile for this whining, intrusive creature. She is all about brightly coloured clothing, theatrical affectation, and gossip. Being in her company is like having to share a very small cupboard with a very bright lightbulb.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says Veronica, as if this near miss is one of the greatest affronts she has ever had to face. ‘Is the school burning down?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ Quill replies, wishing that, just for a moment, Veronica could see what Quill really looked like before she was buried beneath this dull, soft suit of human skin. She imagines it would make Veronica scream. She loves the idea of Veronica screaming. ‘Where’s the secretary?’ she asks.

  ‘Who can tell?’ Veronica sighs. ‘She’s never around when you need her. The whole place is going to hell as far as I can see.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Quill, moving over to the secretary’s desk and sitting down in front of her computer. She hates computers, especially Earth computers. Earth has really mastered the technology of making computers pretend to be efficient while actually being the exact opposite. When you shout at them they don’t even answer back.

  ‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to do that,’ says Veronica, watching Quill as she stabs at the computer keyboard with her finger, like someone hunting for pressure points and the pain they will cause. ‘It probably breaches some rule or another.’

  ‘Do you really care?’ Quill asks, finally managing to open up the student database and scanning through it for Ram’s information.

  Veronica thinks for a moment. ‘No,’ she says eventually, with the gravity of a royal edict, ‘I don’t think I do. I mean, what with everything else, that fuss at the prom, the frightful business with the Sports Department.’

  ‘Frightful.’ Quill knows all she has to do is pretend to be listening.

  ‘And Coach Dawson was so delicious to look at, I thought.’ Veronica has a dreamy look on her face now.

  ‘All those lumps and bumps. And I swear he never wore a pair of underpants in his life. Shorts and tracksuit bottoms bulging and flicking in the most startling manner.’

  ‘Really?’ Quill has found Ram’s information and is reaching for the phone so she can call the daytime number listed. If there’s one thing she hates more than Earth computers, it’s Earth communications devices. After all, whenever you use one you end up talking to a human. It rings for a few seconds and is then answered by the receptionist at Ram’s father’s dental surgery.

  ‘I used to be quite hypnotised at times,’ continues Veronica, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Quill is trying to make a phone call. ‘Watching the movement in those tracksuit bottoms. It was like the pendulum on a grandfather clock.’

  ‘Hello,’ says Quill, doing he
r best not to just scream down the line, ‘I need to speak to Mr Singh, it’s Miss Quill from Coal Hill School.’

  ‘And as for when he went jogging . . .’

  ‘I am trying to make a phone call, you chattering sack of hormones!’ Quill shouts, then immediately apologises to the receptionist. ‘Sorry, yes, it’s about his son.’

  ‘Well,’ says Veronica, ‘if you’re going to be like that.’ She storms out and Quill breathes a sigh of relief. Varun Singh comes on the phone.

  ‘Hello, is there a problem?’ Quill can hear the panic in his voice and tries her very best to sound warm and charming to put him at ease. This is completely outside her skill set. She excels at fighting, killing, and guerrilla warfare. Warmth and charm were never things she had to learn.

  ‘So sorry to disturb you, Mr Singh,’ she says. ‘Please don’t worry, I’m sure everything’s fine. This is Ram’s physics teacher, Miss Quill.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I’ve heard about you.’

  What is that tone in his voice, Quill wonders, and what exactly has Ram been telling him about her?

  ‘Is my son OK?’ he asks again.

  She decides to be honest. ‘That’s why I’m calling. He didn’t attend my lesson today and, as I know he’s been going through a difficult time . . .’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ he says.

  Does he know? thinks Quill. Has Ram actually told him what’s been going on?

  ‘I just wondered if he’d stayed at home today?’ she asks.

  ‘I had to leave the house early, but I don’t think so.’ That panic is still there, Quill hears it clearly: he does know. That’s not the sound of a father who thinks his son might just be skiving off, that’s the sound of a father who thinks his son might be in danger. She’s not sure how she feels about that. She and Charlie are supposed to be hiding; she doesn’t want the whole damn world knowing who she is. Is this man going to be a problem? A threat?

  ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,’ she says—more, if she’s honest, because she doesn’t want him turning up at the school and kicking up a load of fuss.

  ‘Are you now?’ says Varun. ‘Well, I’m not. Have you tried to call him?’