A New Hero

by Curtis Jobling

  Laughing, Youngblood rolled the comics up and shoved them inside his jacket.

  Trick bit his lip. Fighting back would do no good at all. He’d only ever done it once in his life, and the jury was still out on whether he’d won then. That had been in middle school when the bully who’d tormented him throughout infants had pushed him once too often. He’d been known as Big Ben Barker. He’d had the beginnings of a moustache and he’d been still in short pants. For three years that brute had nicked his lunch, until Trick had finally reached breaking point. He’d gone berserk and lost it completely, beating the bully in a frenzied, uncoordinated assault. Hair-pulling, kicking, biting – it had been ugly – and it had taken the intervention of teachers to bring it to an end.

  Trick broke a thumb and lost a tooth that day, but he was never bullied by Big Ben Barker again. All that said, there were three of them here now, and going loco wouldn’t solve anything. There was only one way out of this, and it would be dangerous. Youngblood’s laughter subsided.

  ‘What else you got, Hopeless?’

  Trick shook his head. ‘I’ve got nothing.’

  A lie. And as his hand drifted instinctively towards the wallet in his jeans pocket Honey seized it, causing Trick to wince.

  ‘What you hidin’ from us?’ said Youngblood, reaching for the younger boy’s pocket as he struggled.

  It was now or never.

  Trick stamped down hard, flattening Honey’s foot beneath his heel. Somewhere inside her trainers he heard toes crunch. She cried out, letting go of his wrist as Trick brought his knee forward. It caught Youngblood in the sweet spot between the legs, and the bully tumbled back into Dogbreath’s arms with a yell of agony as Trick hurdled the railings and leapt out into the road.

  Youngblood’s curses followed him across the street, as Dogbreath jumped the barrier and pursued Trick out into the traffic. The rabbit looked back at the chasing pack as he reached the pavement on the other side of the road. Dogbreath was six metres behind, with his boss following. Of Honey there was no sign, her crushed toes having apparently taken her out of the game.

  One down, two to go …

  Trick turned into an alleyway, dashing past fire doors and bin bags as the walls closed in on either side of him. He saw the dead end fast approaching but felt no alarm. He was more than used to thinking on his feet. These were his streets. This was his world. As he neared the end of the alley, he aimed straight for a large green waste bin that was parked against the wall.

  His trainers pounded the uneven tarmac as he launched himself up on to its broad lid with a bang. Without breaking his stride, Trick leapt high, his fingertips catching the edge of a flat roof, toes scraping at the bricks as he scampered up the wall. Dogbreath bounced into the big green bin behind him, scrambling on to the top while Youngblood tried in vain to follow, his shortness scotching his chances.

  And then there was one …

  Trick ran along a flat roof, dashing up a fire escape to a second floor. As he reached the top, he saw that Dogbreath was still on his tail. He was a big guy but he was nimble. Trick ran along the roof, passing a skylight that looked down into a shop below, the occupants oblivious to the game of cat and mouse being played out above their heads.

  Ahead, Trick saw a gap between the buildings, a chasm yawning before him. He didn’t slow, trusting his parkour skills to help him escape the danger. They didn’t fail him. He sailed three metres forward through the air, another street whipping by beneath him. He landed on a lower roof, tucking into a roll that scattered a gathering of pigeons into flight. Then he was running once more. He looked back.

  The bully followed Trick’s lead, not slowing but opening his stride to leap the space between the buildings. He landed with a crunch and a curse, but quickly regained his feet.

  Big, nimble and not afraid of heights. Terrific.

  ‘Stop running, you little grunt!’ shouted Dogbreath. ‘You ain’t gettin’ away!’

  Another street loomed into view ahead, but this time there was no gap to leap, no alley to hurdle. It was a main road. Trick swallowed hard. He was two floors up and there was nowhere to run. But if he was caught now it would be game over. There was no choice. His trainers tore over the stony roof as he increased his speed towards the edge.

  ‘You nutter!’ screamed Dogbreath, as Trick’s foot hit the stone parapet and launched him out into the busy street.

  As he hit the red metal roof of the double-decker bus, Trick thought for a moment it might propel him back into the air like a trampoline. Instead it buckled with the impact as Trick threw his arms out, momentum carrying his body forward. As his fingers gripped desperately, steel squealing beneath him, Trick caught sight of the tall bully, left behind on the building. Just as Trick slid over the edge of the bus roof, a black cab pulled up beside it.

  That’ll do the trick …

  Trick let go.

  He bounced off the roof of the taxi and slid down the windscreen and over the bonnet. Followed by a torrent of profanities from the cabbie, Trick cut through another dingy side street that took him past noodle bars, pubs and swanky shops until he emerged, dishevelled, out into sunlight again. His heart hammering in his chest, slowly finding its regular rhythm again, Trick took a moment to get his bearings.

  Across the street stood the British Museum. Huge banners exalted the museum’s new show: Warriors of the World. Trick’s attention was focused elsewhere, though. If he headed east along Great Russell Street, he’d soon be back on track. He might even make it to school before the bell went for the end of the lunch hour. An afternoon in class was the first baby step towards Trick’s reformation, and that journey would begin today. He started along the pavement.

  ‘Oi!’

  Trick turned, along with everyone else in the street. It was Honey, hopping along the pavement, barging pedestrians aside as she made straight for Trick. She had her mobile phone in hand, and was no doubt relaying his whereabouts to her boyfriend.

  Trick didn’t hang about. He cut across the road, horns blaring as he dodged cars and vans, and dashed between a pair of great black iron gates. In seconds he was sprinting up a broad flight of stone steps, flanked by towering columns and crowds of gawping tourists. A heartbeat later he was swallowed by the cold shadows and labyrinthine halls of the British Museum.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The main exhibition halls of the British Museum were packed with a smorgasbord of colourful characters. Two school parties jostled past each other, exchanging insults and flirtations as the teachers ushered them by. Visitors from every continent brushed and bumped into one another, coachloads of Japanese and American tourists monopolizing the exhibits. It was all perfect for Trick. Here was a ready-made jungle for him to get lost in – and, better still, to put the hunters off his scent.

  Trick reached the end of a long corridor of artefacts, stopping beside a huge set of closed double doors. Two brass stanchions stood to attention on either side of the entrance, a thick red rope hanging between them, barring access. In case that wasn’t enough of a deterrent, a framed sign hung from one of the heavy wooden doors, informing the public that the new exhibition would not be open until the weekend. Trick balanced on tiptoes to look back through the crowd, searching the sea of bobbing heads for signs of his pursuers.

  Nothing. He was about to duck back down, a very contented meerkat, when he spied Honey’s unmistakable golden moptop. Her eyes might have been hidden by her thick, bushy fringe but, judging by the way her head suddenly snapped in Trick’s direction, he’d been spotted. He dropped low again, cursing his timing. He had to move fast; she’d be on him soon enough, with Youngblood no doubt close behind.

  Slipping beneath the red rope, Trick tried the door handle. It turned and the door opened a crack to reveal a darkened space beyond. Trick darted through, gently pulling it to behind him. Then he turned round, eyes struggling to cut through the darkness – and almost cried out in shock.

  An army of soldiers surrounded him, weapons raised to st
rike him down. Trick flinched, backing away and bumping into the double doors with a bang. But the soldiers didn’t attack. Instead they remained frozen, their blades unmoving. Trick blinked, letting his vision become accustomed to the gloom.

  Mannequins. Hundreds of them, disappearing into the recesses of the room, swallowed by the darkness. He moved forward, treading carefully along a rich red carpet, eyes fixed upon the figures, each dressed in outlandish garb. There were display cases too, loaded with artefacts from times long gone – scrolls, gems, scabbards and spearheads – genuine antiquities, presumably, as opposed to the fancy-dress outfits the mannequins were wearing.

  In the centre of one glass cabinet was a dish of smooth, dark polished rock. Roughly the size of a dinner plate, it seemed somehow familiar, but Trick couldn’t quite work out why. He moved on uneasily.

  He’d taken maybe a dozen steps when he heard a sharp noise from behind him. The door! It creaked open and a long, straight beam of light scythed through the shadows, silhouetting two figures – one bushy-headed, the other short and stocky.

  ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ said Youngblood.

  ‘We’re not gonna hurt you, Hopeless,’ added Honey. ‘Much.’

  With that, the girl pushed the door shut behind her. It closed with an echoing click that sent icy shivers cascading down Trick’s spine. The chill spread, gripping his heart and creeping over his chest like a flesh-eating frost. He looked around as he retreated among the army of dummies, searching for a way out. If there was one, it was hidden from view by the ranks of outlandishly dressed soldiers. Trick recognized some of them as he passed: Japanese samurai, Teutonic knights, Roman centurions and Spanish conquistadors. They were a multitude, each representing a warrior class from a different time and culture. He might have stopped to marvel at them, admiring their fierce beauty, had he not been the focus of Youngblood and Honey’s awful attentions.

  Trick could hear them whispering to one another, plotting their means of catching him. He winced, cold fear burning in the centre of his chest. He came to a halt against a wall, partially concealed by a scimitar-wielding Umayyad warrior. His hand went into his schoolbag, searching for something that might help him against them. Among the spilled Tic Tacs, his fingers found a biro. What was the saying? The pen is mightier than the sword? If only.

  But then a thought crept into Trick’s head. If he could distract the two thugs, there was a chance he’d escape the room in one piece. He pulled the ink cartridge out of the biro as he heard one of his foes approach.

  It was Honey; the tall girl’s mop of golden hair was the first thing to shimmer into view. She was pacing between the warrior mannequins, head flicking from side to side, drawing ever closer. He could hear her breathing, deep and ragged; she sounded exhausted from the chase and was possibly still limping from his stamp on her foot.

  Trick had always been told never to hurt girls, a rule he’d managed to follow – until today. However, when a girl was three years your senior, had a mean streak as wide as a motorway and intended to do you serious bodily harm, the rules got a little hazy. Honey was a stone-cold bully just like Youngblood and Dogbreath, and had to be feared and respected as such.

  She was six metres away. Trick clung to the shadows behind the ancient Muslim warrior, willing himself invisible as he brought the empty biro to his lips. He blew hard.

  Somewhere behind Honey, a tiny mint projectile pinged off a suit of plate-mail armour, making her spin round. Instantly, she was pacing towards it, leaving Trick with a clear path back to the big double doors. He gave silent thanks to the old pea-shooter he’d got as a Beano giveaway when he was in junior school. He’d misspent many hours blowing dried peas at the neighbour’s bull terrier. Tic Tacs were pretty much the same size and shape.

  Trick scampered through the shadows, staying low to the ground. He was nearing the door and the promise of escape when the cold tightness in his chest suddenly intensified, shifting into a very physical pain. He stumbled to a halt as the icy burning sensation drew his gaze to his chest and his eyes widened with shock.

  From beneath the fabric of his school shirt, a cold blue light emanated, as bright and beautiful as anything Trick had ever seen. He threw a hand over it, trying to shield the freakish azure glow from view, but it was hopeless. It shone from beneath his spread palm like a star, myriad rays arcing about the room. He looked up just in time to see Youngblood leap out of the shadows, a stanchion stolen from the entrance in hand. The brass pole swung down, forcing Trick to dive clear, striking the mannequin of a Celtic warrior, which came crashing down off its plinth on top of him.

  ‘You little worm,’ snarled Youngblood, a mad, murderous look in his eyes as the blue light cast a sickly glow over him.

  Trick was torn between evading the half-pint psychopath and looking down at the glow on his chest. His hand went from his schoolbag to his mouth, positioning the biro quickly back between his lips.

  ‘What you got there?’ spat Youngblood, jabbing the pole towards him. ‘Give.’

  Trick gave, but not what the knucklehead wanted. Another Tic Tac rocketed from the end of the plastic pen, catching Youngblood in the right eye. The bully screamed as he reeled back in agony. Trick scrambled away, gasping for breath, only to collide with the base of one of the giant display cases, sending it toppling to the floor in an explosion of glass. He cried out as he was showered in jagged shards, feeling them lacerate the flesh of his cheek.

  He curled into a foetal position, covered in ancient relics – coins, goblets, jewellery and totems. Then Trick’s eyes slowly reopened.

  There it was, half a metre away amid the wreckage, instantly commanding his attention. The black dish sat atop a bed of broken glass, shaking with a life of its own. The hairs on the back of Trick’s neck stood on end, as if the air around him were charged with electricity. His teeth hummed and his bones ached, while the pendant on his chest vibrated against his skin.

  Then he realized why the dish had seemed familiar. It was made of the same strange material as his pendant. Suddenly, one by one, glowing symbols burst into life round the plate’s circumference, leaving the centre of the plate bare of markings, a black hole within a blinding halo of bright blue energy.

  Trick’s stomach turned in on itself and the oxygen disappeared from his lungs. The pain was unbearable, making him roll across the broken glass, flipping and flopping like a fish out of water. Through the brilliant light, Trick could just make out the twin shapes of Youngblood and Honey as they stalked towards him. The shining stone pendant suddenly rose from Trick’s chest, levitating eerily before his face. The two bullies watched in slack-jawed wonder, their attack momentarily paused. Then Youngblood raised the brass stanchion once more, ready to strike his helpless prey, and Trick felt the cord round his throat go taut as the pendant whipped across him, snapping against the centre of the dish like a magnet.

  The last thing Trick saw was the descending metal pole before a heavenly light exploded, blooming, blossoming and swallowing everything.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The light was blinding and absolute, cold and cleansing. Is this heaven? Trick wondered. The deafening silence slowly changed into a dull, distant roar, building in the boy’s head and making his entire being shake. His body felt buffeted, buoyed, as if he were being carried upon a wave of brilliant energy. He might have found this comforting if it hadn’t been for the peculiar tapping at his skull, a steady rat-a-tat-tat that didn’t cease. A warmth spread through him, across his flesh and through his bones, as the deathly chill subsided.

  There was something else too – a surging, soaking sensation, running over his skin and face. The liquid ran into his mouth and down his throat, causing him to hack, cough and splutter. The rapping upon his head intensified now, a stabbing staccato beat played out urgently against the back of his skull. Trick thrashed where he lay, sand shifting beneath him as he struggled to lift his aching head from the strange, salty water. As his face emerged, the sound of the sea sudd
enly intensified, the dazzling light fracturing into myriad colours as the sun shimmered into life against a bright blue sky.

  Trick lifted a weary hand from the water to brush away the jabbing sensation from the back of his head. A flap of wings made him flinch as taloned feet suddenly disengaged from his shoulder, causing him to flop into the waves once more. Where was he? What on earth was going on? His exhaustion was absolute. He could have fallen back into the water and let the waves drag him out into the sea, if it weren’t for that bird. It was a big black crow, now hopping on the shore in front of him. It jumped from one foot to the other, kicking up the golden sand before leaping forward to jab him between the eyes with its beak. Trick winced, lashing out and sending the bird dancing clear with a flurry of feathers. It cocked its head suddenly, pointing its dagger-like beak back down the beach. Trick turned his aching neck, following its gaze.

  In the heat haze it was hard to distinguish where the beach ended and the sky began, but there was no mistaking the fact that a figure was running through the surf towards him. The man was about a hundred metres away; he was a few inches taller than Trick, but twice as wide, and kicked up sand and spray as he came. He wore pitch-dark leather boots and elbow-length gauntlets as well as a pitted black tabard running down to his knees that bore the stained image of a skull. The battered helmet he wore obscured his face from view, looking like an upturned tin bucket with rivets bolted round its base. A T-shaped slit ran across his eyes and down to the chin. Most alarming of all was the mace he carried in his right hand, its chain and ball circling round his head like a deadly, spiked propeller.

  Trick looked over his shoulder, back the other way, but saw nobody else on the beach. He returned his attention to the approaching man in the ridiculous outfit. Fifty metres and closing. Surely he can’t be running to me, reasoned the boy. Whatever this man’s beef was, it was hardly going to be with him, was it?