The final picture was of Nell on her bed, wearing her burgundy dress with him laying alongside, their eyes closed. The likelihood of getting that close to Nell ever again was remote, but at least he had this picture.
One question remained. Was he still a Dream Master?
The only thing to do was to have a dream and see what happened. He cleared a space on the floor and laid out Karabashi’s carpet. But when he tried to travel back to the scholar, nothing happened. Maybe having some form of proof that Eidolon had been destroyed would help. He folded up the carpet and imagined himself back on Burton Hill, in the car park.
He managed to hover above it, watching as police tape flapped around the burned out remains of a car. Only one car.
Not the Lamborghini, but the Japanese runabout that Eidolon had been driving. There was also a striped tent of the sort that repair men from utility companies use to cover their holes in the road. A policeman was standing sentinel. Hovering around was irritating because he couldn’t get close enough to hear what was happening. However, he could hardly have strolled past the policeman into the tent. He did want to know what was left of Dolon, which was when it occurred to him. Dropping to the ground, he closed his eyes and concentrated. First, his eyes changed. Then he looked down and saw that his hands had become paws and that fur was covering them in great ginger clumps. He turned, trying to examine the tail that had grown from his spine and the legs that had shifted position and alignment. Having no arms and four legs felt different. The policeman looked at the cat and laughed.
“Here, puss. Here.” And he made those funny kissing sounds that are supposed to attract cats, although Joe couldn’t see why. “Come on, kitty.” Joe looked at this man dubiously. Why would anyone want to stroke a mangy ginger stray? But this guy was so bored that he probably welcomed any distraction from standing around outside the tent. Joe circled the policeman’s legs, smearing against them like butter on toast, and he purred. It was fun purring, a sound that simply wasn’t accessible to humans, which was a shame. It was also great being stroked, feeling a solid, warm hand rubbing his fur. It was also pretty intimate, more so than Joe had ever been since he was a toddler prone to hugging anything static or moving.
Then the transmitter on the policeman’s shoulder crackled into life and Joe had his opportunity. He sidled into the tent and looked. There was a mound of charred cinders. There were some lumps. And beneath the ashes, there were four bones protruding from the earth. Two pairs of fibula and tibia. He remembered them from the human body software Mum and Dad had given Ben for Christmas the year of his GCSEs. It was stupid, the memories that flashed into the mind when one was confronted with something that didn’t really bear thinking about. He batted at one of the bones with his paw in the hope that it would come out, and he could take it home.
The policeman poked his head into the tent and shooed the cat out. Joe was glad to go. He trotted off, remembering the purpose that most cats seemed to carry with them. Once he was out of sight, he sat down and transformed back into a human.
Just as well no one had walked into the room while he was feline, else he might have ended up with cat’s paws or a tail as a hangover from the dream. He checked the book, but this time, there were no additional pages. Not knowing if this had been simply a dream or one of the dreams that had come true, Joe gave up and went to bed.
* * * *
Things were quiet over the next few days. Everything was drearily normal until the following week when finally, Joe chanced on Charlie Meek. It happened in the boys’ toilets at school, a place he tried to avoid because it reeked, because there was always stupid graffiti, plus it was the kind of location that thugs like Charlie Meek used for their daily business of intimidating other kids, safe from adult intervention, for what teacher would ever go near the boys’ loo?
He was washing his hands when the door burst open and a year eight kid rocketed in and fell over. Joe went over to help him up. By the time the kid was standing, Charlie Meek was trying to loom over them but failing because Joe was considerably taller than Charlie.
Two other boys followed. Charlie’s latest acolytes, Sean Stanton and Ryan Vernon. Two of the boys who had helped him at the bus stop. Joe dusted down the year eight lad.
“Get out of here right now,” he said and pushed the boy past Charlie and his two friends. There were probably a couple more idiots waiting outside, but the boy might yet escape. And if he did, he might have the sense to find a teacher. There had to be some around. They usually patrolled the corridors during lunch.
“What you doin’ interferin’ in my business, Knightley?”
“I can’t stand around while you mash up some little kid. What were you after? His lunch money? Or were you just trying to nick some crisps off him? You are so petty, Charlie.” Perhaps it would get him into trouble, but he’d had enough of staying out of Charlie’s way.
“Watch your step, Knightley.”
“You and your mates gonna take me?” Joe knew they wouldn’t. But he wanted to provoke Charlie, get him out in the open and get him caught so that once and for all, he was kicked out of school instead of having detentions which he skipped, temporary exclusions which he thought were just holidays and internal exclusions which meant that he just sat in a room in school watched by teachers and did bugger all for three days.
“We can take you, no problem, but we ain’t gonna. You ain’t worth it.”
Joe looked hard into his eyes. He didn’t think Charlie had taken any drugs yet today, but he wanted to be sure. If Charlie was on amphetamines, he’d be unstoppable. He carried on staring at Charlie, who looked away. All three thugs stepped back. Joe looked solid, so substantial that beating him to a pulp must have seemed a tricky prospect.
Joe closed his eyes and forced himself to dream.
The kilo of coke Smokey had stolen was now in Charlie’s backpack. So was the knife he’d used on Nell. The corridor was no longer empty, because Tucker and Crosbie were walking down it. They were mates because they’d both started teaching at Cosham High the same year, somewhere around the time that the triceratops had become extinct. Tucker was swearing blind that he hadn’t imagined young Joe Knightley being sucked into a wall. A year eight was running toward them, scarcely looking ahead because he kept glancing behind him, totally unnerved. He collided with Crosbie’s substantial stomach.
“Steve Upshaw! What are you doing here?”
The child gabbled something about Charlie Meek and the boys’ toilet. Crosbie and Tucker slumped a little. They knew they had to investigate. They had to go in there.
Eeeeuuuughhh!
Charlie pulled out his knife. The door opened abruptly. Instead of backup, Charlie found himself looking at Crosbie and Tucker. Joe opened his eyes. The teachers saw the knife. Tucker reached for his mobile then dialed reception. The receptionist said that Mr. Dunwoody, the principal, would be there immediately.
“Immediately isn’t soon enough,” said Tucker. Then he called the police. When the police saw the stash of cocaine, they nodded, muttering about secure training centers. Charlie wouldn’t be coming back to Lyndhurst once he was released.
Once again, Joe couldn’t decide whether he’d been responsible for the dream or if the events that it had unleashed would have happened anyway. Either way, he wasn’t bothered. It was good not to fall asleep any more during classes. It was good not to be swept away into unfamiliar worlds, and it was good having a life. Because perhaps for the first time since he was six, Joe felt like he did have a life. Smokey left him alone. Liesel was preoccupied with her Christmas dance extravaganza, Ben saw a lot of Zahid and Mum was still in thrall to the Lamborghini, counting down the days until Dad got home for Christmas and they could go roaring around in their new toy.
Not everything was going Joe’s way. Nell was colder than a katabatic wind. That sweet, brief time where they had been friends again had ended, and her blasts of disapproval chilled Joe to the soul. He was always on his best behavior. He played none of the go
onish tricks that had so irritated her, but it was too late for any rapprochement. Other girls talked to him now, and not just because he was Ben’s little brother.
Nonetheless, Nell remained aloof.
* * * *
At the end of term, once Liesel’s performance was over and in the few days before David Knightley returned home, the family went up to London. Liesel had asked if they could see a West End musical for their Christmas treat. She really, really wanted to see Billy Elliott, and somehow, they had found tickets. Mrs. Knightley was relieved when Joe opted out of the theater trip, saying he’d prefer to go to the movies and the Forbidden Planet store. They arranged to meet up at a café just off Leicester Square after the Billy Elliott matinée for a quick bite before catching the train home.
The play began about forty minutes before Joe’s movie. He reassured his mother that he would not talk to strangers or get lost, and as soon as Ben, Liesel and his mother had passed the theater ushers, Joe made for Piccadilly Circus. The streets were thick with bodies bouncing off one another, armed with carrier bags and ready for further sorties into the shops selling scarves, beads, bags, music, books, DVDs, scented potions for bath and body, shoddy T-shirts and mugs with Union Jack flags, plastic policeman’s helmets and postcards—still—of Princess Diana and—more recently—Prince William. Though it was just after two, the lights were already on and the huge neon billboards rolled through familiar brand names—Coke, Nike, Sony, Nokia.
Sitting on the Eros steps was a statuesque punk with spiked black hair, red lipstick and heavy kohl around the eyes. She wore a black leather jacket and red tartan trousers. Joe wasn’t quite sure how to approach her, but she made it easy, coming forward to embrace him and kiss him on both cheeks.
“Joe, so good to see you.”
“Tyche.”
She stepped back and inspected him. “You look well. Different. Less feeble, somehow. Got the girls chatting you up then?”
He looked down and smiled, muttering, “A bit. You know.”
“I think I do, Joe.”
“I was hoping we’d meet again.”
“We’re going to be meeting pretty regularly, Joe. It’s part of the territory.”
“What territory?”
“Dream Master stuff. Most of you humans don’t make it, but when you do, we have to work together. Work things out. I like how you handled the Meek business, very neat. Got your friend Smokey out of a bit of bother too. As for finishing off Eidolon, very slick. He certainly underestimated you.” She looped an arm around his and led him toward Leicester Square through the tumult of last-minute shoppers.
“But—”
Tyche overrode Joe’s interruption. “You’re going to be big. I can tell. Bigger than we’ve had for some time—vision and a touch of flair.”
“Hang on.” Joe stopped dead. “I’m not meant to be Dream Master. Do you remember? I got Nell back, much good it’s done me.”
“That wasn’t your fondest wish, dumb-ass.”
“It wasn’t?”
She led him into an ice-cream parlor. He didn’t particularly want ice cream on one of the coldest days this winter, but he wasn’t about to contradict a goddess. She sent him off for a triple sundae with scoops of tiramisu, Bailey’s and Belgian chocolate with butterscotch and sprinkles. He got himself a coffee. While she waited for him, she examined her nail polish, black and chipped, and nibbled her cuticles. It wasn’t very goddessy, but he didn’t think it tactful to point that out.
“So, Tyche, if getting Nell back wasn’t my fondest wish, what was?”
“You don’t know?”
Talking with Tyche was so frustrating that Joe wanted to slam the table, but he merely put his coffee cup down and said, “No. If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you.”
“I suppose not. It’s worked out quite neatly really. Your fondest wish was not to be a Dream Master. Eidolon wanted to be Dream Master so much that it was never going to happen. And you didn’t want anything to do with the whole—what did you call it up there on Nemrud?—malarkey. So you get to be Dream Master. That’s how fate and wishes and so forth always work. It’s a rule we gods have.”
“In that case, why can’t I get Nell to like me?”
“You haven’t been paying attention. The Dream Master deal doesn’t allow for personal wishes. It’s a global thing. You have to think big. Your job is to make other people’s dreams come true. What you want is really…well, pretty irrelevant to the grand scheme of things.” She licked her spoon then pinged it into the empty glass dish. “Thanks for that, Joe. Absolutely delicious. And thanks also for the transformation. I’ve been having a great time since you got me out of that stone-cladding costume.” She stood, dropped a kiss on his nose and sashayed out of the ice-cream parlor, the gobsmacked eyes of several weary, shopped-out fathers following her.
Joe sipped the last of his coffee and called the waitress. It was weird, being on his own, spending money, deciding he really didn’t want to go and see another shoot-’em-up movie and making his way through the crowds to the place he did want to be.
At Forbidden Planet, he was soon lost in other worlds as he browsed through the stocks of new and used comics.
They had magazines, books, models, posters, key rings, T-shirts—everything a comics addict could desire. Then he came upon the book. It was black, with silver writing embossed on the front, the font familiar to him. He opened the book and the first frame was a ginger cat curling around the legs of a policeman. He snapped the book shut and took it to the counter. The guy there couldn’t find the barcode and called the manager. A small, neat man with a mass of curly graying hair and thick glasses with round black frames came out. He looked the book over then he checked Joe out.
“It’s yours. No charge.”
The young guy at the till, astonished at this largesse, slipped the book into a bag. Joe picked it up then left. It was nearly time to face his family.
Also available from Finch Books:
Demigoddess 101
Kacie Ji
Excerpt
Chapter One
I know it sounds ridiculous, but from all the hoopla I’ve heard about birthdays, I half expect just once to be greeted by a chorus of angels singing me into this new era of my life. You know, something special. Something just for me. But the logical side of me knows that I’ll open my eyes and see nothing more than the same old blush pink that has clung to my walls since my ‘I’m a pretty pink princess’ kick when I was five.
Just like I do every year.
Of course, my logic wins out and I’m greeted by the cheery, if fading, pink. As soon as my eyes become accustomed to the retina-searing combination of wall and jovial brilliance of the morning sunlight, the reality sets in. Having a birthday during final exam season has proved that I’m not destined for anything special. This year I have two final exams on what should be a glorious day. So instead of a day gallivanting in the sun celebrating, I’m stuck slaving over a standardized test that will prove nothing more than my ability to regurgitate facts.
Fun.
With a sigh and a stretch, I get out of bed and stare out at the world. I know what I’m going to see. A couple of oak trees, the street, maybe a glimpse of the sky if the wind is blowing the branches and their accessorizing foliage just right.
This morning I notice a scarf dangling from the second oak. I have to admit I’m a bit confused as I watch it twisting and turning, dancing in an unseen breeze. It’s not like I routinely go around decorating my trees with frills. It would be nice in the winter, I suppose—it would give the trees a little life—but I digress.
I stare at it a moment. It’s plain, but pretty. Someone out there has to be missing it. Pushing open my window, I stare at it a moment then reach out for the gauzy material only to find that it’s caught on a gnarled branch. I pull on it gently, afraid to tear the fine material. After all, it’ll be mine if no one comes to claim it. I lean out a little to try to untangle it. The wind plays with me for a few second
s before I finally manage to snag a gossamer edge with my fingers again. I give it a couple of experimental tugs, releasing it in shock when it yanks back.
“What the—?”
Must be the wind playing with the branches.
I shimmy out farther, determined not to let a stupid scarf outwit me. Reaching out once more, I wind a length of it securely around my wrist so it doesn’t get away from me. I wrench again. This time it jerks back violently, and I could swear that I saw a hand do it.
I let go, heart throbbing in my ears. Did I almost just yank someone out of the tree?
“Sorry! Is someone up there?”
The scarf flows upward like a silken waterfall in reverse and disappears into the dense layering of leaves. Well, that answers my question. Then it occurs to my slowly waking brain that there might be someone camping outside my window in my tree. The scarf couldn’t belong to a peeping Tom… I don’t think. Unless a floaty silk scarf has become an accoutrement for en vogue stalkers these days.
So this fashion diva in my tree doesn’t seem like so much of a threat. However, there is still the issue of their being stuck in my tree.
“Um, are you okay up there? Can I get you a ladder or something? Someone to shoot you out of my tree, maybe?”
“Ava, dear! Time to get up!” My mother, Tess Goddard.
She’s always been loud, which was good since I always had advance warning before she made an appearance—an Advanced Mother Warning System. I bet other kids wish they were so lucky. The sing-song voice comes from the other side of the door a second before my mother sweeps in.
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