The Identical Boy

by Matthew Stott

  The boy smiled. ‘Because I’m not him.’

  Sam’s parents looked at each other and nodded.

  ‘Well, we’re convinced. Welcome to the family!’ Sam’s Dad reached a big paw across the table and shook the boy’s hand.

  Sam stood, kicking his chair back as he did so. ‘I’m your son! He’s not even a person, not really! He’s a monster, a murderer!’

  Mum nodded. ‘Well, nobody’s perfect.’

  The boy went to join his parents at the other side of the table, Mum fussing at his face with a spit-dabbed hankie, rubbing at some dried patches of blood.

  ‘Look at the mess on you. I told you playing with that Ally girl would get you in bother. ’

  The boy looked up at his Mother, then over at Sam, his mouth a wide grin of needle teeth. How strange Sam had not noticed those teeth before.

  ‘Please! You can’t send me away!’

  Mum and Dad looked at him with what looked like disgust.

  ‘Don’t make a show of yourself now, Sam,’ said Dad.

  ‘I think we all know you were a bit of a balls-up. Never did take to you, did we?’

  ‘Never did take to you,’ agreed Dad. ‘There’s nothing of me in you, I know that much.’

  Sam sank back into his chair, his knees now jelly. ‘This isn’t right. He’s evil. I won’t go, you can’t make me! I’ll… I’ll call the police!’

  The three stared evenly at Sam, regarding him as if he were nothing more than an irritating fly, waiting to be squished and gotten rid of.

  ‘Let’s give him one last chance. It’s only fair,’ said the boy.

  ‘What d’you mean, sugar plum?’ asked Mum.

  The boy grinned, his needle teeth gleaming.

  ‘Let’s play a game of hide and seek. If I find Sam, I stay and he goes. If I don’t find him, I’ll leave.’

  ‘Heart of bloody gold,’ said Mum, her voice cracking as she dabbed with the spit hankie at the tears welling in her eyes, smudging the skin around them with blood.

  ‘Just two rules. One: I have only two minutes to find you. If I fail, you stay. Two: you can’t leave the house. That’s cheating. Leave the house to hide and I win. You go Between, and I stay here.’ The boy smiled wide. ‘Do we have a good deal?’

  Sam narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t trust you.’

  Mum gasped. ‘Don’t talk to your brother like that!’

  Dad shook his head angrily. ‘And after he’s nice enough to give you a chance of staying, too. He didn’t have to! We certainly didn’t want him to, but that’s the boy all over! Caring to a fault.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said the boy. ‘I understand why he’s lashing out.’

  ‘Selfless. That’s what you are,’ said Dad.

  ‘Mummy loves you,’ said Mum to the boy, beaming; two crimson streaks, a mix of tears and blood, rolling lazily down her cheeks.

  ‘I will count to one hundred, Sam,’ said the boy. ‘And then … I’m coming to get you.’ He closed his eyes, ‘One.’

  Sam stepped back, panic clawing at him—

  ‘Two.’

  Sam looked back at his parents, but they were looking away; they only had eyes for the boy—

  ‘Three.’

  Sam ran.

  ‘Four.’

  Out of the kitchen ran Sam, but where to go? He knew this house top to bottom; every nook, every hidey-hole, much better than the boy, he was sure—

  ‘Eleven, twelve.’

  Upstairs! He passed the front door, almost pausing. Perhaps the only way out of this was to leave the house and run to the police station. Tell them all about the boy and what he’d done to Mark the Bully, and to Ally. What he was doing to Sam right now!

  ‘Twenty, Twenty-One, Twenty-Two.’

  Sam knew that wasn’t a real option. He took the staircase two steps at a time, his foot catching and sending him tumbling over halfway up, shins jarring on the steps and causing him to cry out, more in shock than pain.

  ‘Twenty-Nine, Thirty.’

  He pushed himself up and scaled the remaining stairs in a second. As he looked one way and then the other down the upstairs corridor, the boy’s unhurried counting still sounded as though it were being spoken directly into his ear. Sam had a vision of Mark running through the field as Sam counted—the bully terrified, Sam delighting at Mark’s fear.

  ‘Forty-One, Forty-Two, Forty-Three.’

  Sam ran for his parents’ room; they had a wardrobe behind which was a hidden alcove. He could pull the wardrobe forward and wiggle into the hidden space, the boy would never know to look there.

  ‘Fifty, Fifty-One.’

  Sam pulled at his parents’ door. It didn’t move! He pulled again and again, but the door refused to budge; it was locked. His parents’ door was never locked! Never had been.

  ‘Sixty, Sixty-One.’

  Sam panicked now, really panicked. Where to go next? His brain was a bubbling mess; the alcove had been the perfect place. The only perfect place he could think of. So what now? Where else was there?

  ‘Sixty-Nine, Seventy.’

  Unthinking, Sam ran for his own bedroom, praying that its door wasn’t now magically locked, too. The door opened easily and Sam tumbled within, the room seeming to lurch at a queasy angle.

  ‘Seventy-Eight, Seventy-Nine.’

  Where could he hide? There was nowhere! There was nowhere! Trying to swallow down a sob, Sam threw open the trunk at the end of his bed and scrambled inside, pulling the blankets within over his body to shield him before pulling the lid down.

  ‘Eighty-One, Eighty-Two.’

  Sam’s breath was loud inside the wooden box. It seemed to boom and bounce around. He tried to calm himself down, to slow down his chest. Stay quiet. Stay still. He wouldn’t be found. Would be found. Wouldn’t.

  Something nipped at his ankle.

  It was a sharp pinprick. A splinter from the trunk, maybe? Another nip, to his wrist this time, like tiny needles jabbing into the flesh. Sam slapped at it and felt something cold and moist on his wrist.

  He pulled the blanket aside and lifted his wrist to his eyes. A thin strip of light between the body of the trunk and the lid illuminated his wrist enough to see the cause of the sharp pain. It was a small piece of leathery egg. The egg the boy had hatched from into the Awake world.

  The piece moved. Writhed upon his wrist. Sam gasped with disgust and pulled the egg piece from his wrist, crying out as it tore away from the flesh, leaving a red raw wound. Another bite now, and another. Sam wiggled in the confines of the trunk as piece after piece of the egg attached themselves to him like leeches.

  He kicked the lid of the trunk open and tumbled out, pulling the egg from his flesh piece by piece, each time opening a fresh, painful wound.

  ‘One Hundred. Ready or not, here I come,’ said the boy.

  Sam’s heart lurched in his chest, trying to escape.

  He threw the last of the egg back into the trunk and slammed the lid down. Within, he could hear the pieces banging against the lid, eager to bite again.

  Sam opened his bedroom door a crack and listened for the boy.

  ‘I wonder where you could be? Perhaps the downstairs toilet?’

  Sam opened the door a little wider and crept from his bedroom. Where now? Where was left to go?

  ‘No Sam in there. The basement, maybe?’

  The basement! There was a door in the kitchen that led down, down, down into a basement.

  An idea formed.

  Sam inhaled slowly to calm himself, then headed for the top of the stairs and looked down. The way was clear. Gently, and avoiding the squeaking fourth step, Sam ghosted down the staircase. He stopped briefly to peer through the open door of the front room. He could see his parents inside, seated upon the couch, watching television. They wanted him gone. Didn’t care. Never had. Sam felt sad-angry-afraid.

  He made his way to the bottom of the stairs. The downstairs toilet was a metre away. The downstairs toilet that the boy had already checked. Sam—gently, ge
ntly, ever so gently—turned the handle to the downstairs toilet. It screeched slightly, metallic; to Sam’s ears, it sounded like a foghorn: ‘Here he is! Here’s where Sam is hiding!’ As soon as the door was open the tiniest of cracks, barely wide enough for him, Sam slipped through and closed it behind him.

  ‘No. Not in the basement after all. Upstairs I go. Perhaps you’re in the trunk at the bottom of your bed? Or behind the wardrobe in the secret alcove?’

  Sam held his breath as footsteps began to pass overhead on the stairs. He heard his parents’ door open with ease. No longer locked, it seemed.

  ‘Sam. You are hiding really, really well! Maybe you’ll even win? Send me on my poor and lonesome way.’

  Sam could hear the boy exit his parents’ bedroom and make his way along the corridor towards Sam’s room. How long had it been now? How long did the boy have left to find him? Long enough to realise he wasn’t upstairs and to begin his search down here again? Sam couldn’t risk it. He needed to be at the farthest possible place to give him the best chance of winning. He needed to slip down into the basement.

  ‘Spots of blood in the trunk, Sam? Did my friends nip and nibble? They were only being nice and friendly.’

  Sam crept out of the downstairs toilet and made his way into the kitchen. The basement door was open. Sam took the old brass key out of the lock, then slipped within and closed the basement door behind him. It was pitch black, the darkness solid and impenetrable. Sam turned and slid the key into the door’s lock, then twisted it to the right. A clunk let him know the door was secure. He pulled the key from the door. The door was locked.

  He’d won.

  He’d won!

  He’d won the game!

  He was in a locked room. He had the only key. There was no way the boy would find him in time. Even if he could, even if he made his way back to the basement in time, he’d never be able to get in! Sam smiled, covering his mouth to stop a stream of manic giggles from bursting out.

  Sam had won. He would stay, and the identical boy would leave. The monster would go away and things could go back to normal.

  He felt around in the black, black darkness for a way to turn on the light. His wrist brushed against a cord dangling from the ceiling and he grasped it tightly, pulling down. A bare bulb stuttered into bright life. Sam blinked and rubbed at his eyes, the suddenly illuminated room coming into focus.

  And that was when Sam realised he wasn’t in the basement.

  In fact, he now remembered that his house didn’t even have a basement. Two floors and then an attic. But no basement. How could he have forgotten something like that?

  Wind toyed at his clothing as, all around him, the trees of the forest laughed and mocked poor Sam. They shook their branches and rattled their leaves, overjoyed to see the trick complete at last.

  Sam was Between.

  He looked down at his hand, but the key was gone.

  The trees shook and sniggered.

  He turned and looked for the door, but knew before he did what he would find. The door was gone. The wall was gone. Any sign of the house was gone. All that remained was the cruel, mocking forest.

  The trees cackled and crowed.

  Sam had left the house. Sam had broken the rules of the game.

  Sam had lost.

  The boy had won.

  ***

  The boy sat in the dark of the bedroom for several minutes, satisfied. It was all finished now. No more frustrated years Between, wanting to taste more vivid fruit. This was where he lived now. So Awake that this world seemed to scream at him to come play. And oh—

  And oh—

  How he would play.

  He undressed, folding his bloodied clothes carefully and placing them onto a chair. He brushed the heart from the bed, then slipped between the crisp covers, laying his head down upon the cool pillow.

  His parents stepped into the bedroom, arms interlocked, looking proudly down at him as he closed his eyes peacefully and drifted off to sleep.

  ‘Our boy,’ said Mum.

  ‘Our boy,’ said Dad.

  ~Chapter Thirty-One~

  Sam walked.

  He had no destination or purpose in mind; he just walked.

  He knew there was a town somewhere. Streets and houses. A place to find shelter. Perhaps a new home. Safety. Empty, alone safety. But he stayed in the forest. He walked aimlessly, surrounded by the trees that found his loss so amusing, that shook their branches at him as he passed on by.

  He deserved this. He felt it in the hollow pit of his stomach. It was all his fault, his own stupid, selfish fault. He had allowed a monster into his home. His Awake home. A monster that had gone on to do terrible things. Terrible things to Ally—and to Mark the bully, who might have been horrible, but he didn’t deserve that. How many more would the creature attack now?

  Sam scrubbed at his tear-filling eyes with the cuff of his jumper and sat down heavily onto the ground, twigs crackling beneath him.

  ‘You are here again.’

  Sam looked up to see the Tall Man in black stood over him. The man without a face. The man who claimed to be Lord of Between. Of this place.

  ‘I lost the game,’ said Sam.

  The Tall Man nodded. ‘That type of creature is good at tricks and lies. Its skills are to be admired.’

  ‘Admired? It’s a monster!’

  The Tall Man tilted its featureless head to one side. ‘Yes. A skilful monster.’

  Sam let the tears flow now, though he made no sound. He just sat and let the water stream down his cheeks.

  ‘You are a sore loser.’

  Sam looked up angrily at the Tall Man. ‘This isn’t funny! It will hurt people!’

  The Tall Man nodded. ‘Oh yes. Many, many people. Perhaps even more than that. You have allowed it to enter a fertile hunting ground indeed.’

  ‘If you’re the boss of this place, why did you let it happen?’

  ‘Should I interfere in the lives of others? I am not a dictator. I do not squash a creature’s true nature. Besides, I told you all you needed to know when first we met, did I not?’

  ‘No! You didn’t help me; didn’t help me at all!’

  ‘I gave you all you needed.’

  Sam turned from the Tall Man and picked at leaves on the ground. He thought back. Back to when he came to this place, desperately searching for his friend. For a monster. Back to the first time he’d briefly met the tall, faceless man. He tried to pull their first conversation back into his memory. What had the Tall Man said? How had he helped?

  Suddenly, Sam had it: ‘We’re connected.’

  The Tall Man nodded.

  ‘So, does that mean…?’ Sam began, and then he thought and thought. ‘What he can do, I can do.’

  ‘Identical boys,’ said the Tall Man.

  Sam felt hope beginning to flower; he tried to pour dirt on it to stop the dreadful feeling from growing further.

  ‘But I signed the blood contract and I lost the game. I can’t go back.’

  ‘Do you believe everything a monster tells you? A tricky, deceitful, clever monster?’ The Tall Man shook his head, and a rumble emerged that might have been amusement. ‘Think well of yourself.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Think well of yourself, Sam Ward.’

  Was it true? Was there a way to reverse what had happened? Sam felt suddenly very angry with himself for even thinking these things. For thinking these hopeful thoughts whilst Ally was dead because of him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. So what if I can go back? What if the monster is a liar and he fooled me over and over and really I can go back any time and swap our places? I got what I deserve, anyway. It’s all down to me. I brought a monster into the world and let it do horrible, terrible things to people.’

  ‘But you did not know. Not fully.’

  ‘I knew enough! I could have tried, or something. I could have!’ The tears were now too many in number; they poured and they blinded.

  ‘What is it t
hat stings so sharply?’ asked the Tall Man.

  Sam leapt to his feet, fists clenched. ‘It’s my fault that Ally died!’

  ‘Wait, I’m dead? Someone could’ve told me that.’

  Sam turned in disbelief in the direction of the familiar voice, his heart seeming to leap into his throat. Ally was stood before him, hair green, Dr. Martens scuffed.

  ‘…Ally?’

  ‘What’s shaking, Sammy boy?’

  ~Chapter Thirty-Two~

  Sam stared at Ally in disbelief. It couldn’t be true. Wasn’t true. She was dead. This was some sort of cruel trick, surely? He turned to the Tall Man to ask what kind of a nasty, mean, horrible game he was playing; but the Tall Man was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Hey, kid, what’s with the silent gawping and suspicious eyes?’

  Sam stepped once, twice towards her, legs unsteady, then stopped and backed away. ‘No; you’re not real. You’re not.’

  ‘Well, obviously I am real, unless you’re talking to the wind.’

  ‘The boy killed you,’ said Sam. ‘He had his blood on you, had your heart!’

  Ally looked sadly at the ground. ‘Mr Pooch. That boy, he….’ She sniffed and ran the back of her hand across her eyes.

  ‘This is just a trick. Just another mean trick. The monster killed you,’ said Sam. It must be a trick. A final cruel twist. That’s all.

  ‘I gotta admit, I thought I was a goner too. Things got pretty hairy there for a moment. But in the end, all he wanted was my fear. To make me feel scared. No, scratch that—to make me feel completely terrified. Every bit of me. For the fear to radiate out of every pore. He seemed to eat it, to feast on it, sucking it out of me.’ Ally shrugged. ‘As soon as he was full up, a door opened and he threw me away like an empty wrapper. And now here I am. He’s a creepy, evil so and so, that pal of yours.’

  ‘He’s not my pal! It was just pretend. A lie. I didn’t know what he would…. I didn’t want him to do that, to do any of it.’

  Ally stepped forward quickly and hugged Sam tightly. Sam tried to pull away, but she didn’t let him; she held him close until he stopped struggling. As he felt those arms around him, and the warmth of her, he realised it was true. He knew it. Could feel it. This was really, truly Ally, his friend. She was alive.