All I know is that when I died in that accident, she found me, and she brought me back to life. And that she makes my magic juice.
Petersen studies my scribbled efforts and smiles. He clearly feels that he’s won one. "She makes your magic juice? Your medicine? Is that what you mean?"
I nod, and write some more:
She didn't like what Stump was doing and she didn't want to make any more zombies. I'm the only one she's made.
There, that's enough. I don't want to give him any more.
Petersen raises his eyebrows. "Let me summarise, Frank. A strange-looking woman happens upon a dead boy while she’s taking a stroll in the woods. In a sudden epiphany, she realises that she has all the powers of a fantastical necromancer and decides to bring the boy back to life. On the very same night at a location less than 10 kilometres away, an alien artefact appears as if from nowhere. Two of the weirdest and potentially most significant events in human history. Don't you think it a bit of a coincidence?"
I haven't said that is wasn't.
"And if this 'woman' told you that she didn't like what Stump was doing, why didn't she just clear off five years ago? Why hang around? For her share of the money? Something just doesn't hold up, Frank."
Petersen finishes his tea with a gulp, then stands up. "Here's where we are, Frank. I am convinced that you have said all you're going to say on the matter. I would like to think, though, that you are still prepared to help us. Am I correct?"
I nod, as enthusiastically as I can manage.
"I have arranged for you to fly back to England with me tonight. An unlisted flight, of course, from this uncharted airfield."
Now I'm genuinely enthusiastic. I would love to see Ruby again. Ruby and her puppy.
“Once in London, I will arrange transport for you to the Ramsbottom’s’ house, as promised. You are not to return to school, though, until you receive the all-clear from me. The English education authorities can be a tough nut to crack. We will meet from time to time, discreetly. I have put a plan together in my head, based on what you have told me. There is something very important that I want you to do in London. Are you listening?”
I'm gasping slightly, trying to suppress a stubborn knot of vomit that's trying to work its way from my stomach. So I probably wasn't giving him the attention he thinks he deserves.
"I have a strong feeling that either Dr Babbage or this peculiar Miss Vasquez will attempt to contact you during the next few weeks. If that happens, I want you to tell me straight away. Do you hear? Within minutes, I need to know. I shall supply a cell-phone with a dedicated secure line to my office. You will carry it with you at all times. Understood?"
I reach for my pencil.
How do you know they will try to contact me?
"Psychological profiling, Frank. We may never have met Dr Babbage or Miss Vasquez, but we're getting to know how they think. From the instructions Babbage sent regarding your medicine, we estimate that you will have just two weeks in London before the jerry can of juice runs out. Assuming our profiling is accurate and knowing what we do now about the source of your juice, one of them will make contact. They won't want you to shrivel up and die; they care about you, in a twisted kind of way. "
Petersen is a clever man, it must be said. Setting me up as bait to catch two fish at once. Very clever. But I'm not sure that I want those two fish caught. I decide to keep these thoughts to myself. I'll go along with Petersen's plan, at least for now. Hopefully I'll get a fun few weeks out of it, whatever happens.
"Good,” Petersen declares. “That's settled. Get your things together—the pilot is ready when you are."
Before he goes, there’s one more question I need to ask; a matter of urgency.
Can Benny come with me? To England?
Petersen rubs his shiny bald head and purses his lips. “I’m afraid not, Frank. His place is here, on U.S. soil. The FBI will attempt to trace his parents, and—if that fails—he will be relocated, probably to another state. You can stay in touch, though. Maybe even visit one day.”
That’s not exactly the answer I wanted to hear. Petersen gives me permission to go and see Benny, in the canteen, before I leave. No more than five minutes, he says. I decide to bring the empty fruit bowl and a few teaspoons with me. I did promise to play. As I lumber down the corridor, I practise breaking the news to Benny as gently as possible.
Chapter 10 - Requiem, of sorts
It’s my first day back at Cheasley High. It’s Monday morning, and exactly a week since I arrived back in London. Ruby’s dad (who is happy for me to call him by his first name—Clive—rather than Lieutenant Ramsbottom) received a call last night from Petersen at MI6. Everything is in place, Petersen said; the school and the local press have been successfully ‘neutralised’. The ‘official’ version of events records that my blood test went off to the lab and came back normal. Panic over.
Whatever Petersen did, it certainly seems to have changed the Head’s attitude; I found him waiting at reception for me this morning, and the first thing he did was shake my hand and apologise profusely for the insensitivity of some of his staff. He even shook my hand firmly and wished me luck with my studies.
Ruby seems to have adapted well to me living in her house and told me the other night that she’s grateful for the company. Her father, it must be said, is a somewhat intense and serious man, so my being there has lightened things up a little. Ruby has decided that she wants to be a doctor when she leaves school, and so has taken a real interest in my health and medication. She’s happy to take responsibility for administering my magic juice; she makes up my semolina each morning and mixes the dose in with great care and attention. I haven't told her that my supply is going to run out within a week, and that I will die if Petersen's hunch about Dr Babbage and the Mannequin turns out to be wrong.
Talking of Petersen, he contacted me late last night on my secret phone to inform me that he and his team are trying to locate my next of kin, for the purpose of official records. I don't know why, but the thought of finding a real living relative scares me. I quite like it here in Cheasley with Ruby. I don't want to be adopted by a stranger.
The bell rings for the end of form time. “Frank? Are you all right?” asks Mr Willets. I nod, and moan. Just thinking about stuff, I write on my all-new electronic notebook that the school has provided.
“Will you be able to get around today, with Ruby not being here? I could get another pupil to help you, if you like.”
Quite which other pupil is uncertain, for they’ve all stampeded out of the room. I scribble that I should be able to find my way around.
My first lesson is geography. The teacher, a young man with an exceptionally hairy face, bounds around the room talking about pebbles, beaches, erosion, and the pounding sea (the pounding sea, the pounding sea, you see?) He draws something called an arch on the board and gets us to copy it. Then he asks us to draw a stack, and my first thought is a stack of what? I lean across and copy the drawing of a boy with spiky hair called James, who's sitting next to me. His drawing consists of a wiggly line with a rectangle on top, and he seems pleased with it. The next two lessons (maths and history) proceed in the same happy-weird sort of way.
At lunch, James with the spiky hair comes and sits next to me. As I wallop back my semolina and soda, he tells me with great enthusiasm about going to the football this weekend with his dad and his uncle. He asks me which team I support. I shrug my shoulders and give him a slightly insane grin. He laughs and tells me I’m one crazy mother.
The strangest lesson of the day is P.E. We play a game called rugby, which is a bit like football but without all the pads and helmets. I spend most of the game on the ground, literally eating mud, as people pile on top of me. The teacher tells me what I lack in pace I more than make up for in ugliness and intimidation. I think he meant it as a complement. The whole experience reminds me of some of my training sessions with Stump, although this time I come out with all my bones in their normal positions
and both my eyes safely in their sockets. During the game I lumber into Wayne Smith, knocking his chin with my shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground. I brace myself for retaliation, but none comes my way. He just swears then goes back to chasing the ball. I think he’s scared of me. I don’t think he’ll be causing trouble any more.
I arrive back at Ruby’s house that evening feeling satisfied that my first day back at school wasn’t a complete disaster. Ruby is still in her pyjamas when she opens the door, but she seems breathless and excitable.
“Bernie! You’re not going to believe what I’ve found. Come on upstairs, I can’t wait to show you.”
Trevor the puppy seems even more excited to see me, yapping and snapping at my heels, his tail vibrating like a twanged ruler.
Ruby’s room is a mess. Pieces of paper are spread out all over her bed and her floor, and I watch as she rummages under a rubble of printouts to locate her laptop. “Who needs MI6?” she says, tapping the keys and scanning the screen. “I’ve been doing some research of my own. Trying to find out about your parents and your accident and stuff. Look at all this.” She gestures to the chaos that is her bed and her floor. “Hours of work, Bernie. Hours.”
Not bad for someone who’s been off school with a headache and stomach cramps.
“Now, I know you said that Frank Wasdale probably isn’t your real name, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try. I tried all the search engines, even Dad’s classified ones, but none of the Frank Wasdales I found were born the same year as you. Then I got thinking about your surname, and that’s when I had my flash of inspiration. I found you! Look...”
She pushes a printout into my hand. It’s from a newspaper called the Winksfield Herald:
Three die in tragic Holiday Smash
The Herald is sad to announce the death of three local residents, Mr Peter Franklin, Mrs Susie Franklin, and their five-year-old son Dale, who died when their car hit a fallen tree during their tour of Lake Clark National Park, Alaska. The funeral will take place next Tuesday at 3.00 pm at St Michael’s Church, where Peter and Susie were active members of the congregation...
I could go on reading, but something’s forming in the thick soup of my mind; not a recollection as such, but perhaps the beginning of one; a hint of something that might have been. Dale Franklin. Winksfield.
I can’t be that little boy again, but I can imagine him now, stepping out of his house on a cool autumn afternoon, clasping the hand of his mother.
Dale Franklin.
Me.
“What do you think?” says Ruby breathlessly. “I mean, it has to be you, doesn’t it? The date, the place of the accident. It all ties together.”
She’s right, and she’s a genius. But at the moment, I can’t match her enthusiasm. Reading that article has made me feel sad. Dale was a real living person, who probably had rosy skin and bright eyes. And now Dale is dead. It feels as if the accident has happened all over again.
“And look here,” continues Ruby, sliding bits of paper around until she finds what she’s after, a slightly smudged black-and-white map. “Winksfield is a little village in Surrey, and it’s only about twenty miles away. Look - there’s St Michael’s church.” She prods an ink-stained finger onto the fold of the map, then glares at me, seemingly frustrated by my lack of enthusiasm.
“Don’t you see what this means, Bernie? Winksfield is where your funeral took place. You might have a grave! Or at least a memorial. We can visit it at the weekend.”
Forgive me if I'm not waving my arms around with glee but visiting a stone that marks my death is not my idea of a good time. I smile, though, because I want Ruby to feel pleased with the work that she's put in.
I'm spared any more revelations by the appearance of Lieutenant Ramsbottom (sorry, I mean Clive) who pops his head around the door and informs us that dinner is ready. Ruby winks at me slyly, and we follow him down to the dining room.
*
It's Saturday. Ruby has noticed that my supply of magic juice is getting a bit low. I reckon I've only got two days left, but I haven't mentioned this to her. Instead, I've reassured her that Petersen is going to supply some more soon. I just wish I could reassure myself. Neither Dr Babbage or the Mannequin have made any attempt to contact me, at school or at home. For all I know, they’re still in Alaska.
I keep checking my secret cell-phone, but Petersen has gone quiet too. My feeling of impending doom is not helped at all by Ruby's insistence on visiting the place of my funeral.
Upon arrival, Winksfield looks every inch the English picture-postcard village. As soon as we step out of the bus and begin to walk up a hill towards the church, I get a strong feeling that I’ve been here before, in my dreams and beyond. The steeple, reaching up to puncture the sky, seems as familiar to me as my own ghastly reflection.
My dragging feet make a hell of a racket on the rough gravel drive that leads up to St. Michael's church. I'm literally disturbing the peace—anybody could hear me coming from a mile off.
Trying not to look too suspicious, I follow Ruby round the back of the church, keeping to the long grass where no mower can mow. The graveyard is a big one, stretching downhill for a couple of hundred metres, ending near the fence of a tiny thatched cottage. Ruby tells me that the graves we're looking for will be down there, by the cottage, amongst the newer ones. She has been thorough in her research.
I feel even more clammy than usual when we reach the bottom of the slope. Slowly we begin to scan the rows of stones and humps, weaving our way in and out, stopping now and then to read the inscriptions:
Fanny Finchley, passed away 1999, aged 71;
Bruce Wetherall,58, gone to meet his father;
Heather Binton, b1973 d 1994, rest in peace.
There are so many! This might take longer than expected. We could be here for hours trying to find my place of rest. All I can do is lumber up and down the rows, stopping and staring at each stone. If anybody out there needs convincing that I’m a zombie, now would be a good time to look.
Ten minutes later, Ruby begins to wave frantically from the end of one of the rows. She doesn't shout out because she is of the opinion that graveyards should be quiet places. But it looks like she's found my grave. It’s only a small one, and in danger of being hidden from view by a particularly aggressive bramble. The inscription is short and to the point:
Dale Franklin, died Aug 2001, age 5.
None of this ‘God rest his soul’ or ‘Forever in Peace’ stuff for little Dale. Next to Dale’s grave are his father Peter’s (age 34), and his mother Susan’s (age 32). A dead flower lies on Susan’s grave, looking as if it's blown there from somewhere else.
Seeing that flower gives me sudden flash of inspiration. I drag myself the front gate of the little thatched cottage and pull at a big rose bush from the garden. I get dozens of thorns in my hands for my efforts, but after a bit of huffing and puffing I come out with a good crop of roses. Ruby looks at me like I've gone mad as I begin to rip off the flower heads and sprinkle them liberally over the three cheerless headstones.
After that's done, I pull up the messy bramble, gather it together with the remains of the rose plant, and chuck the whole lot into the long grass at the boundary of the yard. Much better.
I give Ruby a big mad grin. And to her credit she smiles back. "You must have been a gardener in a previous life," she whispers. I don't quite get what she means by that, but I'm happy to fool around for a few minutes pretending to mow and scythe the grass. This makes Ruby laugh, and then makes her look guilty that she's laughing. I suddenly remember that a graveyard should be a place of respect, so I return to the three little memorial stones and sit down for a while, staring at them. I'm not quite sure what Ruby wants us to do next.
Suddenly, I get the strange sensation that we're being watched.
Kneeling at my grave, I take a furtive look around, scanning the rows of headstones all the way up to the church tower.
Nothing.
Maybe it's my ima
gination—I suppose graveyards can have this effect on overactive minds.
"What's the matter?" says Ruby, quietly. "You're looking a bit spooked."
Something moves, up near the back of the church. Probably just another visitor. After all, this isn't private ground. It's a church. All are welcome.
I hear the front door of the church bang shut.
A visitor, looking around a lovely old church. But I have a funny feeling about this. I think it's time we left.
I stand up and signal to Ruby that I want to leave. At first, she thinks I'm larking around, but then she gets the message. "I suppose we've seen what we came here to see," she says.
We take one last look at the graves of my parents-that-were and begin to make our way back up towards the church.
As we reach the corner near the porch, I become strangely paranoid. Am I being followed? Is it MI6 keeping an eye on me? Or the CIA? Or someone even more sinister? An abrupt and irrational desire comes over me.
I need to go in the church and see who's there. If only to persuade myself that it's just a harmless tourist.
I gesture to Ruby.
"What? You want to go in?"
I push the door open and step into the church. I stand perfectly still for a while, feeling clammy and breathless, listening for any interruptions to the all-pervading silence. As far as I can tell, there's only one other door, at the opposite end of the church, and it looks like it's padlocked shut.
Then I see her.
The Mannequin.
Sitting near the front, half-hidden from view by a pillar. She doesn't turn to look at me. She doesn't need to.
Don't sit near me, Frank. Sit somewhere else. Pretend you want to pray.
I do as she says, and direct Ruby to a spot near the aisle in the middle of the church. I sit down and bow my head, and Ruby sits next to be, close enough that our jeans touch. "You continuously surprise me, Bernie. I didn't have you down as the religious type."
Frank Wasdale- First Mission Page 11
