by Rhys Thomas
Copyright © 2018 Rhys Thomas
The right of Rhys Thomas to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an EBook in 2018 by WILDFIRE, an imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 4812 1
Cover design by Siobhan Hooper
Cover illustration uses images © Fona, Dusica Vojnic Kortmis, Kudryashka and Katerina Isotova Art Lab, all from Shutterstock
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for Rhys Thomas and his novels
Also by Rhys Thomas
Dedication
The Phantasm #001: A New Threat
Chapter One
The Phantasm #002: A Hero Acts
Chapter Two
The Phantasm #003: The Tragedy of Mr Ho
Chapter Three
The Phantasm #004: And Man Might Fly
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
The Phantasm #005: Man’s Best Friend
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
The Phantasm #006: The Lonely Traveller
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
The Phantasm #007: Vulpes Vulpes
Chapter Sixteen
The Phantasm #008: Dark Night, Dark City
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
The Phantasm #009: In the Presents of Goodness
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Phantasm #010: Amongst the Tombs
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Phantasm #011: And the Tower Blocks Wept
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Phantasm #012: Rivers of Asphalt
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Phantasm #013: Bait and Switch
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Phantasm #014: Candles in the Dark
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Phantasm #015: Whatever Happened to the Dark Defender?
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise for Rhys Thomas and his novels
‘A riveting and often moving read . . . This is the best of its type that I’ve read in a long while. I’ll be very interested to see what Thomas writes next’ – John Boyne, author of The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas
‘Rhys Thomas shakes concepts of “normality” to the core. It is a challenge indeed for an author to capture authentic teenage dialogue, and [this is] compelling subject matter’ – Independent on Sunday
‘Thomas effectively details the breakdown of established codes of behaviour and the depths of depravity to which humanity can sink. . . . Gripping’ – Guardian
Also by Rhys Thomas
The Suicide Club
On the Third Day
for Amy
The Phantasm #001
A New Threat
Only in darkness can a hero be born. An ordinary street, late at night, the land dyed orange by street light. The first cold of winter puts a bite in the air. Litter swept by wind, shuttered shops and a silent crossroads, parked cars already condensing a veneer of frost. Overhead billions of years’ worth of stars shine on.
A movement of the shadows across the bushes near the entrance to the train station. Yet not a shadow: a man, unseen by the world, a guardian watching the streets. In silence he waits. If crime never takes a day off then neither does he. A mask covers his head and the top half of his face. Body armour protects his thorax and shoulders. The utility belt strapped to an assault vest houses all the equipment any superhero might need.
A mist has spread. It’s too cold for most, but hidden in the bushes he lies in wait. His uniform is a camouflage; he fuses with the shadows to become imperceptible. His breathing low, he squints into the middle distance. A train pulls into the station, passengers climb off, scurry away to their safe homes. From his utility belt he takes a Toffee Crisp. It tastes good and he washes it down with some delicious Cherry Coke. Two of his favourites. There used to be a chocolate bar called Spira that he enjoyed with Cherry Coke but low sales ensured its demise. What this dark hero would give for Cadbury to resurrect their masterpiece. Loss is often a hole.
The train pulls away into the night. He can feel its rumble through his body and adjusts his position to get a clear view of the station entrance.
A superhero in the twenty-first century must be patient. Old-fashioned crime is rarer than it was, but it still happens. Rumours are the scent a hero must catch. Hoodlums hanging around the station, throwing stones at passing trains, abusing passengers. He’d heard about it at the grocery store; all those patrons going about their weekly shop unaware they were in the presence of a silent guardian. Bag up your brown rice, old lady, don’t forget your change now. Safe journey. And thanks for the intel.
And here he is now, waiting for his prey. Why do people do this? Why throw rocks at a train? Countless people could be killed. These punks lost their shot at mercy the minute they decided to operate outside the laws of the land. Whatever retribution is dealt to them from the slamming fist of justice they must accept with no quarrel. If the hand wavers, the kingdom falls. What these punks need is a shock, a jolt to guide them back on to the right tracks.
Broken homes, ADHD, the Internet, domestic abuse, poverty, the death of community; people are still responsible for their actions.
Ah, here they come.
Six of them. No, seven. Aged fourteen to sixteen at a guess. They’re wiry, though given substance by voluminous tracksuits and anoraks. Their tracksuit trousers have elasticated bottoms; they look ridiculous.
Our hero in the dark waits. Waits and watches. The youths saunter down to the entrance of the station and the guardian checks the view on the video camera. It’s switched to night vision and is recording everything.
The boys lean against the fence. One of them spits. So far they are within the law and safe. But it won’t be long. He knows this, just as he knows the sun will rise in the east. He used to get this fact confused, mixed up east and west, but now there is no such doubt. He is completely clear on the fact, just as he is clear that if he waits here he will see these youths transgress the societal contract.
Maybe a part of him wishes they would do it. There is a r
age burning inside him like a coal seam on fire; a thousand-year-old furnace. This is his release.
In the distance the sound of an approaching train, a freight train hauling the stuff of industry; our lone saviour knows no passenger services are due until ten forty-seven. The youths snap their heads round in the direction of the sound. Meerkats. An unspoken organisation becomes apparent.
They gather rocks from the pile of rubble left at the side of the road by some unsuspecting construction worker. Then the boys move silently into the station and ascend the footbridge until they are directly over the tracks.
The avenger moves from his hiding place. To the boys he would appear as just a shadow shifting over the land. If they saw him. They won’t see him. Until it’s too late.
Now he must make a decision: does he act before they throw the rocks? Right at this moment an innocent train driver, a man keeping the economic cogs of the world turning, is heading blindly into a trap. Why should he have to go through this? The rocks will be thrown; they are already in miscreant hands. And so there really is no decision. He must act.
He enters the station, silent as a rock passing through the infinity of deep space. He can hear the excited chatter of the boys as they crouch below the level of the bridge so the driver can’t see them. But in turn they are blind to the thing that hunts them. He moves up the steps and reaches into his utility belt, unclips a small glass globe of chemicals.
The train is coming closer. The sound of the boys’ laughter is merging with the tumult of the engine. His heart is beating fast in its webbing and he closes his eyes. Forget the police; they’ve got bigger fish to fry. Sometimes the only hands into which matters can be taken are those of a champion. And he is that champion. He is a hero.
He thinks of all the good things in the world. They are worth defending.
He pounces.
‘AAAARGH!’ he shouts at the top of his voice and, without hesitation, he throws the globe of chemicals. It smashes against the ground and thick smoke billows out. The boys don’t move because they can’t see.
The shadow moves through them; fast, light. He is ready for attack. Now!
‘THERE HAVE BEEN REPORTS OF ANTISOCIAL BEHAVIOUR IN THIS AREA. IT’S AFFECTING THE VICTIMS AND THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE NEARBY, WHO HEAR YOU SHOUTING AND SWEARING! DESIST, OR I WILL COMPILE A FILE OF EVIDENCE AND PRESENT IT TO THE AUTHORITIES! THIS IS—’ He coughs. Dammit. There’s more smoke than he expected. This won’t help his asthma. Would they understand him if he was wearing a gas mask, though? He wipes his eyes. ‘THIS IS . . . your last warning!’
And then, just a mountain breeze through a gully, he is gone. He coughs and his eyes are streaming as he tumbles down the steps. The boys are not following him. He slips and falls.
‘What is that?’
He spies through blurry eyes one of the boys gazing down at him from the top of the steps. He must be strong now. He leaps to his feet in an athletic thrust.
‘Know me!’ he manages. ‘I am . . . the PHANTASM!’
And then, through the smoke, justice served for another night, the freight train moving safely into the distance, he is running, running into the shadows, the lanes, the alleys, the places we don’t see, heading courageously for his next exciting adventure.
Chapter One
The October sunlight slicing through the windows behind the sink, that season-change vigour in the air, he stood in his beautifully finished kitchen and thought to himself, this is OK. I can live like this quite happily for ever.
The house was desperately quiet, but Sam never noticed the despair.
Two slices of hand-cut wholemeal toast covered in scrambled eggs topped with baked beans. He was a big believer in not rushing beans. When preparing a meal he always put them on first, brought them to the boil and let them simmer on a low heat while he cooked everything else. That way the beans went soft and the tomato sauce thick. People rushed beans, just got them hot and ate them. But there is an art to everything in life, even beans.
On the first morning of a week-long stretch of annual leave Sam liked to do nothing more than spend a few moments just enjoying his house. It was a lovely house and it made him feel exceptionally comfortable. As the beans softened he took in the neatness of the kitchen, the clutter-free surfaces, the breakfast bar and the oak table and chairs, the matching toaster and kettle, the shiny chrome microwave, the spotlights set into the plasterwork of the ceiling. Everything nice and simple. Simplicity is the fuel of the soul, his father once said.
Sam lived alone in a semi-detached house on a housing estate less than ten years old. His front garden had a small, well-kept square of lawn, some shrubs growing in a border along one side, and a pristine black driveway. It didn’t look like the house of a 26-year-old man.
In the living room he had his CDs and DVDs and Blu-rays in order, had his entertainment system comprising an HD TV, Blu-ray player, Xbox, Chromecast, hi-fi and even a video player, all the wires neatly hidden away.
He went to work at a job with a low level of responsibility, which he could put at the back of his mind at the end of each day, saved a little money each month, had two spare rooms for an office and a library, a conservatory for reading and relaxing, and a spacious back garden with a pond at the far end. And of course he pulled on the mask and costume of the Phantasm and diligently fought crime three nights a week. That these things made him contented because they papered over the cataclysmic vortex of loneliness that threatened to pull him apart in the darkest stretches of the night was neither here nor there.
He stared at the beans and listened to the unique silence a house makes on a nondescript Monday morning when the rest of the world has gone to work.
The sea. The open fetch, the roll and swell. Sam loved the ocean, and on the first day of his annual leave routine he always drove out to the coast. There was a little café he liked, hunkered down into the cliff with big windows, where he could empty his mind completely, sit and stare out at the water for an hour or two with a steaming pot of tea and a custard slice.
But before that he needed to pick up some supplies, so he stopped off on the high street of his little hometown for some chocolate and a bottle of Cherry Coke. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A sick dread crashed through him, thinking it might be work asking him to come in. But it wasn’t. It was a message from his friend, Tango.
Pub tomorrow?
Sam pocketed the phone and felt annoyed at having his routine disturbed. He didn’t want to go to the pub. He stood on the pavement for a moment and let the cold air press into his face.
‘Give me some money.’
Standing in front of him suddenly was a female homeless person. She was short and a little dumpy, shoulders slumped forward, probably late-forties with thick, frizzy black hair.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Sam.
She fixed him with a stare of extraordinary power.
‘Give me some money.’ The aggressive demand was tempered by the softness of her voice, the quiet pitch of it, the gentle lilt of an Irish accent.
‘Erm,’ he said, fishing in his pocket and landing on a fifty-pence piece. ‘Here you go.’
The female homeless person stared at the coin, took it, and shoved it into the pocket of her coat, the hem of which was caked in dry mud.
‘Buy me a sandwich,’ she said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Buy me a sandwich there.’
‘I just gave you fifty pee.’ Sam already donated plenty of money to various charities and felt a little affronted at what he thought were slightly excessive demands. ‘Can’t you just ask someone else? If you get a few more fifty pees you can get a sandwich.’
‘Buy me a sandwich.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘No,’ he said, finally.
‘Come on. Just there,’ and she nodded towards a bakery a few doors down. Her voice was so gentle, like a breeze blowing through the canopies of a thousand-year
-old cedar forest in a Nepalese valley, and Sam suddenly found himself walking down the street with her. Well, there but for the grace of God go I, he consoled himself. I’m being kind, not mugged.
‘So what’s your name?’ he said, glancing across at her.
She walked with purpose towards the bakery, hands thrust in her pockets, her gaze fixed steadfastly straight ahead.
‘Gloria,’ she said. ‘You?’
‘Sam.’
‘I like Samuel as a name,’ she said, distractedly, her voice coming in and out on the wind.
‘My name’s Samson actually. It was my great-grandfather’s name. Where are you from?’
‘Cork.’
‘I like Ireland,’ he said.
‘It’s shit,’ she said.
They reached the bakery and Sam held open the door for Gloria, who moved past him hungrily, heading not for the bank of sandwiches but the drinks. She put her hand on a can of Sanpellegrino.
Those are quite expensive, Sam thought to himself. It was those pieces of foil on the top. But then Gloria’s hand drifted away to the Cokes, which were more reasonably priced. That’s better, he thought. Not that he’d agreed to buy a drink, not that he’d even given verbal consent that he would buy her a sandwich. At the last moment her hand swept away from the Cokes and up to the fresh smoothies shelf, where she selected orange and mango. This was priced at £2.65.
Beverage chosen, she moved on to the next stand.
‘Have they got any soup?’ she wondered aloud.
‘I don’t think they do soup.’
‘Ah,’ she said, forlorn. ‘I guess I’ll just have a sandwich then,’ before lifting from the shelf not a sandwich but a large baguette. Turning, and not looking at Sam, Gloria made her way to the counter.
‘My husband died a year ago,’ she said. ‘Fell down of a heart attack.’
The words drifted into Sam and amplified the sense of sorrow that had grown in him towards her.
‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ he said.
The immediate thoughts of his own experiences of life tugged at him. He quickly went into default mode and cleared them away with little fuss, the cool numbness releasing itself into his body.
