The Remarkables (The Remarkable Owen Johnson, part 1)

by Elliott, A. D.

  THE REMARKABLES

  A.D. Elliott

  THE REMARKABLES

  By A. D. Elliott

  Copyright 2013 A. D. Elliott

  Kindle Edition

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your country’s Kindle store and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For L & M

  Chapters

  Prologue

  Reach

  Squall

  Frozen

  Wreckage

  Flood

  Flight

  Pillow

  Parallels

  Beginnings

  Jubilee

  Remarkable

  Sinnerman

  Pillion

  Remnant

  Mill

  Ambrosius

  Katie

  Pufflings

  Insider

  Janus

  Immolation

  Aerial

  Fallen

  Mantis

  Maw

  Trilby

  Jet

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Eidolon had been running for what seemed like hours, but in reality could be measured in a handful of minutes. He should have recognised the signs earlier, the strange tingling in his fingertips that he had felt all those years ago when others of his kind were nearby. But he had hesitated, hoping that the gifted person that had burst into his life again this morning and caused these sensations was someone different to whom it transpired to be. As he had felt their powers reignite his own he longed for it to be her; not the one from whom he was now hiding.

  And why was he referring to himself as Eidolon and not his actual name? He hadn’t used that particular sobriquet for what seemed a lifetime. How long was it now? Thirty, maybe forty years? Not that his ‘actual’ name was the one he was born with of course (he’d managed to assume at least three identities that differed to what was written on his birth certificate).

  He cursed himself for being an old fool and not following the lead of his former colleagues and lived out his days under the radar, perhaps in some quiet village or anonymous suburb. But the hustle and bustle of the capital was too hard to resist, and he had worked so hard to make sure he did not inadvertently reveal his past to the few people with whom he had anything close to a meaningful relationship of late. And even they were few in number. In fact, he was sure that no one could have known.

  And yet here he was, hiding in an alleyway from a man that (despite wearing a long grey jacket and tipped forward trilby hat) from a distance did not look dissimilar to all of the other tourists and shoppers who were present on Oxford Street every day. This particular man’s silent appearance in the hallway of Eidolon’s borrowed home whilst he was sipping his morning coffee was alarming enough in itself. But when Trilby (as he had chosen to call him) had started doing that oh so familiar movement of his hands, it had made Eidolon’s blood run cold, reminding him of someone from his past. If only the adrenaline coursing through his veins wasn’t making it so difficult to ascertain both who it was and when they had met.

  Then there were the men that had emerged from the van in the street outside of the house as he fled from Trilby, each clad from head to toe in black combat outfits. They had the appearance of the flying squad, but the uniform wasn’t one that he had seen the police or any other security force use before. He was proud of himself for managing to evade them so swiftly that they barely registered his presence (the old talents never faded, he mused).

  Eidolon risked a glance from his hiding place. There was no sign of Trilby, but the increasingly large number of policemen was starting to become hard to ignore. At first he had thought that the half a dozen or so officers were on a routine patrol of the area, which would be understandable what with it being one of London’s busiest tourist hotspots. However over the last few moments their number had swelled markedly. The arrival of a man in a pin striped suit seemed to focus their attention, but Eidolon could not see his face, hidden as it was by the broad shoulders of the Capital’s finest.

  Eidolon looked around again to make sure Trilby had not reappeared, and then darted across the busy road, shielding his manoeuvre from onlookers by sliding between two double-decker buses, then taking refuge in the doorway of a large clothes shop. From here he could watch the collection of law enforcers through the legs of the mannequins in the window, each one adorned in this season’s garish wears (the dummies that is, not the police officers who were of course adorned in standard issue uniforms that ignored the whims of the fashionistas).

  Eidolon could see the man in the suit more clearly now, and noticed that attached to the lapel of his pin striped suit was a small metal badge, the sight of which confirmed his suspicions that he was indeed their target. Judging by the revered silence and unfaltering attention he was receiving, the suited man was evidently a superior officer despite looking very young. Mind you, Eidolon thought to himself, a youthful appearance can mask years of experience (as he was a living testament towards).

  The suited man held up a large photograph. Eidolon recognised his face staring back at him, even though it was taken at least forty years ago. He caught his reflection in the glass; he had barely altered (his current shorter hairstyle notwithstanding).

  So after decades of being one step ahead of those that he had thus far avoided so expertly, this morning he was now a matter of footsteps away from one of his old employers. The very people whom he had helped to win a war, but now wanted to trap and imprison him like a laboratory rat.

  The crowd of police officers separated into smaller groups, with four officers heading in his direction. He spun around and headed down the street.

  There was Trilby, waiting for him about forty paces ahead. Eidolon could not see his face as the brim of his hat was pulled down too low, and the lower part of his features had been obscured by a strange leather scarf that had made his appearance earlier even more menacing.

  Eidolon turned on the spot again and made eye contact with one of the policemen, a sign of recognition registering on the officer’s face almost instantaneously, followed swiftly by him speaking urgently into his radio. The rest of the dispersing officers froze and looked in Eidolon’s direction. The only remaining option was back across the street and below ground.

  Vanishing between a black taxi and another bus, Eidolon descended into the Underground station. He could hear the confused shouts of the police officers behind him, clearly bewildered as to how he had evaded them with such speed and agility. It may have been over forty years since he had been on the wrong end of a pursuit, but the old skills felt as fresh and exhilarating as they had been during those troubled events.

  He used his talents to pass through the automated barriers, selecting the extra wide one which was being negotiated by an already confused looking young tourist. Her confusion increased as she was startled by the fleeting presence of a man in front of her, having not noticed him there before, or indeed almost immediately after he had appeared. Fortunately for Eidolon, the ticket inspector that would ordinarily had witnessed his strange and somewhat illegal behaviour in avoiding paying a fare was too busy assisting the startled woman in picking up her dropped shopping bags, trying not to pay too much attention to her panicked questions abo
ut ghosts on the Underground.

  Eidolon joined the crowd of passengers at the escalator and descended into the bowels of the city. At the bottom of the moving stairway he glanced upwards. There was no sign of either Trilby or the police officers. Trusting in fate he decided to head north, and made his way to the appropriate Victoria line platform, as he contemplated the events from the past hour or so.

  The interest from the police, whilst surprising, could at least be attributed to his past. His abilities that had proven so invaluable all those years ago were still useful in these unsettled times, and he had always suspected that he would be summoned at some point to fight whatever fight was important to those in power.

  The men in black were no doubt part of the effort to contain him as well, although they clearly needed more training to deal with his kind, as it almost seemed like they didn’t expect to encounter him. So perhaps he wasn’t their target. But if he was not their target: who was?

  Trilby’s motives were a real puzzler though. The tingling sensation Eidolon had felt upon first seeing him was the same as it had been around the others in his team, and Trilby had a physical presence that was somehow familiar. If only he could excavate whatever dark corner of his mind where he had buried the memories he tried not to dwell upon, where he had created a mental vault to prevent her from consuming his very soul.

  Ahead the familiar sounds of the train’s doors closing snapped his thoughts back to the present. He sped up and once again slipped unnoticed past his fellow travellers, making it onto the back of the front-most carriage of the train just after the doors slid shut. He looked around the carriage hoping it would be empty. It was not.

  There stood at the closest of the middle doors of the train was Trilby, behind him he could see two more people had just entered the carriage.

  As the train started to pull away, Trilby silently walked towards him, his hands moving upwards with a feint glow about them.

  Looking behind him through the closed emergency door, Eidolon saw that there wasn’t many people in the adjacent carriage, and those that were in there had their heads buried in books and newspapers. Throwing caution to the wind, he moved silently into the next carriage, not bothering to open the door. Arriving almost instantaneously on the other side, he made his way down the aisle, his presence going unnoticed by the other commuters, engrossed as they were in their morning reads.

  Hearing the sound of a door opening behind him, he glanced back and saw Trilby entering the section of the train. The open door filled the carriage with the sounds of the train clattering along the tracks, drawing the attention of the other passengers, who seemed shocked and surprised at this prohibited method of getting between carriages.

  As they were distracted though, Eidolon decided to continue away from his pursuer by using his gift, passing like a whisper between the emergency doors one by one without needing to open them until he was in the rearmost carriage. He hoped that by the time his pursuer caught up with him the train would be at the next station and he could flee elsewhere.

  Alas Trilby moved swiftly, bursting through the doors, unconcerned by the distress he was causing to the people that he passed by. Within moments, he reached the last carriage.

  As he entered, a man in an expensive looking suit stood up in alarm beside him, and reached for the emergency handle to stop the train. A simple look and an odd hiss from Trilby sent the man fleeing through the now open door, almost colliding with an elderly woman and teenage boy who were walking up the next carriage.

  Alone in the compartment Eidolon and Trilby stood motionless, the only sound being the sound of the train as it continued its journey unabated through the bowels of the city.

  “What do you want?” he asked Trilby.

  “Information,” Trilby replied, in an odd hiss that did not seem to be caused by his peculiar facial attire alone.

  The train began to slow down. Through the windows of the carriage the darkness of the tunnel was beginning to be replaced by the lights of the next station.

  “What information?”

  Trilby leant forward. “Where is Owen Johnson?” he asked. The hiss made him sound as if he was being throttled by an invisible pair of hands.

  The train juddered and came to a standstill, their carriage lingering by a deserted section of the station platform.

  “I don’t know who you mean,” Eidolon lied.

  Trilby emitted a menacing hiss and moved his arms together. The fluorescent lights of the train and station were augmented by a bright light and a burning heat that emanated from the space between Trilby’s palms. The seats nearest to where he stood started to smoke, and the corners of the advertisements on the carriage’s walls began to peel. An attractive woman’s face that was promoting age-defying skin cream began to blister.

  “Answer me!” Trilby hissed.

  Eidolon refused to speak. He had stared death in the face before and not blinked. The smell of burning fabric triggered a fire in his mind; the memories bursting into flame and appearing bright and clearly: he finally remembered who it was before him.

  He knew that there was little chance that he would survive this encounter. Eidolon slowly closed his eyes, the brightness shining through his eyelids to give a diffuse pink glow to his vision, the heat beginning to sear his skin.

  He heard a gush of wind and a rustling of newspapers being blown about over the clattering sound of the train. The heat was replaced a cold draught, but before he had the chance to open his eyes something heavy collided with his head and knocked him backwards, a sudden pain in his head followed swiftly by blackness.

  ~ ρ ~

  At the next station a young couple entered the train, immediately alarmed at the smell of smoke and the man in the hat who lay slumped on the ground at the other end of the carriage.

  Above him the woman in a poster for youthful skin smiled down at them, encouraging them to climb aboard, a large unsightly blister covering her right eye.

  Reach

  “Climb higher!”

  Owen heard the voice from beneath him, urging him on. He clung onto the tree, his face buried into the rough bark, his right cheek becoming sticky from the sap leaking from within.

  “Owen, please!”

  His mother was pleading with him, imploring for him to seek refuge in the treetops. Owen risked a look down below. The ground seemed dangerously far beneath him; it had to be at least the equivalent of six Owen’s stood on top of each other.

  He buried his face into the tree again. He was only four years old, and although he had climbed up a tree with his father before, but never as high up as this.

  “Owen!”

  Owen looked down again and saw his mother’s face filled with desperation, her bright blue eyes staring back at him. Then she was looking ahead, her attention focused on something that startled her but was obscured from Owen’s vision because of the lower leaves of the adjacent tree.

  Without looking at him she urged him upwards again with a wave of her hand. She then crouched down just as two men pounced at her, managing to leap out of their way just before they would have made contact with her.

  By now Owen was terrified, and he lost his grip on the tree and fell slightly, but just in time he managed to reach out and hold onto something that felt like a rock. Not wanting to fall again, he climbed up and his hand grabbed onto something else that was rock-like. With three more climbs he was hidden in the treetops.

  He picked out a thick and sturdy branch and rested on it, using the tree trunk as a support for his back. Looking down, he couldn’t see any of the stones he’d used to climb, so they must have been just below the dense cover of leaves that were now between him and his mother and the men.

  Owen listened for his mother’s voice calling for him, but the only noise from below was the sound of a heavy wind that strangely wasn’t present in the treetops.

  There, he waited for what felt like days, even though night hadn’t yet fallen. He wedged himself in place, listening for his m
other.

  He did not hear her again.

  He would have climbed down, but he didn’t believe he had the strength to do so.

  So he waited. And waited.

  Finally he heard the familiar sound of a woman’s voice below. It wasn’t his mother but the old lady from next door. She had been to their house for tea a few times so Owen trusted her. Besides, he was now realising how hungry he was so began to climb down. He made it to just below the lower branches when his hand slipped. He reached out and tried to grab hold of the tree or one of those stones he had grasped before, but his hands only found thin air.

  So he fell.

  ~ ρ ~

  Owen woke up with a jolt, as if he was falling. But he was still lying in bed, in his bedroom, in the house that he lived in with his father and younger brother.

  The dream that he had just had, which was so vivid in his mind when he had first awoken, had drifted away like smoke on a breeze. He lay there, concentrating on the blank canvas that was his ceiling and tried to reform the disparate fragments of it what he could remember. But it was no use: all traces of what had woken him up had gone. Owen took a deep breath and climbed out of bed and set about getting himself ready for school. Showered and dressed, he headed downstairs.

  ~ ρ ~

  Owen Johnson’s final day of the school year was following a similar pattern to the first. Just as his father had all those months ago been oblivious that his eldest son was entering his final year of study, today he had forgotten that it was both Owen’s last day and the last of his exams. Even the presence of a handful of good luck cards arriving over the past few days did not seem to jog his memory. Nor did the persistent jibes from his other son Jack that were being aimed at his longsuffering older brother seem to ring any bells. So far they had ranged in subject from revolving around their father’s aforementioned neglectful memory, then moving onto Owen’s inferior sporting achievements, which segued nicely into Jack having had more girlfriends than his older brother, despite being three years younger. The latest topic of discourse was the rather subjective argument that Jack’s blonde hair was a superior hue to Owen’s brown.