Amanda Lester and the Black Shadow Terror

by Paula Berinstein

  He could still hear that background noise too, a lot of roaring and clanking that started and stopped spasmodically, almost as if he were in a factory. This room must be the factory office, or one of them at any rate. How ironic. Another Moriarty, another factory, just like Blixus’s sugar factory, the one Amanda had penetrated during first year.

  Now that he had an inkling of where he was, his first order of business was to free his arms and legs. That meant either finding a way to cut his bonds or slip out of them. The latter might be easier. No equipment required.

  Clive was a skinny boy with thin wrists, and it was easy for him to twist and rub his hands and arms together into different configurations. Moriarty hadn’t tied the ropes that tight either. Perhaps he could wriggle out of them. It was too bad his hands were behind him and he couldn’t see what he was doing. He was pretty sure that if the light were better and he could watch himself he could manage it, but as it was all he could do was come frustratingly close.

  Well then, perhaps his feet. Here he did better. Moriarty had been particularly careless tying his ankles together and he was able to slip one foot out of the noose. But just as he was freeing the other one the criminal came back.

  The first thing he did upon seeing Clive with his feet free was reach in his pocket and point a pistol at him. Then he broke into raucous laughter.

  “I’ll bet you thought you’d seen the last of me,” he guffawed. “How little you know me, young man.”

  He kicked Clive’s legs out from under him and Clive fell onto the chair, tailbone first. “Ouch,” he ejaculated, or would have if he hadn’t been gagged. As it was it came out “Mphgb.”

  “Shut up,” said Moriarty. “Do you think I’m stupid? Even if you had got out of my office, this place is full of my associates. Don’t think that because the equipment isn’t running we’re closed. Someone is always here at the sugar factory.”

  Sugar factory? No, it wasn’t possible. Could this be the same sugar factory Blixus was using in the twenty-first century? The thought was mind-boggling. More than a hundred years of crime all run from the same place. Clive wondered if the detectives knew. There were so many things the teachers never divulged that anything was possible.

  But the coincidence wasn’t relevant to the situation at hand. What mattered was that he was still a captive. His best chance now was Simon. He just hoped he would come through soon if not immediately.

  The next morning Moriarty was raring to go again. Clive had barely slept, although the villain had taken pity on him and allowed him to lie down on a blanket for the rest of the night. He was afraid that thus weakened he would crack for sure and either tell the truth or let it be it pulled out of his head.

  The exercises got worse now. No longer was Moriarty trying to inflict pain. He had graduated to messing with Clive’s very thoughts, much the way his descendants had done with Amanda. But rather than inserting thoughts as the three brothers had done, this criminal was trying to read them,

  “I don’t understand,” he said after one particularly grueling session. “Who is Gaston Thrillkill?” Clive was too exhausted to speak even if he’d wanted to. “And this boy Ramon you keep thinking about. You say his name is Splunk. Any relation to that idiot Micajah?”

  All Clive could do was shake his head. He didn’t even know what he was shaking it about.

  “Tell me who the girl and boy are,” said Moriarty.” Why do they keep appearing near my shadows?”

  Clive said nothing. He did, however, try very hard to focus on his own breath. It wasn’t easy.

  “Why am I not getting anything?” said Moriarty. He paced around the room, wiping his forehead with his hand. “Bah. You’re useless. You’ve got a head full of nothing.”

  Clive almost smiled. Even if Moriarty was reading his mind, he couldn’t understand what he was getting. There was some satisfaction in that anyway.

  “Come on, Simon,” he thought. “Now would be a good time.”

  But Simon didn’t come.

  The standoff continued throughout the day. The fact that Moriarty was continually frustrated gave Clive strength, although not enough to keep him out of his head entirely. But as long as he was there he wasn’t out capturing Amanda and Nick, which was also to the good, at least for now.

  Come evening Moriarty disappeared again. He had fed Clive some godawful gruely stuff as well as a bit of awful-tasting water, and his stomach growled. But at least he was still alive. Where there was life there was hope. He was miserable but things could be worse.

  When the criminal returned in the wee hours of the morning he was walking on air.

  “I’ve been saving up a little tidbit for you,” he said cheerfully. Seems the right time to tell you. Happened a couple of days ago while you were sitting in that very chair. I got ‘em. Or her, to be exact. Your little friend is in quite a spot of trouble now, and your other friend is out of the way. Now my shadows are free to go about their business and all will be well again. I don’t need you anymore. It’s time to take a dip in the Thames.”

  “No!” he yelled. Clive knew all about Amanda already but he wasn’t going to let on.

  “Can’t swim, eh?” said Moriarty. “Then I suggest you tell me what I want to know.”

  Clive reached way down inside himself. Was there something he could tell Moriarty that would satisfy him and at the same time keep Amanda and Nick safe? Some half-truth, perhaps. Something that would keep him alive long enough for Simon to do his work.

  “All right,” he said, having no idea what was going to come out of his mouth next. “I’ll tell you but you mustn’t hurt them.”

  “I’ve already hurt them,” said Moriarty. “Your lady friend has been arrested for murder. Caught red-handed she was.”

  “She didn’t do it,” said Clive.

  “I’m aware of that,” said Moriarty.

  “If I tell you who we are will you tell the police she’s innocent?”

  “Of course not,” said Moriarty. “Then they’ll know I did it.”

  “Then can you save her?” Clive said.

  “I can tell them your buddy did it,” said Moriarty.

  “Tell them I did it,” said Clive. “Or let me.”

  Moriarty burst out laughing. “You? You weren’t even there. It will never stick.”

  “Please,” said Clive. “I’ll do anything. Just save them.”

  “I might be able to break your friend out of jail,” said Moriarty. “But it’s very risky. I’d need something of inestimable worth in order to justify the danger.”

  Clive thought for a moment. “I’ll give you my acoustic levitator.”

  “Your what?” said Moriarty.

  Clive explained all about his device that allowed him to lift things using sound waves.

  “Bah, that’s fantasy,” said Moriarty. “How stupid do you think I am?”

  Clive knew that given enough time he could demonstrate a crude version of the device, but that was a luxury he didn’t possess. What if he were to tell Moriarty the truth? Would the criminal say that that too was fantasy, or might he believe him? If he rejected that explanation, he and his friends would still be in the same position, but what if he were to accept it? How much damage could Moriarty do if he knew time travel was possible? None if he didn’t know how to do it. An immeasurable amount if he did, or if he learned things about the future that allowed him to change the timeline. And would he even help them? It was a risky strategy and yet Clive could think of no other option. He was too tired and too scared.

  “I will tell you everything you want to know if you free Amanda and Nick,” he said. “Permanently.”

  “Hm,” said Moriarty looking as interested as he had so far. “I would say that’s a gamble. However if what you tell me is worth enough I will take your proposal under advisement.”

  “Not good enough,” said Clive. “Both sides are obligated. You must display good faith. Tell me how you would get Amanda out of jail.”

  “Tell me who you ar
e,” said Moriarty.”

  “I am Clive Ng,” said Clive.

  “Who is . . .”

  “I am fourteen years old. I am English and live in Cornwall. My parents are Bullard and Green Ng. They are Chinese immigrants.”

  “So what?” said Moriarty. “I want to know what you’re up to. “

  “I’m on holiday,” said Clive.

  “What kind of clothing is that?” said Moriarty.

  “It’s a joke. Amanda and Nick are school friends. We stage plays together. These are our costumes.”

  “You’re wearing your theatrical costumes on the streets of London while on holiday without your parents,” said Moriarty. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “I will admit it sounds a bit daft but it’s true,” said Clive.

  “I’ll tell you what’s a bit daft,” said Moriarty. “That you would think it’s a good idea to lie to me when I hold all the cards.”

  “I’m not lying,” said Clive.

  Moriarty grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up out of the chair. “We’re going to the river—now. “

  “No!” Clive yelled. “All right. I’ll tell you.”

  Moriarty pushed him back into the chair. “One more lie and I’ll cut your throat.”

  Clive gulped. “No lies.”

  “I’m listening. Get on with it.”

  “We’re from the future,” said Clive, dying inside. “The twenty-first century. We’re students at a secret detective school. We were accidentally thrown back in time when one of your shadows appeared to us.”

  “My shadows in the twenty-first century,” Moriarty mused. “Go on.”

  “There isn’t much more,” said Clive.

  “How did this time travel occur?” said Moriarty.

  “We’re not exactly sure,” said Clive. “My friend Simon invented a machine that lets him pick up vibrations from the past and visualize what happened. It’s hard to explain. Anyway, something went wrong and your shadow monster jumped out and grabbed us.”

  Moriarty looked thoughtful. “Are you saying that my shadow is the source of the time travel?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure what happened.”

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Right before you first saw me.”

  “So you haven’t been here long. It’s possible your friend will pull you back at any moment.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “But not probable?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Moriarty threw back his head and laughed. “That must have been something to see.”

  “We didn’t see anything. Everything just went black.”

  “I see,” said Moriarty. He stuck his awful face into Clive’s. “I want to do it.”

  Clive flinched. Up close the man was nothing but a mass of pores. “Excuse me?”

  “I want to go to the twenty-first century. If and when your friend rescues you you will take me with you.”

  “I have no control over whether—”

  “I assume your friend is picking up the vibrations of this conversation. Mr. Simon, do you hear me? I want to come to the twenty-first century with Clive here. You have forty-eight hours. If you have not transported me by then I will kill him. Do you understand?”

  Clive was horrified. What had he done? Damn Simon and his stupid machine anyway. He wished he’d never seen him or Legatum. Now what was he going to do?

  It was out of his hands. He’d hoped to mollify the criminal and all he’d done was doom his friends and himself—all of mankind, if it came to that.

  “I made all that up,” he said.” I’m a liar and I lied again. Take me to the river. I’m of no further use to you.”

  “On the contrary,” said Moriarty. “You’ve just saved your neck—at least for forty-eight hours. What you told me is more valuable than my formulas. You’ve done well. Here, have a sweet.”

  He sprinted over to his desk and took out a piece of hard candy. He shoved it into Clive’s mouth. Clive spit it out all over himself,

  “Eat, don’t eat. I don’t care,” said Moriarty. “As long as your friend Simon is alive and well, that’s all that matters.”

  Clive wanted to die. But as he thought about everything that had happened in the last few minutes he realized that that would be too selfish. He had to make things right. The first step in making that happen would be to get a message to Simon. But if Moriarty gagged him again there was no way to do that.

  “I am hungry,” he said.

  “You could have eaten the sweet,” said Moriarty. “You chose not to.”

  “I don’t like sweets,” Clive lied.

  “I could get you something else. Some lovely gruel, perhaps.”

  “Fine,” said Clive, hoping to stall for time.

  “You’ve earned it,” said Moriarty. He tied Clive’s mouth again.

  “Please don’t,” said Clive.

  “Very well,” said Moriarty. “If you scream my people will hear you.” He put the gag in his pocket and opened the door. “But don’t do it. It makes them nervous and they’re so unstable as it is.”

  “I won’t,” said Clive.

  When Moriarty had left Clive said, “Do not bring him back, Simon. I don’t care if I have to die but do not do it. Even for Amanda and Nick, don’t. If you do, many more people will die. Do you understand?”

  Suddenly Moriarty came through the door carrying a bowl of some vile-looking gray lumpy stuff.

  “It’s cold but it’s all we have,” he said. “What do you twenty-first century people eat?”

  Clive was not about to tell him anything he didn’t have to. “The same as you,” he said. “Food is food.”

  “Well, eat up,” said Moriarty. “And then you can tell me all about the twenty-first century.”

  After dinner Simon returned to the common room to once again see if he could figure out how to “reverse the process.” He’d already tried everything he could think of but didn’t know what else to do. Normally he had an excess of faith in his own abilities but now he was beginning to doubt himself.

  He went to turn on his history machine and found to his surprise that it was already on. “Funny, I don’t remember leaving it like that,” he thought. Then he looked at the setting. It was the exact day and time of Amanda and Nick’s disappearance and the screen was frozen on the monster that had terrorized everyone.

  “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” said Simon. He pressed some keys, attempting to unfreeze the screen but it wouldn’t budge. Becoming ever more frantic, he tried rebooting but the machine wouldn’t respond. Finally in desperation he pulled the plug out of the wall and the screen went dark.

  “Okay, let’s see if we can tell what happened,” he muttered. “Please don’t be what I think it is. Please.” He hit the on switch and nothing happened. “Whoops, forgot to plug it in.” He plugged in the machine and hit ON again. Nothing. “Don’t do this.” He hit ON and held it down. Nothing. Again. Nothing. And again. The machine wouldn’t start.

  He pulled out his phone and texted Clive. “Emergency, where are you?” No response. And again. Nothing. He phoned. Voice mail. And again. Voice mail.

  Simon hit the machine once, twice, three times.

  “Simon, what’s wrong?” he heard a familiar voice say. Ivy. Not now. He couldn’t handle her with all this going on.

  He pounded the machine again. “No, no, no, no, no!” What was that? A hand on his shoulder?

  “Simon, what is it?” she said into his ear. “What’s happened?”

  He couldn’t look at her. “Very bad. Something very bad.”

  He felt her other hand on his back, so soft, so gentle. “What? Simon, you must tell me.”

  “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

  Her arms snaked around him from behind. He could feel himself about to cry.

  “It’s all right,” she said soothingly, her head in the crook of his neck. “Whatever it is it will be okay.”

  “No it won’t,” he sobbed. He
was too upset to be embarrassed.

  “It will, it will, it will.”

  He could feel her breath on his ear. She was squeezing tighter.

  “I’ve lost Clive too,” he sniffled. “He’s gone. Don’t you see?”

  “What do you mean he’s gone?”

  “The monster got him, just like it got Amanda and Nick. And it’s my fault.” He broke into tears again.

  Ivy let go and came around to face him. She removed her glasses and laid them on the table where the history machine was sitting, then took his face in her hands and kissed him. Astonished, he froze for a second, but her kiss was insistent and he melted. Then she was in his arms and he was kissing her back the way he’d always dreamed. He kissed her face, her hair, and her hands, and she returned each kiss with one of her own. He was certain this was a dream but he didn’t care—it felt so good. Finally he drew back and looked at her. She was smiling, so he kissed her again, holding her tight to his chest.

  “Oh, Ivy,” he whispered. “Ivy, Ivy, Ivy.”

  “Simon,” she breathed. “Don’t you know it’s always been you?”

  He felt so light he thought he might rise to the ceiling. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ve loved you forever. I can’t stop loving you.”

  “I love you too,” she said. “I always have. Always and always and always.”

  “What’s going on?” came a voice. “Ivy, what are you doing?” Dreidel’s rough hands pulled her out of Simon’s arms.

  “Simon!” Binnie, screaming his name.

  “I, uh,” said Simon, lost in his love. He could barely hear, barely feel, except for Ivy. His beautiful Ivy.

  “I’m sorry,” Ivy was saying. “Both of you. I’m sorry.” She took Nigel’s lead and ran out of the room. All Simon felt was the absence of her—her soft hair, her pillowy lips, her warm scent. Nothing else mattered.

  Dreidel looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to follow her or beat him up. Finally he hauled back and punched him in the face. Simon yelped and held his nose, then stood up and swung at Dreidel.