Subdued voices, muted but for the occasional, “pass the salt, please,” show how much things have changed recently. The four of us — with ‘me’ very much the outsider — sit in oppressive silence and pretend nothing is happening. Dad pushes food around his plate without seeming to eat anything at all, Mum nibbles at a lettuce leaf like it’s the key to enlightenment and Luke glances between ‘me’ and Mum and Dad, anxious about the poisonous atmosphere in his previously happy home. Quark, of course, eats as though food is about to go on ration and he needs to scoff it while he still can.
Then Mum and Dad make their tentative opening and all hell breaks loose. Quark doesn’t want to talk. He’s acting like the stereotypical, stroppy teen that I am not. However, seeing the stricken faces of my parents after Quark’s hurled insults is enough to make me turn off the TV in my imaginary room, so I don’t have to face this situation anymore.
Knowing that no one in the entire history of the universe has ever outrun Quark doesn’t exactly ease the pressure I feel. And the idea that Quark might be lurking in a dark corner outside my room is seriously scary. Especially as, deep down I know the idea that my room is a safe haven is as imaginary as the room itself. But at least it does help keep the constant anxiety at bay.
So far, I’ve only peered round the edge of my door and haven’t dared leave my room. Outside are what looks like clumps of day-old porridge and walls that are grey and dimly lit. I can also see those mysterious duct pipes that appear to serve no purpose other than only to add an air of grim menace to the setting. There’s no decoration, apart from an occasional Bio Hazard warning sign.
Of course, I know none of this is real. My brain is still in my head, where it’s always been and it looks just like yours does. But as I’m literally out of my mind at the moment, I’m happy to go along with the imaginary space I have created.
I’ve got a chair now, so I can sit and watch TV (when I can bear to – and on the few occasions I can get a clear signal). I’ve got a little table too and I’ve put a framed photo of Mum, Dad and Luke on it. It’s not a real photo, but compared to ‘imagineering’ the TV, chair and table, downloading an image of them from my mind was a doddle! Weirdly, I’m still finding comfort from ‘wearing’ my school uniform in here.
How I hide the room from Quark is equally vague. The only thing I can compare it to is when the points change on a rail track and instead of heading one way, the train goes off in another direction; that’s kind of what I’ve done. I’ve switched round a few neural connections, twisted a couple of synapses and hidden a room in plain sight. If you happen to be looking directly at the inside of my brain, that is. It’s like my own stealth creation. The big superpowers build stealth bombers and fighter aircraft out of who knows what magic metal or plastic or polymer or whatever. I’ve built a stealth room out of a few million neurons.
I don’t know how a normal brain works beyond the fact that certain bits are responsible for movement, vision, language and all the rest. I seem to have got my own special package deal — like you get from your mobile phone provider. Except, whereas they’ll give you x-minutes of calls (never enough!), all you can eat texts and a set amount of data (also never enough!), I’ve got a certain amount of vision, some hearing, lots of memory, but absolutely no touch or taste (and none of what I’ve got is anything like enough). I can see a bit of what’s happening and try to build details of a conversation from partially overheard chunks, but I can’t feed myself chips, taste a cup of coffee, speak to my friends or hug Mum.
I’m seeing a bit of what’s supposed to be my life and from that I’m trying to build the bigger picture, but I guess it’s a bit like when a palaeontologist tries to come up with a complete picture of a Ginormous-Rex, with only the right little toe, the jawbone and a couple of ribs: there’s a fair amount of imagination, poetic license and wishful thinking involved.
This is my way of telling you I’m laying all this out like it’s gospel. And it is … kind of. But I can’t see everything, I can’t hear everything and a lot of what’s going on … well, I can’t make head nor tail of it. So I fill in the blanks and give you a version — and it’s obviously a slanted version — of what’s happening. But that’s okay, isn’t it? Because who are you going to trust? Me, or the one who’d turn you into a pile of dust before you could say, “ashes to ashes”?
Chapter 18
IF WE SHOULDN’T EAT AT NIGHT,
WHY IS THERE A LIGHT IN THE FRIDGE?
At midnight, Quark is back downstairs, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, illuminated by the light from the fridge which is open in front of him. He doesn’t understand what happened today. He woke up feeling edgy and uneasy. Then he got to feel good, showering and getting ready for school. Then, almost immediately he felt bad again and was gruff with Daisy’s parents over breakfast. He left home in a huff and then thrilled with excitement at the stimulation of the world around him. Yet by the time he reached school he felt overwhelmed and overstimulated by the seething mass of humanity in the corridors and so had ignored Daisy’s friends. Initially intrigued and moved by his first lesson, the day soon turned sour again. And so it continued — life as a constant roller-coaster of emotional turmoil and upheaval. And why? Over what?
The balance of chemicals in her body shifted constantly, like quicksand. It had been a seemingly normal, ordinary day. Yet he’d found the constantly yo-yoing emotions utterly exhausting. What was it with these humans?
He’d spent the day desperately searching for a foothold in a world of chaos and confusion!
But now Quark has found the perfect cure: he sits on the floor, surrounded by jars, packets and containers — mustard (English and French — a used teaspoon in each), three different flavours of yogurt — all opened, pickles of all sorts, guacamole, hummus, chutneys, a deli’s worth of cheeses, cream, Tupperware containers of left-overs from the last two suppers, even a packet of butter. He’s taken crisps, biscuits and dried fruit from the pantry and is washing his feast down with soya milk, fruit juice, Lucozade and a bottle of chocolate milkshake.
If this doesn’t make him feel better, nothing will …
Chapter 19
SAFE HAVEN
I don’t remember much about the first few days I spent locked in my head. I have vague images of some of it, but it’s an incomplete recording — like trying to work out the detailed plot of over a thousand pages of Lord of the Rings by looking at three or four random lines. I mean, I know ‘I’ spent time with my family and with Amy; I know I’ve been to school, and that there was a Maths test I must have aced. But I didn’t do those things, if you see what I mean. I have no real memory of them. The disconnect from reality is extreme.
Now, although I’m still locked in my head and am pretty much de-sensitised to the rest of my body, I know from the distant discomfort coming from the direction of my tummy that something’s happening that I’m pleased Quark will have to deal with, rather than me. That might distract him enough for me to build a better picture of what’s been happening.
I think this is day four or five of the invasion. To begin with, everything I saw was blurry: I saw light and dark and vague shapes, but couldn’t make out enough detail to distinguish between one person and another. Sounds were unclear too. I could tell the difference between a school bell and a car horn, but couldn’t make fine distinctions or, after that initial burst of semi-clarity, make out too much of whatever was being said. I think I had a meeting with Mrs Griffin in her office, so something out of the ordinary must have happened. Maybe I did really well in those tests!
Right now though, my head (or my bit of it) feels a little clearer. Coming into the mid-month surge of hormones always adds a layer of clarity to my thinking and a surge of energy to my body. This time, although my body is like a distant memory, every atom of my brain seems alert and alive. I feel supercharged. Ready for anything … almost.
That body of mine is flaked out on my bed and Quark is groaning for reasons
probably not unconnected to whatever caused that stomach ache. I don’t know what happened, but with Quark inactive, I seem to have more brainpower to work with, so I recognise Mum’s footsteps approaching my door. There’s a gentle knock.
“Daisy?” The door opens just a little. “Are you okay, sweetie?” There’s concern in Mum’s voice.
All she gets from Quark is a low moan.
“Can I get anything for you?”
Another moan.
“Well, if you want anything, just give me a shout and I’ll come.”
This time there’s a grunt.
Mum shuts the door and I hear her talking in low tones to Dad.
“I don’t know what’s got into her, I honestly don’t. This stroppy attitude — it’s so unlike her.”
“No,” Dad says, “but you know it’s pretty standard teen behaviour.”
“Not from Daisy. And the talking back! She never does that.”
I talked back to them? I know that sometimes I dig my heels in and may just possibly be — in a certain light — a teeny bit stubborn; no, that’s wrong, that’s not how Dad talks about it: “strong-willed and determined” he says, never stubborn. But I don’t talk back just for the sake of it, only ever to make a case or state my point.
“And to Mrs Griffin too.” Mum continues.
I argued with my head teacher! What on earth—!
“I know, love,” Dad agrees. “But I think it’s just a phase. And her age. We thought we were getting away without the whole angsty-teen stuff, but maybe that’s all it is.”
“Maybe ...” Mum sounds doubtful. “It’s a lot to take onboard though: swearing at a teacher, arguing with Mrs Griffin, failing a Maths test, getting detention and then being sent home.”
What? What! WHAT?! I don’t know where to begin with that! Which teacher did ‘I’ swear at? What did ‘I’ argue with Mrs Griffin about? Why did ‘I’ get my first-ever detention? And — I can hardly bear to write it — how did ‘I’ fail a Maths test!?
“I don’t know what’s happened to our lively, happy girl,” Dad says, “but all we can do is keep watching her closely and let her know we’re here for her when she’s ready to speak about whatever is going on.”
“Mmmm,” Mum agrees. “We’ll have to keep a close eye on her if last night’s over-eating is anything to go by! It’s like she’s the stereotypical teenage nightmare all of a sudden!”
“You may be right, love, but she’s paying for last night’s episode — big time! That’s not something she’s likely to repeat anytime soon.” I can hear the smile in my dad’s voice.
“I still think there’s something deeper going on.” Mum’s on the right track here, but even as a GP, I don’t think this is a problem she’ll be familiar with! I’ll have to sort this out myself and with the disaster Quark is making of my life I need to get on with it. And this is the perfect opportunity — while Quark’s in a weakened state and my mind is buzzing with energy.
In fact, I’m not sure if it’s Quark’s prostrate state or my own heightened awareness, but my senses — the few I have available to me — are hyper-aware this morning. I could hear Mum and Dad clearly and they were whispering on the other side of my bedroom door, which is closed and all the way on the other side of the room. In case this is a temporary thing, I need to get a move on.
What I need now is information. Quark can move my body and access my memories. There’s a link. But does that link work two ways? I need to access his data and figure out how he works. I need to open communications on my terms. And I need to use it against him.
I’m going to take a brief trip out of my room. I know the further I stray, the greater the risk. But there’s no choice: I have to see more of my brain and look for a weak link in Quark’s defences.
I know all the bits of my brain communicate with each other — and the rest of my body — through millions of neurons. I’ll explore some of these neural pathways and see if I can find a way of exerting more control over my body.
I hold the handle of my door and try to think myself brave, even though I’m petrified at the idea of leaving the so-called security of my room. I need to be more human to combat this alien. In fact, I need to be superhuman. And start messing with his mind!
Chapter 20
BECOMING
A scholarly analysis of its meaning, justification and role in the universe
It may surprise you to learn that Quark hasn’t been entirely honest with Daisy. His name really is Quark; he is the smallest building block of matter known to man — an elementary particle. All of that’s true. However, he is far from an ordinary example of the genus. He’s a Dark Matter Quark: and a Quark with DMs has infinitely more kick than an ordinary Quark …
There are billions upon countless billions of stars in the universe – the visible universe. But the part of the universe that we can see is only a tiny bit of what’s actually there. Most of the rest is probably an invisible substance called dark matter. This substance dates from the time right after the birth of the universe and used to be made of tiny particles. Scientists believe it could be made of chunks ranging from the size of a tennis ball to the size of a comet or asteroid.
Quark used to be one of these small particles. And it was in those very early days that he got kind of glued to other particles and become dark matter. You might say he went over to the dark side …
At the very beginning, soon after the Bing Bang, the temperature was over three trillion degrees centigrade. So he was staggeringly hot when first formed, but he’s now cold – and cold-hearted. In theory, dark matter is not only invisible but also intangible. However, Quark likes to be tangible. He likes to make an impact.
Scientists and engineers have spent billions building a hugely complex experimental facility in Switzerland and part of what they’re looking for is quarks. Imagine how surprised they’d be if they discovered that while they perform obscure experiments under a mountain in central Europe, a real, live Quark is tucked up in bed in a small town in England! It costs at least $1 billion a year to run CERN — and all they need do was spend £50 to buy a train ticket from Euston and then they could shake hands with a real Quark. Of course, they’d be instantly vaporised into their constituent molecules, but think of the honour!
These same scientists believe quarks are smaller than sub-atomic matter. What they don’t know, and if Quark has his way never will, is that this particular Quark is also the most powerful. In his natural state, Quark is tiny, but he has a power totally out of proportion to his size. He’s responsible for some of the largest explosions in the universe. If he were a criminal, rather than a mindless perpetrator of criminal acts, he’d be very difficult to detect (as scientists at CERN have proved) because he doesn’t leave any evidence behind. It’s hard to prove he exists at all — although try telling this to Daisy!
To her (and to us) there’s a much bigger question than the one being asked at CERN: what is becoming? What is Quark trying to do to Daisy and every living soul of the planet? Well, becoming is what happens when Quark comes into contact with a chunk of ordinary matter — such as a young alien on a distant planet in the outer reaches of a solar system (one that, naturally, no longer exists). As long as Quark deems the contact pure or complete — judged by a set of arcane rules known only to him — that ordinary matter (the child) is converted into strange matter.
(There’s obviously a lot more to it than this; reams and reams of gumf about how the nucleus in every cell in the child’s body liberates the energy from the cell, in effect setting of a chain reaction which has been Quark’s driving force since his inception, but has unfortunate side-effects for the child.)
Why this has not happened to Daisy is unclear. It could be something to do with cosmic rays, or the earth’s magnetic field, or the interaction between positively and negatively charged ions, or strange things called, with startlingly economical use of language, strangelets. Or it could just be down to hormones; that, af
ter all, is the get-out clause of a billion teenagers …
As far as Quark’s concerned, we humans are molecules floating through the air, encased in skin. Apart from providing a thirsty entity with a well-deserved drink (we are all at least fifty percent water), he didn’t think Earth would detain him for long.
How to get Quark’s perspective on this? Let’s imagine Daisy is the science reporter for a snazzy TV show; she has an array of lights behind her and cameras to each side of her. There’s a sound-operator holding that long, furry mammal-like boom-mic just in front of Quark …
The director is in the booth and whispers into Daisy’s earpiece, “we’re galaxy-wide in 3, 2 and 1 — take it away.” Daisy smiles at the camera that’s behind Quark’s right shoulder to get her reaction shots to the nuggets she will tease out of him during the interview. Or before he assimilates her into his collective, whichever comes sooner.
“Good evening, everyone and thank you for joining us on Armageddon TV. Tonight, in an exclusive special edition, we are honoured to be joined by Mr Quark — the … well, Mr Quark — how would you describe yourself?”
“Good evening, and thank you so much for inviting me onto your wonderful show. What is Quark? Well, put simply, Quark is everything. Quark is nothing. Quark is everywhere. Quark is nowhere. Quark is infinitely dense. Quark is the basis of every living thing in the universe.”
Daisy nods, as if to convey that what Quark is saying makes absolute sense. “Well, one out of six is not bad …” Quark frowns, then regards us with an unsettlingly wolfish grin. For some reason, the image of a small, helpless girl walking through a dark forest wearing a red cape and carrying a basket of food pops into Daisy’s head.
She shakes off this troubling picture and continues her questioning with impressive backbone and professionalism. “And what is it that brings you to our beautiful, isolated and entirely innocent planet, Mr Quark.”
Daisy Jacobs Saves the World Page 7
